'Shall we drop the dessert?' He took the serviette from his lap and put it on the table beside the dinner plate.
'Take your time and think before you answer, Jon,' she stammered. 'For your own good. This can give you the chance to realise some dreams.'
The words grated and jarred even in her ears. Jon signalled to the waiter for the bill. 'And what dreams are they? The dream of being a corrupt servant, a miserable deserter? Driving around in a fine car while everything you're trying to achieve as a person lies in ruins around you?' The fury in his voice was making it quiver. 'Is that the kind of dream you have, Ragnhild Gilstrup?'
She was unable to answer.
'I must be blind,' he said. 'Because do you know what? When I met you I thought I saw . . . an altogether different person.'
'You saw me,' she whispered, sensing the onset of trembling, the same as she had experienced in the lift.
'What?'
She cleared her voice. 'You saw me. And now I've offended you. I am so sorry.'
In the ensuing silence she felt herself sinking through hot and cold layers of water.
'Let's put all this behind us,' she said as the waiter approached and took the card she had held up in one hand. 'It's not important. Not for either of us. Would you like to walk with me in Frogner Park?'
'I . . .'
'Please?'
He looked at her in astonishment.
Or did he?
How could those eyes – that saw everything – be astonished?
Ragnhild Gilstrup looked down from her window in Holmenkollen at a dark square below. Frogner Park. That was where the insanity had all started.
It was past midnight, the soup bus was parked in the garage and Martine felt pleasantly exhausted, but also blessed. She was standing on the pavement in front of the Hostel in the dark, narrow street of Heimdalsgata, waiting for Rikard, who had gone to fetch the car, when she heard the snow crunch behind her.
'Hi.'
She turned and felt her heart stop as she saw the silhouette of a tall figure towering up under the solitary street light.
'Don't you recognise me?'
One heartbeat. Two. Then three and four. She had recognised the voice.
'What are you doing here?' she asked, hoping her voice would not reveal how frightened she had been.
'I found out you were working on the bus this evening and that it was parked here at midnight. There has been a development in the case, as they say. I've been doing a bit of thinking.' He stepped forward and the light fell on his face. It was harder, older than she remembered. Strange how much you can forget in twenty-four hours. 'And I have a couple of questions.'
'Which couldn't wait?' she asked with a smile, and saw that her smile had made the policeman's face soften.
'Are you waiting for someone?' Harry asked.
'Yes, Rikard is going to drive me home.'
She looked at the bag the policeman was carrying over his shoulder. It had JETTE written on one side, but looked too old and worn to be the fashionable retro model.
'You should get yourself a couple of new insoles for the trainers you've got in there,' she said, pointing.
He eyed her in astonishment.
'You don't need to be Jean-Baptiste Grenouille to recognise the smell,' she said.
'Patrick Süskind,' he said. 'Perfume.'
'A policeman who reads,' she said.
'A Salvation Army soldier who reads about murder,' he said. 'Which leads us back to the reason for my being here, I'm afraid.'
A Saab 900 drove up and stopped. The window was lowered without a sound.
'Shall we be off, Martine?'
'Just a moment, Rikard.' She turned to Harry. 'Where are you going?'
'Bislett. But I prefer—'
'Rikard, is it alright if Harry joins us as far as Bislett? You live there, too, don't you?'
Rikard stared out into the dark before replying with a drawled 'Of course'.
'Come on,' Martine said, passing a hand to Harry.
Harry sent her a look of surprise.
'Slippery shoes,' she whispered, grabbing his hand. She could feel his hand was warm and dry, and it automatically squeezed hers as if he was afraid she would fall that instant.
Rikard drove with care, his eyes jumping from mirror to mirror as though expecting an ambush from behind.
'Well?' said Martine from the front seat.
Harry cleared his throat. 'Someone tried to shoot Jon Karlsen today.'
'What?' cried Martine.
Harry met Rikard's eyes in the mirror.
'Had you already heard?' Harry asked.
'No,' Rikard said.
'Who . . . ?' Martine started.
'We don't know,' Harry said.
'But . . . both Robert and Jon. Has this got something to do with the Karlsen family?'
'I think they were only after one of them,' Harry said.
'What do you mean?'
'The gunman postponed his trip home. He must have discovered he had shot the wrong man. Robert wasn't the intended target.'
'Robert hadn't—'
'That's why I had to talk to you. I think you can tell me whether my theory is right or not.'
'Which theory?'
'That Robert died because he was unlucky enough to take Jon's shift in Egertorget.'