‘Received. Request helicopter. But I don’t think it has thermal imaging.’
Bellman closed his eyes and whispered ‘idiot’ before answering: ‘It does, it’s fitted, so if he’s in the forest we’ll find him. Use the whole team to spread a net north and west of the forest. If he makes a run for it, it’ll be that way. What’s your mobile number, U05?’
Bellman let go of the talk button and signalled to Katrine, who was holding the phone ready. Keyed in the numbers as U05 said them. Passed the phone to Bellman.
‘U05? Falkeid? Listen, we’re losing this one, and we haven’t got enough officers to do an effective search of the forest, so let’s try a long shot. As he clearly suspected we were here, he may also have access to our frequencies. It’s true we don’t have thermal imaging, but if he now believes we do and we’re spreading a net to the north and west, then. .’ Bellman listened. ‘Exactly. Position your men on the east side. But keep a couple back in case he still comes to the house to check it out.’
Bellman broke the connection and handed the phone over.
‘What do you think?’ Katrine asked. The screen went off and it was as though the light from the white, pigmentless stripes on his face was pulsating in the darkness.
‘I think,’ Bellman said, ‘we’ve been outmanoeuvred.’
26
They left Oslo at seven o’clock.
The incoming rush-hour traffic was at a standstill, and mute. As it was in their car, where both were adhering to the long-established pact of no unnecessary talking before nine.
On the way through the tollbooths a light drizzle fell, which the windscreen wipers seemed to absorb rather than remove.
Harry switched on the radio, listened to yet another news broadcast, but it wasn’t there, either. The item that should have been on every website and station this morning. The arrest in Berg, the news that a suspect had been detained in connection with the police murders. After the sport, which was about Norway’s match against Albania, Pavarotti and some pop star sang a duet and Harry hurriedly switched off the radio.
Through the hills up to Karihaugen, Rakel rested her hand on Harry’s, which was on the gearstick, as usual. Harry waited for her to say something.
Soon they would be apart for a whole working week, and Rakel still hadn’t said a word about his proposal of the night before. Was she having doubts? She didn’t usually say things she didn’t mean. At the turn-off to Lørenskog it struck him that perhaps she was thinking he had doubts. That if they acted as if it hadn’t happened, burying it in an ocean of silence, then it hadn’t happened. At worst it would be remembered as an absurd dream. Shit, perhaps he had dreamt it. In his opium-smoking days he would speak to people about things he was convinced had happened and would receive quizzical looks in return.
At the turn-off to Lillestrøm he broke the pact. ‘What about June? The twenty-first is a Saturday.’
He glanced at her, but she was looking at the rolling landscape of fields. Silence. Oh shit, she was having regrets. She-
‘June’s fine,’ she said. ‘But I’m pretty sure the twenty-first is a Friday.’ He could hear the smile in her voice.
‘Big do or. .?’
‘Or just us and witnesses?’
‘You reckon?’
‘You can decide, but maximum ten people in total. We haven’t got the crockery for any more. And with five each you can invite everyone in your contacts list anyway.’
He laughed. This could be good.
‘And if you’re thinking of Oleg as best man, he’s busy,’ she said.
‘I see.’
Harry parked in front of the departures terminal and kissed Rakel with the boot still open.
On his way back, he rang Øystein Eikeland. Harry’s taxi-driving drinking pal and sole childhood friend sounded plastered. On the other hand, Harry didn’t know how he sounded when he wasn’t.
‘Best man? Shit, Harry, I’m touched. You asking me. Shit, got a smile on the clock now.’
‘Twenty-first of June. Anything on your calendar then?’
Øystein chuckled at the joke. The chuckling morphed into coughing. Which morphed into the gurgle of a bottle. ‘I’m touched, Harry. But the answer’s no. What you need is someone who can stand up straight in the church and speak with moderately clear diction at the meal. And what I need is an attractive woman at the table, free booze and no responsibility. I promise to wear my finest suit.’
‘Liar, you’ve never worn a suit, Øystein.’
‘That’s why they stay in such good shape. Not used much. Just like your pals, Harry. You could ring once in a while, you know.’
‘I suppose I could.’
They rang off and Harry drove bumper to bumper to the city centre, running through the short list of remaining candidates for best man. To be precise, one. He dialled Beate Lønn’s number. Got voicemail after five seconds and left a message.
The queue moved forward at snail’s pace.
He dialled Bjørn Holm’s number.
‘Hiya, Harry.’
‘Is Beate at work?’
‘Off today.’
‘Beate? She’s never off. Got a cold?’
‘Dunno. She texted Katrine last night. Ill. Did you hear about Berg?’
‘Oh, I’d forgotten all about that,’ Harry lied. ‘Well?’
‘He didn’t strike.’
‘Shame. You keep at it. I’ll try her at home.’
Harry hung up and called her landline.
After letting the phone ring for two minutes without success, he glanced at his watch. Plenty of time before his lecture, and Oppsal was on the way. He turned off at Helsfyr.
Beate had inherited her house from her mother, and it reminded Harry of the house in Oppsal where he had grown up: a typical 1950s timber house, the kind of sober box for a burgeoning middle class who thought apple orchards were no longer an upper-class preserve.
Apart from the rumble of a dustcart working its way up the road from bin to bin, all was quiet. Everyone was at work, school, kindergarten. Harry parked the car, went through the gate, passed a child’s bike locked to the fence, a dustbin bulging with black bags, a swing, leapt up the steps to a pair of Nike trainers he recognised. Rang the bell under the ceramic sign bearing Beate’s name and her son’s.
Waited.
Rang again.
On the first floor there was an open window to what he assumed had to be one of the bedrooms. He called her name. Perhaps she couldn’t hear because of the lorry’s steel piston loudly crushing and compacting rubbish as it came ever closer.
He tried the door. Open. He entered. Called up to the first floor. No answer. And could no longer ignore the unease he knew had been there the whole time.
From when the news didn’t come.
From when she didn’t answer her mobile phone.
He strode upstairs, went from room to room.
Empty. Undisturbed.
He ran back down the stairs and headed for the sitting room. Stood in the doorway and let his gaze wander. He knew exactly why he didn’t go right in, but didn’t want to think the thought aloud.
Didn’t want to tell himself he was looking at a possible crime scene.
He had been here before, but it struck him that the room seemed barer now. Perhaps it was the morning light, perhaps it was just that Beate wasn’t here. His gaze stopped at the table. A mobile phone.
He heard himself breathe out and realised how much relief he felt. She had nipped down to the shop, left the phone, not even bothering to lock up. To the chemist for some aspirin or something. Yes, that’s what must have happened. Harry thought of the Nike trainers on the doorstep. So? A woman would have more than one pair of shoes. If he waited for a couple of minutes she would be back.
Harry shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The sofa looked tempting, but still he didn’t go in. His gaze had fallen on the floor. There was a darker patch around the coffee table by the TV.