Harry shrugged his shoulders. ‘You think all sorts of thoughts all the time. But…’
‘Yes?’
‘It all fitted too well.’
‘What do you mean?’
Harry scratched his chin. ‘Did you know that Duke Ellington used to ask the piano tuners not to tune the piano to perfect pitch?’
‘No.’
‘When a piano is tuned to perfection, it doesn’t sound good. There’s nothing wrong, it just loses some of the warmth, the feeling of genuineness.’
Harry poked at a piece of varnish on the table that was coming loose.
‘The Courier Killer gave us a perfect code that told us where and when. But not why. In this way he made us focus on actions rather than the motive. Every hunter knows that if you want to see your prey in the dark, you mustn’t focus on it directly, but beside it. It was when I stopped staring at facts that I heard it.’
‘Heard it?’
‘Yes. I could hear that these so-called serial killings were too perfect. They sounded right, but they didn’t sound genuine. The killings followed the formula down to the last detail; they gave us an explanation that was as plausible as any lie, but seldom as plausible as the truth.’
‘And you knew that?’
‘No, but I stopped being so myopic and my vision cleared.’
The head of Kripos nodded while staring down into the bulbous beer glass which he kept rotating between his hands on the table. It sounded like a grindstone in the quiet, almost deserted bar.
He cleared his throat.
‘I was wrong about Tom Waaler, Harry. And I apologise.’
Harry didn’t answer.
‘What I wanted to say to you is that I didn’t sign your dismissal papers. I would like you to continue working. I want you to know that you have my confidence. My complete and unreserved confidence. And I hope, Harry…’
He raised his head and an opening – a kind of smile – appeared in the lower half of his face.
‘… that I have yours.’
‘I’ll have to think about it,’Harry said.
The opening closed.
‘About the job,’ he added.
The head of Kripos smiled again. This time it also reached his eyes.
‘Of course. Let me buy you a beer, Harry. They’ve closed but if I say.’
‘I’m an alcoholic.’
The head of Kripos was caught off-balance for a moment. Then he chuckled.
‘Apologies. Thoughtless of me. But one other thing, Harry. Have you…’
Harry waited as the glass completed another circuit.
‘Have you thought about how you’re going to present this case?’
‘Present?’
‘Yes. In the report. And to the press. They’re going to want to talk to you. And they’ll put the whole service under the magnifying glass if this arms smuggling of Waaler’s comes out. For this reason it’s vital that you don’t say…’
Harry searched for his packet of cigarettes while the Chief Superintendent searched for words.
‘… that you don’t give them a version which leaves room for misinterpretation,’ he said finally.
Harry stretched his lips in a thin smile and looked at his last cigarette.
The head of Kripos made up his mind, resolutely downed the last of his beer and dried his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘Did he say anything?’
Harry raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you thinking about Waaler?’
‘Yes. Did he say anything before he died? Anything about who his partners were? Who else was involved?’
Harry decided to save the last cigarette. ‘No, he didn’t say anything. Not a thing.’
‘Shame.’ The head of Kripos observed him with a blank expression. ‘What about these film recordings that were done? Do they reveal anything of that kind?’
Harry met the head of Kripos ’s blue eyes. As far as Harry knew, the head of Kripos had been in the police force all his working life. His nose was as sharp as an axe blade, his mouth a straight line and surly, and his hands large and coarse. He was part of the bedrock of the Force: solid but secure granite.
‘Who knows?’ Harry answered. ‘There’s not much to worry about anyway. Since in this case it will be a version that leaves no room for…’ Harry finally poked the dry crust of varnish free. ‘… misinterpretation.’
As if on cue, the lights in the bar began to flicker.
Harry stood up.
They looked at each other.
‘Do you need a lift?’ the head of Kripos asked.
Harry shook his head.
‘I’ll go for a stroll.’
The head of Kripos shook Harry’s hand firmly and at length. Harry was going towards the door when he stopped and turned round.
‘By the way, Waaler did say one thing.’
The head of Kripos ’s white eyebrows fell.
‘Oh?’ he said cautiously.
‘Yes. He asked for mercy.’
Harry took the shortcut through Our Saviour’s Cemetery. The rain was dripping from the trees. The drops hit the leaves beneath with small sighs before they fell to the ground and the thirsty earth absorbed them. He walked on the path between the graves and heard the dead talking in mumbles. He stopped and listened. Gamle Aker church hall stood ahead of him, dark and dormant. There was the whispering sound of wet tongues and cheeks. He took the left fork and went out through the gate towards Telthus hill.
When Harry arrived in his flat he tore off his clothes, went into the shower and turned on the hot water. The steam ran down the walls and he stood there until his skin was red and sore. He went into the bedroom. The water evaporated and he lay on the bed without drying himself. He closed his eyes and waited. For sleep to come. Or images. Whichever came first.
Instead the mumbling came.
He listened.
What were they whispering about?
What plans were they making?
They were talking in codes.
He sat up. Rested his head against the wall and felt the carving of the devil’s star against the back of his head.
He looked at his watch. It would soon be light outside.
He got up and went into the hall. He searched the pockets of his jacket and found his last cigarette. He ripped off the tip and lit it. He sat in the wing chair in the living room and waited for morning to come.
The light from the moon shone into the room.
He thought about Tom Waaler staring into eternity. And about the man he had talked to in Oslo Old Town after the conversation with Waaler outside the canteen on the roof terrace at Police HQ. It had been easy to find him, because he had kept his nickname and still worked in the family kiosk.
‘Tom Brun?’ the man behind the tiled counter had answered and had run a hand through his greasy hair. ‘Yes, indeed I do remember him. Poor lad. Was beaten by his dad at home. His father was an unemployed brickie. Drank. Friend? No, I wasn’t any pal of Tom Brun’s. Yes, it was me who was called Solo. Inter-rail?’
The man had laughed.
‘Furthest I’ve ever been by train is just down the coast, south of Oslo. Don’t think Tom Brun had that many pals in fact. I remember him as a nice lad, the kind of boy who would help old ladies cross the road, a bit like a Boy Scout. Strange guy though. There was something dodgy about his father’s death. Very weird accident, that.’
Harry ran his ring finger over the smooth surface of the table. He felt small particles stick to his skin and knew it was the yellow dust from the chisel. The red light on his answerphone flashed. Journalists, presumably. It would start this morning. Harry put the tip of his finger on his tongue. It tasted bitter. Mortar. He remembered that it came from the wall over the door to room 406 where Wilhelm Barli had carved the devil’s star. Harry made a smacking noise with his tongue. It must have been a strange mix the bricklayer had used because there was another taste in there somewhere. Sweet. No, metallic. It tasted of egg.