‘You’re lucky,
‘OK,’ Harry said, and swallowed. ‘Anything else I should know?’
The guy rubbed his scorpion tattoo and smiled. ‘That we won’t shoot you. We’ll strip the skin from your back and leave you lying in the sun. It’ll only take a few hours before you’re parched and die of thirst. Believe me, you’ll be grateful it doesn’t take longer.’
Harry felt like saying something about Norway and the sun in September but held back. The clock was already ticking. Not just on the ten days, but on the flight he had a ticket for. He checked his watch. One and a half hours. It was Saturday and not many kilometres from here to LAX, but this was Los Angeles. He was already behind schedule. Hopelessly behind.
He looked one last time at Lucille. Yes, that was how she would have looked, his own mother, had she lived longer.
Harry Hole leaned over, kissed Lucille on the forehead, stood up and strode towards the door.
Harry was sitting in the passenger seat of a 1970 Volvo Amazon. Bjørn was next to him and they were singing along to a Hank Williams song playing at an irregular speed on Bjørn’s cassette player. Every time they stopped singing, a soft whimpering could be heard from a child in the back seat. The car began to shake. Odd, seeing as they were parked.
Harry opened his eyes and looked up at the flight attendant who was shaking him gently on his shoulder.
‘We’ll be landing soon, sir,’ she said from behind the face mask. ‘Please fasten your seat belt.’
She removed the empty glass from in front of him, manoeuvred the table to the side and down into the armrest. Business class. He had, at the last moment, decided to put on his suit and leave everything else, not even taking hand luggage along. Harry yawned and looked out the window. Forest passed below. Lakes. And then: city. More city. Oslo. Then forest again. He thought about the quick phone call he had made before they took off from LAX. To Ståle Aune, the psychologist who had been his regular collaborator on murder cases. Thought about his voice, which had sounded so different. About him telling Harry he had tried to reach him several times over the past few months. Harry’s answer, that he’d had the phone switched off. Ståle saying it wasn’t that important, he had only wanted to tell him that he was ill. Pancreatic cancer.
The flight from LA should, according to the schedule, take thirteen hours. Harry looked at his watch. Converted it into Norwegian time. Sunday 08.55. Sunday was a day of abstinence, but if he defined himself as still being on LA time, it was Saturday for another five minutes. He looked up at the ceiling for the call button before remembering that in business class it was on the remote control. He located it wedged into the console. He pressed, and a sonar ping sounded at the same time as a light came on above him.
She was there in under ten seconds. ‘Yes, sir?’
But within those ten seconds Harry had sufficient time to count the number of drinks he’d had in the course of his LA Saturday. Full quota. Shit.
‘Sorry,’ he said, trying to smile. ‘Nothing.’
Harry was standing in the duty-free in front of the shelf of whiskey bottles when a text pinged to let him know the car Krohn had arranged was waiting for him outside the arrivals hall. Harry answered ‘OK’, and — while he had the phone out — tapped on K.
Rakel sometimes joked about the fact he had so few friends, colleagues and contacts that one initial was all he needed for each.
‘Katrine Bratt.’ Her voice sounded tired, drowsy.
‘Hi, it’s Harry.’
‘Harry? Really?’ It sounded like she had sat up in bed. ‘I saw it was an American number, so I—’
‘I’m in Norway now. Just landed. Did I wake you?’
‘No. Or yeah, sort of. We have a possible double homicide, so I was working late. My mother-in-law is here looking after Gert, so I’m catching up on some sleep. Jesus, you’re alive.’
‘Apparently. How are things?’
‘OK. Not too bad, actually, considering the circumstances. I was just talking about you last Friday. What are you doing in Oslo?’
‘A couple of things. I’m going to visit Ståle Aune.’
‘Shit, yeah, I heard. Cancer of the pancreas, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t have the details. Have you time for a coffee?’
He noticed there was a moment’s hesitation before she replied: ‘Why don’t you come over here instead and have dinner?’
‘At your place, you mean?’
‘Yeah, sure. My mother-in-law is a terrific cook.’
‘Well. If it’s OK, then...’
‘Six o’clock? Then you’ll get to say hello to Gert too.’
