Mikael Bellman knotted his tie in the mirror.
‘You were good today,’ a voice from the bed said.
Mikael knew it was true. He watched Isabelle Skøyen get up behind him and pull on her stockings. ‘Is that because he’s dead?’
She threw the reindeer-skin bedspread over the duvet. Above the mirror hung an impressive set of antlers and the walls were decorated with pictures by Sami painters. This wing of the hotel had rooms that were designed by female artists and bore their names. Their room had the name of a female joik singer. The only problem they had with the room was that Chinese tourists had stolen the ram horns, obviously firmly of the belief that the horn extract had a libido-boosting effect. Mikael had considered it himself the last couple of times. But not today. Perhaps she was right, perhaps it was the relief that the patient was finally dead.
‘I don’t want to know how it happened,’ he said.
‘I wouldn’t have been able to tell you anyway,’ she said, pulling on her skirt.
‘Let’s not even talk about it.’
She was standing behind him. And bit him on the neck.
‘Don’t look so worried,’ she sniggered. ‘Life’s a game.’
‘For you maybe. I’ve still got these bloody murders to deal with.’
‘You don’t have to be elected. I do. But do I look worried?’
He shrugged. Reached for his jacket. ‘Are you going first?’
He smiled as she smacked his head. Heard her shoes click-clacking towards the door.
‘I may have a problem with next Wednesday,’ she said. ‘The council meeting has been moved.’
‘Fine,’ he said, noticing that it was exactly that, fine. Well, more than that, he was relieved. Yes, he was.
She stopped by the door. Listened as usual for any noise in the corridor, making sure the coast was clear. ‘Do you love me?’
He opened his mouth. Saw himself in the mirror. Saw the black hole in the middle of his face with no sound emerging. Heard her low chuckle.
‘I’m joking,’ she whispered. ‘Did I frighten you? Ten minutes.’
The door opened and then closed softly behind her.
They had a deal that the second person would wait ten minutes before leaving the room. He couldn’t remember if it had been his idea or hers. At the time they must have felt that the risk of bumping into a curious reporter or some familiar face in reception loomed large, but so far it hadn’t happened.
Mikael took out his comb and groomed his slightly too long hair. The ends were still wet after the shower. Isabelle never showered after they had made love; she said she liked to walk around with the smell of him on her all day. He looked at his watch. Everything had worked today, he hadn’t needed to think about Gusto and he had even prolonged it. So much so that if he waited here for the full ten minutes he would be late for the meeting with the chairman of the City Council.
Ulla Bellman looked at her watch. It was a Movado, 1947 design, and had been an anniversary present from Mikael. Twenty minutes past. She leaned back in the armchair and scanned the lobby. Wondering if she would recognise him. Strictly speaking they hadn’t met more than twice. Once when he had held the door open for her as they were going to see Mikael at Stovner Police Station and he had introduced himself. A charming, smiling Nordlander. The second time, at a Christmas dinner at Stovner, they had danced and he had pressed her closer to him than he should have. Not that she had minded, it was an innocent flirtation, an acknowledgement she was happy to indulge, anyway Mikael was sitting somewhere in the room, and the other wives were also dancing with partners who weren’t their husbands. And there was someone else apart from Mikael following her with a watchful eye. He had been standing on the dance floor with a drink in his hand. Truls Berntsen. Afterwards Ulla had asked Truls if he wanted to dance, but he had grinned and said no. He was no dancer, he had said.
Runar. That was his name, it had slipped her mind. She had never heard or seen anything of him again. Until he had rung and asked if she could meet him here today. At first she had turned him down, saying she had no time, but he’d said he had something important to tell her. His voice was curiously distorted, she couldn’t quite remember him sounding like that, but perhaps it was just that he was caught somewhere between his old Nordland dialect and Østland Norwegian. It often happened with people from the provinces when they had lived in Oslo for a while.
So she had said yes, a quick cup of coffee would be fine as she was going into town that morning anyway. It wasn’t true. Like the answer she had given Mikael when he had asked where she was, and she had said she was on her way to meet a girlfriend. She hadn’t meant to lie, but the question had caught her on the hop, and she realised she should have told Mikael she was having a coffee with an ex-colleague of his. So why hadn’t she? Because deep down she suspected that what she was going to be told had something to do with Mikael? Already she regretted being here. She looked at her watch.
The receptionist had glanced at her a couple of times, she noticed. Ulla had removed her coat, and underneath she was wearing a sweater and trousers, which emphasised her slim figure. Going to the city centre was not something she did a lot, and she had spent a bit more time on her make-up and her long blonde hair, which had caused the Manglerud boys to drive past her to see if her front fulfilled what her back promised. And she could see from their faces that for once it had. Mikael’s father had once told her she looked like the good-looking one in the Mamas amp; the Papas, but she didn’t know who that was and had never tried to find out.
She shot a glance at the swing door. More and more people were streaming in, but not the person with darting eyes she was expecting.
She heard a muffled ping from the lift doors and then a tall woman in a fur coat stepped out. It struck Ulla that if a journalist asked the woman if the fur was genuine, she would probably deny it. Socialist politicians preferred to tell the majority of voters what they wanted to hear. Isabelle Skøyen. The City Councillor for Social Affairs. She had been to their house for the party after Mikael’s appointment. Actually it had been a house-warming party, but instead of friends Mikael had by and large invited people who were important for his career. Or ‘their’ career, as he called it, his and hers. Truls Berntsen had been one of the few present she had known, and he wasn’t exactly the type of person you can talk to for the whole evening. Not that she’d had time; she had been kept very busy playing the hostess.
Isabelle Skøyen sent her a look and was about to walk on, but Ulla had already noticed the brief hesitation. The little hesitation that meant she had recognised Ulla and was now faced with the choice of pretending she hadn’t or being obliged to go over and exchange a few words with her. And she would have preferred to avoid the latter. Ulla often felt exactly the same. For example, with Truls. In a way she liked him: they had grown up together and he was kind to her and loyal. Nevertheless. She hoped Isabelle would choose the former and make it easier for them both. And saw to her relief that she was already heading for the swing door. But then she evidently changed her mind, did a U-turn, big smile and sparkling eyes. Sailed over towards her, yes, indeed she did sail. Isabelle Skøyen reminded Ulla of a dramatic, oversized galleon figurehead as she rushed over.
‘Ulla!’ she cried, several metres away, as though this was a reunion of two long-lost friends.
Ulla got up, already somewhat uneasy about having to answer the next, inevitable question: what are you doing here?
‘Nice to see you again, my dear! What a lovely little party that was!’