Harry Hole Oslo Sequence 10 - Police

screen three rows in front of him, where a fat woman was sucking off a horse. Felt his racing pulse slow down. No reason to panic, he was still in Fiskebutikken; it was just the vibration of a new arrival that had woken him. Rico opened his mouth and tried to inhale some oxygen from the air that stank of sweat, tobacco and something that might have been fish, but wasn’t. It was forty years since Moen’s Fiskebutikk had sold the original combination of relatively fresh fish over the counter and relatively fresh porn mags under the counter. After Moen had sold up and gone into retirement – so that he could drink himself to death more systematically – the new owners had opened a twenty-four-hour cinema in the basement showing straight porn. But when VHS and DVDs had taken their customers they specialised in procuring and showing films you couldn’t get online, at least not without the police knocking at your door.
    The sound was on so low Rico could hear the wanking in the darkness around him. He had been told that was the idea, that was why the sound was on so low. He had long grown out of the boyhood fascination with group wanking, that wasn’t why he was sitting here. It wasn’t why he had headed here straight after his release, sat here for two solid days, broken only by emergency trips to eat, shit and get more booze. He still had four Rohypnol pills in his pocket. He had to make them last.
    Of course, he could spend the rest of his life in Fiskebutikken. But he had persuaded his mother to lend him ten thousand kroner, and until the Thai Embassy had sorted out his extended tourist visa Fiskebutikken offered the darkness and anonymity he required to avoid being found.
    He inhaled, but it was as though the air consisted entirely of nitrogen, argon and carbon dioxide. He looked at his watch. The luminous hand was on six. In the evening or the morning? It was perpetual night in here, but it had to be evening. The feeling of suffocation came and went. He mustn’t get claustrophobic, not now. Not until he was out of the country. Gone. Far, far from Valentin. God, how he longed for his cell. For the security. The loneliness. The air you could breathe.
    The woman on the screen was working hard, but had to follow the horse as it took a few steps forward, causing the picture to blur for a second.
    ‘Hi, Rico.’
    Rico froze. The voice was low, a whisper, but the sound was like an icicle being driven into his ear.
    ‘ Vanessa’s Friends. A real eighties classic. Did you know that Vanessa died during the recording? Stamped on by a mare. Jealousy, do you think?’
    Rico wanted to turn, but was stopped by a hand squeezing the top of his neck, holding it in a vice-like grip. He wanted to shout, but a gloved hand was already over his mouth and nose. Rico breathed in the smell of pungent, wet wool.
    ‘It was disappointingly easy to find you. Pervs’ cinema. Rather obvious, don’t you think?’ Low chortle. ‘What’s more it illuminates your red skull like a lighthouse. Looks like your eczema’s bad at the moment, Rico. It flares up during periods of stress, isn’t that correct?’
    The hand over his mouth slackened the pressure so that he could get some air. There was a smell of chalk dust and ski grease.
    ‘There are rumours going round that you spoke to a policewoman at Ila, Rico. Did you have anything in common?’
    The woollen glove over his mouth was removed. Rico breathed heavily as his tongue searched for saliva.
    ‘I didn’t say anything,’ he gasped. ‘I swear. Why would I? I was getting out in a few days anyway.’
    ‘Money.’
    ‘I’ve got money!’
    ‘You spent all your money on rope, Rico. I bet you’ve got some pills in your pocket now.’
    ‘I’m not joking! I’m off to Thailand the day after tomorrow. You won’t have any trouble with me, I promise.’
    Rico could hear that sounded like the pleading of a petrified man, but he couldn’t care less. He was petrified.
    ‘Relax, Rico. I don’t intend to do anything to my tattooist. You trust a man you’ve let stick needles in your skin. Don’t you?’
    ‘You . . . you can trust me.’
    ‘Good. Pattaya sounds good.’
    Rico didn’t answer. He hadn’t said he was going to Pattaya. How . . .? Rico was tipped back slightly as the other man grabbed the seat to help him stand up.
    ‘Gotta go. I’ve got a job to do. Enjoy the sun, Rico. It’s good for eczema, I’ve heard.’
    Rico turned and looked up. The man had masked the bottom