'Don't you recognise me?'
One heartbeat. Two. Then three and four. She had recognised the voice.
'What are you doing here?' she asked, hoping her voice would not reveal how frightened she had been.
'I found out you were working on the bus this evening and that it was parked here at midnight. There has been a development in the case, as they say. I've been doing a bit of thinking.' He stepped forward and the light fell on his face. It was harder, older than she remembered. Strange how much you can forget in twenty-four hours. 'And I have a couple of questions.'
'Which couldn't wait?' she asked with a smile, and saw that her smile had made the policeman's face soften.
'Are you waiting for someone?' Harry asked.
'Yes, Rikard is going to drive me home.'
She looked at the bag the policeman was carrying over his shoulder. It had JETTE written on one side, but looked too old and worn to be the fashionable retro model.
'You should get yourself a couple of new insoles for the trainers you've got in there,' she said, pointing.
He eyed her in astonishment.
'You don't need to be Jean-Baptiste Grenouille to recognise the smell,' she said.
'Patrick Suskind,' he said. 'Perfume.'
'A policeman who reads,' she said.
'A Salvation Army soldier who reads about murder,' he said. 'Which leads us back to the reason for my being here, I'm afraid.'
A Saab 900 drove up and stopped. The window was lowered without a sound.
'Shall we be off, Martine?'
'Just a moment, Rikard.' She turned to Harry. 'Where are you going?'
'Bislett. But I prefer-'
'Rikard, is it alright if Harry joins us as far as Bislett? You live there, too, don't you?'
Rikard stared out into the dark before replying with a drawled 'Of course'.
'Come on,' Martine said, passing a hand to Harry.
Harry sent her a look of surprise.
'Slippery shoes,' she whispered, grabbing his hand. She could feel his hand was warm and dry, and it automatically squeezed hers as if he was afraid she would fall that instant.
Rikard drove with care, his eyes jumping from mirror to mirror as though expecting an ambush from behind.
'Well?' said Martine from the front seat.
Harry cleared his throat. 'Someone tried to shoot Jon Karlsen today.'
'What?' cried Martine.
Harry met Rikard's eyes in the mirror.
'Had you already heard?' Harry asked.
'No,' Rikard said.
'Who…?' Martine started.
'We don't know,' Harry said.
'But… both Robert and Jon. Has this got something to do with the Karlsen family?'
'I think they were only after one of them,' Harry said.
'What do you mean?'
'The gunman postponed his trip home. He must have discovered he had shot the wrong man. Robert wasn't the intended target.'
'Robert hadn't-'
'That's why I had to talk to you. I think you can tell me whether my theory is right or not.'
'Which theory?'
'That Robert died because he was unlucky enough to take Jon's shift in Egertorget.'
Martine swivelled round and looked in alarm at Harry.
'You have the duty roster,' Harry said. 'When I first went to see you, I noticed the roster hanging from the board in reception. Where everyone could see who was on duty that night in Egertorget. It was Jon Karlsen.'
'How…?'
'I popped in after going to the hospital and checked. Jon's name was there. But Robert and Jon swapped shifts after the list was typed up, didn't they.'
Rikard turned up Stensberggata towards Bislett.
Martine chewed her lower lip. 'Shifts are changed all the time, and if people arrange switches I don't always find out.'
Rikard drove down Sofies gate. Martine's eyes widened.
'Ah, now I remember! Robert rang to tell me they had swapped, so I didn't need to do anything. That must be why I didn't think of it. But
… but that means that…'
'Jon and Robert are very similar,' Harry said. 'And in uniform.. .'
'And it was dark and snowing…' Martine said in a hushed voice, as though to herself.
'What I wanted to know is if anyone had rung you to ask about the roster. And about that evening in particular.'
'Not as far as I can remember,' Martine said.
'Can you have a think? I'll call you tomorrow.'
'OK,' said Martine.
Harry held her eyes and in the light from the street lamp again he noticed the irregularities in her pupils.
Rikard pulled into the kerb.
'How did you know?' Harry asked.
'Know what?' Martine asked with alacrity.
'I was asking the driver,' Harry said. 'How did you know I live here?'
'You said,' Rikard answered. 'I know my way around. As Martine said, I live in Bislett too.'
Harry stood on the pavement watching the car drive away.
It was obvious the boy was besotted. He had driven here first so that he could be alone with Martine for a few minutes. To talk to her. To have the requisite peace and quiet when you have something to say, to make it clear who you are, to unburden your soul, to find out about yourself and all the stuff that is part of being young, and with which, he was happy to say, he had finished. All for a kind word, a hug and the hope of a kiss before she went. To beg for love the way that infatuated idiots do. Of all ages.
Harry ambled towards the front door as his hand instinctively searched for the keys in his trouser pocket, and his mind searched for something that was repelled every time he came close. And his eyes sought something he struggled to hear. It was a tiny sound, but at this late hour Sofies gate was quiet. Harry looked down at the piles of snow left by the ploughs today. It sounded like a cracking noise. Melting. Impossible; it was eighteen degrees below.
Harry put the key in the lock.
And he could hear it was not a melting sound. It was ticking.
He turned slowly and scrutinised the snowdrifts. A glint. Glass.
Harry walked back, bent down and picked up the watch. The glass on Moller's present was as shiny as the surface of water. Not a scratch. And the time was accurate to the second. Two minutes ahead of his watch. What was it Moller had said? So that he would be in time for what he thought he would miss.
14
The Night of Wednesday, 17 December. The Darkness.
The electric radiator in the recreation room of the Hostel banged as though someone were throwing pebbles at it. The hot air quivered above the brown burn marks on the burlap wallpaper which sweated nicotine, glue and the greasy smell of those who had lived here and moved on. The sofa material scratched him through his trousers.
Despite the dry, crackling heat from the radiator, he was trembling as he watched the news on the TV set attached to the wall bracket. He recognised the pictures of the square, but understood nothing of what they were saying. In the other corner an old man was sitting in an armchair smoking thin roll-ups. When there was so little left that they were burning his black fingertips he quickly produced two matchsticks from a box, trapped the cigarette end between them and inhaled until he burned his lips. A decorated lopped-off top end of a spruce tree stood on a table in the corner, attempting to glitter.
He thought about the Christmas dinner in Dalj.
It was two years after the end of the war and the Serbs had withdrawn from what once had been Vukovar. The Croatian authorities had packed them into Hotel International in Zagreb. He had asked lots of people if they knew where Giorgi's family had ended up, and one day he had met another refugee who knew that Giorgi's mother had died during the siege and that he and his father had moved to Dalj, a small border town not far from Vukovar. On 26 December he caught the train to Osijek and then from there to Dalj. He talked to the conductor who confirmed that the train would go on to Borovo, the terminal, and would be back in Dalj by half past six. It was two o'clock when he alighted in Dalj. He asked for directions to the address, which was a low block of flats as grey as the town. He went into the hallway, found the door and before ringing said a silent prayer that they would be at home. His heart was pounding fast as he heard light footsteps inside.