Nemesis

'I haven't read a lot of philosophy.' She raised her glass and took a long swig.

Harry bent his head. 'I haven't, either. I'm just trying to impress you. Down to brass tacks?'

'First some bad news,' she said. 'The reconstruction of the face behind the mask failed. Just a nose and the outline of a head.'

'And the good news?'

'The woman who was used as a hostage in the Grшnlandsleiret hold-up reckons she would recognise the robber's voice. She said it was unusually high, she'd almost thought it was a woman's.'

'Mm. Anything else?'

'Yes, I've been talking to the staff at Focus and doing some checking. Trond Grette arrived at half past two and left at around four.'

'How can you be so sure of that?'

'Because he paid for the squash court with a card when he arrived. The payment was registered at 14.34. And do you remember the stolen squash racquet? Naturally he told the staff. The person who was working the Friday shift noted down the time Grette was there. He left the centre at 16.02.

'And that was the good news?'

'No, I'm coming to it now. Do you remember the overalls Grette saw going past the fitness room?'

'With POLITI on the back?'

'I've been watching the video. It looks like there is Velcro on the front and back of the Expeditor's boiler suit.'

'Meaning?'

'If the Expeditor is the person Grette saw, he could have put the sign on the boiler suit with Velcro when he was out of range of the cameras.'

'Mm.' Harry slurped out loud.

'It might explain why no one reported seeing someone in a plain black boiler suit in the area. There were black police uniforms everywhere right after the hold-up.'

'What did they say at Focus?'

'That's the interesting part. The woman on duty in fact remembers a man in a boiler suit she took for a policeman. He raced past so she assumed he had booked a squash court or something like that.'

'So they didn't have a name?'

'No.'

'That's not exactly sexy…'

'No, but the best is to come. The reason she remembered the guy was that she thought he had to be in a special unit, or something similar, because the rest of his outfit was so Dirty Harry. He…' She paused and gave him a horrified look. 'I didn't mean to…'

'That's fine,' Harry said. 'Go on.'

Beate moved her glass, and Harry thought he detected a tiny, triumphant smile around her little mouth.

'He was wearing a half-rolled-up balaclava. And a pair of large sunglasses hiding the rest of his face. She said he was carrying a black holdall which seemed very heavy.'

Harry's coffee went down the wrong way.

***

A pair of old shoes hung by their laces from the wire stretched between the houses in Dovregata. The lights on the wire did what they could to illuminate the cobbled pavement, but it was as if the dark autumn evening had already sucked all the light out of the town. That didn't bother Harry; he could find the way between Sofies gate and Schrшder's in the pitch dark. He had done it many times.

Beate had a list of the names of people who had booked squash or aerobics at Focus at the time the man in the boiler suit had been there, and she was going to start ringing round tomorrow. If she didn't find the man, there was still a good chance that someone had been in the room when he was changing and could give a description.

Harry walked beneath the shoes on the wire. He had seen them hanging there for years and had long reconciled himself to never finding an answer to the question of how they got there.

Ali was washing the steps as Harry came to the house entrance.

'You must hate Norwegian autumns,' Harry said, wiping his feet. 'Just grime and muddy water.'

'In my hometown in Pakistan visibility was down to fifty metres because of pollution.' Ali smiled. 'All year round.'

Harry could hear a distant yet familiar sound. It was the law which states that telephones start ringing when you hear them, but you can never get to them in time. He looked at his watch. Ten. Rakel had said she would ring him at nine.

'That cellar room…' Ali began, but Harry had already taken off at full speed, leaving a Doc Martens bootprint on every fourth step.

The telephone stopped ringing as he opened the door.

He kicked off his boots. Covered his face in his hands. Went to the telephone and lifted the receiver. The number of the hotel was on a yellow Post-it on the mirror. He took the note and caught sight of the reflection of the first e-mail from S^2 MN. He had printed it out and pinned it on the wall. Old habit. In Crime Squad they always decorated the wall with pictures, letters and other leads which might help them to see a connection or trigger the subconscious in some way. Harry couldn't read the mirror reflection, but he didn't need to:

Shall we play? Let's imagine you've been to dinner with a woman and the next day she's found dead. What do you do?

He changed his mind, went into the sitting room, switched on the TV and slumped in the wing chair. Then he got up with a jerk, went into the hallway and dialled the number.

Rakel sounded careworn.

'At Schrшder's,' Harry said. 'I've just this minute come in.'

'I must have rung ten times.'

'Anything the matter?'

'I'm frightened, Harry.'

'Mm. Very frightened?'

Harry was standing in the doorway to the sitting room, the receiver squeezed between shoulder and ear while turning down the volume on the TV with the remote control.

'Not very,' she said. 'A little.'

'A little frightened can't hurt. You become stronger by being a little frightened.'

'But what if I become very frightened?'

'You know I'll be there instantly. You just have to say the word.'

'I've already said you can't come, Harry.'

'You are hereby granted the right to change your mind.'

Harry watched the man in the turban and camouflage uniform on TV. There was something strangely familiar about his face, a close resemblance to someone.

'My world is caving in,' she said. 'I just had to know someone was there.'

'There's someone here.'

'But you sound so distant.'

Harry turned away from the TV and leaned against the door frame. 'I'm sorry, but I'm here and I'm thinking about you. Even if I sound distant.'

She started to cry. 'Sorry, Harry. You must think I'm a terrible blubberer. Of course I know you're there.' She whispered: 'I know I can rely on you.'

Harry took a deep breath. The headache came on slowly but surely. Like an iron hoop slowly being tightened around his forehead. When they finished their conversation, he could already feel every throbbing pulse in his temple.

He switched off the TV and put on a Radiohead record, but he couldn't tolerate Thom Yorke's voice. Instead he went to the bathroom and washed his face. Stood in the kitchen and stared into the refrigerator without knowing what he was looking for. Finally, it could not be postponed any longer and he went to the bedroom. The computer came to life, casting its cold, blue light into the room. He had contact with the world around him. Which informed him that he had one e-mail. Now he felt it. The thirst. It rattled the chains like a pack of hounds straining to be set free. He clicked the e-mail icon.

I ought to have checked her shoes. The photo must have been on the bedside table and she took it while I was loading the gun. Nevertheless, it makes the game a little more exciting. A little. PS She was frightened. I just wanted you to know that.

Harry felt deep in his pocket and pulled out the keyring. Attached was a brass plate bearing the initials AA.