'Hm.'
'Shall I follow up?'
'No,' Harry sighed. 'We'll let it go until something tells us this Stankic might be interesting. Switch off the light before you go and we'll talk tomorrow.'
'Hang on!'
'I'm not going anywhere.'
'There's more. The uniformed boys have received a call from a waiter at Biscuit. He said he was in the toilet this morning and bumped into one of the customers.'
'What was he doing there?'
'I'll come to that. You see, the customer had something in his hand—'
'I mean the waiter. Restaurant employees always have their own toilets.'
'I didn't ask,' Halvorsen said, becoming impatient. 'Listen. This customer was holding something green and dripping.'
'Sounds like he should see a doctor.'
'Very funny. The waiter swore it was a gun covered in soap. The lid of the container was off.'
'Biscuit,' Harry repeated as the information sank in. 'That's on Karl Johan.'
'Two hundred metres from the crime scene. I bet a crate of beer that's our gun. Er . . . sorry, I bet—'
'By the way, you still owe me two hundred kroner. Give me the rest of the story.'
'Here comes the best bit. I asked for a description. He couldn't give me one.'
'Sounds like the refrain in this case.'
'Except that he recognised the guy by his coat. A very ugly camelhair coat.'
'Yes!' Harry shouted. 'The guy with the scarf in the photo of Egertorget the night before Karlsen was shot.'
'Incidentally, the waiter reckoned it was imitation. And he sounded like he knew about that sort of thing.'
'What do you mean?'
'You know. The way they speak.'
'Who are they?'
'Hello! Poofs. Whatever. The man with the gun was through the door and gone. That's all I have for the moment. I'm on my way to Biscuit to show the waiter the photos now.'
'Good,' said Harry.
'What are you wondering?'
'Wondering?'
'I'm getting to know your ways, Harry.'
'Mm. I was wondering why the waiter didn't phone the police straight away this morning. Ask him, alright?'
'In fact, I was intending to do just that, Harry.'
'Of course you were. Sorry.'
Harry hung up, but five minutes later his mobile rang again.
'What did you forget?' Harry asked.
'What?'
'Oh, it's you, Beate. Well?'
'Good news. I've finished at Scandia Hotel.'
'Did you find any DNA?'
'Don't know yet. I've got a couple of hairs which might belong to the cleaners or a previous guest. But I did get the ballistics results half an hour ago. The bullet in the milk carton at Jon Karlsen's place comes from the same weapon as the bullet we found in Egertorget.'
'Mm. That means the theory about several gunmen is weakened.'
'Yes. And there's more. The receptionist at Scandia Hotel remembered something after you left. This Christo Stankic had a particularly ugly piece of clothing. She reckoned it was a kind of imitation—'
'Let me guess. Camel-hair coat?'
'That's what she said.'
'We're in business, 'Harry yelled, so loud that the graffiti-covered wall of Blitz sent an echo around the deserted city-centre street.
Harry rang off and called Halvorsen back.
'Yes, Harry?'
'Christo Stankic is our man. Give the description of the camel-hair coat to the uniforms and the ops room and ask them to alert all patrol cars.' Harry smiled at an old lady tripping and scraping along with spiked cleats attached to the bottom of her fashionable ankle boots. 'And I want twenty-four-hour surveillance of telecommunications so we know if anyone calls Hotel International in Zagreb from Oslo. And which number they call from. Talk to Klaus Torkildsen in the Telenor Business Centre, Oslo region.'
'That's wiretapping. We need a warrant for that and it can take days.'
'It's not wiretapping. We just need the address of the incoming call.'
'I'm afraid Telenor won't be able to tell the difference.'
'Tell Torkildsen you've spoken to me. OK?'
'May I ask why he would be willing to risk his job for you?'
'Old story. I saved him from being beaten to pulp in the remand centre a few years back. Tom Waaler and his pals. You know what it's like when flashers and the like are brought in.'
'So he's a flasher?'
'Now retired. Happy to exchange services for silence.'
'I see.'
Harry rang off. They were on the move now, and he no longer felt the northerly wind or the onslaught of snow needles. Now and then the job gave him moments of unalloyed pleasure. He turned and walked back to Police HQ.
In the private room at Ullevål Hospital Jon felt the phone vibrate against the sheet and grabbed it at once. 'Yes?'
'It's me.'
'Oh, hi,' he said, without quite managing to conceal his disappointment.
'You sound as if you were hoping it was someone else,' Ragnhild said in the rather too cheerful tone that betrays a wounded woman.
'I can't say much,' Jon said, glancing at the door.
'I wanted to say how awful the news about Robert is,' Ragnhild said. 'And I feel for you.'
'Thank you.'