Nemesis

Harry waited, without moving, relaxed. As his shoes had sunk into the shingle, he felt his body sinking into the deep, white sofa. Experience had taught him that silence was the most effective of all methods to make people talk. When two strangers sit facing each other, silence functions like a vacuum, sucking words out. They sat like that for ten eternal seconds. Vigdis Albu swallowed: 'Perhaps the cleaner saw it lying somewhere and took it with her. And gave it to this…was it Anna she was called?'

'Mm. Do you mind if I smoke, fru Albu?'

'This is a smoke-free house. Neither my husband nor I…' She lifted a hand quickly to her plait. 'And Alexander, our youngest, has got asthma.'

'Sorry to hear that. How does your husband spend his time?'

She gaped at him and her big, blue eyes grew even bigger.

'What's his job, I mean?' Harry put his cigarettes back in his inside pocket.

'He's an investor. He sold the company about three years ago.'

'Which company?'

'Albu AS. Importing towels and shower mats for hotels and institutions.'

'Must have been quite a lot of towels. And shower mats.'

'We had the agency for the whole of Scandinavia.'

'Congratulations. The flag on the garage, isn't that a consulate flag?'

Vigdis Albu had regained her composure and took off her hair band. It struck Harry that she had had something done to her face. Something about the proportions didn't tally. That is to say, they tallied too well; her face was almost artificially symmetrical.

'St Lucia. My husband was the Norwegian consul there for eleven years. We had a factory where they sew shower mats. We have a little house there, too. Have you been to-?'

'No.'

'A fantastic, wonderful, sweet island. Some of the older inhabitants still speak French. Incomprehensible French I have to say, but they are so charming you wouldn't believe it.'

'Creole French.'

'What?'

'I've read about it. Do you think your husband might know how this photo ended up in the deceased's possession?'

'Can't imagine how. Why should he?'

'Hm.' Harry smiled. 'It's perhaps just as difficult to say why one would have a photo of a stranger in one's shoe.' He got to his feet. 'Where can I find him, fru Albu?'

As Harry noted down the telephone number and address of Arne Albu's office, he happened to look down at the sofa where he had been sitting.

'Erm…' he said when he saw Vigdis Albu following his gaze. 'I slipped in a refuse skip. Of course, I'll-'

'It doesn't matter,' she interrupted. 'The cover's going to the dry cleaner's next week anyway.'

On the steps outside, she asked Harry if on second thoughts he could wait until five o'clock before he rang her husband.

'He'll be home then and won't be so busy.'

Harry didn't answer and watched the corners of her mouth going up and down.

'Then he and I can…see if we can sort out this business for you.'

'Thank you, that's nice of you, but I have my car here and it's on the way, so I'll drive to his work and see if I can find him there.'

'OK,' she said with a brave smile.

The barking followed Harry down the long drive. At the gate, he turned round. Vigdis Albu was still standing on the steps in front of the pink plantation building. Her head was bowed and the sun shone on her hair and glossy sports gear. From a distance she looked like a tiny bronze hart.

***

Harry could find neither a legal place to park nor Arne Albu at the address in Vika Atrium. Just a receptionist who informed him that Albu rented an office with three other investors, and that he was having lunch with 'a firm of brokers'.

On leaving the building, Harry found a parking ticket under the windscreen wiper. He took it and his bad mood with him to SS Louise, which was in fact not a steamship but a restaurant in Aker Brygge. Unlike at Schrшder's, they served edible food to solvent customers with office addresses in what somewhat charitably might be called Oslo's Wall Street. Harry had never felt completely at home in Aker Brygge, but perhaps that was because he was Oslo-bred and not a tourist. He exchanged a few words with a waiter, who pointed to a window table.

'Gentlemen, I'm sorry to disturb,' Harry said.

'Ah, finally,' one of the three at the table exclaimed, flicking his fringe back. 'Would you call this wine room temperature, waiter?'

'I'd call it Norwegian red wine decanted into a Clos des Papes bottle,' Harry said.

Taken aback, the Fringe ran his eye down Harry in his dark suit.

'A joke.' Harry smiled. 'I'm a policeman.'

The surprise segued into alarm.

'Not environmental crime.'

Relief segued into question marks. Harry heard boyish laughter and breathed in. He had decided how he was going to do it, but had no idea how it would turn out. 'Arne Albu?'

'That's me,' answered the one who was laughing. He was slim with short, curly, dark hair and laughter lines around his eyes, which told Harry that he laughed a lot and was older than the thirty-five years he would have guessed initially. 'Apologies for the misunderstanding,' he continued, still with laughter in his voice. 'Can I help you, Constable?'

Harry observed him, quickly trying to form a picture of him before going on. The voice was the sonorous variety. Fixed gaze. Shiny white collar behind a tie that was not too loose and not too tight. The fact that he hadn't left it at 'That's me,' but had added an apology and 'Can I help you, Constable?'-with a slightly ironic stress on 'Constable'-suggested that Arne Albu was either very self-confident or had a lot of practice giving that impression.

Harry concentrated. Not on what he was going to say, but on how Albu would react.

'Yes, you can, Albu. Do you know Anna Bethsen?'

Albu looked at Harry with the same blue eyes as his wife's and after a moment's reflection gave a loud, clear answer: 'No.'

Albu's face revealed no more to Harry than the mouth said. Not that Harry had thought it would. He had long given up believing the myth that people whose professions brought them face to face with lies on a daily basis learn to recognise them. A policeman had once claimed during a court case that from his long experience he knew when the accused was lying. Stеle Aune, once again a tool of the defence, had answered that research showed that no one single professional group was any better than another at spotting lies; a cleaner was just as good as a psychologist or a policeman, that is to say, just as bad. The only group in the comparative study to have acquitted itself with an above-average score was that of the Secret Service agents. Harry was no Secret Service agent, though. He was an Oppsal boy pressed for time, in a bad mood and right now showing poor judgement. To confront a man with potentially compromising circumstances in the presence of others, without any grounds for suspicion, was hardly very effective and not what anyone would call fair play. So Harry knew he shouldn't be doing what he was doing: 'Any idea who could have given her this photo?'

All three men studied the photograph Harry set on the table.

'Haven't a clue,' Albu said. 'My wife? The kids maybe?'

'Mm.' Harry looked for changes in the pupils, signs of an increased pulse such as sweating or blushing.

'I don't know what this is about, Constable, but since you have taken the trouble to find me, I assume it is not a bagatelle. Perhaps we could discuss this in private after my meeting with these gentlemen from Handelsbanken is over. If you would like to wait, I can ask the waiter to give you a table down in the smoking area.'

Harry could not decide whether Albu's smile was mocking or simply obliging. Not even that.

'I haven't time,' Harry said. 'So if we could sit down-'

'I'm afraid I don't have time, either,' Albu interposed in a calm but firm voice. 'This is my working time, so we'll have to talk this afternoon. If you are still of the opinion there is something I can help you with, that is.'