Harry Hole Oslo Sequence 10 - Police

were after: young, ambitious, popular and successful. Until these police murders, of course. But after he had solved them, they should sit down and discuss his future, where it lay, in the police or in politics, where Mikael thought he could have the most impact. Not that Mikael had decided what he wanted, but it was obvious that any kind of scandal would close that door.
    And then of course there was her, and the children. What happened to his career was a minor issue compared to what this loss would mean. She interrupted him before his self-pity had gone too far and said she had thought the matter through and that her calculations matched his. His career. Their children. The life they had together. She said quite simply that she forgave him, but he would have to promise never, ever to have any more contact with Isabelle Skøyen. Except as the Chief of Police at meetings where others were present. Mikael had almost seemed disappointed, as though he had been armed for a battle and not a tame skirmish, which had fizzled out in an ultimatum that wouldn’t cost him much. Ulla watched Truls start the car and drive off. She hadn’t told Mikael about her suspicions and had no intention of doing so either. What purpose would it serve? If she was right, Truls could continue to be the spy who sounded the alarm if the pact regarding Isabelle Skøyen was not kept.
    The car disappeared and the residential silence mingled with the clouds of dust. And a thought went through her mind. A wild, totally unacceptable thought, of course, but the mind isn’t so strict on censorship. Her and Truls. In the bedroom, here. Just as revenge, of course. She rejected the idea as soon as it had appeared.
    The sleet that had oozed across the windscreen like grey spit had been superseded by rain. Vertical, heavy rain. The windscreen wipers fought a desperate battle against a wall of water. Anton Mittet drove slowly. It was pitch black, and the water was making everything blur and distort as though he were drunk. He glanced at the clock in his VW Sharan. When they had decided to buy a new car three years ago, Laura had insisted on this seven-seater, and he had jokingly enquired if she was planning a big family, even though he knew it was because she didn’t want to be in a tiny car if they crashed. Well, Anton didn’t want a crash either. He knew these roads well and also knew the chances of meeting oncoming traffic at this time of night were slim, but he didn’t take any risks.
    The pulse in his temple was pounding. Mostly because of the telephone call he had received twenty minutes ago. But also because he hadn’t had his coffee today. He had lost his taste for it after reading the result of the test. Stupid, that went without saying. And now the caffeine-accustomed blood vessels had narrowed so much that his headache lay there like unpleasant, throbbing background music. He had read that coffee addicts’ withdrawal symptoms took two weeks to disappear. But Anton didn’t want to renounce his addiction. He wanted coffee. He wanted it to taste good. Good like the mint taste of Mona’s tongue. But all he could taste now when he drank coffee was the bitter aftertaste of sleeping tablets.
    He had plucked up the courage to ring Gunnar Hagen to tell him that he had been doped when the patient died. That he had been asleep while someone had been in the room. That even if the doctors said it had been a natural death, that could not have been the case. That they would have to do another, more thorough autopsy. Twice he had rung. Without getting an answer. He had tried. He had. And he would try again. Because it always catches up with you. Like now. It had happened again. Someone had been killed. He braked, turned off and took the gravel road up to Eikersaga, accelerated again and heard the small stones hitting the wheel arches.
    It was even darker here, and there was already water lying in the hollows in the road. Midnight soon. It had been around midnight when it had happened the first time as well. As the location was close to the border of the neighbouring district, Nedre Eiker, an officer from that police force had been first on the crime scene after receiving a call from someone who had heard a crash and thought a car must have landed in the river. As if it wasn’t bad enough that the officer had entered the district without permission, he had also made a mess, gouging up the site with his car and obliterating potential clues.
    Anton passed