She chuckled. ‘But we’re getting on well as we are, aren’t we, Harry?’
‘Yes, we’ve got everything to lose. And fourth?’
‘Fourth, that’s not how you propose, Harry. In bed, over a cigarette.’
‘Well, if you want me on my knees, I’ll have to put my trousers on first.’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes, I should put my trousers on? Or yes, I-?’
‘Yes, you idiot! Yes! I want to marry you.’
Harry’s reaction was automatic, rehearsed over a long life as a policeman. He turned to the side and checked his watch. Noted the time. 23.11. The nitty-gritty for when he had to write the report. When they arrived at the crime scene, when the arrest was made, when the shot was fired.
‘Oh good lord,’ he heard Rakel mumble. ‘What am I saying?’
‘Cooling-off period expires in five seconds,’ Harry said, turning back to her.
Her face was so close to his that all he saw was a hazy sparkle in her wide eyes.
‘Time’s up,’ he said. ‘And what kind of a grin is that supposed to be?’
And now Harry could feel it himself, the smile that just kept spreading across his face like a freshly cracked egg in the pan.
Beate was lying with her legs on the arm of the sofa watching Gabriel Byrne wriggle uncomfortably in the chair. She had worked out it had to be the eyelashes and the Irish accent. The eyelashes of a Mikael Bellman, the lilt of a poet. The man she was seeing had none of these things, but that wasn’t the problem. There was something odd about him. For starters, there was the intensity; he hadn’t understood why he couldn’t visit her if she was by herself this evening. And then there was his background. He had told her things she had gradually discovered didn’t tally.
Perhaps that wasn’t so unusuaclass="underline" you want to make a good impression and so you lay it on a bit thick.
On the other hand, perhaps there was something wrong with her. After all, she had tried to google him. Without finding anything. So she had googled Gabriel Byrne instead. Reading with interest that he’d worked as a teddy bear eye-installer before she found what she was really looking for. Spouse: Ellen Barkin (1988–1999). For a moment she’d thought Gabriel was widowed, left behind, like her, until she realised it was probably the marriage that was deceased. And if so Gabriel must have been single for longer than her. Or maybe Wikipedia wasn’t up to date?
On the screen the female patient flirted at will. But Gabriel wasn’t fooled. He sent her a brief, troubled smile, fixed his gentle eyes on her and said something trivial, which he made sound like a Yeats poem.
A light flashed on the table and her heart stopped.
Her mobile. It was ringing. It could be him. Valentin.
She lifted the phone, looked at the caller. Sighed.
‘Yes, Katrine?’
‘He’s here.’
Beate could hear from her colleague’s excitement that it was true, they had a bite.
‘Tell. .’
‘He’s standing on the doorstep.’
Doorstep! That was more than a bite. That was fish for supper. Christ, they had the whole house surrounded.
‘He’s just standing there, hesitating.’
She heard the activity on the walkie-talkie in the background. Get him now, get him now. Katrine answered her prayers. ‘The orders have been given to move in.’
Beate heard another voice in the background say something. It was familiar, but she couldn’t place it.
‘They’re storming the house now,’ Katrine said.
‘Details, please.’
‘Delta. All wearing black. Automatics. God, the way they’re running. .’
‘Less colour, more content.’
‘Four men running up the path. Blinding him with light. The others are hidden, waiting to see if he has any backup. He’s dropped what he’s holding. .’
‘Has he got a weap-?’
A shrill, high-pitched ring. Beate groaned. Doorbell.
‘He hasn’t got time. They’re on him already. They’ve wrestled him to the ground.’
Yes!
‘Searching him, so it seems. They’re holding something up.’
‘Weapon?’
The doorbell again. Hard, insistent.
‘Looks like a remote control.’
‘Ooh! A bomb?’
‘Don’t know. But they’ve got him now anyway. They’re signalling the situation is under control. Wait. .’
‘I’ve got to open the door. I’ll ring you back.’
Beate jumped up off the sofa. Jogged to the door. Wondering how to explain to him that this wasn’t acceptable, that if she said she wanted to be alone she meant it.
And as she opened the door she thought about how far she had come. From the quiet, shy, self-sacrificing girl, who had graduated from the same police college her father had attended, to the woman who not only knew what she wanted but did what she had to do to achieve it. It had been a long and at times hard road, but the reward was worth every single step.
She looked at the man opposite her. The reflected light from his face hit her retina, was converted into visual signals and fed her fusiform gyrus with the data.
Behind her she heard Gabriel Byrne’s reassuring voice; she thought it said: ‘Don’t panic now.’
By which time her brain had recognised the face before her.
Harry could feel the orgasm coming. His own. The sweet, sweet pain, the muscles in his back and abdomen tensing. He closed the door on what he could see and opened his eyes. Looked down at Rakel, who was staring up at him with glassy eyes. The blood vessel on her forehead bulged. A jerk went through her body and face every time he thrust. She seemed to be trying to say something. And he became aware that this was not the suffering, offended look she generally wore before she came, this was something else, a terror in her eyes he could only once remember having seen before, also here in this room. He became aware she had both hands around his wrist, trying to drag his hand off her neck.
He waited. Not knowing why, but he wouldn’t slacken his grip. Felt the resistance in her body, saw her eyes bulge. Then he let go.
Heard the hiss as she inhaled air.
‘Harry. .’ Her voice was hoarse, unrecognisable. ‘What were you doing?’
He looked down at her. He had no answer.
‘You. .’ She coughed. ‘You mustn’t hold on so long!’
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I got a bit carried away.’
Then he felt it come. Not the orgasm, but something similar. A pain in his chest that rose into his throat and spread to behind his eyes.
He slumped down beside her. Buried his face in the pillow. Felt the tears come. Rolled to the side, away from her, took deep breaths, fought them. What the hell was going on with him?
‘Harry?’
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
‘Is something wrong, Harry?’
He shook his head. ‘Just tired,’ he said into the pillow.
He felt her hand on his neck, caressing him gently, then it lay over his chest and she snuggled up to his back.
And he thought what he had always known at some point he was going to think: how could he ask someone he loved so much to share her life with someone like him?
Katrine lay with her mouth open, listening to the furious communication on the walkie-talkie. Behind her Mikael Bellman was cursing. It wasn’t a remote control the man on the step had in his hand.
‘It’s a payment terminal,’ a breathless voice rasped.
‘And what’s in his bag?’
‘Pizza.’
‘Repeat?’
‘Looks like the guy’s a bloody delivery boy. Says he works for Pizzaexpressen. Got an order for this address three-quarters of an hour ago.’
‘OK, we’ll check that out.’
Mikael Bellman leaned forward and took the walkie-talkie.
‘Bellman here. He’s sent this guy out to clear the mines. Which means he’s in the area and can see what’s happening. Have we got any dogs?’
Pause. Crackling noise.
‘U05 here. No dogs. We can have them here in fifteen.’
Bellman cursed again under his breath, then pressed the talk button. ‘Get them here. And the helicopter with floodlights and thermal imaging. Confirm.’