Nemesis

'And it is?'

'Family honour is everything. That's why she was thrown out. According to Raskol, she had been married off to a Greek-speaking gringo-gypsy in Spain when she was fourteen, but before the marriage was consummated she'd hopped it with a gadjo.'

'Gadjo?'

'A non-gypsy. A Danish sailor. Worst thing you can do. Brings shame on the whole family.'

'Mm.' The unlit cigarette jumped up and down in Harry's mouth as he spoke. 'I understand you've got to know this Raskol pretty well?'

Ivarsson wafted away imaginary smoke. 'We've had the odd chat. Skirmishes. I would call them. Substantial talks will come after our part of the deal has been kept, in other words, when he has attended this funeral.'

'So, he hasn't said a lot so far?'

'Nothing of any import to the investigation, no. But the tone has been positive.'

'So positive that I see the police are helping to carry his kin to her resting place?'

'The priest asked if Li or I would be one of the bearers to make the numbers up. That's OK, we're here to keep an eye on him anyway. And we will continue. To keep an eye on him, that is.'

Harry squinted into the piercing autumn sun.

Ivarsson turned towards him. 'Let me make one thing clear, Hole. No one is allowed to speak to Raskol until we've finished with him. No one. For three years I've tried to make a deal with the man who knows everything. And now I have it. No one will be allowed to screw up. Do you understand what I'm saying?'

'Tell me, Ivarsson, since we're having a tкte-а-tкte here,' Harry said, plucking a flake of tobacco from his mouth. 'Has this case turned into a competition between you and me?'

Ivarsson raised his face to the sun and chuckled. 'Do you know what I would have done if I were you?' he said with closed eyes.

'What's that?' Harry said when the silence was no longer tolerable.

'I would have sent my suit to the dry cleaner's. You look as if you've been lying in a rubbish tip.' He put two fingers to his brow. 'Have a good day.'

Harry stood alone on the steps smoking as he watched the uneven passage of the white coffin along the pavement.

***

Halvorsen spun round on his chair when Harry came in.

'Great you're here. I've got some good news. I…shit, what a smell!'

Halvorsen held his nose and said with shipping forecast intonation: 'What happened to your suit?'

'Slipped in a rubbish skip. What's the news?'

'Ooh…yes, I thought the photo might have been of a holiday area in Sшrland, so I e-mailed it to all the police stations in Aust-Agder. And, bingo, an officer from Risшr rang straight away to say he knew the beach well. But do you know what?'

'Er, no, actually.'

'It wasn't in Sшrland, but in Larkollen!'

Halvorsen looked at Harry with an expectant grin and added, when Harry failed to react: 'In Шstfold. Outside Moss.'

'I know where Larkollen is, Halvorsen.'

'Yes, but this officer comes from-'

'People from Sшrland go on holiday, too. Did you ring Larkollen?'

Halvorsen rolled his eyes in desperation. 'Yes, of course. I rang the camping site and two places where they rent chalets. And the only two grocery shops.'

'Any luck?'

'Yep.' Halvorsen beamed again. 'I faxed the photo and one of the guys running the grocery shop knew who she was. They've got one of the most fantastic chalets in the area. He drives deliveries up there now and then.'

'And the lady's name is?'

'Vigdis Albu?'

'Albu? Elbow?'

'Yep. There are just two of them in Norway. One was born in 1909. The other is forty-three years old and lives at Bjшrnetrеkket 12 in Slemdal with Arne Albu. And hey presto-here's the telephone number, boss.'

'Don't call me that,' Harry said, grabbing the telephone.

Halvorsen groaned. 'What's up? Are you in a bad mood or something?'

'Yes, but that's not why. Mшller is the boss. I'm not a boss, OK?'

Halvorsen was about to say something when Harry imperiously held up a hand: 'Fru Albu?'

***

Someone had needed a lot of time, money and space to build the Albus' house. And a lot of taste. Or as Harry saw it: a lot of bad taste. It looked as if the architect-if such there were-had tried to fuse Norwegian chalet tradition with Southern US plantation style and a dash of pink suburban bliss. Harry's feet sank in the shingle drive leading past a trim garden of ornamental shrubs and a little bronze hart drinking from a fountain. On the ridge of the garage roof there was an oval copper sign emblazoned with a blue flag containing a yellow triangle on a black triangle.

The sound of a dog barking furiously came from behind the house. Harry walked up the broad steps between the pillars, rang the bell and half-expected to be met by a black mama in a white apron.

'Hello,' she twittered at roughly the same time as the door was flung open. Vigdis Albu was the image of one of those women off the fitness adverts Harry occasionally saw on TV when he came home at night. She had the same white smile, bleached Barbie hair and a firm, well-toned, upper-class body packed into running tights and a skimpy top. And she'd had a boob job, but at least she'd had the sense not to exaggerate the size.

'Harry-'

'Come in!' She smiled with the merest suggestion of wrinkles around her large, blue, discreetly made-up eyes.

Harry stepped into a large hallway populated with fat, ugly, carved wooden trolls reaching up to his hips.

'I'm just washing,' Vigdis Albu explained. She flashed a white smile and carefully wiped away the sweat with a forefinger so as not to streak her mascara.

'I'd better take off my shoes then,' Harry said and at that moment remembered the hole in his sock over his right big toe.

'No, God forbid, not the house. We've got people to do that,' she laughed. 'But I like to wash clothes myself. There have to be limits to how far we let strangers into the house, don't you think?'

'Too true,' Harry mumbled. He had to move briskly to keep up with her up the steps. They passed a classy kitchen and came into the living room. A spacious terrace lay beyond two sliding glass doors. On the main wall there was a huge brick construction, a sort of halfway house between Oslo City Hall and a cenotaph.

'Designed by Per Hummel for Arne's fortieth birthday,' Vigdis said. 'Per's a friend of ours.'

'Yes, Per has really designed one…a fireplace there.'

'I'm sure you know Per Hummel, the architect, don't you? The new chapel in Holmenkollen, you know.'

'I'm afraid not,' Harry said and passed her the photograph. 'Would you mind having a look at this?'

He studied the surprise spreading across her face.

'But that's the photo Arne took last year in Larkollen. How did you get hold of this?'

Harry waited to see if she could maintain her genuinely puzzled expression before he responded. She could.

'We found it in the shoe of a woman called Anna Bethsen,' he said. Harry witnessed a chain reaction of thoughts, reasoning and emotions reflected in Vigdis Albu's face, like a soap opera in fast forward. First surprise, next wonder and afterwards confusion. Then an intuition, which was at first rejected with a sceptical laugh, but took hold and seemed to grow into a dawning realisation. And finally the closed face with the subtitle: There have to be limits to how far we let strangers into the house, don't you think?

Harry fidgeted with the packet of cigarettes he had taken out. A large glass ashtray had pride of place in the middle of the coffee table.

'Do you know Anna Bethsen, fru Albu?'

'Certainly not. Should I?'

'I don't know,' Harry said honestly. 'She's dead. I'm left wondering what such a personal photograph is doing in her shoe. Any ideas?'

Vigdis Albu tried to put on a forbearing smile, but her mouth wouldn't obey. She contented herself with an energetic shake of her head.