Harry Hole Oslo Sequence 10 - Police

happens. Only an empty hospital corridor with nothing at the end. Perhaps it is all a Fata Morgana: Isabelle Skøyen’s solution to the Asayev problem, the phone call an hour ago, the thousand-krone notes that had just spewed out of an ATM in the city centre, this deserted corridor in an empty wing of the hospital.
    Let it be a mirage, a dream, Mikael thought and started walking. But checked in his coat pocket that the safety catch on the Glock 22 was off. In the other pocket he had the wad of notes. If the situation demanded, he would have to pay up. If there were several of them, for example. But he didn’t think there would be. The amount was too small to be shared. The secret too great.
    He passed a coffee machine, rounded a corner and saw the corridor continue with this same flat whiteness. But he also saw the chair. The chair that Asayev’s guard had sat on. It hadn’t been removed.
    He turned to be sure that no one was behind him before he went on.
    Took long paces and placed his soles softly, almost soundlessly, on the floor. Felt the doors as he passed. They were all locked.
    Then he was there, in front of the door, by the chair. A sudden intu-ition made him put his left hand on the chair seat. Cold.
    He took a deep breath in and his gun out. Looked at his hand. It wasn’t trembling, was it?
    Best at decisive moments.
    He put the gun back in his pocket, pressed the handle of the door, and it opened.
    No reason to surrender whatever surprise element there was, Mikael Bellman thought, pushing open the door and stepping in.
    The room was bathed in light but was empty and bare, apart from the bed where Asayev had been. It had been pushed into the centre of the room and there was a lamp over it. Beside it, sharp, polished instruments gleamed on a metal trolley. Perhaps they had converted the room into a basic operating theatre.
    Mikael caught a movement behind the one window and his hand squeezed his gun as he squinted. Did he need glasses?
    By the time he had focused, realised it was a reflection and the movement was behind him, it was much too late.
    He felt a hand on his shoulder and reacted at once, but it was as if the stab of pain in his neck instantly severed the connection to his gun hand. And before the darkness descended he saw the man’s face close to his own in the black reflection from the window. It wore a green cap and a green mask over its mouth. Like a surgeon. A surgeon about to operate.
    Katrine was too busy with the computer to react to the fact that she hadn’t received an answer from the person who had walked in behind her. But she repeated the question when the door closed, locking out the noises from the culvert.
    ‘Where have you been, Bjørn?’
    She felt a hand on her shoulder and neck. And her first thought was that it was not at all unpleasant to feel a hot hand on the bare skin of her neck, a man’s friendly hand.
    ‘I’ve been to the crime scene to lay some flowers,’ the voice behind her said.
    Katrine frowned in surprise.
    No files found , the screen said. Really? No files anywhere showing the statistics for dead key witnesses? She pressed Harry’s name on the phone. The hand had started massaging her neck muscles. Katrine groaned, mostly to show she liked it, closed her eyes and leaned her head forward. Heard it ring at the other end.
    ‘Down a bit. Which crime scene?’
    ‘A country road. A girl. Hit-and-run. Never solved.’
    Harry didn’t answer. Katrine took the phone from her ear and tapped in a message. No files found for statistic . Pressed Send.
    ‘That took a long time,’ Katrine. ‘What did you do afterwards?’
    ‘Helped the other person there,’ the voice said. ‘He broke down, you might say.’
    Katrine had finished doing what she had to do, and it was as though the other things in the room finally had access to her senses. The voice, the hand, the aroma. She swivelled slowly in her chair. Looked up.
    ‘Who are you?’ she asked.
    ‘Who am I?’
    ‘Yes, you’re not Bjørn Holm.’
    ‘No?’
    ‘No. Bjørn Holm is prints, ballistics and blood. He doesn’t do massages that leave you with your mouth tasting of sugar. So, what is it you want?’
    She saw the blush shoot up the pale, round face. The cod-eyes bulged even more than usual, and Bjørn drew back his hand and started frenetically scratching one mutton chop.
    ‘Er, well, sorry, I didn’t mean . . . I just . . . I . . .’
    The redness of his cheeks and the stuttering became more