'Hagen?'
'Yup. So you'd better ask him for a copy if you're in a hurry.'
Harry and Beate exchanged glances.
'Listen,' said the pathologist, the corners of her mouth stretched in what Harry realised was meant to be a smile, 'we're understaffed this weekend and I have a lot on my plate, so if you wouldn't mind?'
'Of course,' Beate said.
The pathologist and Beate made for the door, but both stopped when they heard Harry's voice.
'Has anyone noticed this?'
They turned to Harry, who was bent over the body.
'He's got syringe marks. Have you checked his blood for drugs?'
The pathologist sighed. 'He came in this morning and all we have managed to do is put him in the freezer.'
'When can you have it done?'
'Is it vital?' she asked, and seeing Harry's hesitation, went on. 'An honest answer would be nice, because if we prioritise it that will mean all the other cases you're nagging us for will be even more delayed. It's hell right now, coming in to Christmas.'
'Well,' Harry said, 'perhaps he had the odd fix.' He shrugged. 'But he's dead. And so I suppose it's not that vital. Did you take his watch?'
'Watch?'
'Yes, he was wearing a Seiko SQ50 when he was withdrawing money from the ATM the other day.'
'He didn't have a watch.'
'Mm,' Harry said, looking at his own bare wrist. 'Must have lost it.'
'I'll nip down to the intensive care unit,' Beate said when they were outside.
'OK,' Harry said, 'I'll catch a taxi. Will you get the identity confirmed?'
'What do you mean?'
'So that we're one hundred per cent certain that's Stankic lying in there.'
'Of course, that's the usual procedure. The body has blood type A, which matches the blood we found on Halvorsen's pockets.'
'It's the most common blood type in Norway, Beate.'
'Yes, but they're checking the DNA profile as well. Are you not convinced?'
Harry shrugged. 'It has to be done. When?'
'Tuesday at the earliest, alright?'
'Three days? Not alright.'
'Harry . . .'
Harry held up his hands in defence. 'Fine. I'll go. Get some sleep, OK?'
'To be frank, you look like you need it more than I do.'
Harry rested a hand on her shoulder. Felt how thin she was under the jacket. 'He's a toughie, Beate. And he wants to be here. OK?'
Beate bit her lower lip. Gave the impression she was going to say something, but flashed a quick smile and nodded.
In the taxi Harry took out his mobile phone and called Halvorsen's mobile. But, as expected, there was no answer.
Then he punched in the number of Hotel International. He got reception and asked to be put through to Fred in the bar. Fred? Which bar?
'The other bar,' Harry said.
'It's the policeman,' Harry said when he had the barman on the line. 'The one who was in yesterday asking about mali spasitelj.'
'Da?'
'I have to talk to her.'
'She's had bad news,' Fred said. 'Goodbye.'
Harry sat listening to the severed connection for a while. Then he put his mobile in his inside pocket and gazed out of the side window at the dead streets. Imagined her in the cathedral lighting another candle.
'Restaurant Schrøder,' the taxi driver announced, pulling in.
Harry sat at his usual table staring into his half-full beer glass. The socalled restaurant was in fact a plain, shabby café serving alcohol, but it had an aura of pride and dignity that may have been thanks to the clientele, or perhaps the staff, or perhaps the impressive and out-ofplace paintings adorning the smoke-stained walls.
There weren't many people just before closing time. But in came a new customer, who glanced round the room while unbuttoning the coat he wore over his tweed jacket and hastened towards Harry's table.
'Good evening, my friend,' said Ståle Aune. 'This appears to be your regular corner.'
'It's not a corner,' Harry said without a hint of a slur. 'It's an angle. Corners are on the outside. You walk round a corner, you don't sit in one.'
'What about the expression a corner table?'
'That's not a table in a corner, but a table with corners. As in a corner sofa.'
Aune gave a smile of pleasure. This was his type of conversation. The waitress arrived and sent him a brief, suspicious glance when he ordered tea.
'So dunces are not sent to the corner then, I assume?' he said, straightening his red and white dotted bow tie.
Harry smiled. 'Are you trying to tell me something, Mr Psychologist?'
'Well, I assume you rang me because you wanted me to tell you something.'
'How much do you charge to tell people that right now they are ashamed of themselves?'
'Be careful, Harry. Drinking makes you not only irritable but irritating. I have not come here to divest you of your self-respect, your bollocks or your beer. But your current problem is that all three are in that glass.'
'You are eternally right,' Harry said, raising his glass. 'And that's why I have to hurry up and finish this drink.'
Aune stood up. 'If you want to talk about your drinking, we can do this as usual in my office. This consultation is over and you're paying for the tea.'