Harry Hole Oslo Sequence 10 - Police

pigmentless stripes on his face was pulsating in the darkness.
    ‘I think,’ Bellman said, ‘we’ve been outmanoeuvred.’

26
    THEY LEFT OSLO at seven o’clock.
    The incoming rush-hour traffic was at a standstill, and mute. As it was in their car, where both were adhering to the long-established pact of no unnecessary talking before nine.
    On the way through the tollbooths a light drizzle fell, which the windscreen wipers seemed to absorb rather than remove.
    Harry switched on the radio, listened to yet another news broadcast, but it wasn’t there, either. The item that should have been on every website and station this morning. The arrest in Berg, the news that a suspect had been detained in connection with the police murders. After the sport, which was about Norway’s match against Albania, Pavarotti and some pop star sang a duet and Harry hurriedly switched off the radio.
    Through the hills up to Karihaugen, Rakel rested her hand on Harry’s, which was on the gearstick, as usual. Harry waited for her to say something.
    Soon they would be apart for a whole working week, and Rakel still hadn’t said a word about his proposal of the night before. Was she having doubts? She didn’t usually say things she didn’t mean. At the turn-off to Lørenskog it struck him that perhaps she was thinking he had doubts. That if they acted as if it hadn’t happened, burying it in an ocean of silence, then it hadn’t happened. At worst it would be remembered as an absurd dream. Shit, perhaps he had dreamt it. In his opium-smoking days he would speak to people about things he was convinced had happened and would receive quizzical looks in return.
    At the turn-off to Lillestrøm he broke the pact. ‘What about June? The twenty-first is a Saturday.’
    He glanced at her, but she was looking at the rolling landscape of fields. Silence. Oh shit, she was having regrets. She—
    ‘June’s fine,’ she said. ‘But I’m pretty sure the twenty-first is a Friday.’ He could hear the smile in her voice.
    ‘Big do or . . .?’
    ‘Or just us and witnesses?’
    ‘You reckon?’
    ‘You can decide, but maximum ten people in total. We haven’t got the crockery for any more. And with five each you can invite everyone in your contacts list anyway.’
    He laughed. This could be good.
    ‘And if you’re thinking of Oleg as best man, he’s busy,’ she said.
    ‘I see.’
    Harry parked in front of the departures terminal and kissed Rakel with the boot still open.
    On his way back, he rang Øystein Eikeland. Harry’s taxi-driving drinking pal and sole childhood friend sounded plastered. On the other hand, Harry didn’t know how he sounded when he wasn’t.
    ‘Best man? Shit, Harry, I’m touched. You asking me . Shit, got a smile on the clock now.’
    ‘Twenty-first of June. Anything on your calendar then?’
    Øystein chuckled at the joke. The chuckling morphed into coughing. Which morphed into the gurgle of a bottle. ‘I’m touched, Harry. But the answer’s no. What you need is someone who can stand up straight in the church and speak with moderately clear diction at the meal. And what I need is an attractive woman at the table, free booze and no responsibility. I promise to wear my finest suit.’
    ‘Liar, you’ve never worn a suit, Øystein.’
    ‘That’s why they stay in such good shape. Not used much. Just like your pals, Harry. You could ring once in a while, you know.’
    ‘I suppose I could.’
    They rang off and Harry drove bumper to bumper to the city centre, running through the short list of remaining candidates for best man. To be precise, one. He dialled Beate Lønn’s number. Got voicemail after five seconds and left a message.
    The queue moved forward at snail’s pace.
    He dialled Bjørn Holm’s number.
    ‘Hiya, Harry.’
    ‘Is Beate at work?’
    ‘Off today.’
    ‘Beate? She’s never off. Got a cold?’
    ‘Dunno. She texted Katrine last night. Ill. Did you hear about Berg?’
    ‘Oh, I’d forgotten all about that,’ Harry lied. ‘Well?’
    ‘He didn’t strike.’
    ‘Shame. You keep at it. I’ll try her at home.’
    Harry hung up and called her landline.
    After letting the phone ring for two minutes without success, he glanced at his watch. Plenty of time before his lecture, and Oppsal was on the way. He turned off at Helsfyr.
    Beate had inherited her house from her mother, and it reminded Harry of the house in Oppsal where he had grown up: a typical 1950s timber house, the kind of sober