‘Can we?’
‘I want the police to realise they have the wrong man so that Røed is released immediately. You want to reclaim your place at the top after your attempts to fake your way there.’
‘What would you know about that?’
‘You wanting to get back to the top is just guesswork on my part, but as for your last article, I know it’s made up.’
Våge thought for a moment while his eyes wandered around what with a measure of goodwill could be termed a bachelor pad, but without had to be termed a hole. In a year, with the level of income he was receiving from Dagbladet, he had imagined he could get someplace bigger, with more air and light. Less dirt. Dagnija, his Latvian girlfriend — she thought she was at any rate — was coming to stay at the weekend, she could give the place a clean then.
‘I will of course have to check what you claimed to know about the girls at the outset,’ Våge said. ‘Assuming that’s correct, what’s your suggestion?’
‘I’d prefer to call it an ultimatum, since it either happens in exactly the detail I want or not at all.’
‘Go on.’
‘Meet me on the south side of the roof of the Opera House tomorrow night. I’ll provide you with proof that I was the one who killed the girls. Nine on the dot. You’re not to tell a soul we’re meeting and naturally you’ve to come alone. Understood?’
‘Understood. Can you tell me a little about—’
Våge stared at the phone. The man had hung up.
What the fuck was that? It was too crazy to be the real thing. And he didn’t have any number to find out who’d called either.
He checked the time. Five to eight. He felt like heading out for a beer. Not to Stopp Pressen! or anywhere like that, but someplace he wouldn’t risk running into colleagues. He thought wistfully about the times he could go to release concerts where the record companies handed out beer bongs to the journalists in the hope of a favourable review, and it wasn’t unheard of for a young female artist to seek his sympathy with the same aim in mind.
He looked at the phone again. Too crazy. Or was it?
It was half nine, and Bob Marley and the Wailers’ ‘Jamming’ was streaming out of the loudspeakers at a packed Jealousy Bar. It looked like the entire population of middle-aged hipsters in Grünerløkka had turned out to drink beer and offer their opinions on the playlist. They alternated between cheers and boos each time a new song came on.
‘I’m just saying that Harry’s wrong!’ Øystein shouted to Truls and Sung-min. ‘“Stayin’ Alive” isn’t better than “Trans-Europe Express”, and it’s as simple as that!’
‘The Bee Gees versus Kraftwerk,’ Harry translated for Alexandra as the five of them worked their way through four half-litres of beer and a mineral water. They were sitting in a booth they’d secured, where the sound level was lower.
‘Nice to be on the same team as you all,’ Sung-min declared, holding up his glass for a toast. ‘And congratulations on the arrest yesterday.’
‘Which Harry’s going to try and get reversed tomorrow,’ Øystein said, clinking his glass against the others’.
‘Pardon?’
‘He said he’s going to get Røed the alibi he doesn’t want.’
Sung-min looked across the table at Harry, who shrugged.
‘I was going to try to get into Villa Dante and find witnesses who can confirm that Røed was there on the Tuesday nights Susanne and Bertine were killed. If I find them, they’ll be worth a lot more than the statement of a dead wife.’
‘Why are you going there?’ Alexandra asked. ‘Why can’t the police just raid the place and make inquiries?’
‘Because,’ Sung-min said, ‘for one thing, we’d need a court order, and we’re not going to get that as there’s no reason to suspect anything criminal is going on at the club. For another, we’d never get anyone there to come forward as a witness given that the whole point of Villa Dante is complete anonymity. What I’m wondering is how you’re going to gain entry and get someone to talk, Harry.’
‘Well. Number one, I’m not a cop any more and I don’t need to concern myself about court orders. Number two, I have these.’ Harry had reached inside his jacket pocket and was holding up a cat mask and a Villa Dante membership card. ‘Plus, I have Røed’s suit, we’re both the same height, same mask...’
Alexandra laughed. ‘Harry Hole intends to go to a gay sex club and pose as...’ She snatched the card and read, ‘Catman? In that case you might need a few pointers first.’
‘I was actually wondering if you might consider coming along,’ Harry asked.
Alexandra shook her head. ‘You can’t take a woman with you to a gay club, that’s a deal breaker, no one will chat you up. The only way would be if I could pretend I was in drag.’
‘Not a chance, dear,’ Sung-min interjected.
‘Listen, this is what’s going to happen,’ Alexandra said, and her wicked grin made the others lean in closer to hear. While she elaborated, they alternated between gasping and laughing in disbelief. When Alexandra was finished, she looked at Sung-min for confirmation.
‘I don’t frequent those sorts of clubs, dear. What I’m wondering is how you know so much.’
‘You’re allowed to bring women to Scandinavian Leather Man one night a year,’ she said.
‘Still keen on going?’ Øystein asked, poking Harry in the ribs. Truls grunted his laugh.
‘More performance anxiety than penetration anxiety,’ Harry said. ‘I doubt I’ll be raped.’
‘No one’s going to get raped, certainly not a daddy nearly two metres tall,’ Alexandra said. ‘But there’ll probably be twinks there who’ll hit on you.’
‘Twinks?’
‘Cute, skinny boys who want to be towered over. But like I said, watch out for bears, and take care in the dark rooms.’
‘Another round?’ Øystein said. He counted three fingers being held up.
‘I’ll help you carry them,’ Harry said.
They squeezed their way to the bar and were standing in the queue when the guitar riff of David Bowie’s ‘Heroes’ sounded to rousing cheers all round.
‘Mick Ronson is God,’ Øystein said.
‘Yeah, but that there is Robert Fripp,’ Harry said.
‘Correct, Harry,’ a voice behind them said. They turned. The man had a flat cap, several days of stubble and warm, slightly sad eyes. ‘Everyone thinks Fripp used an EBow but it’s just feedback from the studio monitors.’ He held out his hand. ‘Arne, Katrine’s boyfriend.’ He had a nice smile. Like an old friend, Harry thought. Except that this guy had to be at least ten years younger than them.
‘Aha,’ Harry said, and shook his hand.
‘Big fan,’ Arne said.
‘Us too,’ Øystein said as he tried in vain to attract the attention of the busy bartenders.
‘I didn’t mean of Bowie, but of you.’
‘Of me?’ Harry said.
‘Of him?’ Øystein said.
Arne laughed. ‘Don’t look so shocked. I was thinking of the incredible things you’ve done for the city as a policeman.’
‘Mm. Is it Katrine who’s been telling you tales?’
‘No, no, listen, I knew about Harry Hole long before I met her. I must have been in my late teens when I was reading about you in the papers. You know, I even applied to Police College because of you.’ Arne’s laughter was happy, breezy.
‘Mm. But you didn’t get in?’
‘I was called in to take the entrance exams. But in the meantime I’d been accepted on a course at university that I thought I could use to become an investigator later.’
‘I see. Is Katrine with you?’
‘Is she here?’
‘I don’t know, she sent me a text saying she might pop in, but it’s so crowded in here and she might have bumped into some other people she knows. How did you find her, by the way?’