Truls nodded dumbly, then remembered to say ‘Yes’.
‘And, Truls?’
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t mention it to Mikael, please.’
Truls coughed. ‘No?’
‘No. See you tomorrow at eight o’clock, then.’
He stared at the phone after she’d hung up. Had that really happened or was it just an echo of the daydreams he had cooked up when he was sixteen, seventeen? Truls felt a happiness so intense that his chest felt like it was going to burst. And then panic hit. It was going to be a disaster. One way or another, it was obviously going to be a disaster.
It was all a disaster.
Obviously, it couldn’t have lasted, it was only a matter of time before he was chucked out of paradise.
‘Beer,’ he said, looking up at the young freckled girl who was standing at his table.
She wasn’t wearing any make-up, her hair was pulled up in a simple ponytail, and she’d rolled up the sleeves of her white blouse like she was ready for a fight. She wrote on her pad, as if she were expecting a longer order, which made Harry think she was new, seeing as they were at Schrøder’s, where nine out of ten orders stopped there. She’d hate the job for the first few weeks. The coarse jokes from the male customers, the ill-concealed jealousy from the most alcoholic of the women. Poor tips, no music to sway her hips to as she moved round the bar, no nice guys to be seen by, just argumentative old drunks to chuck out at closing time. She’d wonder if it was worth the boost it gave her student loan, which meant she could afford to live in a shared student house in such a relatively central location. But Harry knew that if she got through the first month without giving up and handing in her notice, things would gradually change. She’d start to laugh at the senseless humour in the comments, learn to give as good as she got in the same tacky way. When the women realised she wasn’t threatening their territory they’d start to confide in her. And she’d get tips. Not much, but they’d be genuine tips, as well as gentle encouragement and the occasional declaration of love. And they’d give her a name. Something that might be uncomfortably close to the bone, but it would still be meant affectionately, something that ennobled you among this ignoble company. Short-Kari, Lenin, Backscreen, She-Bear. In her case it would probably be something to do with her freckles and red hair. And as people moved in and out of the collective, and presumptive boyfriends came and went, little by little it would become her family. A kind, generous, irritating, lost family.
The girl looked up from her pad. ‘Is that all?’
‘Yes,’ Harry smiled.
She hurried to the bar as if someone was timing her. And who knows, maybe Rita was standing behind the bar doing just that.
Anders Wyller had texted to say that he was waiting for Harry at Tattoos & Piercings on Storgata. Harry started to write a reply, saying that Anders would have to deal with it on his own, when he suddenly heard someone sit down in front of him.
‘Hello, Rita,’ he said without looking up.
‘Hello, Harry. Bad day?’
‘Yes.’ He tapped in the old-fashioned smiley: colon, right-hand bracket.
‘And now you’re here to make it even worse?’
Harry didn’t answer.
‘Know what I think, Harry?’
‘What do you think, Rita?’ His finger tried to find the Send button.
‘I don’t think this is a crack in the ice.’
‘I’ve just ordered a beer from Freckly-Fia.’
‘Who we’re still calling Marte. And I’ve cancelled that beer. The devil on your right shoulder might want a drink, Harry, but the angel on your left steered you to a place where they don’t serve spirits, but where there is a Rita who you know will serve you coffee instead of beer, have a chat with you, then send you home to Rakel.’
‘She’s not at home, Rita.’
‘Aha, so that’s why. Harry Hole has managed to fuck up again. You men always seem to find a way.’
‘Rakel’s sick. And I need a beer before I call Oleg.’ Harry looked down at his phone. Looked again for the Send button as he felt Rita’s stubby warm hand settle on his.
‘Things usually turn out OK in the end, Harry.’
He stared at her. ‘Of course they don’t. Unless you actually know someone who made it out alive?’
She laughed. ‘In the end is somewhere between what’s dragging you down today, and the day when nothing can drag us down any more, Harry.’
Harry looked at his phone again. Then he tapped in Oleg’s name instead and pressed the Call button.
Rita stood up and left him alone.
Oleg answered after the first ring. ‘It’s good that you called! We’re in a seminar, discussing paragraph 20 of the Police Act. You have to interpret it to mean that if the situation demands it, every police officer is subordinate to one of a higher rank and must obey orders from that higher rank even if they don’t work in the same department, or even at the police station, don’t you? Paragraph 20 says that the ranking officer decides if the situation is precarious and requires that. Come on, tell me I’m right! I’ve just bet these two idiots here a drink …’ Harry could hear laughter in the background.
Harry closed his eyes. Of course there was something to hope for, something to look forward to: the time that comes after what’s dragging you down today. The day when nothing can drag you down any more.
‘Bad news, Oleg. Your mum’s in Ullevål.’
‘I’ll have the fish,’ Mona said to the waiter. ‘Skip the potatoes, sauce and vegetables.’
‘Then there’s only the fish left,’ the waiter said.
‘Precisely,’ Mona said, handing him the menu. She looked around the lunchtime customers at the new but already popular restaurant where they had got hold of the last table for two.
‘Just fish?’ Nora said, after ordering the Caesar salad with no dressing, but Mona already knew her friend would capitulate and order dessert to go with coffee.
‘Deffing,’ Mona said.
‘Deffing?’
‘Getting rid of subcutaneous fat so that the muscles stand out better. It’s the Norwegian Championships in three weeks.’
‘Bodybuilding? You’re really going to take part?’
Mona laughed. ‘With these hips, you mean? I’m hoping my legs and upper body will get me enough points. And my winning personality, obviously.’
‘You seem nervous.’
‘Of course.’
‘That’s three weeks away, and you never get nervous. What is it? Something to do with the vampirist murders? Thanks for the advice, by the way – Smith was great. And Bratt came up with the goods too, in her own way. Have you seen Isabelle Skøyen, that former Councillor for Social Affairs? She called us to ask if The Sunday Magazine would be interested in having Mikael Bellman on as a guest.’
‘So he could answer criticism of the fact that Valentin Gjertsen was never caught? Yes, she’s called us about that too. Quite an intense woman, to put it mildly!’
‘Are you running it? Christ, anything even vaguely related to the vampirist gets published.’
‘I wouldn’t have taken it. But my colleagues aren’t quite so fussy.’ Mona tapped on her iPad and passed it to Nora, who read out loud from VG’s online edition:
‘“Former Councillor for Social Affairs, Isabelle Skøyen, rejects criticism of the Oslo Police and says that the Chief of Police is firmly in charge: ‘Mikael Bellman and his police officers have already identified the vampirist murderer, and are now deploying all their resources to find him. Among other things, the Chief of Police has brought in renowned murder detective Harry Hole, who was more than willing to help his former senior officer, and is looking forward to slapping a pair of handcuffs on this wretched pervert.’”’ Nora passed the iPad back. ‘That’s pretty tawdry. So what do you think of Hole? Would you kick him out of bed?’