Harry Hole Oslo Sequence 10 - Police

him through their empty eye sockets. His phone vibrated in his pocket. He took it out and saw the text on the illuminated screen. It was from Oleg and there were no letters, only numbers. 665625. Harry smiled. Naturally it was a long way off Stephen Krogman’s legendary Tetris world record of 1,648,905 points in 1999, but Oleg had long smashed Harry’s best scores in the slightly antiquated computer game. Ståle Aune had maintained there was a line where Tetris records went from being impressive to just being sad. And that Oleg and Harry had crossed it a long time ago. But no one else knew of the other line they had crossed. The one to death and back. Oleg on a chair beside Harry’s bed. Harry feverish as his body fought against the damage Oleg’s bullets had caused, Oleg crying as his body shook with cold turkey. Not much was said, but Harry had a vague memory of them holding hands so hard at one point that it had hurt. And this image, two men clinging to each other, not wanting to let go, would always be with him.
    Harry texted I’ll be back in return. A number answered with three words. It was enough. Enough to know that the other person was there , even if the next time they saw each other could be weeks away. Harry put the earphones back and searched for the music Oleg had sent over without any comment. The band was the Decemberists and was more Harry than Oleg, who preferred harder stuff. Harry heard a lone Fender guitar with the pure, warm twang, which was only a pipe amplifier and not a fixed box, or perhaps a deceptively good box, and leaned over the next sheet. The student had written that after a sudden hike in the murder rate in the 1970s, the figure had stabilised at the new, higher level. There were around fifty murders a year in Norway, so about one a week.
    Harry noticed that the air had become close and he ought to open a window.
    The student remembered that the clear-up rate was around ninety-five per cent. And concluded that there had to be approximately fifty unsolved murders over the last twenty years. Seventy-five over the last thirty years.
    ‘Fifty-eight.’
    Harry jumped in his chair. The voice had reached his brain before the perfume. His doctor had explained that his sense of smell – or more specifically the olfactory cells – had been damaged by years of smoking and alcohol abuse. But that wasn’t why it took him a minute to place the scent. It was called Opium, made by Yves Saint Laurent, and stood by the bath at home in Holmenkollveien. He tore out his earphones.
    ‘Fifty-eight over the last thirty years,’ she said. She had put on make-up. Sported a red dress and was barefoot. ‘But Kripos’s statistics don’t include Norwegian citizens killed abroad. For that you would have to use Statistics Norway. And then the figure is seventy-two. Which means that the clear-up rate in Norway is higher. Which the Chief of Police regularly uses in his publicity.’
    Harry pushed his chair away from her. ‘How did you get in?’
    ‘I’m the class rep. I have keys.’ Silje Gravseng perched on the edge of the desk. ‘But the point is that the majority of murders abroad are assaults, so we can assume the perp doesn’t know the victim.’ Harry registered suntanned knees and thighs where her skirt rode up. She must have been on holiday recently. ‘And for that type of murder the clear-up rate in Norway is lower than in countries we ought to be comparing ourselves with. It is frighteningly low, actually.’ She had angled her head down to one shoulder so that damp blonde hair fell across her face.
    ‘Oh yes?’ Harry said.
    ‘Yes. There are in fact only four detectives in Norway with a hundred per cent clear-up rate. And you’re one of them . . .’
    ‘I’m not sure that’s correct,’ Harry said.
    ‘But I am.’ She smiled at him, squinting as though she had the low afternoon sun in her eyes. Dangling her bare feet as though she were sitting on the edge of a jetty. Holding his eyes as though she thought she could suck the eyeballs out of the sockets.
    ‘What are you doing here so late?’ Harry asked.
    ‘I’ve been doing some training in the fitness room.’ She pointed to the rucksack on the floor and flexed her right arm. A pronounced biceps muscle appeared. He remembered the combat instructor mentioning something about her flooring several of the boys.
    ‘Training on your own so late?’
    ‘Got to learn as much as I can. But perhaps you could show me how to bring down