Harry Hole Oslo Sequence 10 - Police

nowhere to hide.
    00.02.40.
    Harry strode into the kitchen, which constituted the short part of the L-shaped room. It wasn’t long enough. A pipe bomb would smash everything in here as well.
    He eyed the fridge. Opened it. A milk carton, two bottles of beer and a packet of liver paste. For a brief second he weighed up the alternatives, beer or panic, before plumping for panic and pulling out the shelves, sheets of glass and plastic boxes. They clattered to the ground behind him. He curled up and forced himself inside. Groaned. He couldn’t bend his neck enough to get his head inside. Tried again. Cursing his long limbs as he organised them in the most ergonomic way.
    Bloody impossible!
    He looked at the clock on the TV. 00.02.06.
    Harry shoved his head in, pulled up his knees, but now his back wasn’t flexible enough. Shit! He laughed out loud. The offer of free yoga he had rejected when he was in Hong Kong, was that going to be his downfall?
    Houdini. He remembered something about breathing in and out and relaxing.
    He breathed out, tried to clear his mind, concentrate on relaxing. Ignore the seconds. Just feel how his muscles and joints were becoming more flexible, more supple. Feel how he was gradually compressing himself.
    Possible.
    Hallelujah, it really was possible! He was inside the fridge. A fridge with enough metal and insulation to save him. Perhaps. If it wasn’t the pipe bomb from hell.
    He held the edge of the door, cast a final glance at the TV before trying to close it. 00.01.47.
    Wanted to close it but his hand wouldn’t obey. It wouldn’t obey because his brain refused to reject what his eyes had seen, but the rationally controlled section of his brain tried to ignore. To ignore because it had no relevance for the only thing that was important now, surviving, saving itself. To ignore because he couldn’t afford to do otherwise, didn’t have the time, didn’t have the empathy.
    The mincemeat on the chair.
    It had acquired two white spots.
    White as in the whites of the eyes.
    Staring straight at him through the cling film.
    The bugger was alive.
    Harry let out a yell and squeezed out of the fridge. Ran to the chair with the TV screen at the margin of his vision. Ripped the cling film off the face. The eyes in the mince blinked and he heard a shallow breath. He must have got some air through the hole where the bone had punctured the film.
    ‘Who did this?’ Harry asked.
    Got no more than breath by way of an answer. The mincemeat mask began to trickle down like melting candle wax.
    ‘Who is he? Who’s the cop killer?’
    Still only breath.
    Harry looked at the clock. 00.01.26. It would take time to squeeze back in.
    ‘Come on, Truls! I can catch him.’
    A bubble of blood began to grow where Harry guessed the mouth had to be. As it burst there was an almost inaudible whisper.
    ‘He wore a mask. Didn’t speak.’
    ‘What kind of mask?’
    ‘Green. All green.’
    ‘Green?’
    ‘Sur . . . geon . . .’
    ‘Surgeon’s mask?’
    A small nod, then the eyes closed again.
    00.01.05.
    No more to be gleaned. He ran back to the kitchen. He was faster this time. He closed the door and the light went out.
    Shivering in the darkness, he counted the seconds. Forty-nine.
    The bastard would have died anyway.
    Forty-eight.
    Better that someone else did the job.
    Forty-seven.
    Green mask. Truls Berntsen had given Harry what he knew without asking for anything in return. So there was a bit of policeman left in him.
    Forty-six.
    No point thinking about it. There wasn’t any more room for him in here anyway.
    Forty-five.
    Besides, there was no time to release him from the chair.
    Forty-four.
    Even if he’d wanted to, there was no time left now.
    Forty-three.
    All over now.
    Forty-two.
    Shit.
    Forty-one.
    Shit, shit, shit!
    Forty.
    Harry kicked open the fridge door with one foot and squeezed himself out with the other. Pulled open the drawer under the worktop, grabbed what had to be a bread knife, ran to the chair and cut off the tape on the arms of the chair.
    Avoided glancing at the TV, but heard the ticking.
    ‘Fuck you, Berntsen!’
    He walked round the chair and cut the tape on the back and around the chair legs.
    Put his arms round his chest and heaved.
    Needless to say, the bugger was extremely heavy.
    Harry pulled and cursed, dragged and cursed, no longer hearing the words coming from his mouth, hoping only they offended heaven and hell enough so that at least one of them would intervene in