“And I can quote you on that?”
“You can quote me as confirming the rumours that have spread about it, which I presume are the reason you’ve called me.”
A pause.
“I understand, but I can’t write that, Krohn.”
“Then say that I’ve made it public to preempt the rumours. Whether or not you’ve heard the rumours is irrelevant.”
Another pause.
“Fine,” Daa said. “Can you give me any details about—”
“No!” Krohn interrupted. “You can have more this evening. And hold off publishing anything until after five o’clock today.”
“Cards on the table, Krohn. If I can have an exclusive on this—”
“This is all yours, my dear. Speak later.”
“Just one last thing. How did you get my number? It’s not available anywhere.”
“Like I said, you’ve called my mobile before, so your number appeared on the screen.”
“So you stored it?”
“Yes, I suppose I must have.” He ended the call and turned towards the leather sofa. “Alise, my little friend, if you could put your blouse back on, we’ve got some work to do.”
Bjørn Holm was standing on the pavement outside the Jealousy Bar in Grünerløkka. He opened the door and could tell by the music streaming out that he was probably going to find him here. He pulled the pram behind him into the almost empty bar. It was a medium-sized English-style pub with simple wooden tables in front of a long bar, with booths along the walls. It was only five o’clock; it would get busier later in the evening. During the brief period that Øystein Eikeland and Harry had run the bar, they had managed to achieve something rare: a pub where people came to listen to the music being played on the sound system. There was no fancy DJ, just track after track, chosen according to the themed evenings announced on the weekly list on the door. Bjørn had been allowed to act as a consultant on the country evenings and Elvis evenings. And — most memorably — when they were putting together the playlist of “songs that were at least forty years old by artists and bands from American states beginning with M.”
Harry was sitting at the bar with his head bowed, his back to Bjørn. Behind the bar, Øystein Eikeland raised a half-litre glass towards the new arrival. That didn’t bode well. But Harry was at least sitting upright.
“Minimum age is twenty, mate!” Øystein called above the music: “Good Time Charlie’s Got The Blues,” early seventies, Danny O’Keefe’s only real hit. Not typical Harry music, but a typical track for Harry to brush the dust off and play at the Jealousy Bar.
“Even when accompanied by an adult?” Bjørn asked, parking the pram in front of one of the booths.
“Since when have you been an adult, Holm?” Øystein put his glass down.
Bjørn smiled. “You become an adult the moment you see your kid for the first time and realise he’s utterly helpless. And is going to need a fuckload of adult help. Same as this guy.” Bjørn put his hand on Harry’s shoulder. He noticed that Harry was sitting with his head bowed, reading on his mobile.
“Have you seen VG’s headline about the arrest?” Harry asked, picking up a cup in front of him. Coffee, Bjørn noted.
“Yes. They’ve used a picture of you.”
“I don’t give a damn about that. Look at what they’ve just published.” Harry held his phone up for Bjørn to read.
“They’re saying we’ve done a deal,” Bjørn said. “Murder in exchange for rape. OK, it’s not common, but it does happen.”
“But it doesn’t usually appear in the press,” Harry said. “And, if it does, not until after the bear has been shot.”
“You don’t think it’s been shot?”
“If you do a deal with the devil, you need to ask yourself why the devil thinks it’s a good deal.”
“Aren’t you being a bit paranoid now?”
“I’m just hoping we get a confession in a proper police interview. The things I recorded in the bunker would be torn apart by a defense lawyer like Krohn.”
“Now that the press have published this, he’ll have to confess. If not, we’ll charge him for the rape. Katrine’s interviewing him right now.”
“Mm.” Harry tapped at his phone and raised it to his ear. “I need to update Oleg. What are you doing here, anyway?”
“I... er... promised Katrine that I’d check to make sure everything was OK with you. You weren’t at home and you weren’t at Schrøder’s. To be honest, I thought you were barred from here for life after last time...”
“Yes, but that idiot’s not working until this evening.” Harry nodded towards the pram. “Can I take a look?”
“He tends to notice people and wake up.”
“OK.” Harry lowered his phone. “Engaged. Any suggestions for next Thursday’s playlist?”
“Theme?”
“Cover versions that are better than the original.”
“Joe Cocker and ‘A Little—’ ”
“Already on it. What about Francis and the Lights’ version of ‘Can’t Tell Me Nothing?’ ”
“Kanye West? Are you ill, Harry?”
“OK. A Hank Williams song, then?”
“Are you mad? No one does Hank better than Hank.”
“What about Beck’s version of ‘Your Cheatin’ Heart’?”
“Do you want me to punch you?”
Harry and Øystein laughed, and Bjørn realised they were teasing him.
Harry put his arm round Bjørn’s shoulders. “I miss you. Can’t the two of us solve a really gruesome murder together soon?”
Bjørn nodded as he looked at Harry’s smiling face in astonishment. The unnaturally intense glow in his eyes. Maybe he really had snapped? Maybe grief had finally tipped him over the edge. Then it was as if Harry’s smile suddenly shattered, like the morning ice in October, and Bjørn found himself looking into the black depths of desperate pain again. As if Harry had merely wanted to taste happiness. And had spat it out again.
“Yes,” Bjørn said quietly. “I’m sure we can manage that.”
Katrine stared at the red light above the microphone that indicated that recording was under way. She knew that if she raised her eyes she would see those of Svein Finne, “the Fiancé.” And she didn’t want to do that — not because it might influence her, but because it might influence him. They had discussed whether to use a male interviewer, given Finne’s warped attitude to women. But when they read through the transcripts of previous interviews with Finne, he seemed to open up more for female interviewers. She didn’t know if that had been with or without eye contact.
She had put on a blouse that shouldn’t seem provocative, or give the impression that she was afraid of him looking at her. She glanced over at the control room, where an officer was taking care of the recording equipment. In there with him were Magnus Skarre from the investigative team, and Johan Krohn, who somewhat reluctantly had left the interview room after Finne himself had asked to talk to Katrine alone.
Katrine gave a brief nod to the officer, who nodded back. She read out the case number, her own and Finne’s names, the location, date and time. It was a hangover from the time when audio tapes could go astray, but it also served as a reminder that the formal part of the interview had begun.
“Yes,” Finne replied with a slight smile and exaggeratedly clear diction when Katrine asked if he had been made aware of his rights, and the fact that the interview was being recorded.
“Let’s begin with the evening of the tenth of March and early morning of the eleventh of March,” Katrine said. “Hereafter referred to as the night of the murder. What happened?”
“I’d taken some pills,” Finne said.