As the weeks passed, the gaps between him thinking about Rakel having a relapse grew longer.
As did the gaps between him thinking there had been another vampirist killing every time the phone rang.
So it wasn’t waking up full of angst.
He had had a few of those after Valentin Gjertsen died. Oddly enough, not while Internal Investigations were interviewing him, before eventually concluding that Harry couldn’t be blamed for firing in an uncertain situation with a dangerous murderer who had himself provoked the response. It was only after, then, that Valentin and Marte Ruud started to haunt him in his dreams. And it was her, not him, who whispered in his ear. That’s why you’re also being fooled. He had told himself that it was other people’s responsibility to find her now. And as the weeks turned to months, their visits had become less frequent. It helped that he had got back into his daily routine at Police College and at home, and that he wasn’t touching alcohol.
And now, at last, he was where he ought to be. Because this was the fifth sort. Waking up content. He would copy and paste yet another day, with his serotonin level exactly where it should be.
Harry crept out of bed as quietly as he could, pulled on some trousers and went downstairs, inserted Rakel’s favourite capsule into the espresso machine, switched it on and went out onto the steps. He felt the snow sting pleasantly under his bare feet as he breathed in the winter air. The white-clad city was still in darkness, but a new day was blushing off to the east.
Aftenposten was saying that the future looked brighter than the news might make us think. That in spite of the increasingly detailed picture the media were painting of murders, wars and atrocities, recently published research showed that the number of people being murdered was at a historic low, and sinking. Yes, one day murder might even become extinct. Mikael Bellman, whose appointment as Justice Minister was going to be confirmed next week, according to Aftenposten, had commented that there was obviously nothing wrong with setting ambitious targets, but that his personal target wasn’t a perfect society, but a better one. Harry couldn’t help smiling. Isabelle Skøyen was a talented prompt. Harry looked again to the sentence about murder one day becoming extinct. Why was this long-term claim triggering the anxiety he had to admit he had – in spite of his own contentment – felt for the past month, possibly longer? Murder. He had made it his life’s work to fight murderers. But if he succeeded, if they all disappeared, wouldn’t he disappear with them? Had he not buried a part of himself with Valentin? Was that why Harry had found himself standing by Valentin Gjertsen’s grave just a few days ago? Or was there some other reason? What Steffens had said about not being able to cope with doubt. Was it the lack of answers that was nagging at him? Damn it, Rakel was better, Valentin was gone, time to let go now.
The snow creaked.
‘Nice winter break, Harry?’
‘We survived, fru Syvertsen. I see you haven’t had enough skiing, though.’
‘Skiing weather is skiing weather,’ she said, jutting her hip out. Her ski suit looked like it had been painted on her. She was holding her cross-country skis, no doubt as light as helium, in one hand as if they were chopsticks.
‘You don’t fancy coming for a quick circuit, Harry? We could sprint to Tryvann while everyone’s asleep.’ She smiled, the light from the lamp above them reflecting off her lips, some sort of cream to fend off the cold. ‘Nice and … slippery.’
‘I haven’t got any skis,’ Harry smiled back.
She laughed. ‘You’re kidding? You’re Norwegian and you haven’t got a pair of skis?’
‘Treason, I know.’ Harry glanced down at the paper. Looked at the date. 4 March.
‘I seem to remember that you didn’t have a Christmas tree either.’
‘Shocking, isn’t it? Someone should report us.’
‘You know what, Harry? Sometimes I envy you.’
Harry looked up.
‘You don’t care, you just break all the rules. I sometimes wish I could be that frivolous.’
Harry laughed. ‘With that kind of smooth talk I don’t doubt that you get both a bit of friction and a nice slippery ride, fru Syvertsen.’
‘What?’
‘Have a good ski!’ Harry saluted her with the folded newspaper and walked back to the house.
He looked at the picture of the one-eyed Mikael Bellman. Maybe that was why his gaze looked so unflinching. It was the look of a man who appeared certain that he knew the truth. The look of a priest. A look that could convert people.
The truth is that we will never know for certain.
We all get fooled in the end, Harry.
Did it show? Did his doubt show?
Rakel was sitting at the kitchen table pouring coffee for both of them.
‘Up already?’ he said, kissing her on the head. Her hair smelt faintly of vanilla and sleep-Rakel, his favourite smell.
‘Steffens just called,’ she said, squeezing his hand.
‘What did he want so early?’
‘He was just wondering how things were going. He’s called Oleg in for a follow-up after that blood sample he took before Christmas. He says there’s nothing to worry about, but he wants to see if there could be a genetic link that might explain “it”.’
It. She, he and Oleg had hugged each other more after Rakel came home from hospital. Talked more. Planned less. Had just been together. Then, as if someone had thrown a stone in the water, the surface went back to the way it had been before. Ice. But even so, it felt like something was moving down there in the abyss beneath him.
‘Nothing to worry about,’ Harry repeated, as much to himself as her. ‘But it worried you anyway?’
She shrugged. ‘Have you thought any more about the bar?’
Harry sat and took a sip of his instant coffee. ‘When I was there yesterday I thought I’m obviously going to have to sell it. I don’t know anything about running a bar, and it doesn’t feel like much of a calling, serving youngsters with potentially unlucky genes.’
‘But …’
Harry pulled on his fleece jacket. ‘Øystein loves working there. And he’s staying off the stock, I know that. Easy, unlimited access seems to make some people pull themselves together. And it is actually paying its way.’
‘Hardly surprising, when it can boast two vampirist murders, one near shootout and Harry Hole behind the bar.’
‘Hm. No, I think it’s just that Oleg’s idea of musical themes is working. Tonight, for instance, it’s nothing but the most stylish ladies over fifty. Lucinda Williams, Emmylou Harris, Patti Smith, Chrissie Hynde …’
‘Before my time, darling.’
‘Tomorrow it’s jazz from the sixties, and the funny thing is that the same people who come to the punk evenings will show up for that too. We do one Paul Rodgers night a week in Mehmet’s honour. Øystein says we ought to have a music quiz. And—’
‘Harry?’
‘Yes?’
‘It sounds like you’re planning to hold on to the Jealousy.’
‘Does it?’ Harry scratched his head. ‘Damn. I haven’t got time for that. A couple of daft sods like me and Øystein.’
Rakel laughed.
‘Unless …’ Harry said.
‘Unless?’
Harry didn’t answer, just smiled.
‘No, no, forget it!’ Rakel said. ‘I’ve got enough on my hands unless I—’
‘Just one day a week. You don’t work on Fridays. A bit of accounting and some other paperwork. You could have some shares, be chairman of the board.’
‘Chairwoman.’
‘Deal.’
She batted his outstretched hand away. ‘No.’
‘Think about it.’
‘OK, I’ll think about it before I say no. Shall we go back up to bed?’
‘Tired?’
‘… No.’ She looked at him over her coffee cup with half-closed eyes. ‘I could imagine helping myself to some of what I see fru Syvertsen can’t have.’