‘It’s a perfect ring,’ she said. ‘But it’s not for me.’
She tilted her head and gave him this mournful look to let him know what a sorry situation this was. Or rather, how sorry she felt for him.
Yes, he had heard right.
Prim could hear a rushing sound. Not the swish of a gentle breeze through the treetops as he had imagined, but the sound of a TV no longer receiving any transmission, alone, without contact, without purpose and meaning. The sound continued to rise, the pressure in his head increased, though already unbearable. He needed to disappear, to be no more. But he couldn’t disappear, couldn’t just nullify himself. So she needed to disappear. She needed to be no more. Or — that was when it occurred to him — he, the other man, needed to disappear. The cause. The man who poisoned her, blinded her, confused her. The man who made it so that she was no longer able to tell the difference between his, Prim’s, true love and the man’s, the parasite’s, manipulation. It was he, the policeman, that was her toxoplasma.
‘Well, if it’s not for you,’ Prim said, closing the box with the diamond ring, ‘then this is.’
The eclipse had begun above them, like a ravenous cannibal the night had started to gnaw at the left edge of the moon. But there was still more than enough moonlight where the two of them sat, and he could see her pupils dilate as she stared at the knife he had produced.
‘What...’ she said. Her voice sounded dry, and she swallowed before continuing: ‘...is... that?’
‘What do you think it is?’
He could tell by her eyes what she was thinking, saw her lips form the words, but they wouldn’t come out. So he said them for her.
‘It’s the murder weapon.’
She looked like she was going to say something but he got to his feet quickly and was behind her. Pulled her head back and pressed the knife to her throat.
‘It’s the murder weapon that opened the jugulars of Susanne Andersen and Helene Røed. And which will open yours. If you don’t do exactly as I say.’
He pulled her head so far back that he could look her in the eyes.
The way in which the two of them were viewing each other now, upside down, was probably the way they viewed each other’s worlds too. Yes, so perhaps it would never have worked. Perhaps he had known that too. Perhaps that was why, despite everything, he had planned this alternative solution if she didn’t accept the ring. He had expected her to look at him with disbelief. But she didn’t. She looked like she believed every word he said.
Good.
‘Wh-what will I do?’
‘You’re going to call your policeman with an invitation he can’t refuse.’
50
Friday
Missed calls
The head waiter lifted the handset of the ringing telephone. ‘Frognerseteren Restaurant.’
‘This is Harry Hole. I’m trying to get hold of Inspector Katrine Bratt who’s dining with you tonight.’
The head waiter was taken aback. Not only because the loudspeaker on the phone was on, but because there was something familiar about the man’s name. ‘I’m looking at the guest list now, Mr Hole. But I can’t see a reservation in her name.’
‘It’s probably under the gentleman’s name. He’s called Arne, I don’t know his surname.’
‘No Arne, but I do have several surnames here with no first names.’
‘OK. He’s blond, might be wearing a flat cap. She’s dark-haired, Bergen accent.’
‘Aha. Yes, they ate outside, that was my table.’
‘Ate?’
‘Yes, they’ve left the restaurant.’
‘Mm. Did you happen to hear anything that could give you some idea where they might be going?’
The head waiter hesitated. ‘I’m not sure if I—’
‘This is important, it’s concerning the police investigation of the murdered women.’
The head waiter realised where he had heard the name before.
‘The gentleman arrived early and asked to borrow two wine glasses. He had a bottle of Remoissenet Chassagne-Montrachet and said he was going to propose to her up by Tryvann after dinner, and then I gave him the glasses. It was a 2018 vintage, you see.’
‘Thanks.’
Harry reached out to the phone lying on Aune’s duvet and ended the call.
‘We need to get up to Tryvann right away. Truls, will you contact Emergency Control and get them to send a patrol car there? Blues and twos.’
‘I’ll try,’ Truls said, whipping out his own phone.
‘Ready, Øystein?’
‘Oh, may Mercedes be with us.’
‘Good luck,’ Aune said.
The three of them were on their way out the door when Harry took out his phone, looked at the display and stopped with one foot either side of the threshold. The door swung back and knocked the phone from his hand. He bent down and picked it up from the floor.
‘What’s going on?’ Øystein called from outside.
Harry took a deep breath. ‘It’s a call from Katrine’s number.’ He noticed he had automatically jumped to the possibility that it wasn’t her ringing.
‘Aren’t you going to take it?’ Aune asked from the bed.
Harry looked grimly at him. Nodded. Tapped Accept and put the phone to his ear.
‘You sure?’ Commander Briseid asked.
The older firefighter nodded.
Briseid sighed, glanced at the burning villa his crew were busy hosing. Looked up at the moon. It looked strange tonight, as though something wasn’t right with it. He sighed again, tipped the fire helmet back a little on his head and began making his way towards the solitary patrol car. It was from the Police Traffic and Sea Division and had pulled in shortly after their own fire engines were in place. From the time the station had been alerted of the villa on fire in Gaustad at 20.50, it had taken ten minutes and thirty-five seconds until Briseid and his colleagues arrived at the scene. Not that the situation would have been critical had it taken them a few minutes longer. The house was fire-damaged from before and had been unoccupied for years, so there was little chance of lives being at risk. Nor was there any danger of the blaze spreading to the surrounding villas. Badly raised youths setting fire to houses like this wasn’t that uncommon, but whether it was arson or not was something they could look at later; right now putting it out was the main concern. In that sense it could almost be deemed an exercise. The problem was the house was situated right next to Ring 3 and thick black smoke was drifting across the motorway, hence the presence of the Traffic Division. Fortunately, the usually busy traffic from out of the city on Fridays had died down, but from the hill Briseid was on he could still see the headlights of cars — those not enveloped in smoke at least — standing stock-still on the motorway. According to the Traffic Division there was congestion in both directions from the Smestad junction to Ullevål. Briseid had told the female police officer that it would take time before they got the fire under control, at least until the smoke cleared, so it might be a while before people could get to where they were going. They had at any rate closed the access roads now, so no more vehicles were coming onto the motorway.
Briseid approached the police car. The female officer lowered the window.
‘You should probably get some of your colleagues up here after all,’ he said.
‘Oh?’
‘See him?’ Briseid pointed at the older firefighter standing over by one of the fire engines. ‘We call him Sniff. Because he’s able to pick up that smell out of all the other smells when something’s burning. Sniff is never wrong.’