13
The altocumulus clouds lay like a crocheted cloth across the sky above Voksen Church.
“My condolences,” Mikael Bellman said in a heartfelt voice, with a well-practised facial expression. The former young Chief of Police, now an equally young Minister of Justice, shook Harry’s hand with his right as he placed his left hand on top of the handshake as if to seal it. As if to express that he really meant it. Or to assure himself that Harry wasn’t going to snatch his hand away before the assembled press photographers — who hadn’t been given permission to take pictures inside the church — had done their thing. Once Bellman had ticked off Minister of Justice takes time to attend funeral of former police colleague’s spouse, he disappeared towards the waiting black SUV. He had probably checked in advance that Harry wasn’t a suspect.
Harry and Oleg went on shaking hands and nodding at the faces in front of them, most of them Rakel’s friends and colleagues. A few neighbours. Apart from Oleg, Rakel didn’t have any close relatives still alive, but the large church had still been well over half full. The funeral director had said that if they’d delayed the funeral until the following week, even more people would have been able to rearrange their schedules. Harry was pleased Oleg hadn’t announced any gathering after the funeral. Neither of them knew Rakel’s colleagues particularly well or felt like chatting to the neighbours. What needed saying about Rakel had been said by Oleg, Harry and a couple of her childhood friends inside the church, and that would have to do. Even the priest had to confine himself to the hymns, prayers and prescribed phrases.
“Fuck.” It was Øystein Eikeland, one of Harry’s own two childhood friends. With tears in his eyes he placed his hands on Harry’s shoulders and breathed fresh alcohol into his face. Maybe it was just his appearance that made Harry think of Øystein whenever anyone trotted out jokes about Keith Richards. For every cigarette you smoke, God takes an hour away from you... and gives it to Keith Richards. Harry saw that his friend was thinking hard before he finally opened his mouth to reveal his brown stumps and repeated, with a little more intensity: “Fuck.”
“Thanks,” Harry said.
“Tresko couldn’t make it,” Øystein said without letting go of Harry. “That’s to say, he gets panic attacks in groups of more than... well, more than two people. But he sends his best wishes, and says...” Øystein screwed his eyes up against the morning sunlight. “Fuck.”
“A few of us are meeting at Schrøder’s.”
“Free bar?”
“Max three.”
“OK.”
“Roar Bohr, I was Rakel’s chief.” Harry looked into the slate-grey eyes of a man who was fifteen centimetres shorter than him, but who still seemed just as tall. And there was something about his posture, and also the slightly archaic “chief,” that put Harry in mind of an officer in the military. His handshake was firm and his gaze steady and direct, but there was also a soreness, possibly even vulnerability there. But perhaps that was because of the circumstances. “Rakel was my best co-worker, and a wonderful person. It’s a huge loss to the NHRI and all of us who work there, and especially for me, because I worked so closely with her.”
“Thanks,” Harry said, believing him. But perhaps that was just the warmth of his handshake. The warm hand of a man who worked in human rights. Harry watched Roar Bohr as he walked over to two women standing a short distance away, and noted that Bohr looked down at where he was putting his feet. Like someone who automatically looks for landmines. Then he noticed that there was something familiar about one of the women, although she had her back to him. Bohr said something, evidently quietly, because the woman had to lean over, and Bohr put one hand gently on the base of her spine.
And then the condolences were finished. The hearse had driven away with the coffin, and a few people had already gone off to meetings and other everyday concerns. Harry saw Truls Berntsen walking off on his own to catch the bus back to the office, presumably to play more solitaire. Some of the others were standing in little groups outside the church talking. Police Chief Gunnar Hagen and Anders Wyller, the young detective Harry was renting his flat from, were standing with Katrine and Bjørn, who had brought the baby with them. Some people probably found the sound of a baby crying something of a comfort at a funeral, a reminder that life did actually go on. To anyone who wanted life to go on, anyway. Harry announced to everyone who was still there that there was going to be a small gathering at Schrøder’s. Sis, his sister, who had travelled up from Kristiansand with her partner, came over, gave Harry and Oleg each a long, hard hug, then said they needed to be getting back. Harry nodded and said that was a shame but that he understood, even though he was actually relieved. Apart from Oleg, Sis was the only person with the potential to make him cry in public.
Helga drove to Schrøder’s with Harry and Oleg. Nina had laid a long table for them.
A dozen people showed up, and Harry was sitting hunched over his coffee listening to the sound of the others talking when someone put a hand on his back. It was Bjørn.
“I don’t suppose people usually give presents at funerals.” He handed Harry a flat, rectangular parcel. “But this has helped me through some rough times.”
“Thanks, Bjørn.” Harry turned the present over. It wasn’t hard to guess what it was. “By the way, there’s something I meant to ask you.”
“Oh?”
“Sung-min Larsen didn’t ask me about the wildlife camera when he interviewed me. Which means you didn’t mention it when they spoke to you.”
“He didn’t ask. And I thought it was up to you to mention it if you thought it was relevant.”
“Mm. Really?”
“If you didn’t tell them about it either, then it strikes me that it can’t be that relevant.”
“You didn’t say anything because you’ve figured out that I’m planning to go after Finne without Kripos or anyone else getting involved?”
“I didn’t hear that, and if I did, I wouldn’t have a clue what you were talking about.”
“Thanks, Bjørn. One more thing: what do you know about Roar Bohr?”
“Bohr? Only that he’s the guy in charge where Rakel worked. Something to do with human rights, isn’t it?”
“The National Human Rights Institution.”
“That’s it. It was Bohr who called to say they were worried when Rakel didn’t show up for work.”
“Mm.” Harry glanced over at the door when it swung open. And instantly forgot whatever follow-up question he had been thinking of asking Bjørn. It was her, the woman who had been talking to Bohr with her back to Harry. She stopped and looked around tentatively. She hadn’t changed much. That face with its high cheekbones, prominent, jet-black eyebrows above almost childishly large green eyes, her honey-brown hair, full lips and slightly wide mouth.
Her gaze finally found Harry and she lit up.
“Kaja!” he heard Gunnar Hagen exclaim. “Come and sit down!”
The Police Chief pulled out a chair.
The woman by the door smiled at Hagen and indicated that she wanted to say hello to Harry first.
The skin of her hand felt just as soft as he remembered.
“My condolences. I really do feel for you, Harry.”
Her voice too.
“Thanks. This is Oleg. And his girlfriend, Helga. This is Kaja Solness, an old colleague.”
They all shook hands.
“So you’re back,” Harry said.
“Not for long.”
“Mm.” He tried to think of something to say. Found nothing.
She put a feather-light hand on his arm. “You carry on, and I’ll go and talk to Gunnar and the others.”