‘It’s fine,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I hope he tipped you well.’
‘Of course, fru Røed. Of course.’ The waiter grinned, black snus showing between his teeth.
Helene picked out the olives before drinking the last of the martini, but the taste lingered.
It was on the way down towards Gyldenløves gate that the anger descended, and it struck her. That it was madness, utter insanity that she, an intelligent, grown woman, should accept that her existence was controlled by men, men she neither liked nor respected. What was it she was actually afraid of? Being alone? She was alone, for fuck’s sake, every one of us was alone! And it was Markus who had most reason to be afraid. If she told the truth, told what she knew... she shuddered at the thought, the same way presidents hopefully shuddered at the thought of pushing the button. While naturally at the same time the thought they could do it thrilled them. There was something so sexy about power! Most women sought it indirectly, by going after men with power. But why do that if you have a nuclear button? And why hadn’t the thought ever crossed her mind before now? Simple: because the boat had hit the rocks and was taking on water.
Helene Røed decided there and then that from now on she would be in control of her own life, and that in that life there would be very little space for men. And because Helene Røed was well aware that when she set her mind to something, then she saw it through, she knew that was how it was going to be. Now it was just a matter of drawing up a plan. Then, when this was all behind her, she would send a drink over to a man she liked the look of.
11
Monday
Naked
As Harry entered the square in front of Oslo Central Station, he caught sight of Øystein Eikeland standing by the tiger statue, stamping his feet on the flagstones. Øystein was wearing a Vålerenga top, but the rest was pure Keith Richards. The hair, the wrinkles, scarf, eyeliner, cigarette, the emaciated frame.
As with Aune, Harry didn’t hug his childhood friend too hard, as though afraid even more of the people in his life would go to pieces.
‘Wow,’ Øystein said. ‘Nice suit. What were you doing over there? Running prostitutes? Selling coke?’
‘No, but I can see you are,’ Harry said, looking around. The people on the square were mostly commuters, tourists and office workers, but there were few places in Oslo where the sale of drugs took place as openly as here. ‘I have to admit I didn’t see that coming.’
‘No?’ Øystein said, adjusting his sunglasses, the hug having knocked them out of position. ‘I did. Should have started years ago. Not only does it pay better than driving a cab, it’s healthier too.’
‘Healthier?’
‘Gets me closer to the source. Everything going into this body now is high-quality stuff.’ He ran his hands down his sides.
‘Mm. And in moderate doses too?’
‘Course. How ’bout you?’
Harry shrugged. ‘At the moment, I’m trying out your Moderation Management programme. Not sure it’ll work out in the long run, but we’ll see.’
Øystein tapped a finger to his temple.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Harry said, and saw a young man in a parka standing a little further off staring at him. Even at this distance Harry could see that his eyes were blue and so wide open that the whites were visible all the way around his irises. He had both hands stuffed down in the deep pockets as though holding something.
‘Who’s that guy?’ Harry asked.
‘Oh, that’s Al. He can see you’re a cop.’
‘Pusher?’
‘Yeah. Nice guy, but odd. Bit like yourself.’
‘Me?’
‘Better looking than you of course. And smarter.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh, you’re smart in your own way, Harry, but that guy he’s like nerd smart. You start talking about something and he knows everything about it, like he’s studied it or something, you know. What you got in common is both of you have that thing the ladies fall for. That whole charismatic loneliness schtick. And he’s a creature of habit, just like you.’
Harry saw Al turn away as though he didn’t want to show Harry his face.
‘Stands here from nine to five, off at the weekends,’ Øystein continued. ‘As if he had, like, a regular job. Likeable, as I said, but cautious, almost paranoid. Happy to talk shop, but won’t say anything about himself, exactly like you. Except this guy won’t even tell you his name.’
‘So Al is...’
‘I gave him the name from the Paul Simon song. “You Can Call Me Al”, y’know?’
Harry grinned.
‘You seem a bit jumpy and all yourself,’ Øystein said. ‘You OK?’
Harry shrugged. ‘I might have got a little paranoid myself over there.’
‘Yo,’ a voice sounded. ‘Got any coke?’
Harry turned and saw a boy in a hoodie.
‘You think I’m a dealer?’ Øystein hissed, ‘Get off home and do your homework!’
‘Aren’t you?’ Harry asked, as they watched the boy wander towards the guy in the parka.
‘Yeah, but not for kids that young. I leave that to Al and the West Africans on Torggata. Besides, I’m like a high-class hooker, mostly call-out.’ Øystein grinned, revealing a row of rotten teeth, and flashed a new, shiny Samsung mobile phone. ‘Deliveries to the door.’
‘Does that mean you have a car?’
‘Sure do. Bought that old Merc I was driving. Got it cheap from the taxi company owner. He said the customers were complaining about the smell of smoke, that he couldn’t get rid of it, and told me it was my fault. Hehe. I also forgot to remove the taxi sign from the roof, so I can drive in the bus lane. Speaking of the smell of smoke, you got a cig?’
‘I quit. And it looks to me like you have your own anyway.’
‘Yours always tasted better, Harry.’
‘Well. That’s over now.’
‘Yeah, I gather that’s the kind of thing California can do to a man.’
‘The car parked far away?’
From the sprung, worn-out front seats of the Mercedes they looked out over the seaward approach into Bjørvika, the attractive new urban quarter comprising Oslobukta and Sørenga, but where the newly built Munch Museum, a thirteen-storey mental patient in a straitjacket, blocked the view.
‘Christ, that’s ugly,’ Øystein said.
‘So what do you say?’ Harry asked.
‘Driver and general dogsbody?’
‘Yes. And if it turns out to have anything to do with the case, we may need an insider who can follow the cocaine trail to and from Markus Røed.’
‘So you’re sure he uses the marching powder?’
‘Sneezes. Has large, dilated pupils and sunglasses lying on the desk. His eyes dart all over the place.’
‘Nystagmus. But follow the trail from Røed, you say. Isn’t he, like, your client?’
‘My job is to solve a murder, probably two. Not to defend that man’s interests.’
‘And you think it’s about coke? If you said heroin, I might—’
‘I don’t think anything, Øystein, but when addiction is in the picture, it always plays a part. And I think at least one of the girls was a little too fond of blow too. She owed her dealer ten thousand kroner. So, are you in?’
Øystein studied the glow on his cigarette. ‘Why are you actually taking on this job, Harry?’
‘I told you, money.’
‘Y’know, that was what Dylan said when he was asked why he started with folk music and protest songs.’
‘And you think he was lying?’