‘Oh yeah. What was left, obviously, because he crumpled up the packet and threw it on the ground afterwards. Bastard. I went out to give him a piece of my mind, but he got up and made off the moment I went outside. I walked over to the spot but there was a brisk north wind that day, so the packet must have already been blown into the woods.’
Sung-min could feel his pulse beating faster. This was the sort of police work that paid off one out of a hundred times, but when it did it could mean hitting the jackpot, solving an entire case where hitherto they hadn’t a single lead. He swallowed.
‘Does that mean, Weng, that you can give me a description of the man?’
The farmer looked at Sung-min. Then smiled sadly and shook his head.
‘But you said it was like standing right next to him.’ Sung-min could hear the frustration in his own voice.
‘Ye-es. But the packet was directly in my line of sight, and when he threw it away, he put on a face mask before I had a chance to take a good look at him.’
‘He wore a face mask?’
‘Yeah. And sunglasses and a baseball cap. Didn’t really see much of his face at all.’
‘You didn’t think it strange that a man alone in the forest was wearing a face mask long after everyone else has stopped?’
‘Yes. But there are a lot of strange people out here in the forest, aren’t there?’
Sung-min understood that Weng was being self-deprecating, but he wasn’t in the mood to smile.
Harry stood in front of the headstone and could feel the rainwater in the soft ground seep into his shoes. Grey morning light filtered through the clouds. He had stayed up until five o’clock reading reports. Slept for three hours, then continued reading. And understood now why the investigation had come to a standstill. The work that had been done seemed good, seemed thorough, but there was nothing there. Absolutely nothing. He had come out here to clear his head. He wasn’t even a third of the way through the reports.
Her name was carved in white on the grey stone. Rakel Fauke. He didn’t quite know why, but right now he was glad she hadn’t taken his surname as well.
He looked around. There were some people by other graves, probably more than usual since it was a Saturday, but they were so far away that he presumed he could speak out loud without them hearing him. He told her he had spoken to Oleg on the phone. That he was well, liked it there up north, but was considering applying for a position at Police HQ.
‘PST,’ Harry said. ‘He wants to follow in his mum’s footsteps.’
Harry told her he had called Sis. She’d had some health problems but was better now and back at work at the supermarket. Wanted him to come visit her and her boyfriend in Kristiansand.
‘I said I’d see if I could make it down before... before it’s too late. I’m having a bit of bother with some Mexicans. They’re going to kill me and a woman who looks like my mother unless I, or the police, solve this murder case within the next three days.’ Harry chuckled. ‘I’ve got a fungal nail infection, otherwise I’m doing fine. So there you go, all is well with your people. That was always what was most important to you. You yourself were less important. You wouldn’t even have wanted to be avenged if it’d been up to you. But it wasn’t. And I wanted revenge. That no doubt makes me a worse human being than you, but I’d be that even without the fucking thirst for revenge. It’s like sexual desire. Even though you’re disappointed every time you exact revenge, even though you
Harry felt a lump in his throat. Of course she understood. That was what he missed the most. His woman, Rakel, who understood and accepted most things about her weird husband. Not everything. But a lot. A hell of a lot.
‘The problem,’ Harry said, clearing his throat, ‘is of course that after you I have nothing left to lose. There’s nothing more to avenge, Rakel.’
Harry stood motionless. Looked down at his shoes, sunken down in the grass, the leather growing darker where the water had soaked in. He raised his eyes. Up by the church, on the steps, he saw a figure, just standing there watching. There was something familiar about the figure, and he realised it was a priest. He seemed to be looking in Harry’s direction.
The phone rang. It was Johan Krohn.
‘Talk to me,’ Harry said.
‘I’ve just been on another call. And not with just anyone. The Minister of Justice himself.’
‘It is a small country so don’t tell me you were
