Harry Hole Oslo Sequence 10 - Police

lobby. Wondering if she would recognise him. Strictly speaking they hadn’t met more than twice. Once when he had held the door open for her as they were going to see Mikael at Stovner Police Station and he had introduced himself. A charming, smiling Nordlander. The second time, at a Christmas dinner at Stovner, they had danced and he had pressed her closer to him than he should have. Not that she had minded, it was an innocent flirtation, an acknowledgement she was happy to indulge, anyway Mikael was sitting somewhere in the room, and the other wives were also dancing with partners who weren’t their husbands. And there was someone else apart from Mikael following her with a watchful eye. He had been standing on the dance floor with a drink in his hand. Truls Berntsen. Afterwards Ulla had asked Truls if he wanted to dance, but he had grinned and said no. He was no dancer, he had said.
    Runar. That was his name, it had slipped her mind. She had never heard or seen anything of him again. Until he had rung and asked if she could meet him here today. At first she had turned him down, saying she had no time, but he’d said he had something important to tell her. His voice was curiously distorted, she couldn’t quite remember him sounding like that, but perhaps it was just that he was caught somewhere between his old Nordland dialect and Østland Norwegian. It often happened with people from the provinces when they had lived in Oslo for a while.
    So she had said yes, a quick cup of coffee would be fine as she was going into town that morning anyway. It wasn’t true. Like the answer she had given Mikael when he had asked where she was, and she had said she was on her way to meet a girlfriend. She hadn’t meant to lie, but the question had caught her on the hop, and she realised she should have told Mikael she was having a coffee with an ex-colleague of his. So why hadn’t she? Because deep down she suspected that what she was going to be told had something to do with Mikael? Already she regretted being here. She looked at her watch.
    The receptionist had glanced at her a couple of times, she noticed. Ulla had removed her coat, and underneath she was wearing a sweater and trousers, which emphasised her slim figure. Going to the city centre was not something she did a lot, and she had spent a bit more time on her make-up and her long blonde hair, which had caused the Manglerud boys to drive past her to see if her front fulfilled what her back promised. And she could see from their faces that for once it had. Mikael’s father had once told her she looked like the good-looking one in the Mamas & the Papas, but she didn’t know who that was and had never tried to find out.
    She shot a glance at the swing door. More and more people were streaming in, but not the person with darting eyes she was expecting.
    She heard a muffled ping from the lift doors and then a tall woman in a fur coat stepped out. It struck Ulla that if a journalist asked the woman if the fur was genuine, she would probably deny it. Socialist politicians preferred to tell the majority of voters what they wanted to hear. Isabelle Skøyen. The City Councillor for Social Affairs. She had been to their house for the party after Mikael’s appointment. Actually it had been a house-warming party, but instead of friends Mikael had by and large invited people who were important for his career. Or ‘their’ career, as he called it, his and hers. Truls Berntsen had been one of the few present she had known, and he wasn’t exactly the type of person you can talk to for the whole evening. Not that she’d had time; she had been kept very busy playing the hostess.
    Isabelle Skøyen sent her a look and was about to walk on, but Ulla had already noticed the brief hesitation. The little hesitation that meant she had recognised Ulla and was now faced with the choice of pretending she hadn’t or being obliged to go over and exchange a few words with her. And she would have preferred to avoid the latter. Ulla often felt exactly the same. For example, with Truls. In a way she liked him: they had grown up together and he was kind to her and loyal. Nevertheless. She hoped Isabelle would choose the former and make it easier for them both. And saw to her relief that she was already heading for the swing door. But then she evidently changed her mind, did a U-turn, big smile and sparkling eyes. Sailed over towards her, yes, indeed she did sail. Isabelle Skøyen reminded