‘Good morning, neighbour.’
Harry hadn’t heard the Tesla pull out onto his neighbour’s tarmacked drive. The driver’s window slid open and he saw the always immaculately blonde fru Syvertsen. She was what Harry – who came from the east of the city and had only been here in the west a relatively short time – thought of as a typical Holmenkollen wife. A housewife with two children and two home helps, and no plans to get a job even though the Norwegian state had invested five years of university education in her. To put it another way, what other people saw as a leisure activity, she saw as her job: keeping herself in shape (Harry could only see her tracksuit top, but knew she was wearing tight-fitting gym gear underneath, and yes, she looked bloody good considering that she was well past forty), logistics (when which of the home helps should take care of the children, and when the family should go on holiday, and where: the house outside Nice, the skiing cabin in Hemsedal, the summer cottage in Sørlandet?), and networking (lunch with friends, dinners with potentially advantageous contacts). And her most important task was already done. Securing herself a husband with enough money to finance this so-called job of hers.
That was where Rakel had failed so miserably. Even though she had grown up in the big wooden house in Besserud, where children were taught how to manoeuvre through society at a young age, and even though she was smart and attractive enough to get anyone she wanted, she had ended up with an alcoholic murder detective on a low salary, who was currently a sober lecturer at Police College on an even lower salary.
‘You should stop smoking,’ fru Syvertsen said, studying him. ‘That’s all I’ve got to say. Which gym do you go to?’
‘The cellar,’ Harry said.
‘Have you installed a gym? Who’s your trainer?’
‘I am,’ Harry said, taking a deep drag and looking at his reflection in the window in the back door of the car. Thin, but not as skinny as a few years ago. Three kilos more muscle. Two kilos of stress-free days. And a healthier lifestyle. But the face looking back at him bore witness to the fact that this hadn’t always been the case. The deltas of thin red veins in the whites of his eyes and just under the skin of his face betrayed a past characterised by alcohol, chaos, lack of sleep and other bad habits. The scar running from one ear to the corner of his mouth spoke of desperate situations and a lack of control. And the fact that he was holding his cigarette between his index and ring fingers, and that he no longer had a middle finger, was yet further evidence of murder and mayhem written in flesh and blood.
He looked down at the newspaper. Saw the word ‘murder’ across the fold. And for a moment the echo of the scream was back again.
‘I’ve been thinking of installing a gym of my own,’ fru Syvertsen said. ‘Why don’t you pop round one morning next week and give me some advice?’
‘A mat, some weights, and a beam to hang from,’ Harry said. ‘That’s my advice.’
Fru Syvertsen gave him a wide smile. Nodded as if she understood. ‘Have a good day, Harry.’
The Tesla whistled off on its way, and he walked back towards the place he called home.
When he reached the shade of the big fir trees he stopped and looked at the house. It was solid. Not impregnable, nothing was impregnable, but it would take some effort. There were three locks in the heavy oak door, and there were iron bars over the windows. Herr Syvertsen had complained, said the fortified house looked like something out of Johannesburg, and that it made their safe area look dangerous and would depress property values. Rakel’s father had had the bars installed after the war. Harry’s work as a murder detective had once put Rakel and her son Oleg in danger. Oleg had grown up since then. He had moved out and was now living with his girlfriend, and had enrolled at Police College. It was up to Rakel to decide when the bars were removed. Because they were no longer needed. Harry was just an underpaid teacher now.
‘Oh, break-fuss,’ Rakel mumbled with a smile, did an exaggerated yawn and sat up in bed.
Harry put the tray down in front of her.
Break-fuss was their word for the hour they spent in bed every Friday morning when he started late and she had the whole day off from her job as a lawyer in the Foreign Ministry. He crept in under the covers and, as usual, gave her the section of Aftenposten containing the domestic news and sport, while he kept the international news section and culture. He put on the glasses he had belatedly accepted that he needed, and immersed himself in a review of Sufjan Stevens’s latest album while he thought about Oleg’s invitation to go with him to a Sleater-Kinney concert next week. Enervating, slightly neurotic rock, just the way Harry liked it. Oleg really preferred harder stuff, which only made Harry appreciate the gesture all the more.
‘Anything new?’ Harry asked as he turned the page.
He knew she was reading about the murder he had seen on the front page, but also that she wasn’t going to mention it to him. One of their silent agreements.
‘Over thirty per cent of American Tinder users are married,’ she said. ‘But Tinder are denying it. How about you?’
‘Sounds like the new Father John Misty album’s a bit crap. Either that or the reviewer’s just got old and grumpy. I’d guess the latter. It’s had good reviews in Mojo and Uncut.’
‘Harry?’
‘I prefer young and grumpy. Then slowly but surely getting more amenable over the years. Like me. Don’t you think?’
‘Would you be jealous if I was on Tinder?’
‘No.’
‘No?’ He noticed her sitting up in bed. ‘Why not?’
‘I suppose I’m just unimaginative. I’m stupid, and believe I’m more than enough for you. Being stupid isn’t all that stupid, you know.’
She sighed. ‘Don’t you ever get jealous?’
Harry turned another page. ‘I do get jealous, but Ståle Aune has recently given me a number of reasons to try to minimise it, darling. He’s actually giving a guest lecture about morbid jealousy to my students today.’
‘Harry?’ He could tell from the tone of her voice that she wasn’t going to give up.
‘Don’t start with my name, please, you know it makes me nervous.’
‘You’ve got good reason to be, because I’m thinking about asking if you ever fancy anyone apart from me.’
‘You’re thinking about it? Or you’re asking now?’
‘I’m asking now.’
‘OK.’ His eyes settled on a picture of Police Chief Mikael Bellman and his wife at a film premiere. Bellman suited the black eyepatch he had started to wear, and Harry knew that Bellman knew it. The young Police Chief had declared that the media and crime films such as the one in question created a false picture of Oslo, and that during his time as Chief of Police the city was safer than ever. The statistical risk of someone killing themselves was far greater than them being killed by someone else.
‘Well?’ Rakel said, and he felt her move closer. ‘Do you fancy other women?’
‘Yes,’ Harry said, stifling a yawn.
‘All the time?’ she asked.
He looked up from the paper. Stared in front of him with a frown. He considered the question. ‘No, not all the time.’ He resumed reading. The new Munch Museum and Public Library were starting to take shape next to the Opera House. In a country of fishermen and farmers, which had spent the past two hundred years sending any dodgy deviants with artistic ambitions to Copenhagen and Europe, the capital city would soon resemble a city of culture. Who would have believed it? Or, more pertinently: who did believe it?