‘Oestrogen makes you blind, Roger.’
I couldn’t think of anything else to say. Why the hell didn’t someone…?
‘I found a DO NOT DISTURB sign in the same wardrobe as this coat,’ Greve said as if he had been reading my mind. ‘I think they hang up the sign outside when the patient’s using the bedpan.’
The barrel was pointing straight at me now, and I saw his finger curl round the trigger. He hadn’t raised the gun: he was obviously going to shoot from the hip the way James Cagney had done in the gangster films of the forties and fifties, with unrealistic accuracy. Regrettably, something told me that Clas Greve belonged to this group of unrealistic expert marksmen.
‘I think this qualifies, too,’ Greve said, already squinting, in preparation for the bang. ‘Death is a private matter after all, isn’t it?’
I closed my eyes. I had been right all along: I was in heaven.
‘Apologies, Doctor!’
The voice rang out round the room.
I opened my eyes. And saw that three men were standing behind Greve, just inside the door that was closing gently behind them.
‘We’re from the police,’ said the voice belonging to the one in civilian clothes. ‘This is about a murder case, so I’m afraid we had to ignore the sign on the door.’
I could see that in fact there was a certain likeness between my saving angel and the said James Cagney. But perhaps that was just down to the grey raincoat, or the medicine they had been giving me, for his two colleagues wearing black police uniforms with checked reflective bands (which reminded me of jumpsuits) looked just as improbable: like two peas in a pod, as fat as pigs, as tall as houses.
Greve had stiffened and stared at me ferociously without turning. The gun, which was hidden from the policemen’s eyes, was still pointing straight at me.
‘Hope we aren’t disturbing you with this little murder of ours, Doctor?’ said the plain-clothes officer, not bothering to conceal his annoyance that the man in white seemed to be ignoring him completely.
‘Not at all,’ Greve said, still with his back to him. ‘The patient and I had just finished.’ He pulled his white coat to the side and stuffed the pistol into the waistband of his trousers.
‘I… I-’ I began, but was interrupted by Greve.
‘Take it easy now. I’ll keep your wife posted about your condition. Don’t worry, we’ll see that she’s alright. Do you understand?’
I blinked several times. Greve bent forward over the bed and patted the duvet over my knee.
‘We’ll be gentle, OK?’
I nodded mutely. It had to be the medicine, no question. This was just not happening.
Greve straightened up with a smile. ‘By the way, Diana’s right. You really do have wonderful hair.’
Greve turned, lowered his head, stared at the paper on the clipboard, and whispered to the policemen as he passed: ‘He’s all yours. For the time being.’
After the door slid to, James Cagney stepped forward.
‘My name’s Sunded.’
I nodded slowly and felt the bandage cutting into the skin of my throat. ‘You came in the nick of time, Sundet.’
‘Sunded,’ he repeated gravely. ‘Ded at the end. I’m a murder investigator and have been called here from Kripos in Oslo. Kripos is-’
‘Kriminalpolitisentralen, serious crime squad, I know,’ I said.
‘Good. This is Endride and Eskild Monsen from the Elverum police force.’
Impressed, I inspected them. Two twin walruses dressed in identical uniforms with identical moustaches. It was a lot of policeman for the money, no question.
‘First I would like to read your rights to you,’ Sunded began.
‘Hang on!’ I exclaimed. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Sunded gave a weary smile. ‘That means, herr Kjikerud, that you are under arrest.’
‘Kji-’ I bit my tongue. Sunded was waving what I recognised as a credit card. A blue credit card. Ove’s card. From my pocket. Sunded raised a quizzical eyebrow.
‘Sh… it,’ I said. ‘What are you arresting me for?’
‘For the murder of Sindre Aa.’
I stared at Sunded as he, in everyday language, and using his own words, rather than the Lord’s Prayer-like rigmarole from American films, explained to me that I had a right to a solicitor and the right to keep my gob shut. He concluded by explaining that the consultant had given him the go-ahead to take me with them as soon as I was conscious. After all, I only had a few stitches in the back of my neck.
‘That’s fine,’ I said before he was finished explaining. ‘I’m more than happy to go with you.’
16 PATROL CAR ZERO ONE
THE HOSPITAL WAS set in rural surroundings some way outside Elverum, it transpired. I was relieved to see the mattress-like white buildings disappear behind us. Even more because I couldn’t see a silver-grey Lexus.
The car we were in was an old, but well-kept Volvo with such a wonderful-sounding engine that I suspected it had been a hot rod before it was repainted in police colours.
‘Where are we?’ I asked from the back seat, wedged in between the impressive physiques of Endride and Eskild Monsen. My clothes, Ove’s, that is, had been sent to the dry-cleaner’s but a nurse had brought me a pair of tennis shoes and a green tracksuit bearing the hospital’s initials, with strict instructions to return it washed. Furthermore, I had been given back all the keys and Ove’s wallet.
‘Hedmark county,’ said Sunded from what Afro-American gang milieus reportedly call the shotgun seat: the passenger seat.
‘And where are we going?’
‘That’s none of your business,’ snarled the young, pimply driver, sending me an ice-cold glance via the rear-view mirror. Bad cop. Black nylon jacket with yellow letters on the back. ELVERUM KO-DAW-YING CLUB. I assumed it was a very mysterious, brand-new yet ancient martial art. And that it was his frenetic gum-chewing which had so disproportionately enhanced his jaw musculature. Pimples was so thin and narrow-shouldered that his arms formed a V when he had both hands on the wheel, as now.
‘Keep your eyes on the road,’ Sunded said in a low voice.
Pimples mumbled and glowered at the ramrod-straight strip of tarmac that sliced through the cultivated land, which was as flat as a pancake.
‘We’re going to the police station in Elverum, Kjikerud,’ said Sunded. ‘I’ve come up from Oslo and will interrogate you today and if necessary tomorrow. And the following day. I hope you’re a reasonable fellow because I don’t like Hedmark.’ He drummed his fingers on an overnight bag that Endride had passed forward to him because there simply wasn’t room with us three in the back.
‘I’m reasonable,’ I said, feeling both of my arms going to sleep. The Monsen twins breathed in rhythm, which meant that I was squeezed like a tube of mayonnaise every fourth second. I wondered whether to ask one of them to change their breathing pattern, but refrained. In a way, after standing in front of Greve’s pistol, this felt secure. It took me back to the time when I was small and had had to go to work with Dad because Mum was ill, and I sat between two serious but kind grown-ups on the back seat of the embassy’s limousine. And everyone had been elegantly dressed, but no one as elegantly as Dad, who wore a chauffeur’s cap and drove the car with such style and grace. And afterwards Dad had bought me an ice cream and told me I had behaved like a true gentleman.
The radio hissed.
‘Shh.’ Pimples broke the silence in the car.
‘Message to all patrol cars,’ crackled a nasal female voice.
‘Both patrol cars,’ Pimples muttered, turning up the volume.
‘Egmont Karlsen has reported a stolen truck and trailer…’
The rest of the message was drowned in laughter from Pimples and the Monsen twins. Their bodies shook, giving me a rather pleasant massage. I think the medicines were still working.
Pimples took the radio and spoke into it: ‘Did Karlsen sound sober? over.’