‘I wanted to talk to you because you were on duty at the Rikshospital.’
‘I’ve already spoken to the police about it.’
‘About what?’
‘About Anton Mittet telling me something before he was killed. About arguing with someone or being in a relationship with someone at the hospital. But I told them this wasn’t some isolated murder with a jealous husband, this was the cop killer. It all added up, didn’t it? I’ve read a lot about serial killings, as you probably noticed during the lectures.’
‘There aren’t any lectures about serial killings, Silje. I was wondering if you saw anyone coming or going while you sat there, someone or something that didn’t tally with the routines, that made you sit up, in brief anything that-’
‘-shouldn’t have been there?’ She smiled. Young, white teeth. Two of them crooked. ‘That’s from your lecture.’ Back arched more than necessary.
‘Well?’ Harry said.
‘You think the patient was killed and that Mittet was in on it, don’t you?’ She had angled her head, boosted her cleavage, and Harry wondered if she was acting, or she was really so sure of herself. Or if she was just a deeply disturbed person trying to imitate what she considered normal behaviour, but kept getting it slightly wrong. ‘Yes, you do,’ she said. ‘And so you think Mittet was killed afterwards because he knew too much. And that the murderer disguised it as one of the police murders?’
‘No,’ Harry said. ‘If he’d been killed by people like that his body would have been dumped in the sea with weights in the pockets. Please think carefully, Silje. Concentrate.’
She took a deep breath, and Harry avoided looking at her heaving chest. She tried to catch his eye, but he lowered his head and scratched his neck. Waiting.
‘No, there was no one,’ she said at length. ‘Same routine all the time. A new anaesthetic nurse came, but he stopped after one or two visits.’
‘OK,’ Harry said, putting his hand in his jacket pocket. ‘What about him on the left?’
He placed a printout on the table in front of her. He had found the picture online, Google Images. It showed a young Truls Berntsen on the left of Mikael Bellman by Stovner Police Station.
Silje studied the picture. ‘No, I never saw him at the hospital, but the one on the right-’
‘You saw him there?’ Harry interrupted.
‘No, no, I was just wondering if it was-’
‘Yes, it is, it’s the Chief of Police,’ Harry said, wanting to take the picture back, but Silje placed her hand on his.
‘Harry?’
He could feel the heat from her soft palm on his hand. Waiting.
‘I’ve seen them before. Together. What’s the other man’s name?’
‘Truls Berntsen. Where?’
‘They were together on the firing range in Økern not so long ago.’
‘Thank you,’ Harry said, pulling his hand away with the picture. ‘Then I don’t want to take up any more of your time.’
‘As far as time goes, you’ve made sure I’ve got more than enough, Harry.’
He didn’t answer.
She sniggered. Leaned forward. ‘You didn’t ask me to come here just for that, did you?’ The light from the little table lamp danced in her eyes. ‘Do you know what wild idea struck me, Harry? You had me kicked out of the college so that you could be with me without getting into any trouble with management. So why don’t you tell me what you really want?’
‘What I really want, Silje-’
‘Shame your colleague turned up last time we met, right when we-’
‘-is to ask you about the hospital-’
‘I live in Josefines gate, but you’ve probably already googled that-’
‘-The last time was very wrong of me, I messed up, I-’
‘It takes eleven minutes and twenty-three seconds to walk. Exactly. I timed myself on the way here.’
‘-can’t. I don’t want to. I-’
‘Let’s-’ She made as if to get up.
‘-I’m getting married this summer.’
She slumped back down on the chair. Staring at him. ‘You’re. . getting married?’ Her voice was barely audible in the noisy room.
‘Yes,’ Harry said.
Her pupils contracted. Like a starfish someone had poked with a stick, Harry thought.
‘To her?’ she whispered. ‘To Rakel Fauke?’
‘That’s her name, yes. But married or not, student or not, something happening between us is out of the question. So I apologise for. . the situation that arose.’
‘Getting married. .’ She repeated it in a somnambulistic voice, staring right through him.
Harry nodded. And felt something vibrate against his chest. For an instant he thought it was his heart, then realised it was the phone in his jacket pocket.
He took it out. ‘Harry.’
Listened to the voice. Then he held the phone in front of him, looking at it as if there was something wrong with it.
‘Repeat,’ he said, putting the phone to his ear.
‘I said I’ve found the gun,’ Bjørn Holm said. ‘And, yes, it’s his.’
‘How many people know?’
‘No one.’
‘See how long you can keep it quiet.’
Harry broke the connection and dialled another number. ‘I’ve got to go,’ he said to Silje and shoved a banknote under her glass. Saw her painted mouth open, but stood up and left before she could say anything.
By the time he was at the door Katrine was on the phone. He repeated what Bjørn had told him.
‘You’re joking,’ she said.
‘So why aren’t you laughing?’
‘But. . but this is just unbelievable.’
‘Probably why we don’t believe it,’ Harry said. ‘Find it. Find the mistake.’
And over the phone he could hear the ten-legged insect already scrabbling across the keyboard.
Aurora trudged to the bus stop with Emilie. It was getting dark, and it was the kind of weather where you think it’s going to rain the whole time and then it doesn’t after all. And it kind of puts you in a bad mood, she thought.
She said so to Emilie. Who said ‘Mm’, but Aurora noticed that she didn’t understand.
‘If it would only start then it’d be finished, wouldn’t it?’ Aurora said. ‘It’s actually better if it rains because then you don’t dread it.’
‘I like rain,’ Emilie said.
‘Me too. At least, a little. But. .’ She gave up.
‘What happened at training?’
‘What do you mean what happened?’
‘Arne shouted at you because you didn’t cover the wing.’
‘I was a bit late, that’s all.’
‘No. You stood stock-still staring up at the stand. Arne says defence is the key in handball. And cover is the key in defence. And that means cover is the key in handball.’
Arne says a load of rubbish, Aurora thought. Though she didn’t say it aloud. Knowing Emilie wouldn’t understand that either.
Aurora had lost her concentration because she was sure she had seen him in the stand. He wasn’t so difficult to spot, because the only other people there were the boys’ team, who were waiting impatiently for the hall to be cleared after the girls. But it had been him, she was almost certain. The man who had been in their garden. Who had asked for Dad. Who had wanted her to listen to a band whose name she had already forgotten. Who wanted a glass of water.
Then she must have stood still, the others had scored and their coach, Arne, had stopped the game and shouted at her. And as usual she was sorry. She had tried to fight it; she hated it when she got upset about such stupid things, but it was no use. Her eyes just filled with tears, which she wiped away with the sweatband around her wrist, wiped her forehead at the same time so that it would seem as if she was only drying sweat. And when Arne had finished, and she had looked up again at the stand, he was gone. Exactly like before. Except that this time it had happened so quickly she wondered if she had really seen him or it was just something she had imagined.