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‘But how did you manage to find the right key?’

She loosened his belt, pulled his shirt loose; her fingers undid the button on his trouser waistband. The cool fingers gliding down his stomach. She stood there with her eyes closed and lowered her voice. ‘Why do you always have to talk about dreary things, Mr Grumpy?’

He relented and kissed her.

‘She’s my mentor,’ she said simply.

‘Who is what?’

‘Reidun, the lecturer at Blindern university, she’s my mentor.’

‘Now you’re talking about dreary things. Anyway, you appeared to be totally immersed in each other.’

‘She is.’

‘She is what?’

‘She’s in love with me.’ She faltered, then looked up. ‘And neither you nor I can do anything about that, can we?’

He didn’t say anything.

‘I had to listen to her. She was telling me something important. Anyway, it wasn’t very nice of you to follow me, was it?’

He held his tongue. Wasn’t sure whether it was nice or not. All the blood in his body was drawn down to her cool hand. Her lips curled into a smile as his erection grew. A smile with closed eyes; some make-up on her eyelids had dried into clumps.

She sank onto one knee. He closed his eyes and breathed in sharply. He ran his fingers through her hair. She glanced up. The rustling sound from the headset on the floor returned. He asked her: ‘Shall we go into the bedroom?’

‘Are you frightened someone will see us?’

‘I want all of you.’

He lifted her, carried her slender body, which weighed nothing at all, threw her laughing onto the bed, ripped off her underwear and grabbed her ankles. The gold ring on her big toe shone in the light of the afternoon sun coming through the window. He held her tight. She liked that, being held tight.

That night he followed her. It was almost three o’clock when she crept out. He gave her three minutes before sneaking after her. His brain was in turmoil. Part of his consciousness stretched out like a cat in the sun, remembering how she had taken what she wanted but had also given so much back. Another part of his brain sat behind a bush, suspicious, jealous, fearful that the performance was a deception. This is what drove him out into the cold autumn rain, what made him skulk along the street a hundred metres behind her, hiding in the shadows. You’re doing this because she already had a secret plan to break into the flat when she first went there. She stole a key! She took the fucking key! And she lets herself in – as if she lived there. She speaks in codes, never talks about herself, doesn’t say what she does and avoids openness even when you ask. She plays down her relationship with the lecturer and makes up some pretext. She’s full of lies!

She walked ahead of him with long bouncing strides. Suddenly there was a vibration in his pocket. His mobile phone. He took it and looked at the display while trying to keep in the shadow of the trees shielding him from the street lights. He read: ‘Hi Frank, Thank you for a wonderful evening. Sweet dreams, kiss, Elisabeth.’ Involuntarily, he stopped. He observed the slim back well ahead of him. From a distance she seemed so delicate, so well meaning. What am I up to? Following a woman who has given me the night of my life! You know where she lives. She’s on her way home.

Standing there in the dripping rain, mobile in hand, he came to. He looked up. She was gone. He jogged down Ryenbergveien. At the bottom he caught sight of her figure again. A taxi with an illuminated light on the roof passed him. It was on its way towards her. He hid as she turned towards the taxi. It slowed down but continued on past her as she made no move to flag it down. So she was telling the truth. She had felt like walking, not getting home quickly.

He was taken aback when he saw the complex of flats where she lived. Even more taken aback when he read the names by the doorbells. More than taken aback. He was stunned. Elisabeth and Jonny Faremo.

3

He was in a new phase of convalescence.

First day: fever.

Second day: fever.

Third day 07.30-12.00: no fever; prospects of recovery looking good.

12.03: SMS: Come!

12.03: fever returns!

12.06: mobile rings. It is her number.

He let it ring. He stood in the canteen queue with the phone ringing in his hand. People turned to face him. He ignored their looks. Sweated. Clenched his fists and looked in a different direction. The rest of the day passed in a haze.

On the fourth day, the first thing he did was to check criminal records. The search came up with one hit: Jonny Faremo. History: three convictions for GBH and one for armed robbery, one for breaking into a car and stealing. Total time behind bars: thirty-eight months of a five-year sentence. Time served in Ila, Sarpsborg and Mysen prisons.

The sweat ran down his back. He blinked twice but was alert enough to print out the page. Then a new search: Elisabeth Faremo, no hits. An unblemished record.

But if Elisabeth was married to Jonny Faremo, she could have taken his name. Perhaps she was registered under another one?

He felt queasy. He could see her face in front of him. No, not the face, just the body. His hand tightly grasping her ankle, her feet and the contours of her figure on the bed beneath them. He blinked again. What trap have I walked right into?

The door opened. Yttergjerde stomped in. Yttergjerde with the snus lip – the plug of tobacco under his top lip made him look like an overgrown rabbit with a deformed set of teeth – with the unshaven chin but shaven skull.

Yttergjerde: ‘Hi there!’

Frølich felt his head nodding in response. He wasn’t in a mood to talk now, wasn’t in a mood to grin at Yttergjerde’s stale jokes, angling anecdotes or tales of flings with women.

The odour of gentlemen’s cologne filled the room. Yttergjerde always smelt like the taste of chewing gum. Frølich had no idea how the man could stand it.

‘Well, I never.’

He looked up. Yttergjerde was standing in front of the printer. In his hand he was holding a printout about Jonny Faremo. Frølich could feel the sweat breaking out again – all over his body this time. He blinked. His eyes were dry, absolutely dry. He felt like throwing up.

‘I know this one,’ Yttergjerde mumbled.

‘Which one do you know?’

‘Faremo, Jonny. What has he been up to now?’

Frølich cleared his throat: ‘I’m just checking out a few names. Let’s hear it.’

‘Hear what?’

‘What you know about Jonny Faremo. For me he’s a beefcake who wears caps and sun glasses.’

‘Well, there are three in the gang. Armed robbery, same type of guys as the Stavanger mob – commando style, automatic weapons, balaclava and overalls. I can remember an armoured van job about five-six years ago. It says here the van went from Østfold to Oslo. He’s a hard nut. Hit first and ask questions afterwards. I’m one of very few to have had the pleasure of smacking him in the face a couple of times. I was in the party when we arrested them for robbing the armoured van.’

‘He did his stint a long time ago. Do you know any more?’

Yttergjerde turned to face him.

Frølich automatically went on: ‘I know he lives in quite a flashy area. Terraced apartments on Ekeberg Ridge.’

‘You know what it’s like. These guys drive fast cars and drink Hennessy when they’re not inside, that’s why they end up inside.’

‘So the flat is just show?’

‘No, I believe they inherited it. The place is theirs. I remember it was an incontrovertible fact at that time – during the trial.’

They inherited? Who are they?

‘Him and his sister. He lives with his sister. Used to at any rate – then.’