He nodded. Levered himself out of the chair.
‘We’ll see ourselves out,’ he said.
Harry saw Ingrid’s pale, silent face in the doorway as they passed the kitchen.
He put his shoes on in the hall and was about to leave when he heard a thin voice.
‘Harry?’
He turned round and couldn’t see where the voice had come from at first. Then, out of the darkness at the top of the stairs, she stepped into the light. She was wearing striped pyjamas that were far too big for her, possibly her father’s, Harry thought.
‘I’m sorry,’ Harry said. ‘I had to.’
‘I know,’ Aurora said. ‘It says on the Net that the man who died was called Mehmet. And I heard you.’
At that moment Ståle came running out of the living room, waving his arms and with tears streaming from his eyes. ‘Aurora! You’re not to—’ His voice broke.
‘Dad,’ Aurora said, sitting down calmly on the steps above them, ‘I want to help.’
26
TUESDAY NIGHT
MONA DAA WAS standing by the Monolith, watching Truls Berntsen hurry through the darkness. When they’d arranged to meet in Frognerparken she had suggested a few more discreet, less popular sculptures, seeing as the Monolith was visited by sightseers even at night. But when Truls Berntsen had said ‘What?’ three times she had realised that the Monolith was the only one he was familiar with.
She pulled him round to the west side of the sculpture, away from the two couples who were looking at the view of the church spires to the east. She gave him the envelope containing the money, which he slipped inside his long Armani coat, which for some reason didn’t look like an Armani coat on him.
‘Anything new?’ she asked.
‘There won’t be any more tip-offs,’ Truls said, glancing around.
‘No?’
He looked at her, as if to check if she was joking. ‘The man was murdered, for fuck’s sake.’
‘So you’d better offer something a bit less … fatal next time.’
Truls Berntsen snorted. ‘Christ, you’re even worse than me, the whole lot of you.’
‘Really? You gave us Mehmet’s name, but we still chose not to reveal it or print his picture.’
Truls shook his head. ‘Can you hear yourself, Daa? We just led Valentin straight to a guy who has only done two things wrong. Running a bar that Valentin’s victim happened to visit, and agreeing to help the police.’
‘At least you’re saying “we”. Does that mean you’ve got a guilty conscience?’
‘Do you think I’m some kind of psychopath, or what? Of course I think this is bad.’
‘I’m not going to answer that question. But yes, I agree that it’s pretty bad. Does this mean that you’re not going to be my source any more?’
‘If I say no, does that mean you won’t protect my identity in future?’
‘No,’ Mona said.
‘Good. So you do have a conscience.’
‘Well,’ Mona said, ‘it’s not so much that we care about the source than that we care what our colleagues would say if we blew a source. What are your colleagues saying, by the way?’
‘Nothing. They’ve figured out that I’m the leak, so they’ve isolated me. I’m not allowed to take part in meetings or know anything about the investigation.’
‘No? I can feel myself losing interest in you, Truls.’
Truls snorted. ‘You’re cynical, but at least you’re honest, Mona Daa.’
‘Thanks. I assume.’
‘OK, I might have one last tip-off. But this is about something else entirely.’
‘Fire away.’
‘Police Chief Mikael Bellman is fucking a high-profile woman.’
‘There’s no money in tip-offs like that, Berntsen.’
‘OK, it’s free, just print it anyway.’
‘The editor doesn’t like infidelity stories, but if you’ve got evidence and are willing to stand by the story, I might be able to convince them. But in that case you’d be quoted, with your full name.’
‘With my name? That’s suicide, you can see that, surely? I can tell you where they meet, you could send one of those hidden photographers.’
Mona Daa laughed. ‘Sorry, it doesn’t work like that.’
‘Doesn’t it?’
‘The press abroad do this sort of thing, but not us here in little Norway.’
‘Why not?’
‘The official explanation is that we don’t sink to that level.’
‘But?’
Mona shrugged her shoulders, shivering. ‘Because there aren’t really any limits to how low we’re actually prepared to go, my personal theory is that it’s another example of everyone’s-got-something-to-hide syndrome.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Married editors are no less unfaithful than anyone else. If you reveal someone’s infidelity, everyone in a small public arena like Norway’s risks being caught in the blast. We can write about affairs in the great big “abroad”, maybe refer to affairs abroad here at home if one public figure has said something careless about another. But investigative journalism into infidelity among people in positions of power?’ Mona Daa shook her head.
Truls blew out scornfully through his nose. ‘So there’s no way to make it public?’
‘Is this something you think should be revealed because Bellman shouldn’t be Police Chief?’
‘What? No, maybe not that.’
Mona nodded and looked up at the Monolith, and the remorseless struggle to reach the top that it depicted. ‘You must really hate him.’
Truls didn’t answer. He just looked rather surprised, as if that was something he hadn’t thought about. And Mona wondered what was going on inside that pockmarked, not particularly attractive face, with its heavy jaw and beady eyes. She almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
‘I’m going now, Berntsen. We’ll be in touch.’
‘Will we?’
‘Maybe not.’
When Mona had walked some way into the park, she turned round and saw Truls Berntsen in the light of one of the lamps up by the Monolith. He had stuck his hands in his pockets, and was just standing there with his back hunched, looking for something. He seemed so incredibly alone standing there like that, as unmoving as the blocks of stone around him.
Harry stared at the ceiling. The ghosts hadn’t come. Maybe they wouldn’t be coming tonight. You never knew. But they had a new member. What would Mehmet look like when he came? Harry shut the thought out and listened to the silence. Holmenkollen was certainly quiet, there was no denying that. Too quiet. He preferred to hear the city outside. Like night-time in the jungle, full of noises that could warn you in the darkness, tell you when something was coming and when it wasn’t. Silence contained too little information. But that wasn’t it. It was the fact that there was no one beside him in bed.
If he counted, then the number of nights he had shared a bed with anyone was in a clear minority. So why did he feel so alone, he, a man who had always sought out solitude and had never needed anyone else?
He rolled onto his side and tried shutting his eyes.
He didn’t need anyone now either. He didn’t need anyone. He didn’t need anyone.
He just needed her.
A creaking sound. From the timber walls. Or a floorboard. Perhaps the storm was early. Or the ghosts late.
He turned onto the other side. Shut his eyes again.
The creaking was just outside the bedroom door.
He got up, walked over and opened it.
It was Mehmet. ‘I saw him, Harry.’ Where his eyes had been there were two black sockets that sparked and smoked.
Harry woke with a start.
His phone was purring like a cat on the bedside table next to him.
‘Yes?’
‘This is Dr Steffens.’
Harry felt a sudden pain in his chest.
‘It’s about Rakel.’