Madsen waited, but he didn’t go on.
“See you on Monday, same time?” Madsen asked.
Yes, he was definitely going to get hold of a couch. Maybe even a confessional.
“I hope you like your coffee strong,” Harry called towards the living room as he poured water from the kettle into their cups.
“How many records have you actually got?” Kaja called back.
“About fifteen hundred.” The heat scorched Harry’s knuckles as he stuck his fingers through the handles of the cups. With three quick, long strides he was in the living room. Kaja was kneeling on the sofa looking through the records. “About?”
Harry pulled one corner of his mouth up into a sort of smile. “One thousand, five hundred and thirty-six.”
“And like most neurotic guys, obviously you’ve got them arranged alphabetically by artist, but I see that at least you haven’t got each artists’ albums arranged by release date.”
“No,” Harry said, putting the cups down beside the computer on the table and blowing on his fingers. “Just in order of when I bought them. The most recent acquisition by that artist on the far left.”
Kaja laughed. “You’re all mad.”
“Probably. Bjørn says I’m the only mad one, because everyone else arranges theirs by release date.” He sat down on the sofa and she slid down beside him and took a sip of the coffee.
“Mmm.”
“Freeze-dried coffee from a freshly opened jar,” Harry said.
“I’d forgotten how good it is.” She laughed.
“What? Hasn’t anyone else served you coffee like this since I last did?”
“Clearly you’re the only one who knows how to treat a woman, Harry.”
“And don’t you forget it,” Harry said, then pointed at the screen. “Here’s the picture of the shoeprint in the snow outside Rakel’s house. Do you see it’s the same?”
“Yes,” Kaja said, holding up her own boot. “But the print in the picture is from a bigger size, isn’t it?”
“Probably size 43 or 44,” Harry said.
“Mine are 38. I bought them in a second-hand market in Kabul. They were the smallest they had.”
“And they’re Soviet military boots from the occupation?”
“Yes.”
“That must mean they’re over thirty years old.”
“Impressive, isn’t it? We had one Norwegian lieutenant colonel in Kabul who used to say that if these bootmakers had been in charge of the Soviet Union, it would never have collapsed.”
“Do you mean Lieutenant Colonel Bohr?”
“Yes.”
“Does that mean he had a pair of these boots as well?”
“I don’t remember, but they were popular. And cheap. Why do you ask?”
“Roar Bohr’s number appeared so frequently in Rakel’s phone log that they checked his alibi for the night of the murder.”
“And?”
“His wife says he was at home all evening and all night. What strikes me about those phone calls from Bohr is that he seems to have called her about three times for each call she made to him. That may not count as stalking, but wouldn’t a subordinate return their boss’s calls more often?”
“I don’t know. You’re suggesting that Bohr’s interest in Rakel could have been more than professional?”
“What do you think?”
Kaja rubbed her chin. Harry didn’t know why, but it struck him as a masculine gesture, possibly something to do with stubble.
“Bohr’s a conscientious boss,” Kaja said. “Which means that he can sometimes come across as a bit too engaged and impatient. I can well imagine him calling three times before you get around to returning the first call.”
“At one o’clock in the morning?”
Kaja grimaced. “Do you want me to argue, or...”
“Ideally.”
“Rakel was assistant director of the NHRI, if I’ve understood correctly?”
“Technical director. But yes.”
“And what did she do?”
“Reports for UN treaty organisations. Lectures. Advice to politicians.”
“So, in the NHRI you have to fit in with other people’s working hours and deadlines. UN Headquarters is six hours behind us. So it isn’t that remarkable for your boss to call you a bit late every now and then.”
“Where does... What’s Bohr’s address?”
“Somewhere in Smestad. I think it’s the house he grew up in.”
“Mm.”
“What are you thinking?”
“Random thoughts.”
“Come on.”
Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “Seeing as I’m suspended, I can’t call anyone to interview, request a search warrant or operate in any way that might attract attention from Kripos or Crime Squad. But we can do a bit of digging in the blind spot where they can’t see us.”
“Such as?”
“Here’s the hypothesis. Bohr killed Rakel. Then he went straight home, and got rid of the murder weapon on the way. In which case he probably drove the same way we did to get back here from Holmenkollen. If you wanted to get rid of a knife between Holmenkollveien and Smestad, where would you choose?”
“Holmendammen is literally a stone’s throw from the road.”
“Good,” Harry said. “But the files say they’ve already looked there, and the average depth is only three metres, so they would have found it.”
“So where else?”
He closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the wall of albums behind him and reconstructed the road he had driven so many times. Holmenkollen to Smestad. It couldn’t be more than three or four kilometres. But still offered endless opportunities to get rid of a small object. It was mostly gardens. A thicket just before Stasjonsveien was a possibility. He heard the metallic whine of a tram in the distance, and a plaintive shriek from one right outside. Caught a sudden glimpse of it. Green, this time. With a stench of death.
“Rubbish,” he said. “The container.”
“The container?”
“At the petrol station just below Stasjonsveien.”
Kaja laughed. “That’s one of a thousand possibilities, and you sound so certain.”
“Sure. It’s the first thing that came to mind when I thought what I’d have done.”
“Are you OK?”
“What do you mean?”
“You look very pale.”
“Not enough iron,” Harry said, getting to his feet.
“The company that hires out the container comes and collects it when it’s full,” the bespectacled, dark-skinned woman said.
“And when was the last time that happened?” Harry said, looking at the big grey container standing next to the petrol station building. The woman — who had introduced herself as the manager — had explained that the skip was for the petrol station’s use, and was mostly used to get rid of packaging, and that she couldn’t recall seeing anyone dumping their own rubbish in it. The container had an open metal mouth at one end, and the woman had pressed a red button to demonstrate how the jaws compacted the rubbish and pressed it into the bowels of the container. Kaja was standing a few metres away making a note of the name and phone number of the container company, which was printed on the grey steel.
“The last time they replaced it was probably a month or so ago,” the manager said.
“Have the police opened it up and looked inside?” Harry asked.
“I thought you were the police?”
“The right hand doesn’t always know what the left hand is doing in such a large investigation. Could you open the container for us so we can take a look at what’s inside?”
“I don’t know. I’d have to call my boss.”
“I thought you were the boss,” Harry said.
“I said I was the manager of this petrol station, that doesn’t mean—”