Johan Krohn watched as Markus Røed sneezed, wiped his nose on one of his light blue handkerchiefs, put it back into his inside pocket and leaned back in the Wegner swivel chair behind his desk. Krohn knew it was a Wegner because he had wanted one just like it himself. But the listed price was close to thirteen thousand kroner, and he didn’t feel he could justify that to the partners, his wife or the clients. It was a simple chair. Elegant, but in no way ostentatious, and thus untypical for Markus Røed. He presumed that someone, perhaps Helene, had advised him that the previous office chair, a high-backed Vitra Grand Executive in black leather, was too vulgar. Not that he thought the other two people in the room cared. Harry Hole had pulled out a chair from the conference table and sat down in front of Røed’s desk, while the other individual — a highly dubious Captain Hook-like figure Harry had introduced as a driver and general factotum on his team — had sat down by the door. So at least he knew his place.
‘Tell me, Hole,’ Røed sniffled, ‘is this a joke?’
‘Nope,’ said Harry, who had sunk into the chair, placed his hands behind his head, stretched out his long legs and was now turning his shoes at angles to examine them as if he hadn’t noticed them before. They looked like a pair of John Lobb shoes to Krohn, but it was hard to imagine someone like Hole could afford that.
‘Seriously, Hole, you’re thinking our team should consist of a hospitalised cancer patient, a policeman under investigation for corruption and a man who drives a taxi?’
‘I said
Røed’s face darkened. ‘The problem, Hole, is that there isn’t a team, it’s a... theatre troupe. And I’d be made to look like a clown if I was foolish enough to announce that these... these are the best I could find.’
‘You’re not going to announce it.’
‘But for Christ’s sake, man, that’s half the point, didn’t we make that clear?’ Røed’s voice boomed in the large room. ‘I want the public to see that I’ve hired some of the best people to solve this case, only then will they realise that I actually mean it. This is about me and my firm’s reputation.’
‘Last time you said it was because the suspicion was a strain on the family,’ said Harry, who as opposed to Røed had lowered his voice. ‘And we can’t publicise who’s on the team because the policeman will be immediately dismissed, automatically losing access to the police reports. Which is the very reason he’s on the team.’
Røed looked at Krohn.
The lawyer shrugged. ‘The important name on the press release is Harry Hole, renowned murder detective. We can write that he wants a team around him — that should suffice. As long as the man in the main role is good, people will just assume the rest of the team is good.’
‘And one more thing,’ Harry said. ‘Aune and Eikeland get the same hourly rate as Krohn. And Berntsen gets double.’
‘Are you insane, man?’ Røed threw his arms wide. ‘Your bonus is one thing. That’s fine as long as you’re not taking pay but risking everything on success, that’s gutsy. But to pay double what a lawyer makes to a... a
‘I don’t know if he
‘Worth it?’
‘Let me say it again,’ Harry said, stifling a yawn. ‘Truls Berntsen has access to BL96, that means all the police reports in this case, including from Krimteknisk and the Forensic Medical Institute. There are currently somewhere between twelve and twenty people on the investigate team alone. Berntsen’s password and irises are worth the combined work of all of these. In addition, there’s the risk he’s taking. Should it be discovered he’s passing classified information to an outside party, he won’t merely be fired, he’ll be facing prison time.’
Røed shut his eyes and shook his head. When he opened them again, he was smiling.
‘You know what, Harry? We could use a bastard like you in the contract negotiations Barbell are involved in at the minute.’
‘Good,’ Harry said. ‘There is one more condition.’
‘Oh?’
‘I want to question you.’
Røed exchanged glances with Krohn again.
‘Fine.’
‘With a lie detector,’ Harry said.
The Aune group
Mona Daa was sitting at her desk reading a piece by a blogger named Hedina about social pressure and beauty standards. The language was poor and clunky at times, but it had a direct orality which made it easy to digest, like sitting at a cafe table listening to a friend babble on about everyday problems. The blogger’s ‘sage’ thoughts and advice were so banal and predictable that Mona didn’t know whether to yawn or snarl.
