Harry Hole Oslo Sequence 10 - Police

person in question.
    ‘Hi,’ he answered accordingly and got off the sofa. Walked towards the terrace. Away from the sound of the TV. Away from Ulla. It was an automatic movement, perfected over the years. Half out of consideration for her. Half out of consideration for his secrets.
    The voice at the other end chuckled. ‘You don’t know me, Mikael. Relax.’
    ‘Thank you. I am relaxed,’ Mikael said. ‘I’m at home. And for that reason it would be nice if you could get to the point.’
    ‘I’m a nurse at the Rikshospital.’
    That was a thought that hadn’t struck Mikael before, at least not that he could remember. However, it was as if he knew what was coming off by heart. He opened the door to the terrace and stepped onto the cold flagstones without taking his phone from his ear.
    ‘I was Rudolf Asayev’s nurse. You remember him, Mikael. Yes, of course you do. You and he did business together. He opened his heart to me when he came out of the coma. About what you two were doing.’
    It had clouded over, the temperature had plummeted and the flagstones were so cold that they were hurting his feet through his socks. Nevertheless, Mikael Bellman’s sweat glands were working flat out.
    ‘Talking about business,’ the voice said. ‘Perhaps we have something to discuss as well.’
    ‘What do you want?’
    ‘I want some of your money to stay shtum, let me put it like that.’
    It had to be him, the nurse from Enebakk. The one Isabelle had hired to get rid of Asayev. She had claimed he would gladly take his payment in sex, but obviously that hadn’t been enough.
    ‘How much?’ Bellman asked, attempting to be businesslike, but noticed he failed to sound as cold-blooded as he would have liked.
    ‘Not much. I’m a man of simple tastes. Ten thousand.’
    ‘Too little.’
    ‘Too little?’
    ‘It sounds like a first instalment.’
    ‘We could say a hundred thousand.’
    ‘So why don’t you?’
    ‘Because I need money tonight, now, the banks are closed and you can’t get more than ten thousand from an ATM.’
    Desperate. That was good news. Or was it? Mikael walked to the edge of the terrace, looked down over his town and tried to concentrate. This was one of those situations where he was usually at his best, where everything was at stake and one false move could prove fatal.
    ‘What’s your name?’
    ‘Well, you can call me Dan. As in Danuvius.’
    ‘Great, Dan. You realise, do you, that although I’m negotiating with you, it doesn’t mean I admit anything? I could be trying to entice you into a trap and then arrest you for blackmail.’
    ‘The only reason you’re saying that is that you’re scared I’m a journalist who’s heard a rumour and is trying to trick you into giving yourself away.’
    Damn.
    ‘Where?’
    ‘I’m at work, so you’ll have to come here. But somewhere discreet. Meet me in the locked ward. There’s no one there now. In three-quarters of an hour in Asayev’s room.’
    Three-quarters of an hour. He was in a rush. It could of course be a precaution. He didn’t want to give Mikael time to set a trap. But Mikael believed in simple explanations. Like being faced with a junkie anaesthetic nurse who had suddenly run out of supplies. And, if so, that would make things easier. He might even be able to keep that particular cat in the bag for good.
    ‘Fine,’ Mikael said, and rang off. Breathed in the strange, almost suffocating smell coming from the terrace. Then he went into the living room and shut the door behind him.
    ‘I have to go out,’ he said.
    ‘Now?’ Ulla said, staring at him with the wounded expression that would normally annoy him enough to snap at her.
    ‘Now.’ He thought of the gun he had locked in the boot of his car. A Glock 22, a present from an American colleague. Unused. Unregistered.
    ‘When will you be back?’
    ‘I don’t know. Don’t wait up.’
    He walked towards the hall, feeling her eyes on his back. He didn’t stop. Not until he reached the doorway.
    ‘No, I’m not meeting her . OK?’
    Ulla didn’t answer. Just turned to the TV and pretended to be interested in the weather report.
    Katrine swore, dripping with sweat in the Boiler Room’s clammy heat, but she kept typing.
    Where the hell was it hiding, the FBI’s statistic about dead witnesses? And what the hell did Harry want with it?
    She looked at her watch. Sighed and rang his number.
    He didn’t pick up. Of course not.
    She left a message saying she needed more