Olsen’s was located right in the middle of things, so even if there was a storm on the way it wouldn’t be hard to get a taxi on a Wednesday evening, so she could be here any moment, which meant he couldn’t have a shower, he’d have to make do with washing his cock and armpits. Or armpits and cock, in that order. Fuck, he was stressed! He had been planning a quiet evening with Megan Fox in her prime, and then Ulla had called and asked if it was OK for her to pay a little visit. What did she mean by little visit? That she was going to bail on him like last time? T-shirt. The one from Thailand, with ‘Same Same, But Different’? Maybe she wouldn’t find it funny. And maybe Thailand would make her think of venereal disease. How about the Armani shirt from MBK in Bangkok? No, the synthetic fabric would make him sweat, as well as letting on that it was a cheap copy. Truls pulled on a white T-shirt of unknown origin and hurried into the bathroom. He saw that the toilet needed another go with the brush. But first things first …
Truls was standing at the basin with his cock in his hand when the doorbell rang.
Katrine stared at her buzzing phone.
It was almost midnight, the wind had gained in strength in just the past few minutes, and the gusts were now making howling, groaning, slamming sounds outside, but Harry was fast asleep.
She answered.
‘This is Hallstein Smith.’ His whispering voice sounded upset.
‘So I see. What is it?’
‘He’s here.’
‘What?’
‘I think it’s Valentin.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘Someone’s opened the gate, and I … oh God, I can hear the door of the barn. What should I do?’
‘Don’t do anything … Try … Can you hide?’
‘No. I can see him on the camera outside. Dear God, it’s him.’ Smith sounded like he was crying. ‘What should I do?’
‘Fuck, let me think,’ Katrine groaned.
The phone was snatched from her hand.
‘Smith? This is Harry, I’m with you. Have you locked the office door? OK, do that now, and switch the light off. Nice and calmly.’ Hallstein Smith stared at the computer screen. ‘OK, I’ve locked the door and turned the light out,’ he whispered.
‘Can you see him?’
‘No. Yes, now I see him.’ Hallstein saw a figure enter the end of the passageway. He stumbled on the scales, regained his balance, and carried on past the stalls, towards the camera. As the man passed beneath one of the lights, his face was illuminated.
‘Oh God, it’s him, Harry. It’s Valentin.’
‘Stay calm.’
‘But … he’s unlocked the door, he’s got keys, Harry. Maybe he’s got the office key as well.’
‘Is there a window in there?’
‘Yes, but it’s too small and too high up the wall.’
‘Anything heavy you can hit him with?’
‘No. I … I’ve got the pistol, though.’
‘You’ve got a pistol?’
‘Yes, it’s in the drawer. But I haven’t had time to test it.’
‘Breathe, Smith. What does it look like?’
‘Er, it’s black. At Police HQ they said it’s a Glock something-or-other.’
‘Glock 17. Is the magazine inserted?’
‘Yes. And it’s loaded, they said. But I can’t see a safety catch.’
‘That’s OK, it’s in the trigger, so you just have to squeeze the trigger to fire.’
Smith pressed the phone to his mouth and whispered as quietly as he could. ‘I can hear keys in the lock.’
‘How far away is the door?’
‘Two metres.’
‘Stand up and hold the pistol with both hands. Remember, you’re in darkness and he’s got the light behind him, he won’t be able to see you clearly. If he’s unarmed, you shout “Police, down on your knees”. If you see a weapon you shoot three times. Three times. Understood?’
‘Yes.’
The door in front of Smith opened.
And there he stood, silhouetted against the light of the barn behind him. Hallstein Smith gasped for the air that felt like it was being sucked out of the room as the man raised his hand. Valentin Gjertsen.
Katrine jumped. She had heard the bang from the phone, even though Harry was holding it tightly to his ear.
‘Smith?’ Harry cried. ‘Smith, are you there?’
No reply.
‘Smith!’
‘Valentin’s shot him!’ Katrine groaned.
‘No,’ Harry said.
‘No? You told him to fire three times, and he’s not answering!’
‘That was a Glock, not a Ruger.’
‘But why …?’ Katrine stopped when she heard a voice on the phone. She stared at the look of intense concentration on Harry’s face. Tried in vain to work out who he was listening to, if it was Smith or the voice she had only heard in recordings of old interviews, the high voice that had given her nightmares. Who right now was telling Harry what he was thinking of doing to …
‘OK,’ Harry said. ‘You’ve picked up his revolver? … Good, put it in the drawer and stay sitting where you can see him properly. If he’s lying in the doorway, just leave him there. Is he moving? … OK, no … No, no first aid. If he’s only wounded, he’ll be waiting for you to move closer. If he’s dead, it’s too late. And if he’s somewhere in between, then that’s his bad luck, because you’re just going to sit there and watch. Understood, Smith? Good. We’ll be there in half an hour, I’ll call you when we’re in the car. Don’t take your eyes off him, and call your wife and tell them to stay in the house, and say that we’re on our way.’
Katrine took the phone, as Harry slipped out of bed and vanished into the bathroom. She thought he was saying something to her before she realised he was throwing up.
Truls’s hands were sweating so much he could feel it right through the legs of his trousers.
Ulla was drunk. Even so, she was sitting at the very edge of the sofa and holding the beer bottle he had given her in front of her like a defensive weapon.
‘Imagine, this is the first time I’ve been in your home,’ she said, slurring slightly. ‘And we’ve known each other … how many years?’
‘Since we were fifteen,’ Truls said, who at that precise moment wasn’t capable of any complicated mental arithmetic.
She smiled to herself and nodded, or rather, her head just fell forward.
Truls coughed. ‘It’s getting really windy out there now. This Emilia …’
‘Truls?’
‘Yes?’
‘Could you imagine fucking me?’
He swallowed.
She giggled without looking up. ‘Truls, I hope that pause doesn’t mean—’
‘Of course I can,’ Truls said.
‘Good,’ she said. ‘Good.’ She lifted her head and gazed at him with unfocused eyes. ‘Good.’ Her head was swaying on her slender neck. As if it were full of something heavy. A heavy mood. Heavy thoughts. This was his chance. The opening he had been dreaming of, but never imagined he would get: he had been granted permission to fuck Ulla Swart.
‘Have you got a bedroom so we can get it done?’
He looked at her. Nodded. She smiled, but she didn’t look happy. To hell with that. Fuck happy – Ulla Swart was horny, and that was what mattered now. Truls was about to reach out and stroke her cheek, but his hand wouldn’t obey him.
‘Is something wrong, Truls?’
‘Wrong? No, how could there be?’
‘You look so …’
He waited. But nothing more came.
‘So what?’ he prompted.
‘So lost.’ Instead of his hand, it was hers, it was hers stroking his cheek. ‘Poor, poor Truls.’
He was about to knock her hand away. Knock away the hand of Ulla Swart, who after all these years had reached out to touch him without contempt or disgust. What the hell was wrong with him? The woman wanted to get fucked, plain and simple, and that was a job he could manage, he’d never had any trouble getting it up. All he had to do now was get them up from this sofa, out into the bedroom, off with their clothes and then slip the salmon in. She could scream and groan and whine, he wasn’t going to stop before she—