Harry Hole Oslo Sequence 10 - Police

could feel the weight of his body on his knee joints. Goodness, how tired he was. It had been a long day, but he had hoped she would still be up. Then they could have had a chat. And he would have calmed down. He had done as Harry had said and contacted a colleague. Talked about the knife attack. About how he had been sure he would die. He had done all that, now it was time to sleep. To be allowed to sleep.
    He unlocked the door. Saw Aurora’s jacket hanging on the peg. Another new one. Heavens, how that child was growing. He kicked off his shoes. Straightened up and listened to the silence in the house. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was, but it seemed to him the house was quieter than usual. There was a sound missing, one which he obviously wasn’t aware of when it was there.
    He went upstairs. Every step was a little slower, like an overloaded scooter going uphill. He would have to start getting fit, take off ten kilos, or thereabouts. It was good for your sleep, good for your well-being, good for long days at work, for your life expectancy, for your sex life, for your self-esteem, in a word, good. But he was damned if he was going to do it.
    He trudged past Aurora’s bedroom.
    Stopped, hesitated. Went back. Opened the door.
    Just wanted to see her asleep, as he always used to. Soon it wouldn’t be so natural to do that any more, he could already feel she was more aware of certain things, private things. It wasn’t that she minded being naked when he was around, but she didn’t strut about quite so nonchalantly. And when he noticed it had stopped being natural for her, it also stopped being natural for him. But he still wanted to do this on the QT, watch his daughter sleeping peacefully, safe, protected from all the things he had experienced out there today.
    But he didn’t. He would see her tomorrow at breakfast anyway.
    He sighed, closed the door and went into the bathroom. Undressed and took his clothes into their bedroom, hung them over a chair and was about to crawl into bed when he was struck by it again. The silence. What was it that was missing? The hum of a fridge? The whisper of a ventilation hatch, which they usually left open?
    He couldn’t be bothered to give it any further thought and snuggled down under the duvet. Saw Ingrid’s hair sticking up. He wanted to touch her, just stroke her hair, down her back, feel that she was there . But she was such a light sleeper and hated being woken up, he knew that. He was about to close his eyes, then changed his mind.
    ‘Ingrid?’
    No answer.
    ‘Ingrid?’
    Silence.
    It could wait. He closed his eyes again.
    ‘Yes?’ He noticed that she had turned over.
    ‘Nothing,’ he mumbled. ‘Just . . . this case . . .’
    ‘Say you don’t want it.’
    ‘Someone has to do it.’ It sounded like the cliché it was.
    ‘They won’t find anyone better than you.’
    Ståle opened his eyes. Looked at her, caressed her hot, round cheek. Now and then – no, more than now and then – nothing in existence was better than her.
    Ståle Aune closed his eyes. And now it came. Sleep. The loss of consciousness. The real nightmares.

36
    THE MORNING SUN glinted off the rooftops still wet after the short, intense burst of rain.
    Mikael Bellman pressed the doorbell and looked around.
    Well-tended garden. That was probably how you made time pass when you were old.
    The door opened.
    ‘Mikael! How nice.’
    He looked older. The same sharp, blue eyes, but, well, older.
    ‘Come in.’
    Mikael wiped his wet shoes on the doormat and stepped inside. There was a smell in the house he could remember from his childhood, but which he was unable to isolate and identify.
    They sat down in the living room.
    ‘You’re alone,’ Mikael said.
    ‘Wife’s with the eldest. They needed a hand from Grandma and she’s a soft touch.’ He beamed. ‘Actually, I thought I should get in contact with you. Now, the council hasn’t reached a final decision, but we both know what they want, so it’s probably wise to talk about how we do this. The division of labour and so on, I mean.’
    ‘Yes,’ Mikael said. ‘Perhaps you could brew up some coffee?’
    ‘Sorry?’ The bushy eyebrows were raised high up on the old man’s forehead.
    ‘If we’re going to be sitting here for a while, a cup would be nice?’
    The man studied Mikael. ‘Yes, yes, of course. Come on, we can sit in the kitchen.’
    Mikael followed him. Passed a forest of family photographs on the table and