Harry had taken her long hair in his hand. It was still dark and shiny and so thick it felt like you were holding coiled rope. He pulled it towards him, tipping her head back, and looked down at her slender, arched back, her spine winding like a snake beneath her glowing, perspiring skin. Thrust again. Her groan was like a low-frequency growl coming from the depths of her chest, an angry, frustrated sound. Sometimes their lovemaking was quiet, calm, lazy like a slow dance, a shuffle. At other times it was like fighting. As it was tonight. It was as though her wanton lust bred greater lust, like now; it was like trying to extinguish a fire with petrol, it escalated, burned out of control, and often he thought, Jesus, this can’t end well.
Her dress was lying on the floor beside the bed. Red. She was so attractive in red it was almost a sin. Barefoot. No, she hadn’t been barefoot. Harry leaned over and breathed in her aroma.
‘Don’t stop,’ she groaned.
Opium. Rakel had told him the bitter smell was sweat from the bark of an Arab tree. No, not sweat, it was tears. The tears of a princess who fled to Arabia because of a forbidden love. Princess Myrrha. Myrrh. Her life ended in grief, but Yves Saint Laurent paid a fortune per litre of tears.
‘Don’t stop, hold. .’
She had taken his hand, pressed it against her neck. He squeezed carefully. Felt the blood vessels and the tensed muscles in her slender neck.
‘Harder! Har-’
Her voice was cut off as he did what she said. Knowing that now he had stopped the flow of oxygen to her brain. This had been her thing, something he did and got a kick out of because he knew she got a kick out of it. But something was different now. The thought that she was in his power. That he could do with her as he wished. He stared down at her dress. The red dress. Felt it building up inside him and that he wouldn’t be able to hold it back. He closed his eyes and imagined her. On all fours as she slowly turned over, looked at him, while her hair changed colour, and he saw who she was. Her eyes had rolled backwards and her neck was covered in bruises, which became visible as the forensics officer’s flash went off.
Harry let go and pulled his hand away. But Rakel was already there. She had tensed up and was shaking like a deer the second before it hits the ground. Then she died. Slumped with her forehead against the mattress, a bitter sob came from her mouth. She lay like that, kneeling as if in prayer.
Harry pulled out. She whimpered, turned and eyed him accusingly. Usually he waited before pulling out until she was ready for the separation.
Harry kissed her quickly on the neck, slid out of bed and fished around for the Paul Smith underpants she had bought him at some airport. Found his pack of Camel in the Wranglers hanging over the chair. Went downstairs to the living room. Sat in a chair and looked out of the window, where the night was at its darkest and yet not so dark that he couldn’t see the silhouette of Holmenkollen Ridge against the sky. Lit a cigarette. Immediately afterwards he heard the patter of her feet behind him. Felt a hand stroking his hair and neck.
‘Is there something wrong?’
‘No.’
She sat down on the arm of the chair and snuggled her nose up against his neck. Her skin was still hot and smelt of Rakel and lovemaking. And Princess Myrrha’s tears.
‘Opium,’ he said. ‘Quite a name for a perfume.’
‘Don’t you like it?’
‘Yes, I do.’ Harry blew smoke at the ceiling. ‘But it’s quite. . pronounced.’
She lifted her head. Looked at him. ‘And you’re telling me that now?’
‘I hadn’t thought about it before. I didn’t really now, either.’
‘Is it the booze?’
‘What?’
‘The alcohol in the perfume. Is it that. .?’
He shook his head.
‘But there’s something,’ she said. ‘I know you, Harry. You’re troubled, restless. Look at the way you’re smoking. You’re sucking it out as if it were the last drop of water in the world.’
Harry smiled. Stroked the gooseflesh on her back. She kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘So if it’s not alcoholic abstinence, it’s the other variety.’
‘The other variety?’
‘The police variety.’
‘Oh, that,’ he said.
‘It’s the police murders, isn’t it?’
‘Beate came here to persuade me. She said she’d talked to you first.’
Rakel nodded.
‘And that you’d given the impression it was fine by you,’ Harry said.
‘I said it was up to you.’
‘Had you forgotten our promise?’
‘No, but I can’t force you to keep a promise, Harry.’
‘And what if I’d said yes and joined the investigation?’
‘Then you would have broken your promise.’
‘And the consequences?’
‘For you, me and Oleg? Greater chance that we would be doomed. For the investigation into the murders of the three officers? Greater chance of success.’
‘Mm. The former is definite, Rakel. The latter highly doubtful.’
‘Maybe. But you know very well that we could be doomed anyway, whether you work for the police or not. There are several pitfalls. One is that you start climbing the walls because you can’t do what you feel you were born to do. I’ve heard of men whose relationships break down just in time for the autumn hunt.’
‘Elk. Rather than birds of the featherless variety, you mean?’
‘Yes, that does have to be said in their favour.’
Harry inhaled. Their voices were lowered, calm, as though they were discussing the shopping. That was how they talked, he thought. That was what she was like. He pulled her to him. Whispered in her ear.
‘I want to keep you, Rakel. I want to keep this.’
‘Yes?’
‘Yes. This is good. This is the best I’ve ever known. And you know what makes me tick, you remember Ståle’s diagnosis. An addictive personality bordering on OCD. Booze or hunting, it makes no difference, my mind starts whirring in the same grooves. As soon as I open the door, I’m there, Rakel. And I don’t want to be there. I want to be here. Hell, I’m on the way there now, only talking about it! I’m not doing this for Oleg and you; I’m doing it for me.’
‘There, there.’ Rakel stroked his hair. ‘Let’s talk about something else then.’
‘Yes. So they said Oleg would be out early?’
‘Yes. There are no more withdrawal symptoms. And he seems more motivated than ever. Harry?’
‘Yes.’
‘He told me what happened that night.’ Her hand continued to stroke him. He wanted it to be there for ever.
‘Which night?’
‘You know. The night the doctor patched you up.’
‘Oh, he told you, did he?’
‘You told me you were shot by one of Asayev’s dealers.’
‘In a sense that’s true. Oleg was one of them.’
‘I preferred the old version. The one about Oleg appearing at the crime scene afterwards, seeing how badly hurt you were and running along the Akerselva to A amp;E.’
‘But you never really believed it, did you?’
‘He told me he burst in and forced a doctor at gunpoint to go with him.’
‘The doctor forgave Oleg when he saw my state.’
Rakel shook her head. ‘He would have liked to tell me the rest as well, but he says he doesn’t remember much from those months.’
‘Heroin does have that effect.’
‘But I thought you might fill in the gaps for me now. What do you say?’
Harry inhaled. Waited a second. Let out the smoke. ‘I prefer to say as little as possible.’
She tugged his hair. ‘I believed you that time because I wanted to. My God, Harry, Oleg shot you. He should be in prison.’
Harry shook his head. ‘It was an accident, Rakel. All that’s behind us now, and as long as the police don’t find the Odessa gun no one can link Oleg to the murder of Gusto Hanssen or anyone else.’
‘What do you mean? Oleg has been acquitted of that murder. Are you saying he had something to do with it after all?’