In the silence that followed the bells of City Hall began to chime.
Markus Røed chuckled. ‘You talk tough, Harry. How many years would it take you to scrape together that kind of bonus as a policeman? Ten? Twenty? What do you people even earn down there at the station actually?’
Harry made no reply. The bells continued to chime.
‘Well,’ Krohn said, flashing a rushed smile, ‘essentially, what you’re saying is what we want done, Harry. Like I said on the phone: an independent investigation. So although you’re putting it in rather a rough way, we are on the same page. What you’re expressing is the very reason we want you. An individual with that kind of integrity.’
‘Are you?’ Røed asked, stroking his chin with his thumb and forefinger while looking at Harry. ‘A man with that kind of integrity?’
Harry again noticed the twitching in Røed’s eyes. He shook his head. Røed leaned forward, smiled cheerfully and said in a low voice: ‘Not even a little?’
Harry smiled as well. ‘Only to the extent a horse wearing blinkers can be accused of having integrity. A creature of limited intelligence just doing what it’s trained to: running straight ahead without allowing itself to be distracted.’
Markus Røed laughed. ‘That’s good, Harry. That’s good. We’ll buy that. What I want you to do first is put together a team of top people. Preferably with names people are aware of. That we can announce to the media. So they can see that we mean business, you get me?’
‘I have an idea of who I could use.’
‘Good, good. How long before you get an answer from them, do you think?’
‘By four o’clock tomorrow.’
‘As early as tomorrow?’
Røed laughed again when he realised Harry was serious. ‘I like your style, Harry. Let’s sign the contract.’
Røed nodded to Krohn, who reached into his briefcase and placed a one-page document in front of Harry.
‘The contract states that the assignment is to be regarded as complete when there is an agreement of guilt among at least three lawyers in the legal department of the police,’ Krohn said. ‘Should the accused be acquitted in a court case, however, the fee will have to be repaid. That is to say it’s a “no cure no pay” agreement.’
‘But with a bonus an executive would envy you, myself included,’ Røed said.
‘I’d like one additional clause in there,’ Harry said. ‘My fee is to be paid should the police — with or without my assistance — find the presumed guilty party within the next nine days.’
Røed and Krohn exchanged glances.
Røed nodded before leaning towards Harry. ‘You’re a tough negotiator. But don’t think I don’t understand why you have such exact numbers on the sum to be paid and the number of days.’
Harry raised an eyebrow. ‘Really?’
‘Come on. It gives the other guy the feeling that there’s a true figure. A magic number where everything falls into place. You can’t teach your dad to fuck, Harry, I use that negotiation ploy myself.’
Harry nodded slowly. ‘You got me, Røed.’
‘And now I’m going to teach you a trick, Harry.’ Røed leaned back, grinning broadly. ‘I want to give you a million dollars. That’s nearly four hundred thousand Norwegian kroner more than you’re asking for, enough for a decent car. You know why?’
Harry didn’t reply.
‘Because people put in a lot more effort if you give them a little more than they expected. It’s a psychologically proven fact.’
‘Then I’m willing to test it,’ Harry said drily. ‘But there is one more thing.’
Røed’s smile disappeared. ‘And that is?’
‘I’ll need permission from someone in the police.’
Krohn cleared his throat. ‘You are aware that in Norway you don’t need authorisation or a licence to undertake private investigations?’
‘Yes. But I said someone in the police.’
Harry explained the problem, and after a while Røed nodded and reluctantly agreed. After Harry and Røed had shaken hands, Krohn escorted Harry down to the exit. He held the door onto the street open for Harry.
‘Might I ask you a question, Harry?’
‘Shoot.’
‘Why did I have to send a copy of our contract in English to a Mexican email address?’
‘That was for my agent.’
Krohn’s face remained expressionless. Harry figured that as a defence lawyer he was so used to being lied to that he was probably more inclined to bat an eyelid when his clients told the truth. And that Krohn also understood that such an obvious lie was a no-trespassing sign.
‘Have a nice Sunday, Harry.’
‘You too.’
Harry walked down to Aker Brygge. Sat down on a bench. Watched the ferry from the Nesoddtangen peninsula glide to the quay in the sunshine. Closed his eyes. He and Rakel had taken a day off in the middle of the week on occasion, brought their bikes aboard the boat and, after twenty-five minutes among the small islets and sailing boats, docked at Nesoddtangen. From there they had cycled straight into a rural landscape with country roads, trails and secluded, deserted bathing spots where they dived in and afterwards warmed themselves up on the smooth rock slabs, and the only sounds to be heard were the buzz of insects and Rakel’s intense but low moaning as she dug her nails into his back. Harry forced himself to let go of the image and opened his eyes. Looked at his watch. Looked at the staccato progression of the second hand. In a few hours he was to meet Katrine. And Gert. He walked on, with long strides, towards the Thief.
‘Your uncle seems on form today,’ said the nurse, taking leave of Prim at the open door of the small room.
Prim nodded. Looked at the elderly man in the dressing gown sitting up in the bed staring at the turned-off TV screen. He had been a handsome man at one time. A highly respected man accustomed to being listened to, in both his private life and his professional one. Prim thought it was still visible in his features, in his uncle’s high, smooth forehead, his deep-set, clear blue eyes on either side of his aquiline nose. In the determined set to his tightly closed mouth with the surprisingly full lips.
Prim called him Uncle Fredric. Because that’s what he was. Among other things.
His uncle looked up as Prim stepped into the room, and Prim, as usual, wondered which Uncle Fredric was at home today. If any.
‘Who are you? Get out.’ His face was flushed with a mixture of contempt and amusement, and his voice lay in that deep register he used that made it impossible to be sure whether Uncle Fredric was joking or furious. He suffered from dementia with Lewy bodies, a brain disorder which not only brought about hallucinations and nightmares, but — as in his uncle’s case — occasionally aggressive behaviour. Mostly verbal, but also physical, rendering the limitations the muscle rigidity caused almost an advantage.
‘I’m Prim, Molle’s son.’ And before any possible response from his uncle, added: ‘Your sister.’
Prim looked at the only decoration on the wall, a framed diploma hanging over the bed. He had once brought and hung up a framed photo of his uncle, his mother and himself as a boy smiling by a swimming pool in Spain, a holiday his uncle had treated his sister and nephew to after his stepfather had left them.
But his uncle had taken the picture down after a few months, saying he couldn’t stand looking at so many rabbit teeth. He was obviously referring to the two large front teeth with a gap that Prim had inherited from his mother. But the diploma conferring the doctorate still hung there, with the name Fredric Steiner on it. He had changed the surname he shared with Prim’s mother because — as he had plainly told Prim — a Jewish surname held more weight and authority in scientific circles. Especially in his own field, microbiology, where there were few who could be bothered to pretend that it was not the case that Jews — particularly Ashkenazi Jews — had genes which granted them superior intellectual capabilities. While it might be sensible in terms of decorum and for political reasons to deny — or at least ignore — such a fact was all well and good, but a fact was a fact. So if Fredric had a mind that was as brilliant and highly functioning as a Jewish one, why humbly join the back of the queue with a staid, Norwegian peasant name?