Killing Moon полностью

Markus had wanted them to have a drop-shaped bed, three metres long and two and a half metres at its widest. He had read that it was the drop we originated from, from water, that we unconsciously sought to return to, and so the shape offered us harmony and deeper sleep.

She had managed not to laugh but also to get him to agree to a rectangular luxury bed one eighty metres wide by two metres ten long. Enough for two. Too much for one.

Markus was sleeping at the penthouse in Frogner, as he did almost every night now. So she presumed anyway. Not that she missed having Markus in bed, it had been a long time since that had been exciting or even particularly desirable. The sneezing and sniffing had only got worse, and he got up at least four times a night to piss. Prostate enlargement, not necessarily cancer, but something affecting more than half of men over sixty by all accounts. And apparently it would only get worse. No, she didn’t miss Markus, but she missed having someone. She didn’t know who, only that the feeling was particularly strong tonight. There had to be someone for her as well, someone who would love her and she could love in return. It was that simple, wasn’t it? Or was that just something she hoped?

She turned over onto her side. She had been nauseous and feeling poorly since last night. Had thrown up and had a slight temperature. She had done a test for the virus, but it had been negative.

She looked out the window, at the rear of the recently finished Munch Museum. No one who had bought their apartment prior to construction in Oslobukta had thought it would be so massive and ugly. People had been fooled by the drawings where the museum had a glass facade and was shown from an angle, rendering it difficult to see that it looked like that wall in the north in Game of Thrones. But that’s how it is, things don’t turn out as promised or expected, you’ve only yourself to thank for being taken in. Now the building cast a shadow on all of them, and it was too late.

She felt a fresh wave of nausea and hurried to get out of bed. The bathroom was on the other side of the room, but still it was so far! She had only been in Markus’s apartment in Frogner once. It was much smaller, but she’d rather have lived there. Together with... someone. She managed to make it to the toilet bowl before the contents of her stomach came up.

Harry was sitting at the bar in the Thief when the text message came.

Thanks for the tip-off. Yours sincerely, Sung-min.

Harry had already read Dagbladet. It was the only newspaper with the story, which could only mean one thing: that no press release had been put out yet, and that this journalist, Terry Våge, had a source in the police. Since it was impossible the leak could be a tactical manoeuvre on the part of the police, that meant someone was receiving money or other favours to inform Våge. It wasn’t as unusual as people believed — he had in his time been offered money by journalists on numerous occasions. The reason such transactions seldom came to light was that journalists never printed information which pointed towards the informant, that would after all be like sawing through the branch both parties were sitting on. But Harry had read most of the articles on the case, and something told him that this Våge was a little too eager and that it would backfire sooner or later. That is, Våge would walk away from it, yes, even with his journalistic credentials intact. It would be worse for the source of the leak. But the source was obviously unaware of how exposed he or she was as they were continuing to feed Våge information.

‘Another?’ The bartender looked at Harry, and was standing ready with the bottle over the empty whiskey glass. Harry cleared his throat. Once. Twice.

Yes, please, it said in the script. The one for the bad movie he had been in so many times, playing the only role he actually could.

Then — as though the bartender had seen the plea for mercy in Harry’s eyes — he turned to a customer signalling from the other end of the bar, took the bottle and left.

Out in the darkness the chiming of the bells of City Hall could be heard. It would soon be midnight and there would be six days left, plus the nine-hour time difference to Los Angeles. Not much time, but they had found Bertine, and finding a body meant new leads and the possibility of a crucial breakthrough. That was how he had to think. Positively. It didn’t come naturally to him, especially not to think so unrealistically positively as circumstances required, but hopelessness and apathy were not what he needed now. Not what Lucille needed.