Harry Hole Oslo Sequence 10 - Police

really wanted Harry; maybe it had always been so unrealistic she refrained from forming an opinion on it. And in time it had become a joke and the waters were muddied. Besides he was back with Rakel. Or Miss Ugly Bug as he allowed Katrine to call her as the notion was so absurd it only emphasised Rakel’s annoying beauty.
    Harry rubbed his badly shaven chin. ‘Hm, if it’s not my irresistible body you’re after, then it must be . . .’ He raised a forefinger. ‘I’ve got it. My brilliant mind!’
    ‘You haven’t got any funnier over the years, either.’
    ‘And the answer’s still no. And you knew that too.’
    ‘Have you got an office where we can discuss this?’
    ‘Yes and no. I have an office, but not one where we can discuss whether I can help you with the murder case.’
    ‘Murder cases.’
    ‘It’s one case, as far as I’ve been informed.’
    ‘Fascinating, isn’t it?’
    ‘Don’t you try that one on me. I’ve finished with that kind of life, and you know it.’
    ‘Harry, this case needs you. And you need it.’
    The smile didn’t reach his eyes this time. ‘I need a murder case like I need a drink, Katrine. Sorry. Save yourself some time and try an alternative.’
    She looked at him. Thinking the analogy with drink came without any hesitation. It confirmed what she had suspected, that he was simply afraid. Afraid that if he so much as looked at a case it would have the same result as a drop of booze. He wouldn’t be able to stop; he would be swallowed up, consumed. For a moment her conscience pricked her, the pusher’s unbidden attack of self-loathing. Until she started visualising the crime scene again. Anton Mittet’s crushed skull.
    ‘There are no alternatives for you, Harry.’
    ‘I can give you a couple of names,’ Harry said. ‘There’s a guy I was on the FBI course with. I can ring and—’
    ‘Harry . . .’ Katrine grabbed him under the arm and led him to the door. ‘Has this office of yours got any coffee?’
    ‘It has, but as I said—’
    ‘Forget the case. Let’s just have a chat about the old days.’
    ‘Have you got the time for it?’
    ‘I need some distraction.’
    He looked at her. Was about to say something, then changed his mind. Nodded. ‘OK.’
    They went up a staircase and down a corridor to the offices.
    ‘I can hear you’ve nicked bits of Ståle Aune’s psychology lectures,’ Katrine said. As usual she had to jog to keep up with Harry’s giant strides.
    ‘I nick as much as I can. After all, he was the best.’
    ‘Like “deranged” being one of the few words in medicine which is exact, intuitively comprehensible and poetic all at once. But precise words always end up on the scrapheap because stupid professionals think linguistic obfuscation is best for patients’ welfare.’
    ‘Yep,’ Harry said.
    ‘That’s why I’m no longer a manic-depressive. Not borderline, either. I’m bipolar type II.’
    ‘Two?’
    ‘Do you understand? Why doesn’t Aune lecture? I thought he loved it.’
    ‘He wanted a better life. Simpler. More quality time with his nearest and dearest. A wise decision.’
    She eyed him. ‘You should persuade him. No one in society should be allowed to stop using such a superior talent when there is most need for it. Don’t you agree?’
    Harry chuckled. ‘You’re not going to give up, are you? I think there’s a need for me here, Katrine. And the college won’t contact Aune because they want to see more uniformed lecturers, not civilians.’
    ‘You’re wearing civvies.’
    ‘And that’s my point. In fact, I am no longer in the police force, Katrine. It was a choice. Which means that I, we, are in different places now.’
    ‘How did you get that scar on your temple?’ she asked and noticed Harry almost imperceptibly but instantly flinch. Before he could answer a sonorous voice in the corridor called out.
    ‘Harry!’
    They stopped and turned. A short, bulky man with a full red beard came out of one of the doors and approached them with an uneven rolling gait. Katrine followed Harry as he went to meet the older man.
    ‘You’ve got a visitor,’ the man roared long before they had reached a normal speaking distance.
    ‘Indeed,’ Harry said. ‘Katrine Bratt. This is Arnold Folkestad.’
    ‘I mean you have a visitor in your office,’ Folkestad said, stopping to take a couple of deep breaths before passing Katrine a large, freckled hand.
    ‘Arnold and I co-lecture on murder investigation,’ Harry