Harry Hole Oslo Sequence 10 - Police

a suspect?’
    Harry looked at his watch. ‘Tell me, shouldn’t you be . . .?’
    ‘Asleep? I can’t sleep, Harry. I just think about . . .’
    He looked at her. She pouted. Placed a finger against her bright red lips. He could feel a certain irritation mounting. ‘It’s good you use your brain, Silje. Keep doing it. And I’ll keep . . .’ He pointed to the pile of papers.
    ‘You haven’t asked what I think about, Harry.’
    ‘Three things, Silje. I’m your lecturer and not your confessor. You’ve no business to be in this wing without an appointment. And to you I’m Hole, not Harry. OK?’ He knew his voice had been sterner than necessary, and when he looked up again he discovered her eyes were big and round with disbelief. She dropped the finger from her lips. She dropped the pout as well. And when she spoke again her voice was hardly more than a whisper.
    ‘I was thinking about you, Harry.’
    Then she laughed a loud, shrill laugh.
    ‘I suggest we stop right there, Silje.’
    ‘But I love you, Harry.’ More laughter.
    Was she high? Drunk? Had she come straight from a party perhaps?
    ‘Silje, don’t . . .’
    ‘Harry, I know you’ve got obligations. And I know there are rules for lecturers and students. But I know what we can do. We can go to Chicago. Where you did the serial killer course. I can apply to do it and you can—’
    ‘Stop!’
    Harry heard his shout echo down the corridor. Silje had hunched up as if he’d hit her.
    ‘Now I’ll accompany you to the door, Silje.’
    She blinked at him in astonishment. ‘What’s the matter, Harry? I’m the second-best-looking girl in the year. I could have whoever I want in this place. Including the lecturers. But I’ve saved myself for you.’
    ‘Come on.’
    ‘Do you want to know what I’ve got under my dress, Harry?’
    She put a bare foot on the desk and opened her thighs. Harry was so quick she didn’t have a chance to react when he knocked her foot off the desk.
    ‘No one puts their feet on my desk except me, thank you.’
    Silje crumpled. Hid her face in her hands. Ran them over her head, as though she wanted to creep into a hiding place under her long, muscular arms. She cried. Sobbed quietly. Harry let her sit like this until the sobbing had subsided. He was about to put his hand on her shoulder, but then changed his mind.
    ‘Listen, Silje,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you’re on something, I don’t know. That’s fine. Happens to all of us. This is my suggestion: you go now, we pretend this never happened and neither of us breathes a word about it ever again.’
    ‘Are you afraid someone will find out about us, Harry?’
    ‘There is no us, Silje. And listen to me. I’m giving you a chance here.’
    ‘Are you thinking that someone will find out that you’re shagging a student?’
    ‘I’m not shagging anyone. I’m thinking of your own good.’
    Silje lowered her arm and raised her head. Harry was shocked. Her make-up had run like black blood, her eyes had a wild gleam to them and the sudden hungry-predator grin made him think of an animal he had seen on one of those nature programmes.
    ‘You’re lying, Harry. You’re shagging that bitch. Rakel. And you don’t think about me. Not the way you say, you hypocritical bastard. But you do think about me, all right. Like a piece of meat you can shag. Like you’re going to shag.’
    She had slid off the desk and taken a step towards him. Harry sat there, sunk in his chair with his legs stretched out in front of him, as always. He was looking up at her with this sense that he was part of a scene that was going to be acted out, no, had already been acted out, for Christ’s sake. She stretched forward, gracefully, her hand rested on his knee, she stroked upwards, up over his belt as she leaned over him and her hand disappeared under his T-shirt. The voice purred: ‘Mmm, nice six-pack, teacher.’ Harry grabbed her hand, twisting her wrist round as he shot out of the chair. She screamed as he forced her arm up behind her back and pushed her head down towards the floor. Then he turned her towards the door, grabbed her rucksack and shoved her out of the room and down the corridor.
    ‘Harry!’ she groaned.
    ‘This hold is called the half-nelson, or by many, the police grip,’ Harry said without stopping, propelling her down the stairs. ‘Handy to learn for the exam. That is, if you get as far as the exam. Because I hope you realise you’ve put me in a position where I’ll