'You know it won't work,' Harry said.
'Believe me, I know a lot about disappearing. Lev did nothing but. Twenty minutes' head start is all I need. I'll have changed transport and identity twice. I have four cars and four passports en route, and I have good contacts. In Sгo Paulo, for example. Twenty million inhabitants. You can start the search there.'
'Fifteen.'
'Your colleague will die soon, Harry. What's it going to be?'
'You've said too much,' Harry said. 'You're going to kill us anyway.'
'You'll have to take a risk and find out. What options have you got?'
'That you die before me,' Harry said, loading his gun.
'Sixteen,' whispered Beate.
Harry had finished.
'Amusing theory, Hole,' Ivarsson said. 'Especially the one about the contract killer in Brazil. Extremely…' He bared his small teeth into a thin smile: 'Exotic. There's no more? Proof, for example?'
'Handwriting. The suicide letter,' Harry said.
'You've just said it doesn't match Trond Grette's writing.'
'Not his usual writing, no. But the essays…'
'Have you got a witness to swear he wrote them?'
'No,' Harry said.
Ivarsson groaned: 'In other words, you don't have one single shred of incriminating evidence in this robbery case.'
'Murder case,' Harry said softly, eyeing Ivarsson. At the edge of his vision he could see Mшller staring at the floor, ashamed, and Beate wringing her hands in despair. The Chief Superintendent cleared his throat.
Harry released the safety catch.
'What are you doing?' Trond scrunched up his eyes and shoved the gun barrel into Beate's head so hard he forced it backwards.
'Twenty-one,' she groaned.
'Isn't it liberating?' Harry said. 'When you finally realise you have nothing to lose. That makes all decisions so much easier.'
'You're bluffing.'
'Am I?' Harry placed the gun against his left forearm and fired. The crack was loud and sharp. A few tenths of a second passed before the echo from the tall blocks came crashing back. Trond stared. A jagged edge stood up around the hole in the policeman's leather jacket and a white tuft of wool lining swirled away in the wind. The blood trickled through. Heavy, red droplets hit the ground with a muffled tick-tick clock-like sound, vanished in the mixture of shale and rotting grass to be absorbed by the soil. 'Twenty-two.'
The droplets grew and fell faster and faster, sounding like an accelerating metronome. Harry raised his gun, poked the barrel through a gap in the wire netting fence and took aim. 'That's what my blood looks like, Trond,' he said in a voice so low it was barely audible. 'Shall we have a peek at yours?'
At that moment the clouds covered the sun.
'Twenty-three.'
A dark shadow fell like a wall from the west, firstly across the fields, then across the terraced houses, the blocks, the red shale and the three people. The temperature fell, too. Like a stone, as though the obstruction in front of the light not only cut off the heat but also radiated cold. But Trond didn't notice. All he sensed and saw was the policewoman's brief, hurried gulps of air, her wan, expressionless face and the muzzle of the policeman's gun staring at him like a black eye which had finally found what it was seeking and was already boring through him, dissecting him and stretching him out. The distant thunder rumbled. But all he heard was the sound of blood. The policeman's flesh was open and the contents were spilling out. The blood, his insides, his life dripped loudly onto the grass. It wasn't being devoured; it did the devouring, burned its way into the ground. Trond knew that even if he closed his eyes and covered his ears, he would still hear his own blood rushing in his ears, singing and throbbing to get out.
He felt the nausea like a kind of mild labour pain, a foetus which would be born through his mouth. He swallowed, but the water was running from all his glands, greasing his insides, preparing him. The fields, the blocks and the tennis court began to revolve. He huddled up, tried to hide behind the policewoman, but she was too small, too transparent, just a gossamer veil of life trembling in the squalls. He clung to the gun as though it was holding him up and not the opposite, tightened his finger on the trigger, then waited. Had to wait. What for? For the fear to release its grip? For things to recover their equilibrium? But they wouldn't, they just whirled around and would not come to rest until they had smashed on the bottom. Everything had been in free fall from the moment Stine had said she was leaving, and the blood rushing in his ears had been a constant reminder that the pace was gathering. He had woken every morning thinking that now he must have got used to falling, now the horror must have let go, the end was in sight, he had been through the pain barrier. But it wasn't true. Then he had begun to long to hit rock bottom, the day he would stop being frightened. And now he could see the bottom he was even more frightened. The ground on the other side of the wire fence rushed towards him.
'Twenty-four.'
The countdown was nearing the end. Beate had the sun in her eyes, she was standing inside in a bank in Ryen and the light outside was dazzling, making everything white and harsh. Her father stood beside her, as silent as ever. Her mother was shouting from somewhere, but she was far away, she always had been. Beate counted the images, the summers, the kisses and the defeats. There were a lot, she was surprised how many there were. She recalled faces, Paris, Prague, a smile from under a black fringe, a clumsily expressed declaration of love, a breathless, fearfuclass="underline" Does it hurt? And a restaurant she hadn't been able to afford in San Sebastian, but where she had reserved a table anyway. Perhaps she should be grateful after all?
She had woken from these thoughts when the gun nudged her forehead. The images disappeared and there was only a white, crackling snowstorm on the screen. She wondered: Why did Father only stand beside me? Why didn't he ask me for something? He had never done that. And she hated him for it. Didn't he know it was the only thing she desired, to do something for him, anything at all? She had walked where he had walked, but when she found the bank raider, the killer, the widow-maker and wanted to give her father his vengeance, their vengeance, he had stood beside her, as silent as ever, and refused.
Now she was standing where he had stood. All the people she had watched on the bank videos from all over the world at night in the House of Pain, wondering what they were thinking. Now it was her turn and still she didn't know.
Then someone had turned off the light, the sun disappeared and she was immersed in the cold. She had awoken again in the cold. As if the first awakening had only been part of a new dream. And she had started counting again. But now she was counting places she had never been, people she had never met, tears she had never cried, words she had never heard said as yet.
'Yes, I do,' Harry said. 'I have this piece of evidence.' He produced a sheet of paper and set it on the long table.
Ivarsson and Mшller leaned forward together, clunking heads.
'What is this?' Ivarsson barked. ' "A Wonderful Day".'
'Scribbles,' Harry said. 'Written on a notepad at Gaustad hospital. Two witnesses, Lшnn and myself, were present and can testify that the writer was Trond Grette.'
'So?'
Harry looked at them. He turned his back and walked slowly to the window. 'Have you examined your own scribbles when you imagine you're thinking about something else? They can be quite revealing. That was why I took the piece of paper, to see if it made any sense. At first, it didn't. I mean when your wife has just been killed and you're sitting in a closed psychiatric ward writing "A Wonderful Day" again and again, then you're absolutely barking mad or you're writing the opposite of what you think. Then I discovered something.'