He scanned the audience again with an encouraging expression. Katrine saw that in addition to the scar that ran like a channel from the corner of his mouth to his ear he had two new scars. One looked like a slash with a knife to the neck; the other could have been made by a bullet at the side of his head, level with his eyebrows. But otherwise he looked better than she had ever seen him. The 1.92-metre figure looked tall and supple; the blond, cropped brush of hair still didn’t have any flecks of grey. And she could see he was toned beneath his T-shirt. There was meat back on his bones. And, most important of all, life in his eyes. The alert, energetic, bordering on manic, look was back. Laughter lines and expansive body language she had never seen before. You could almost suspect him of leading a good life. Which, if this was the case, would be a first.
‘Because they have something to gain by it,’ a boy’s voice answered.
The lecturer nodded good-naturedly. ‘You would think so, wouldn’t you? But murder as a crime for profit is not that usual, Vetle.’
A barking Sunnmøre voice: ‘Because they hate someone?’
‘Elling is suggesting crimes of passion,’ he said. ‘Jealousy. Rejection. Revenge. Yes, definitely. Anything else?’
‘Because they are deranged.’ The suggestion came from a tall, stooped boy.
‘Deranged’s not the word, Robert.’ It was the girl again. Katrine could only see a blonde ponytail over the back of the seat in the front row. ‘It’s called-’
‘It’s fine. We know what he means, Silje.’ The lecturer had sat down at the front of the desk, stretched out his long legs and crossed his arms over the Glasvegas logo on his T-shirt. ‘And personally I think deranged is an excellent word. But not in fact a particularly usual reason for murder. There are of course those who are of the opinion that murder in itself is proof of insanity, but most murders are rational. Just as it’s rational to seek material gain, it’s rational to seek emotional relief. The murderer may have some idea that murder will dull the pain that comes with hatred, fear, jealousy, humiliation.’
‘But if murder is so rational. .’ The first boy. ‘Can you tell us how many satisfied murderers you’ve met?’
The class smart-arse, Katrine hazarded a guess.
‘Very few,’ the lecturer said. ‘But the fact that the murder is felt to be a disappointment doesn’t mean it’s not a rational act so long as the murderer believes he will obtain relief. But revenge is generally sweeter in your imagination; the fury of a murder motivated by jealousy is followed by regret, the moment that the serial killer builds up to so carefully is invariably an anticlimax, so he has to keep trying. In short. .’ He got up and went back to the board. ‘As far as murder is concerned, there is something in the claim that crime doesn’t pay. For the next session I want each of you to think of a motive that could drive you to murder. I don’t want any politically correct bullshit. I want you to examine your darkest, innermost recesses. Well, the next darkest will do perhaps. And then I want you to read Aune’s thesis on the personality of a murderer and profiling, OK? And, yes, I’m going to ask follow-up questions. So be afraid, be ready. Off you go.’
There was a cacophony as seats sprang back.
Katrine stayed where she was, watching the students passing her. In the end, there were only three people left. Her, the lecturer wiping the board and the blonde ponytail who was standing right behind him, legs together, notes under her arm. Katrine could see she was slim. And that her voice sounded different now from when she had been speaking in class.
‘Do you think the serial killer you caught in Australia achieved satisfaction after killing the women?’ Affected little girl’s voice. Like a young girl trying to get into her father’s good books.
‘Silje. .’
‘I mean, he raped them. And that must have been pretty good.’
‘Read the thesis and we can come back to it in the next session, OK?’
‘OK.’
Still she hung around. Rocking up and down on her feet. As if stretching up on her toes, Katrine thought. Up to him. While the lecturer shuffled his papers into a leather case without taking any notice of her. Then she turned on her heel and went up the stairs to the exit. Slowed down when she saw Katrine and eyeballed her, then sped up and was gone.
‘Hi, Harry,’ Katrine said quietly.
‘Hi, Katrine,’ he said without looking.
‘You look good.’
‘Same to you,’ he said, zipping up his case.
‘Did you see me arrive?’
‘I sensed you arrive.’ He looked up. And smiled. Katrine had always been surprised at the metamorphosis his face went through when he smiled. At how the smile could blow away the hard, dismissive, life-weary expression he wore like a shabby coat. At how, suddenly, he could look like a playful, overgrown boy with the sun radiating from him. Like a sunny July day in Bergen. As welcome as it was rare and short.
‘What does that mean?’
‘That I’ve been half expecting you to turn up.’
‘Oh, you have, have you?’
‘Yes. And the answer’s no.’ He stuffed the case under his arm, ran up the stairs to her in four long strides and hugged her.
She squeezed him, drawing in his aroma. ‘No to what, Harry?’
‘No, you can’t have me,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘But you knew that, didn’t you?’
‘Hey!’ she said, trying to free herself from his grip. ‘If it hadn’t been for Miss Ugly Bug it wouldn’t have taken me five minutes to have you at my feet, sunshine. And I didn’t say you looked that good.’
He laughed, let her go and Katrine felt herself thinking he could have held her for a bit longer. She had never worked out whether she really wanted Harry; maybe it had always been so unrealistic she refrained from forming an opinion on it. And in time it had become a joke and the waters were muddied. Besides he was back with Rakel. Or Miss Ugly Bug as he allowed Katrine to call her as the notion was so absurd it only emphasised Rakel’s annoying beauty.
Harry rubbed his badly shaven chin. ‘Hm, if it’s not my irresistible body you’re after, then it must be. .’ He raised a forefinger. ‘I’ve got it. My brilliant mind!’
‘You haven’t got any funnier over the years, either.’
‘And the answer’s still no. And you knew that too.’
‘Have you got an office where we can discuss this?’
‘Yes and no. I have an office, but not one where we can discuss whether I can help you with the murder case.’
‘Murder cases.’
‘It’s one case, as far as I’ve been informed.’
‘Fascinating, isn’t it?’
‘Don’t you try that one on me. I’ve finished with that kind of life, and you know it.’
‘Harry, this case needs you. And you need it.’
The smile didn’t reach his eyes this time. ‘I need a murder case like I need a drink, Katrine. Sorry. Save yourself some time and try an alternative.’
She looked at him. Thinking the analogy with drink came without any hesitation. It confirmed what she had suspected, that he was simply afraid. Afraid that if he so much as looked at a case it would have the same result as a drop of booze. He wouldn’t be able to stop; he would be swallowed up, consumed. For a moment her conscience pricked her, the pusher’s unbidden attack of self-loathing. Until she started visualising the crime scene again. Anton Mittet’s crushed skull.
‘There are no alternatives for you, Harry.’
‘I can give you a couple of names,’ Harry said. ‘There’s a guy I was on the FBI course with. I can ring and-’
‘Harry. .’ Katrine grabbed him under the arm and led him to the door. ‘Has this office of yours got any coffee?’
‘It has, but as I said-’
‘Forget the case. Let’s just have a chat about the old days.’