Harry Hole Oslo Sequence 10 - Police

man she could snuggle up to . . .
    There was no one posted in the house itself; they hadn’t wanted to risk being seen going in or out. Even for the recce they had parked a long way away, then sneaked around at some distance from the house, never more than two people at once and always out of uniform.
    The spot she had been allocated was a little hill in Berg Forest, set back from where the Delta troops were deployed. She knew their positions, but even when she scanned them with the binoculars she couldn’t see anything. She knew there were four marksmen, though, covering every side of the house, as well as eleven men ready to storm the place in under eight seconds.
    She looked at her watch again. Two hours and fifty-eight minutes to go.
    To the best of their knowledge the original murder had taken place at the end of the day, but it was hard to determine the moment death occurred when the body was cut into bits of no more than two kilos. Anyway, the timings of the copycat murders had so far matched the originals, so the fact that nothing had happened as yet was in a sense expected.
    Clouds were moving in from the west. Dry weather had been forecast, but it would get darker and visibility would worsen. On the other hand, perhaps it might become milder. She should have brought a sleeping bag with her. Katrine’s mobile vibrated. She answered it.
    ‘What’s happening?’ It was Beate.
    ‘Nothing to report here,’ Katrine said, scratching her neck. ‘Except that global warming is a fact. There are midges here. In March.’
    ‘Don’t you mean mosquitoes?’
    ‘No, midges. They . . . well, we have a lot of them in Bergen. Any interesting phone calls?’
    ‘No. Just Cheez Doodles, Pepsi Max and Gabriel Byrne. Tell me, is he hot or just a tad too old?’
    ‘Hot. Are you watching In Treatment ?’
    ‘First season. Disc three.’
    ‘Didn’t know you’d succumbed to calories and DVDs. Trackie bottoms?’
    ‘With very loose elastic. Have to go for some hedonism when the little one’s not here.’
    ‘Shall we swap?’
    ‘Nope. I’d better call off in case the prince rings. Keep me posted.’
    Katrine put the phone next to the walkie-talkie. Lifted the binoculars and studied the road in front of the house. In principle he could come from any direction. It was unlikely he would cross the fences on either side of the tracks where the metro had just clattered past, of course, but if he came from Damplassen he could come through the forest on any one of the many paths. He could walk through the neighbouring gardens alongside Bergslia, especially now that it was clouding over and getting darker. But if he felt confident there was no reason why he wouldn’t come on the road. Someone on an old bike was pedalling uphill, staggering from side to side, perhaps he wasn’t quite sober.
    Wonder what Harry’s doing tonight.
    No one ever quite knew what Harry was doing, even when you were sitting opposite him. Secret Harry. Not like anyone else. Not like Bjørn Holm, who wore his heart on his sleeve. Who had told her yesterday he would play several Merle Haggard records while waiting by the phone. Eat home-made elk burgers from Skreia. And when she had screwed up her nose he had said, heck, when this was over he would invite her to eat his mother’s elk burgers with fries and initiate her into the secrets of the Bakersfield sound. Which was probably all the music he had. No wonder the guy was single. He’d looked as if he regretted making the offer when she politely refused.
    Truls Berntsen drove through Kvadraturen. The way he did almost every night now. Slowly cruising up and down, here, there and everywhere. Dronningens gate, Kirkegata, Skippergata. Nedre Slottsgate, Tollbugata. This had been his town. And it would become his town again.
    They were prattling away on the radio. Codes which were meant for him, Truls Berntsen, it was him they wanted to keep on the outside. And the idiots probably thought they were succeeding and that he didn’t understand. But they didn’t fool him. Truls Berntsen straightened the mirror, glanced at the service pistol lying on his jacket on the front seat. It was, as usual, the other way round. It was him who would fool them.
    The women on the street ignored him; they recognised the car, knew he wasn’t going to buy their services. A boy wearing make-up and trousers that were far too tight swung round the pole of a No Parking sign like a pole dancer, jutting out a hip and pouting