Oleg turned around and raised one finger. Nina nodded.
“How long are you going to sleep?” Oleg asked.
“As long as I can.”
The beer arrived, and Oleg drank it slowly in small sips. He put the glass down between them each time, as if it was something they were sharing. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. Couldn’t. Their silent sobbing was deafening.
When the glass was empty, Oleg took out his phone and looked at it. “It’s Helga’s brother, he’s picking me up in the car, he’s outside. Can we give you a lift home?”
Harry shook his head. “Thanks, but I need the walk.”
“I’ll text you the address of the funeral director.”
“Great.”
They stood up at the same time. Harry noted that Oleg was still a couple of centimetres short of his own 1.92 metres. Then he remembered that the race was over, and that Oleg was a full-grown man.
They embraced, holding each other hard. Chins on each other’s shoulders. And didn’t let go.
“Dad?”
“Mm?”
“When you called and said it was about Mum, and I asked if you were getting back together... That was because I asked her two days ago if she couldn’t give it another chance.”
Harry felt something catch in his chest. “What?”
“She said she’d think about it over the weekend. But I know she wanted it. She wanted you back.”
Harry closed his eyes and clenched his jaw so tightly it felt like the muscles would burst. Why did you have to come and make me so lonely? There wasn’t enough alcohol in the world to fend off this pain.
10
Rakel had wanted him back.
Did that make things better or just even worse?
Harry dug his phone out of his pocket to switch it off. He saw that Oleg had sent a text about a couple of the practical questions the funeral directors had asked. Three missed calls that he guessed were newspapers, as well as one call from a number he recognised as belonging to Alexandra at the Forensic Medical Institute. Did she want to pass on her condolences? Or to have sex? She could have sent a text if she wanted to convey her condolences. Both, maybe. The young technician had said several times that strong emotions turned her on, whether they were good or bad. Rage, joy, hate, pain. But grief? Hm. Lust and shame. The shocking, titillating idea of fucking someone in mourning — there were probably worse things. Wasn’t it, for instance, worse that he was sitting here thinking about Alexandra’s possible sexual fantasies just hours after Rakel had been found dead? What the hell was that about?
Harry held the Off button until the screen turned black, then slipped his phone back into his trouser pocket. He looked at the microphone on the table in front of him in the cramped doll’s house room. The little red light indicated that it was recording. Then he fixed his gaze on the person on the other side of the table.
“Shall we begin?”
Sung-min Larsen nodded. Rather than hang his Burberry jacket on the hook on the wall next to Harry’s peacoat, he had hung it over the back of the only free chair.
Larsen cleared his throat before he began.
“Today is 13 March, the time is 15:50, and we’re in interview room 3 in Police Headquarters in Oslo. The interviewer is Detective Inspector Sung-min Larsen of Kripos, the interviewee Harry Hole...”
Harry listened as Larsen continued, his language so distinct and correct that it sounded like someone in an old radio play. Larsen held his gaze as he gave Harry’s ID number and address without checking the notes in front of him. Perhaps he’d memorised them to impress his hitherto more-esteemed colleague. Unless it was just his standard scare tactic to demonstrate intellectual superiority, so that the interviewee would give up any idea of manipulating and lying to hide the truth. And of course there was a third possibility: that Sung-min Larsen simply had a good memory.
“As a police officer I assume you’re aware of your rights,” Larsen said. “And you’ve declined the option of having a lawyer present.”
“Am I a suspect?” Harry asked, looking past the curtains to the control room, where Police Inspector Winter was sitting with his arms folded as he watched them.
“This is a routine interview, you’re not under suspicion of anything,” Larsen said. He was following the rulebook. He went on to inform Harry that the interview was being recorded. “Can you tell me about your relationship to the deceased, Rakel Fauke?”
“She’s... she was my wife.”
“You’re separated?”
“No. Well, yes, she’s dead.”
Sung-min Larsen looked up at Harry as if he wondered if that was meant as a challenge. “Not separated, then?”
“No, we hadn’t got that far. But I’d moved out.”
“I understand from other people we’ve spoken to that she was the one who wanted to split up. What was the cause of the break-up?”
She had wanted him back. “Disagreements. Can we skip to the bit where you ask if I’ve got an alibi for the time of the murder?”
“I appreciate that this is painful, but...”
“Thanks for letting me know how you feel, Larsen, and your guess hits the nail on the head, it is painful, but the reason for my request is that I don’t have much time.”
“Oh? I understood that you’ve been suspended until further notice.”
“I have. But I’ve got a lot of drinking to do.”
“And that’s urgent?”
“Yes.”
“I’d still like to know what sort of contact you and Rakel Fauke had during the time before her murder. Your stepson Oleg says he felt he never got a good explanation either from you or his mother for why you split up. But that it probably didn’t help that you were spending more and more of your free time while you were a lecturer at Police College trying to track down Svein Finne, who had just been released from prison.”
“When I said ‘request,’ that was a nice way of saying no.”
“So you’re refusing to explain your relationship with the deceased?”
“I’m declining the option to tell you about personal details and offering to give you my alibi so that we can both save time. So that you and Winter can concentrate on finding the culprit. I assume you remember from your lectures that if murder cases aren’t solved within the first forty-eight hours, the witnesses’ memories and any physical evidence deteriorate to the point where the chances of solving the case are reduced by half. Shall we get to the night of the murder, Larsen?”
The Kripos detective stared at a point on Harry’s forehead as he tapped the end of a pen on the table. Harry could see he would have liked to glance across at Winter to get some indication of where to go from here: press on, or do as Harry wanted.
“OK,” Larsen said. “Let’s do that.”
“Great,” Harry said. “So tell me.”
“Sorry?”
“Tell me where I was on the night of the murder.”
Sung-min Larsen smiled. “You want me to tell you?”
“You’ve chosen to interview other people before me, to make sure you’re as prepared as you can be. Which is what I would have done in your place, Larsen. That means you’ve spoken to Bjørn Holm and know I was at the Jealousy Bar, where he came to find me that night, and took me home and put me to bed. I was drunk as hell, don’t remember a thing, and have absolutely no idea what time any of this happened. So I’m in no position to give you any times that can either confirm or contradict what he told you. But with a bit of luck you’ve spoken to the bar’s owner and maybe a few other witnesses who’ve been able to confirm what Holm said. And seeing as I don’t know what time my wife died, it’s pretty much down to you to tell me if I’ve got an alibi or not, Larsen.”