The man had turned all the way round now. And risen to his feet. Because of the angle it had been difficult to see when they got out of the vehicle that this man was tall, taller than the man in the suit, and when they had backed onto the roof, both of them had been walking hunched over. But Prim realised now that it was him. It was the man in the hospital clothes who was Harry Hole. And now he could see his face too, those bright eyes over a grinning mouth.
Prim reacted as quickly as he could. He had been prepared for them to try and trick him somehow or other. They had wanted to since he was a little boy. That was how it had begun, and it was how it would end. But he wanted to take something with him. Something the policeman wouldn’t get. Her.
Prim had already taken the knife out as he turned to Alexandra. She had got to her feet. He raised the knife to strike. Tried to catch her eye. Tell her she was about to die. His rage rose. Because her gaze was directed over his shoulder, towards that fucking policeman. It was like with Susanne Andersen at the rooftop party, they were always looking for someone better. Well, then Hole could watch her die, the fucking whore.
Harry’s eyes fixed on Alexandra’s. She could see and knew, as both of them knew, that he was too far away to be able to save her. All he had time to do was move his forefinger in a quick circle in front of his throat and hope she remembered. Saw her move her shoulder back.
There shouldn’t have been enough time. Hadn’t been enough time, he would recall afterwards. If the parasites hadn’t also reduced their primary host’s ability to react. Helge’s body obscured his view of the blow, so Harry was unable to see if she had formed her hand into a chisel when she struck.
But she must have.
And she must have connected.
And Helge Forfang’s instincts must have taken over. They didn’t want her, or revenge, just air. Helge dropped the knife and the syringe and fell to his knees.
‘Run!’ Harry yelled. ‘Get away!’
Without a word Alexandra dashed past him, pulled open the metal door and was gone.
Harry walked over, stood beside the kneeling man in the suit, and looked down at Helge Forfang, who was holding both hands to his throat. He was making hissing sounds, like a punctured tyre. But then he suddenly rolled over on the concrete, lay on his back staring up at Harry, once again holding the syringe with the tip pointing towards himself. He opened his mouth, plainly trying to say something but only emitted more wheezes.
Without taking his eyes from Helge, Harry placed a hand on the shoulder of the man in the suit, sitting with his head hanging down.
‘How you feeling, Ståle?’
‘I don’t know,’ Aune said, in a barely audible whisper. ‘Is the girl all right?’
‘The girl’s all right.’
‘Then I’m good.’
Harry could see it in Helge’s eyes as he lay there. Recognised it. He had seen the same look in Bjørn’s eyes that last night when Harry left him, when everyone had left him, and he was found the next morning in his car, where he had blown his brains out. Harry had seen it in the mirror a few too many times in the period that followed, when the thought of Rakel and of Bjørn had made him weigh up the pros and cons of such an act himself.
The syringe Helge was holding was no longer pointed at Harry but at himself. Harry watched the needle moving closer to Helge’s face. Watched it cover one eye while the other stared fixedly at Harry. The outermost edge of the moon had begun to shine again, and Helge lowered the syringe just enough for Harry to see the tip of the needle press against the eyeball, the shortcut to the brain behind. He watched the eye begin to yield like a soft-boiled egg before the tip perforated the surface and the eye assumed its original form. Watched Prim guide the tip inwards. His face was expressionless. Harry didn’t know how many nerves there were in the eye or behind, it probably wasn’t as painful as it looked. Wasn’t that difficult to do. Easy, in fact. Easy for the man who called himself Prim, easy for the victims’ families, easy for Alexandra, easy for the public prosecutors and easy for the public who were always thirsty for revenge. They would all get what they wanted, and without the bad feeling even people in countries with the death penalty are left with after executions.
Yes, it would be easy.
Too easy.
Harry stepped forward swiftly as he saw Helge’s thumb arch over the plunger, dropped to his knees and drove his fist into the palm of the other man’s hand. Helge squeezed, but Harry’s fist prevented him from sinking the plunger, his thumb hitting a rigid metal finger of grey titanium instead.
‘Let me,’ Prim moaned.
‘No,’ Harry said. ‘You’re staying here with us.’
‘But I don’t want to be here!’ Prim whined.
‘I know,’ Harry said. ‘That’s why.’
He held on tightly. Somewhere in the distance, familiar music could be heard. Police sirens.
53
Friday
Fool
Alexandra and Harry looked through the window into the autopsy room where Ståle Aune was lying on a bench and Ingrid Aune was sitting on a chair next to him. The Aunes’ house was only a five-minute drive away, and she had come immediately.
Helge Forfang had been driven away by the police and the Crime Scene Unit would soon arrive. Harry had called the duty desk to report a murder without telling them that the victim wasn’t yet dead.
Suddenly Aune let out a coughing laugh inside and raised his voice enough for the words to be audible through the speakers. ‘Yes, yes, I remember it, darling. But I didn’t think you’d be interested in a chap like me. Can I get it now?’
Alexandra took a step forward and switched off the sound.
They looked in at the two of them. Harry had been in the room when Ingrid arrived. Her husband had explained to her that the parasites in his system would likely take effect very quickly, and that he would prefer to win the race. When Aune had said that Harry had offered to do it, Ingrid had shaken her head firmly. She had pointed at one of the bulging veins on Aune’s neck and looked at Harry, who had nodded, handed her the syringe with morphine he had been given by Alexandra and left the room.
They now saw Ingrid wipe her eyes before lifting the syringe.
Harry and Alexandra walked out to the car park and smoked a cigarette together with Øystein.
Two hours later — after questioning and a meeting with the crisis psychologist at Police HQ — Øystein and Harry drove Alexandra home.
‘Unless you’re intent on bankrupting yourself at the Thief, you can stay with me for a while,’ she said.
‘Thanks,’ Harry said. ‘I’ll think about it.’
It was midnight, and Harry was sitting in the hotel bar. Looking at his whiskey glass while taking stock. Because it was time for some final accounting. To tally up those he had lost and those he had let down. And the faceless people he might — but only might — have saved. But one person was still unaccounted for.
As if in response to the thought, the phone rang.
He looked at the number. It was Ben.
Harry knew with sudden certainty that now he would find out. Perhaps that’s why he hesitated before tapping Accept.
‘Ben?’
‘Hi, Harry. She’s been found.’
‘OK.’ Harry took a deep breath. Then drained the rest of his drink in one go. ‘Where?’