Hestopped. He was crossing Bentse Bridge.
Justa feeling…
Heturned round. No. No one stopped, no one following. He looked down into theriver and pretended to go through his pockets, and turned round again. Nothing.Nevertheless, he was aware of a prickling sensation. On he walked, taking histime, up Bentsebruagata to Vogts gate and the tram stop. He stopped here andturned round again. Nothing to be seen, just some youth shuffling along thepavement, a young woman locking her car and an elderly lady pulling a shoppingtrolley. The tram rounded the hill to the left by Sandaker. When it finallyslid to a halt in front of him he went through one of the double doors in themiddle. He was the only person to board. He smiled, began to work his wayforward and approached the driver to pay. The tram came to a sudden standstilland he looked out, but there were no cars or pedestrians in the way. And then adoor slammed behind him. His blood froze to ice. Turn round. See who it isbefore the tram sets off!
Heslowly twisted his head to the right. Nothing. No uniforms, just peoplesitting, leaning against the steel poles, chewing gum, talking to each other inlow voices. Nothing. Searching for coins in his pocket, he noddedabsentmindedly to a bearded Sikh who had adorned his head with a dark redturban.
Hefound an unoccupied seat on the left. And went over the great fiasco in hismind. Either something had gone disastrously wrong or no damage had been done.But he had to find out which. A boy with long, black hair and a spotty face wastalking about the relationship between language and understanding. 'If you'retaking the piss, I want you to say you're taking the piss,' he said to hiscompanion, a plump girl with a lot of sub-cutaneous fat on her thighs.
Hecraned his neck round and looked back. Nothing. Nevertheless a tinglingsensation in his back. Between his shoulder blades he could feel an itch thatwas not of a physiological nature. Someone was there. There had to be. He wassweating. He rubbed his forehead with his fingers. Damp. He fought to stop himselfturning round.
Amobile telephone rang. The man who answered spoke very good English. AVietnamese-looking boy was playing some kind of game on his mobile telephone.It was hard to concentrate in these surroundings. The hardest thing of all,though, was not letting yourself turn around.
Well,what could have happened? Nothing. He glanced up. A woman was staring at him.What was she staring at? He couldn't stand it any longer. He had to turn. Hegave a start. For a few fleeting moments he thought it was her. But itwas not. Even though the woman sitting in the seat right behind him was verysimilar. The blonde passenger lowered and averted her gaze.
Hefaced the front again. He must not behave like this. He had to be calm. Undercontrol. Better go home, meditate and work out when to strike again. Healighted from the tram in Aker Brygge. Lots of passengers got off there. Lotsof casually dressed people without a care, laughing. A few boys were doing BMXtricks on a ramp. A large crane had been positioned in front of the entrance toAker Brygge. Three fit young men were offering bungee jumps.
Heslowed down, trying to be the last in the group. He soon saw how hopeless thatwas. The whole of the City Hall square was teeming with people. He stopped bythe large crane as an elderly lady was being strapped into position. She hung,dangled, over the tarmac like a cross between a slaughtered animal and AstridLindgren's Karlsson-on-the-Roof. She was really enjoying herself as she washoisted upwards.
Hetore himself away. A little boy shading his eyes as he squinted into the skyshouted: 'Grandma! Grandma!'
Heproceeded along the wharf promenade with quickened steps. The itching in hisback was still there. There was someone behind him. Someone.
Heveered to the right towards the square, stopped and looked behind him. People.Throngs of people.
Hewalked close by the fountain and went into the multi-storey car park. He wasalone in the lift. The doors closed. He leaned against the glass wall andregistered a movement to his left.
FrankFrølich and Erik Haugom looked each other in the eye for what seemedlike an eternity. Haugom had positioned himself at the back of the glass lift.They held eye contact as the lift moved downwards. Frank, on the staircase, wasin no hurry. He ambled down with his legs akimbo. On the bends they exchangedglances. Every time Frank rounded the corner Haugom turned his head; it waslower at every bend. When Haugom's head was on a level with the policeman'sknee, Frank brought his foot back and kicked the glass with all his might.Haugom's body jerked backwards. But his eyes gave nothing away. His face wasclosed, two vacant eyes above a tightly clenched mouth. Frank noticed that thedoctor had birthmarks on his scalp. There were still a couple of bends leftwhen he heard the metal door leading to the parked cars bang. Frank reached thedoor ten seconds later. Inside there was the sound of running feet. He stoodstill and smelt the heavy, exhaust-infested air. He tried to see the closedface from the glass lift, the expression on the man's face as he ran throwinghasty glances over his shoulder. But he could not. Still he stood withoutmoving, trying to hear where the sound of running feet was coming from. But itseemed to be impossible. The parking area resounded with a slight echo from allparts at once – it came in waves across rows and rows of empty, darkened carinteriors – an illuminated sign on the ceiling, yellow stripes over theconcrete floor. Frølich lumbered along the central aisle, the broad drivinglanes, with cars on both sides. On hearing the sound of an engine starting, hestopped. It sounded more like a scream than an engine starting. Haugom wasbecoming nervous. Frank gave a smile of satisfaction and wondered how stupidthis man really was. Soon after there was a squeal of braking tyres. The manmust be living on his nerves. The engine screamed again. Frank concentrated. Heran his eyes along the walls. Not a movement anywhere. Again the howl of anengine. The sound was coming closer. He just managed to throw himself to theside at the last moment. The coke-grey Mercedes raced past only one millimetreaway from his foot. He caught a glimpse of an elderly man bent over thesteering wheel. That was probably the most pathetic thing about this person,Frank thought, struggling on to his knees – the ill-placed single-mindednessand pugnacity this sad guy could mobilize. When it comes down to it, allvillains are just as bad as each other, but there's no doubt some villains lookbetter on film, as Eva-Britt always said.
Frankremained on his knees brushing down his trousers and watching Haugom's Mercedesbrake into the bend and turn into the ramp leading upwards. The idiot had evenmanaged to drive the wrong way.
Hesighed and got to his feet, then strolled in the direction the car had justtaken. This was a subterranean car park and it differed from all of the othersin Oslo. This one you had to drive down to exit.
Frankjogged around the narrow bend Haugom had driven. On the floor above there wasthe shriek of brakes again. Screaming tyres. Now it was a case of getting tothe top before the guy slalomed down at a hundred. He was beginning to pant. Hewas sprinting. His legs were leaden. The screech of brakes again above him.Frank could see the next level approaching. The opening was ten metres away.The tyres on the car above him were spinning. The engine was roaring. Insidehis head, Frank imagined a coke-grey Mercedes hitting him at full speed. He sawhis body – spine broken and hips crushed – landing on the car bonnet, rollingout of control towards the front windscreen and on to the roof from which itsmacked down on to the floor with the dead weight of all his kilos, banging hisskull and smashing it on the concrete.