Martine checked her watch. A quarter to seven. The minister's secretary had said 19.00. They had to go.
'That was delicious,' the minister said. 'Have we got time to chat to anyone here?'
The secretary nodded.
Playing to the gallery, Martine thought. Of course they have time for a chat, that's why they are here. Not to apportion funds – they could have done that over the phone – but to invite the press and show a Minister for Social Affairs moving among the needy, eating soup, shaking hands with junkies and listening with empathy and commitment.
The press spokesperson signalled to the photographers that they could take photos. Or, to be more precise, that she wanted them to take photos.
The minister got to his feet and buttoned up his jacket as he scanned the room. Martine wondered how he would view his three options: the two elderly men looked like typical occupants of an old folks' home and would not serve the purpose: Minister Meets Drug Addicts, or Prostitutes, or something like that. There was something deranged about the injured junkie, and you can have too much of a good thing. But the woman . . . she seemed like a normal citizen, someone everyone could identify with and would like to help, especially if they had heard her heart-rending story first.
'Do you appreciate being able to come here?' the minister asked, reaching out with his hand.
The woman looked up at him. The minister said his name.
'Pernille—' the woman began, but was interrupted by the minister.
'Christian name's fine, Pernille. The press is here, you know. They would like a picture. Is that OK with you?'
'Holmen,' the woman said, sniffling into her handkerchief. 'Pernille Holmen.' She pointed to the table where a candle burned in front of one of the photographs. 'I'm here to commemorate my son. Would you mind please leaving me in peace?'
Martine stood at the woman's table while the minister plus retinue swiftly withdrew. She noted that they went for the two old men after all.
'I'm sorry about what happened to Per,' Martine said in a low voice.
The woman peered up with a face swollen from crying. And from pills, Martine guessed.
'Did you know Per?' she whispered.
Martine preferred the truth. Even when it hurt. Not because of her upbringing, but because she had discovered it made life easier in the long run. In the strangled voice, however, she could hear a prayer. A prayer for someone to say that her son was not only a drug-addicted robot, one less burden for society now, but a person someone could say they had known, been friends with, maybe even liked.
'Fru Holmen,' Martine said with a gulp, 'I knew him and he was a fine boy.'
Pernille Holmen blinked twice and said nothing. She was trying to smile, but her attempts turned into grimaces. She just managed to say 'thank you' before the tears began to flow down her cheeks.
Martine saw the commander waving to her from the table. Nevertheless, she sat down.
'They . . . they took my husband, too,' Pernille Holmen sobbed.
'What?'
'The police. They say he did it.'
As Martine left Pernille Holmen, she was thinking about the tall, blond policeman. He had seemed so decent when he said he cared. She could feel her anger mounting. Also her confusion. Because she could not understand why she should be so angry at someone she didn't know. She looked at her watch. Five minutes to seven.
Harry had made fish soup. A Findus bag mixed with milk and supplemented with bits of fish pudding. And French stick. All bought at Niazi, the little grocer's that his neighbour from the floor below, Ali, ran with his brother. Beside the soup plate on the sitting-room table was a large glass of water.
Harry put a CD into the machine and turned up the volume. Emptied his head and concentrated on the music and the soup. Sound and taste. That was all.
Halfway into the soup and the third track the telephone rang. He had decided to let it ring. But at the eighth ring he got up and turned down the music.
'Harry.'
It was Astrid. 'What are you doing?' She spoke in a low voice, but there was still an echo. He guessed she had locked herself into the bathroom at home.
'Eating and listening to music.'
'I have to go out. Not far from you. Plans for the rest of the evening?'
'Yes.'
'And they are?'
'Listening to more music.'
'Hm. You make it sound like you don't want company.'
'Maybe.'
Pause. She sighed. 'Let me know if you change your mind.'
'Astrid?'
'Yes?'
'It's not you. OK? It's me.'
'You don't need to apologise, Harry. If you're labouring under the illusion that this is vital for either of us, I mean. I just thought it could be nice.'
'Another time perhaps.'
'Like when?'
'Like another time.'
'Another time, another life?'
'Something like that.'
'OK. But I'm fond of you, Harry. Don't forget that.'
When he had put down the phone, Harry stood without moving, unable to take in the sudden silence. Because he was so astonished. He had visualised a face when Astrid rang. The astonishment was not because he had seen a face, but the fact that it was not Rakel's. Or Astrid's. He sank into the chair and decided not to spend any more time reflecting. If this meant that the medicine of time had begun to work and that Rakel was on her way out of his system, it was good news. So good that he didn't want to complicate the process.