by Jo Nesbo
'Unit.'
'I beg your pardon?'
'We've never been called a section. Even though your rank used to be known as "Section Head", PAS. Just for your information.'
'Thank you for drawing that to my attention, Inspector. Where was I?'
'Di-sci-pline.'
Hagen bored his eyes into Harry, who didn't turn a hair. So the POB resumed his strutting.
'For the last ten years I have been lecturing at the military academy. My area of speciality was the war in Burma. I suppose it may surprise you to hear that it has great relevance for my job here, Hole.'
'Well.' Harry scratched his leg. 'You can read me like an open book, boss.'
Hagen ran his forefinger over the window frame and studied the result with displeasure. 'In 1942, a mere hundred thousand Japanese soldiers conquered Burma. Burma was twice the size of Japan and at that time occupied by British troops who were superior in numbers and firepower.' Hagen raised the grubby forefinger. 'But there was one area where the Japanese were superior and this made it possible for them to beat the British and the Indian mercenaries. Discipline. When the Japanese marched on Rangoon, they walked for forty-five minutes and slept for fifteen. Slept on the road wearing their rucksacks and their feet pointing towards their destination. So that they didn't walk into the ditch or in the wrong direction when they woke up. Direction is important, Hole. Do you understand, Hole?'
Harry had an inkling of what was to come. 'I understand that they made it to Rangoon, boss.'
'They did. All of them. Because they did what they were told. I have just been told that you signed out the keys to Tom Waaler's flat. Is that correct, Hole?'
'I had a peep, boss. For therapeutic reasons.'
'I hope so. That case is buried. Snooping round Waaler's flat is not only wasted time, it also contravenes the orders you were given by the Chief and now by me. I don't think I need to spell out the consequences of refusing to obey orders. I might mention, however, that Japanese officers shot soldiers who drank water outside drinking times. Not out of sadism, but because discipline is about excising the tumours at the outset. Am I making myself clear, Hole?'
'As clear as . . . well, something which is very clear, boss.'
'That's all for now, Hole.' Hagen sat down on his chair, took a piece of paper from the drawer and started to read with a passion, as though Harry had already left the office. And looked up in surprise when he saw Harry was still sitting in front of him.
'Anything else, Hole?'
'Mm, I was wondering. Didn't the Japanese lose the war?'
Gunnar Hagen sat staring vacantly at the document long after Harry had gone.
The restaurant was half full. As it had been the day before. He was met at the door by a young, good-looking waiter with blue eyes and blond curls. So like Giorgi was he that for a moment he stood there entranced. And, on seeing the smile on the waiter's lips broaden, realised that he had given himself away. He took off his coat and raincoat in the cloakroom and felt the waiter's eyes on him.
'Your name?' the waiter asked. He mumbled his answer.
The waiter ran a long, thin finger down the page of the reservations book. It stopped.
'I've got my finger on you now,' the waiter said, and the blue eyes held his gaze until he felt himself blushing.
It didn't seem to be an exclusive restaurant, but unless his ability to do mental arithmetic had abandoned him, the prices on the menu were beyond belief. He ordered pasta and a glass of water. He was hungry. And his heartbeat was calm and regular. The other people in the restaurant were talking, smiling and laughing as though nothing could happen to them. It had always surprised him that it was not visible, that he did not have a black aura or that a chill – perhaps a stench of decay – did not radiate off him.
Or, to be precise, that no one else noticed.
Outside, the town hall clock chimed its three notes six times.
'Nice place,' Thea said, looking around. The restaurant had uncluttered views and their table gave on to the pedestrian zone outside. From hidden speakers there was the barely audible murmur of meditative New Age music.
'I wanted it to be special,' Jon said, studying the menu. 'What would you like to eat?'
Thea ran a quick eye down the single page. 'First I need something to drink.'
Thea drank a lot of water. Jon knew it was connected with diabetes and her kidneys.
'It's not so easy to choose,' she said. 'Everything looks good, doesn't it?'
'But we can't have everything on the menu.'
'No . . .'
Jon swallowed. The words had just come out. He peeked up. Thea obviously hadn't noticed.
All of a sudden she raised her head. 'What did you mean by that?'
'By what?' he asked in a casual manner.
'Everything on the menu. You were trying to say something. I know you, Jon. What's up?'
He shrugged. 'We agreed that before we get engaged, we should tell each other everything, didn't we?'
'Yes?'
'Are you sure you've told me everything?'
She sighed, resigned. 'I am sure, Jon. I have not been with anyone. Not . . . in that way.'
But he could see something in her eyes, something in her expression he had not seen before. A muscle twitching beside her mouth, a darkening of her eyes, like a diaphragm aperture closing. And he could not stop himself. 'Not even with Robert?'
'What?'
'Robert. I can remember you two flirting the first summer in Østgård.'
'I was fourteen years old, Jon!'
'So?'
At first she stared at him in disbelief. Then she seemed to churn inside, she closed up and cut him off. Jon grabbed her hand in both of his, leaned forward and whispered, 'Sorry, sorry, Thea. I don't know what came over me. I . . . can we forget I asked?'
'Have you made up your minds?'
Both of them looked up at the waiter.
'Fresh asparagus as a starter,' Thea said, passing him the menu. 'Chateaubriand with cep mushrooms for the main course.'
'Good choice. May I recommend a hearty, well-priced red wine we have just got in?'
'You may, but water is fine,' she said with a radiant smile. 'Lots of water.'
Jon looked at her. Admired her ability to hide her emotions.
When the waiter had gone, Thea directed her gaze at Jon. 'If you've finished interrogating me, what about yourself?'
Jon gave a thin smile and shook his head.
'You never did have a girlfriend, did you?' she said. 'Not even at Østgård.'
'And do you know why?' Jon said, placing his hand on hers.
She shook her head.
'Because I fell in love with one girl that summer,' Jon said and regained her full attention. 'She was fourteen years old. And I have been in love with her ever since.'
He smiled and she smiled, and he could see she had re-emerged from her hiding place, come over to where he was.
'Nice soup,' said the Minister for Social Affairs, turning to Commander David Eckhoff. But loud enough for the assembled press corps to hear.
'Our own recipe,' the commander said. 'We published a cookery book a couple of years ago we thought might be of . . .'
At a signal from her father, Martine approached the table and placed the book beside the minister's tureen.
'. . . some use if the minister desired a good, nutritious meal at home.'
The few journalists and photographers to turn up at the Lighthouse café chuckled. Otherwise attendance was sparse, a couple of elderly men from the Hostel, a tear-stained lady in a cape, and an injured junkie, who was bleeding from the forehead and trembling like an aspen leaf in dread of going up to the Field Hospital, the treatment room on the first floor. It was not very surprising there were so few people; the Lighthouse was not usually open at this time. However, a morning visit had not fitted into the minister's diary, so he did not see how full it was on most days. The commander explained all of this. And how efficiently it was run and
how much it cost. The minister nodded at intervals as, duty-bound, he put a spoonful of soup into his mouth.
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.
He turned up the volume on his stereo and emptied his head.
* * *
He had paid the bill. He dropped the toothpick in the ashtray and looked at his watch. Three minutes to seven. The shoulder holster rubbed against his pectoral muscle. He took the photograph from his inside pocket and gave it a final glance. It was time.
None of the other customers in the restaurant – not even the couple at the neighbouring table – took any notice of him as he got up and went to the toilet. He locked himself in one of the cubicles, waited for a minute without succumbing to the temptation of checking the gun was loaded. He had learned that from Bobo. If you got used to the luxury of double-checking everything, you would lose your sharpness.
The minute had passed. He went to the cloakroom, put on his raincoat, tied the red neckerchief and pulled the cap down over his ears. Opened the door onto Karl Johans gate.
He strode up to the highest point in the street. Not because he was in a hurry, but because he had noticed that was how people walked here, the tempo that ensured you didn't stand out. He passed the litter bin on the lamp post where he had decided the day before that the gun would be dropped on the way back. In the middle of the busy pedestrian street. The police would find it, but it didn't matter. The point was that they didn't find it on him.
