He leaned closer to Harry and lowered his voice.
‘What have you got to lose? Have a good look in the mirror…’
Harry blinked.
‘Right,’ Waaler said. ‘You’re a man of almost forty with an alcohol problem and no job, no family and no money.’
‘For the last time!’ Harry tried to shout but was too drunk. ‘Did you talk to… to Kvinsvik?’
Waaler sat up in his seat again.
‘Go home, Harry. And think about who you really owe something to here. Is it the force? Who feed on you, don’t like the taste and then spit you out? Your bosses who scurry off like frightened mice as soon as they smell trouble? Or do you perhaps owe yourself something? You’ve slogged away year in, year out to keep the streets of Oslo moderately safe in a country which protects its criminals better than it does its own civil servants. You are in fact one of the best at what you do, Harry. Unlike the others, you’ve got talent. And yet you earn a pittance. I can offer you five times what you’re earning today, but that’s not the most important bit. I can offer you a touch of dignity, Harry. Dignity. Think about it.’
Harry struggled to focus his eyes on Waaler, but his face kept drifting off. He fumbled around looking for the door handle, but couldn’t find it. Bloody Jap cars. Waaler leaned across him and pushed the door open.
‘I know you’ve been trying to find Kvinsvik,’ Waaler said. ‘Let me save you the bother. Yes, I talked to Olsen in Grunerlokka that evening, but that does not mean that I had anything to do with Ellen’s murder. I kept my mouth shut so that I didn’t complicate matters. You can do what you like, but believe me: Roy Kvinsvik has nothing to say that’s worth hearing.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Would it make any difference if I told you? Would you believe me then?’
‘Maybe,’ Harry said. ‘Who knows?’
Waaler sighed.
‘Sognsvannveien 32. He is staying in his ex-stepfather’s basement sitting room.’
Harry turned round and hailed a taxi coming towards him with its sign lit up.
‘But this evening he’s at choir practice with the Menna choir,’ Waaler said. ‘Walking distance. They practise in Gamle Aker church hall.’
‘Gamle Aker?’
‘He converted from Philadelphia to Bethlehem.’
The unoccupied taxi braked, hesitated, then accelerated again and drove off in the direction of the city centre. Waaler gave a wry smile.
‘You don’t have to lose your convictions to convert, Harry.’
12
Sunday. Bethlehem.
It was 8 p.m. on Sunday. Bjarne Moller yawned, locked the desk drawer and put his arm out to turn off his work lamp. He was tired but pleased with himself. The worst onslaught from the media after the shooting and the disappearance had let up and he had been able to work all weekend unbothered. The pile of papers that had towered on his desk when the holiday period began was soon halved. Now he could go home and enjoy a smooth Jameson whisky and the repeat on television of Beat for Beat. His finger was on the switch; he cast a final look at the now tidy desk top. That was when he noticed the brown padded envelope. He vaguely remembered taking it from his pigeonhole on Friday. Obviously it had been hidden behind the pile of papers.
He hesitated. It could wait until tomorrow. He squeezed the envelope. He could feel an object inside, something he couldn’t immediately identify. He opened it with the letter knife. There was no letter. He turned the envelope upside down, but nothing fell out. He shook it hard and heard something detach itself from the bubble-wrap lining. It hit the desk, bounced across to the telephone and landed on the blotting pad, on top of the duty roster.
His stomach pains came on suddenly. Bjarne Moller doubled up and stood gasping for breath. It wasn’t until a few minutes had passed that he was able to stand up straight and dial a number. If he had not been in such pain he might perhaps have noticed that the telephone number he had just dialled belonged to the name that the object from the envelope was now pointing to on the duty roster.
Marit was in love.
Again.
She cast a glance over to the church hall steps. The light shone through the circular window in the door with the inset Bethlehem Star, lighting up the face of the new boy, Roy. He was talking to one of the other girls in the choir. She had been thinking for several days now about how she could get him to notice her, but inspiration had deserted her. Going over to talk to him would not be a bad start. She would have to wait until an opportunity offered itself. At last week’s choir practice he had spoken up in a loud, clear voice about his past, about how he had been a Philadelphian, and about how he had been a neo-Nazi before he was saved! One of the other girls had heard a rumour that he had a big Nazi tattoo somewhere on his body. They were agreed that it was terrible, but Marit could feel how the very thought made her body tremble with excitement. She knew deep down that this was the reason she was in love. The newness, the unfamiliarity, this wonderful but transient excitement. She knew that ultimately she would be with someone else. Someone like Kristian. Kristian was the choirleader. Both his parents were in the congregation and he had just begun to preach at the youth meetings. People like Roy so often finished up among the defectors.
They had practised for a long time this evening. They had been rehearsing a new song and had gone through practically their whole repertoire as well. Kristian tended to do that when new members joined, to show how good they were. Usually they practised in their own rooms in Geitmyrsveien, but they were closed because of the national holidays, so they had borrowed Gamle Aker church hall in Akersbakken. Even though it was past midnight they stood outside after choir practice. Their voices were buzzing like a swarm of insects and it was as if there was an extra excitement in the air this evening. Perhaps it was the heat. Or maybe it was because the married and betrothed members of the choir were on holiday and thus they were spared the smiling, tolerant but nevertheless admonishing looks the younger members received when it was considered that the flirting had gone too far. Marit blurted out whatever came into her head when her girlfriends asked as she also stole a glance at Roy. She wondered where you would put a large Nazi tattoo.
One of her girlfriends nudged her and nodded towards a man coming up Akersbakken.
‘Look. He’s drunk,’ one girl whispered.
‘Poor man,’ one of the others said.
‘Those are the lost souls Jesus wants to redeem.’
It was Sofie who said that. She always said things like that. The others nodded. Marit did too. And then she realised. This was it, the opportunity. And without a moment’s hesitation she left her throng of girlfriends and stood in the man’s path.
He stopped and peered down at her. He was taller than she had anticipated.
‘Do you know Jesus?’ Marit asked in a loud, clear voice and with a smile.
The man’s face was bright red and his vision was blurred. The conversation behind her had suddenly died, and out of the corner of her eye she could see that Roy and the girls on the steps had turned towards them.
‘Unfortunately, I don’t,’ the man snuffled. ‘And neither do you, my girl, but perhaps you know Roy Kvinsvik?’
Marit could feel her blushes suffusing her face, and her follow-up – Do you know he’s just waiting to meet you? – became ensnared in her throat.
‘Well?’ the man asked. ‘Is he here?’
She took in the man’s cropped skull and his boots. She suddenly went very red. Was this man a neo-Nazi, someone from Roy’s past? Someone come to avenge his betrayal? Or to persuade him to return?
‘I…’
But the man had already sidestepped her.
She turned round, just in time to see Roy beat a hasty retreat into the church hall and slam the door behind him.
The drunk strode across the crunching gravel, his upper body tipped like a mast caught in a sudden gust of wind. In front of the steps he slipped and fell to his knees.