‘Yeah, so he put me on to Røed’s regular dealer. A guy we call Al. And he was actually at that party. But he said he was upstaged by a guy who had such primo blanco that he just had to pack his stuff away. I asked who he was, but Al didn’t know him, he was wearing a face mask and sunglasses. The weird thing, Al said, was that even though the guy had the best, purest blow he had ever snorted in Oslo, the guy behaved like an amateur.’
‘How so?’
‘It’s something you notice straight away. The pros are relaxed because they know what they’re doing, while at the same time they’re constantly scanning their surroundings like antelopes at a watering hole. They know which pocket they have the stuff in should the cops show up and they need to get rid of it in two seconds. Al said this guy was jumpy, only looked at the person he was talking to and had to rummage through his pockets to find the bags. But the most amateurish was that he hadn’t diluted the product more, if he’d done it at all. And that he gave out free samples.’
‘To everyone?’
‘No, no. I mean, this was a fancy party. You know, people from nice backgrounds. Some of them do coke, but not in front of the neighbours. They went with Røed into his apartment, the guy with the face mask, two girls, plus Al. The guy arranged a few lines on the glass table in the living room, which apparently also looked like something he’d picked up on YouTube and said Røed had to test it. But Røed being, like, all gentlemanly, said the others had to have a taste first. Then Al made to do just that, I mean, he wanted to test this stuff out. But the guy grabbed hold of Al’s arm and yanked him away from the table, scratched his arm so bad it bled, like, he totally panicked. Al had to calm the guy down. The guy said it was only for Røed, but Røed said that at his place people had to behave themselves and that the girls went first, otherwise he could get the hell out. And then the guy backed down.’
‘Did Al know the girls?’
‘No. And yes, I asked if they were the two girls who were missing, but he hadn’t even heard about them.’
‘Really?’ Aune said. ‘It’s been front-page news for weeks.’
‘Yeah, but people in the junkie community live in — how would you say it? — an alternative world. These guys don’t know who the Prime Minster of Norway is, put it like that. But, believe me, they know the price per gram in every Norwegian city of every bloody drug Our Lord has blessed this planet with. So, I showed Al pictures of the girls, and he thought he recognised them, Susanne at least, who he thinks he sold some E and coke to before, but he wasn’t sure. Anyway, the girls each did a line, and then it was Røed’s turn. But then his wife walked in, starts roaring about how he’s promised to quit. Røed doesn’t give a shit, already has the straw in his nose, takes a breath, probably planning on snorting every line left in one go and then...’ Øystein began to chortle. ‘Then...’ He bent forward, unable to stop laughing, wiping away tears.
‘And then?’ Aune said impatiently.
‘Then the idiot
Øystein put his head back and roared with laughter. Truls laughed his grunted laugh. Even Harry broke into a smile.
‘So Al goes into the kitchen with Røed, where the wife can’t see them, opens his bag, and Røed gets a few lines of blanco from there. Because, yeah, I forgot to say, the stuff the guy with the face mask had, it wasn’t blanco, it was green cocaine.’
‘Green?’
‘Yeah,’ Øystein said. ‘That’s why Al was so keen to test it. I’ve heard it can show up on the street in the States, but no one’s ever seen it in Oslo. On the street the purest blanco you get is max forty-five per cent, but they say green’s a lot higher. Apparently it’s to do with residue from the colour of the coca leaves.’
Harry turned to Truls. ‘Green cocaine, huh?’
‘Don’t look at me,’ Truls said, ‘I haven’t a clue how it wound up there.’
‘Fucking hell, was it you?’ Øystein asked. ‘Incognito in a face mask and sungla—’
‘Shut up! You’re the bloody pusher, not me.’
‘Why not?’ Øystein said. ‘It’s genius! You skim, then step on it with something, the same way we used to fill our dads’ vodka bottles in the drinks cabinet with water. And then you sell direct so you cut out the—’
‘I don’t skim!’ Truls’s forehead had turned dark red, his eyes were bulging. ‘And I don’t cut. I don’t even know what levamisole is, for fuck’s sake!’
‘Oh?’ Øystein said, looking like he was enjoying himself. ‘Then how do you know it was mixed with levamisole?’
‘Because it said so in the report, and the reports are on BL!’ Truls bellowed.
‘Excuse me.’
