Katrine was in the process of putting Gert to bed when she took the call, so Harry quickly informed her of the development in the case. After that he called Krohn and explained the indications were that the case wasn’t solved after all. ‘Put Røed back under house arrest. I don’t know what this guy’s planning, but he’s had us fooled the whole way, so we’ll take every precaution.’
‘I’ll call the Guardian company,’ Krohn said. ‘Thanks.’
Interview
Prim checked the time.
One minute to six.
He had taken a seat at one of the window tables at Weiss. From where he was sitting, he had a view of the two freshly pulled half-litre beers in front of him, the Munch Museum in the light of the low sun outside, and the building where he had gatecrashed the terrace party.
A half-minute to six.
He let his eyes drift around. The customers looked so happy. They were standing in groups, smiling, chatting, laughing and patting each other on the shoulders. Friends. It looked nice. It was nice to have someone. To have Her. Then they would drink beer, and Her friends would be his.
A man wearing a porkpie hat came in. Terry Våge. He stopped and scanned the room as the door slid to behind him. At first he didn’t notice Prim discreetly waving his hand, his eyes no doubt needing to adjust to the dimly lit premises. But then he gave a brief nod and steered towards Prim’s table. The reporter looked pale and out of breath.
‘You’re...’
‘Yes. Sit down, Våge.’
‘Thanks.’ Våge took his hat off. His forehead glistened with sweat. He nodded at the beer on his side of the table.
‘Is that for me?’
‘I was going to leave as soon as the head was beneath the rim of the glass.’
Våge smirked in response and lifted the glass. They drank. Put down the beers and wiped the foam from their lips with the backs of their hands in an almost synchronised motion.
‘So here we are at long last,’ Våge said. ‘Sitting drinking like two old friends.’
Prim understood what Våge was trying to do. Break the ice. Gain trust. Get under his skin as quickly as possible.
‘Like them?’ Prim nodded towards the boisterous people at the bar.
‘Oh, they’re pen-pushers. The Friday drinks they’re having now are the highlight of their week, before they head home to their dull family lives. You know: eat tacos with the kids, put them to bed and watch TV with the same woman until they’re both bored enough to fall asleep. Then it’s up in the morning to more nagging from the kids and a trip to playland. I imagine that’s not the sort of life you live?’
Våge knew there wouldn’t be much opportunity to drink once he had taken out his notebook, so he took a big mouthful of the beer. Jesus, he needed that.
‘What do you know about the kind of life I live, Våge?’
Våge looked at the other man, tried to read him. Was this resistance? Had being so direct so early been a mistake? Profile interviews were often a delicate dance. After all, he wanted the interviewees to feel safe, regard him as a friend who understood them, open up and tell him things they wouldn’t otherwise. Or to be more precise: say things they’d regret. But sometimes he could be a bit pushy, too overt in his intentions.
‘I know a little,’ Våge said. ‘It’s unbelievable what you can find online when you know where to look.’
He noticed the other man’s voice was different than on the phone. And that he smelled of something. An odour that conjured up memories of a childhood holiday, his uncle’s barn, the smell of the horses’ sweaty harnesses. Våge felt a slight sting of pain in his stomach. Probably the old ulcer saying hello, as was its wont following periods of stress and indulgence in bad habits. Or when he drank too quickly, like now. He pushed the glass away and placed the notebook on the table.
‘Tell me, how did it start?’
Prim didn’t know how long he had been talking when he mentioned that his uncle was also his biological father, but that he only found that out after his mother had died in the fire.
