‘I don’t know his name — the guy arrested at Jernbanetorget today.’
‘Fuck,’ Harry said in a low tone, gently striking the doorjamb with his fist.
‘Something wrong?’
‘That’s him.’
‘Who?’
‘The primary host.’
Sung-min Larsen was standing behind the counter at the Custody Unit peering down into the box containing the property of the deceased. There was no great hurry on the house keys, since they had already broken in and searched his place, but a forensics officer was on the way to collect the keys to the car, which had been found in the multi-storey car park closest to Jernbanetorget. Sung-min turned the theatre ticket. Had he been to the same performance as Helene? No, there was an earlier date on the ticket. But maybe he had gone to the National Theatre to reconnoitre, to plan the abduction and murder of Helene Røed.
His phone rang.
‘Larsen.’
‘We’re at Beckstrøm’s now but only the wife is home. She says she thought he was at work.’
Sung-min was puzzled. No one at Beckstrøm’s office knew where the defence lawyer was either. Beckstrøm was a key witness given that he was the last person who had seen the detainee alive. This was urgent. True, the media hadn’t linked the arrest on Jernbanetorget to anything in particular so far; after all, it wasn’t unusual for the police to apprehend pushers there. But it might only be a matter of minutes or hours before a journalist got wind of a death in the Custody Unit, and then they’d all be on the warpath.
‘Groth,’ Sung-min called out to the shift commander, leaning on the other side of the counter, ‘how did Beckstrøm seem when he came out?’
‘Different,’ Groth said sourly.
‘Different how?’
Groth shrugged. ‘He’d put on a face mask, maybe that was it. Or he was distressed by seeing the prisoner so sick. Wild-eyed, anyway, completely different from when he arrived. Maybe he’s the sensitive type, what do I know?’
‘Maybe,’ Larsen said, his gaze lingering on the theatre ticket while he ransacked his brain for the reason why this alarm clock was going off in his head.
It was almost nine o’clock in the evening when Johan Krohn tapped in the number of the apartment and looked up at the video camera above the entrance. After a few moments he heard a deep voice not belonging to Markus Røed. ‘Who are you?’
‘Johan Krohn. The lawyer who was in the car earlier today.’
‘Right. Come in.’
Krohn took the lift up and was let into the apartment by one of the bull-necked security men. Røed seemed irritable and was restlessly pacing the living room, back and forth, like one of the mangy old lions Krohn had seen as a little boy in Copenhagen Zoo. His white shirt was open and was ringed with sweat under the arms.
‘I come bearing good news,’ Krohn said. And added drily when he saw his client’s face light up: ‘News, not coke.’
As Krohn saw the anger flare up in the other man’s face he hurried to extinguish it: ‘The suspected killer has been caught.’
‘Really?’ Røed blinked in disbelief. Then he laughed. ‘Who is it?’
‘His name is Kevin Selmer.’ Krohn saw the name didn’t ring a bell with Røed. ‘Harry says he’s one of your cocaine suppliers.’
Krohn was half expecting Røed to dispute the allegation he had anyone who supplied him with cocaine, but instead it looked as though he was trying to recall the name.
‘He’s the guy who was here at the party,’ Krohn said.
‘Ah! I didn’t know his name, he never told me. Said I should just call him K. I just figured he couldn’t spell and thought it stood for... well, you can probably guess.’
‘That I can.’
‘So K killed them? That’s baffling. He must be mad.’
‘I think that’s a safe assumption, yes.’
Røed stared out at the roof terrace. A neighbour was leaning with his back against the wall beside the fire escape smoking a cigarette. ‘I should buy his apartment, and the other two as well,’ Røed said. ‘I can’t bear them standing out there looking like they own...’ He didn’t finish the sentence. ‘Well, I can get out of this prison, at least.’
‘Yes.’
‘Good, then I know where I’m going.’ Røed strode towards the bedroom. Krohn followed.
‘Not out to party, Markus.’
‘Why not?’ Røed walked past the big double bed and opened one of the built-in closets.
‘Because it’s only been a few days since your wife was killed. Think how people will react.’
‘You’re wrong,’ Røed said as he browsed the suits. ‘They’ll understand that I’m celebrating the fact her killer has been caught. Hello, long time since I’ve worn this.’ He took out a navy-blue double-breasted blazer with gold buttons and put it on. Felt in the pockets and pulled something out that he tossed on the bed. ‘Whoa, has it been that long?’
Krohn saw it was a black masquerade mask shaped like a butterfly.
Røed did up the blazer while he looked in a gold-framed mirror.
‘Sure you don’t want to come on a bender, Johan?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘Maybe I can take my bodyguards instead. How long have we paid them for?’
‘They’re not allowed to drink on the job.’
‘Right, that would make for boring company.’ Røed went out to the living room and, with laughter in his voice, shouted: ‘Have you heard, lads? You’re discharged!’
Krohn and Røed took the lift down together.
‘Ring Hole,’ Røed said. ‘He likes to drink. Tell him I’m going on a bar crawl on Dronning Eufemias gate, from east to west. And the drinks are on me. Then I can congratulate him right away.’
Krohn nodded as he posed himself that perennial question: if he’d known that as a lawyer he would have to spend such a large portion of his life with people he disliked so much, would he still have chosen the same career?
‘Creatures.’
‘Hi. Is that Ben?’
‘Yeah, who’s this?’
‘Harry. The tall, blond—’
‘Hi, Harry, long time. What’s up?’
Harry looked down from Ekeberg, out over the city that lay like an inverse starry sky below him.
‘It’s about Lucille. I’m in Norway and I can’t get hold of her on the phone. Have you seen her?’
‘Not for... about a month?’
‘Mm. She lives on her own, as you know, and I was worried something might have happened to her.’
‘OK?’
‘If I give you an address on Doheny Drive, could you check on her for me? If she’s not there, you should probably contact the police.’
There was a pause.
‘OK, Harry, I’m jotting it down.’
After the call, Harry walked to the Mercedes parked behind the old German bunkers. Sat on the bonnet next to Øystein again, lit up a cigarette and continued from where they had left off while the music streamed out of the two open car windows. About all the others and what had become of them, about the girls they never got, about the dreams that didn’t shatter but faded away like a half-baked song or a long joke without a punchline. About the life they chose or the life that chose them, which was one and the same, since you — as Øystein said — can only play the hand you’re dealt.
‘It’s warm,’ Øystein said, after they had sat in silence for a while.
‘Old engines give the best heat,’ Harry said, patting the bonnet.
‘No, I meant the weather. I thought it was over but the warm weather’s back. And tomorrow that there will be eclipsed by blood.’ He pointed up at a pale full moon.
Harry’s phone rang. ‘Talk to me.’
‘So it’s true,’ Sung-min said. ‘You really do answer the phone like that.’
‘I saw it was you and was just trying to live up to the myth,’ Harry said. ‘What’s going on?’