Harry raised his head, and Hans Christian’s eyes widened. “Good God, what do you look like? That barber—”
“Isn’t recommended,” Harry said. “Come on—let’s get out of the light.”
Once they were in the darkness, Harry stopped. “Bandages?”
“Here.”
Hans Christian studied the unlit houses on the hill behind them while Harry carefully placed bandages over the stitches on his neck and chin.
“Relax—no one can see us,” Harry said, grabbing one of the spades and setting off. Hans Christian hurried after him, pulled out a flashlight and clicked it on.
“Now they can see us,” Harry said.
Hans Christian clicked it off.
They strode through the war memorial grove, past the British sailors’ graves and continued along the gravel paths. Harry established that death was not a great leveler; the headstones in this west Oslo cemetery were bigger and brighter than those on the east side of town. The gravel crunched whenever their feet hit it, and they were walking faster and faster, so in the end it sounded like one continuous noise.
They stopped at the Gypsy’s grave.
“It’s the second one on the left,” Hans Christian whispered and tried to angle the map he had printed into the sparse moonlight.
Harry stared into the darkness behind them.
“Something up?” Hans Christian whispered.
“Just thought I heard footsteps. They stopped when we stopped.”
Harry raised his head, as if scenting the air.
“Echo,” he said. “Come on.”
Two minutes later they were standing by a modest black stone. Harry held the flashlight close to the stone before switching it on. The letters had been engraved and painted in gold.
GUSTO HANSSEN
MARCH 14, 1992–JULY 12, 2011
REST IN PEACE
“Bingo,” Harry whispered without ceremony.
“How are we …” Hans Christian began, but was interrupted by the sigh of Harry’s spade entering the soft earth. He grabbed his own and began.
It was half past three and the moon had gone behind a cloud when Harry’s spade hit something hard.
Fifteen minutes later the white coffin was revealed.
They each grabbed a screwdriver, knelt down on the coffin and began to loosen the six screws in the lid.
“We won’t get the lid off with both of us on top,” Harry said. “One of us has to go up so the other can open the coffin. Volunteers?”
Hans Christian had already half crawled out.
Harry put one foot down beside the coffin and the other against the earth wall and squeezed his fingers under the lid. Then he exerted pressure and from force of habit began to breathe through his mouth. Before he even looked down he could feel the heat rising from the coffin. He knew the process of decomposition produced energy, but what made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck was the sound.
The rustle of fly maggots in flesh. He kneed the coffin lid to the side of the grave.
“Shine here,” he said.
White slithering maggots glistened in and around the corpse’s mouth and nose. The eyelids had sunk, since the eyeballs were the first parts to be consumed.
Harry shut out the sounds of Hans Christian being sick and switched on his analytical faculties: face discolored, dark, impossible to determine whether the owner was Gusto Hanssen, but the hair color and shape of the face suggested it was.
But there was something that caught Harry’s attention and caused him to stop breathing.
Gusto was bleeding.
Red roses were growing on the white shroud, roses of blood that were spreading.
Two seconds passed before Harry realized that the blood was coming from him. He clutched his neck. His fingers felt thick blood. The stitches had come undone.
“Your T-shirt,” Harry said.
“What?”
“I need some patching-up here.”
Harry heard the brief song of a zip, and a few seconds later a T-shirt floated down into the light. He grabbed it, saw the logo. FREE LEGAL AID. Christ, an idealist. Harry wound the T-shirt around his neck with no clear idea of how this would help, but it was all he could do for now. Then he bent over Gusto, grabbed the shroud with both hands and tore it open. The body was dark and slightly bloated and maggots were crawling out from the bullet holes in the chest.
Harry could see that the wounds matched what was in the report.
“Give me the scissors.”
“The scissors.”
“The nail scissors.”
“Damn.” Hans Christian coughed. “I forgot them. Maybe I’ve got something in the car. Should I—”
“No need,” Harry said, taking the long switchblade from his jacket pocket. Undid the safety catch and pressed the release button. The blade shot out with a brutal power, so fierce it made the handle vibrate. He could feel the perfect balance of the weapon.
“I can hear something,” Hans Christian said.
“It’s a Slipknot song,” Harry said. “ ‘Pulse of the Maggots.’ ” He was humming softly.
“No, damn it. Someone’s coming!”
“Angle the flashlight so that I can see, and run for it,” Harry said, lifting up Gusto’s hands and studying the nails on the right hand.
“But you—”
“Run for it,” Harry said. “Now.”
Harry heard Hans Christian’s steps fade into the distance. The nail on Gusto’s middle finger was cut shorter. He examined the first finger and the third. Said calmly: “I’m from the funeral home. We’re doing some overtime.”
Then he turned his face up to the very young uniform-clad guard standing by the edge of the grave looking down at him.
“The family wasn’t very happy with the manicure.”
“Get out of there!” the guard ordered with only a slight tremble in his voice.
“Why?” Harry said, taking a little plastic bag from his jacket pocket and holding it under the third finger while sedulously cutting. The blade sliced through the nail as if it were butter. Indeed a fantastic instrument. “Unfortunately for you, your instructions state that you cannot tackle intruders head-on.”
Harry used the tip of the blade to remove the dry remains of blood from under the short nail.
“If you do, you’ll get fired and the police college will reject you, and you won’t be allowed to carry a big gun and shoot someone in self-defense.”
Harry turned his attention to the first finger.
“Do what your instructions tell you—call an adult in the police. If you’re lucky they’ll be here in half an hour. But if we’re realistic we’ll probably have to wait for office hours tomorrow. There we are!”
Harry closed the bags, put them in his jacket pocket, replaced the coffin lid and clambered out of the grave. He brushed the soil off his suit and bent down to pick up the spade and flashlight.
Saw the headlights of a car turning in to the chapel area.
“In fact they said they would come right away,” said the young guard, retreating to a safe distance. “I told them it was the grave of the guy who was shot, you see. Who are you?”
Harry switched off the flashlight and it was pitch black.
“I’m the one you should be rooting for.”
Then Harry set off at a run. He headed east, away from the chapel, back along the route they had come.
He got his bearings from a bright light he assumed was a lamppost in Frogner Park. If he could make it to the park, he knew that, in his current form, he could outrun most of them. He only hoped they didn’t have any dogs. He hated dogs. Best to keep to the gravel paths so as not to stumble over headstones and bunches of flowers, but the crunching made it more difficult to hear any potential pursuers. By the war memorial Harry moved onto the grass. He couldn’t hear anyone behind him. But then he saw it. A quivering beam of light on the treetops above. Someone was chasing him with a flashlight.
Harry emerged onto the path a
nd headed for the park. Tried to shut out the pain around his neck and run in a relaxed, efficient way, concentrating on technique and breathing. Told himself he was pulling away. He ran toward the Monolith, knowing they would see him under the lamps on the pathway that continued over the hill and it would look as if he were making for the park’s main gate on the eastern side.
Harry waited until he had topped the crest and was out of sight before heading southwest toward Madserud Allé. Adrenaline had kept him going, but now he could feel his muscles stiffening. For a second, things went black and he thought he had lost consciousness. But then he was back, and a sudden feeling of nausea engulfed him, followed by overwhelming giddiness. He looked down. Blood was oozing from under his jacket sleeve and dripping between his fingers, like strawberry jam off a slice of bread at his grandfather’s house. He wasn’t going to last the distance.
He craned his head. Saw a figure pass through the light under the lamp at the top of the hill. A big man, but with a light running style. Tight-fitting black clothes. Not a police uniform. Could it be a Delta guy? In the middle of the night, at such short notice? Because someone was digging in a cemetery?
Harry swayed but managed to steady himself. He had no hope of outrunning anyone in this state. He had to find a place to hide.
Harry aimed for one of the houses on Madserud Allé. Left the path, sprinted down a grass slope, had to stretch out his arms so as not to fall, continued across the paved road, jumped over the low picket fence, carried on into the apple trees and around the back of the house. Where he threw himself into the long, wet grass. Took a deep breath, felt his stomach constrict, braced himself to vomit. Concentrated on breathing as he listened.
Nothing.
But it was just a matter of time before they would be here. And he needed a decent bandage for his neck. Harry got to his feet and walked to the terrace of the house. Peered through the glass in the door. Dark living room.
He kicked in the glass and slipped his hand inside. Good old naïve Norway. The key was in the door. He slid into the gloom.
Held his breath. The bedrooms were probably on the second floor.
He switched on a table lamp.
Plush chairs. Cabinet TV. Encyclopedia. A table covered with family photographs. Knitting. So elderly occupants. And old people slept well. Or was it badly?
Harry found the kitchen, switched on the light. Searched the drawers. Cutlery, cloths. Tried to remember where they had always kept that kind of thing when he was small. Opened the second-to-last drawer. And there it was. Standard tape, masking tape, duct tape. He grabbed the roll of duct tape and opened two doors before he found the bathroom. Pulled off his jacket and shirt, held his head over the bathtub and the hand-held shower over his neck. Watched the white enamel gain a red filter in a second. Then he dried himself with the T-shirt and squeezed the edges of the wound together with his fingers while winding the silver tape around his neck several times. Tested to make sure it wasn’t too tight. After all, he needed some blood to go to the brain. Put on his shirt. Another attack of dizziness. He sat down on the edge of the bath.
He noticed a movement. Raised his head.
From the doorway an elderly woman’s pale face was staring at him with enlarged, frightened eyes. Over her nightgown she was wearing a red quilted bathrobe. It gave off a strange sheen and electric static whenever she moved. Harry guessed it was made of some synthetic material that no longer existed, was banned because it was carcinogenic, made of asbestos or something.
“I’m a police officer,” Harry said. Coughed. “Ex-police officer. And in a little trouble right now.”
She said nothing, just stood there.
“Of course I’ll pay for the broken glass.” Harry lifted his jacket off the bathroom floor and took out his wallet. Put some notes on the sink. “Hong Kong dollars. They’re … better than they sound.”
He managed a smile and then saw a tear running down wrinkled cheeks.
“Oh, dear,” Harry said, feeling panic, a sense that he was on the slide, losing control. “Don’t be frightened. I really won’t do anything to you. I’ll leave this minute, OK?”
He forced his arm into the jacket sleeve and walked toward her. She backed away, taking tiny, shuffling steps, but not releasing him from her gaze. Harry held up the palms of his hands and made swiftly for the terrace door.
“Thank you,” he said. “And sorry.”
Then he pushed open the door and went onto the terrace.
The power of the explosion suggested it was a heavy-caliber weapon. Then came the sound of the shot, the primer blast, and that was the confirmation. Harry fell to his knees as the next bullet splintered the back of the garden chair beside him.
A very heavy caliber.
Harry scrabbled back into the living room.
“Keep down!” he shouted as the living-room window shattered. Glass tinkled onto the parquet floor, the TV and the table covered with family photographs.
Bent double, Harry ran through the living room, the hall, to the front door. Opened it. Saw the muzzle of flame from the open door of a black limousine under a street lamp. He felt a stinging pain on his face, and a high-pitched, piercing metallic sound rang out. Harry turned automatically and saw that the wall-mounted doorbell had been shot to pieces. Large white splinters of wood stuck out.
Harry retreated. Lay down on the floor.
A heavier caliber than any of the police weapons. Harry thought of the tall figure he had seen running across the ridge. That had not been a police officer.
“You’ve got something in your cheek …”
It was the woman; she had to shout over the shrill ringing of the bell that had got stuck. She was standing behind him, at the back of the hall. Harry groped with his fingers. It was a splinter of wood. He pulled it out. Had time to think it was lucky it was on the same side as the scar: It shouldn’t reduce his market value to any dramatic extent. Then there was another bang. This time it was the kitchen window. He was running out of Hong Kong dollars.
Over the ringing he could hear sirens in the distance. Harry raised his head. Through the hallway and living room he saw that lights had come on in the surrounding houses. The street was illuminated like a Christmas tree. He was going to be a floodlit moving target whichever route he took. The options were being shot or arrested. No, not even that. They heard the sirens as well, and knew time was running out for them. And he hadn’t returned fire, so they must have assumed he was unarmed. They would follow him. He had to get away. He pulled out his cell. Shit, why hadn’t he taken the trouble to file his number under T? It wasn’t as if his contacts list was exactly full.
“What’s the number for directory assistance again?” he shouted.
“The number … for … directory assistance?”
“Yes.”
“Well.” She stuck a pensive finger in her mouth, tucked the red asbestos robe underneath her as she sat down on a wooden chair. “There’s 1880. But I think they’re nicer on 1881. They’re not as quick or stressed. They take their time and will talk to you if you’ve—”
“Directory assistance 1880,” said a nasal voice in Harry’s ear.
“Asbjørn Treschow,” Harry said. “With a c and an h.”
“We’ve got an Asbjørn Berthold Treschow in Oppsal, Oslo, and an Asbjø—”
“That’s him! Could you give me his cell number?”
Three seconds of an eternity later, a familiar crabby voice answered.
“I don’t want any.”
“Tresko?”
Protracted pause without an answer. Harry visualized his fat friend’s astonished face.
“Harry? Long time—”
“Are you at work?”
“Ye-es.” The extended e indicated suspicion. No one called Tresko without a reason.
“I need a quick favor.”
“Yes, I suppose you do. Doh, what about the hundred kroner you borrowed? You said—”
“I need you to turn off the electricity
in the Frogner Park/Madserud Allé area.”
“You what?”
“We’ve got a police emergency here. There’s a guy who’s gone nuts with a gun. We need cover of darkness. Are you still at the substation in Montebello?”
Another pause.
“So far, but are you still a cop?”
“Of course. Tresko, this is actually pretty urgent.”
“I don’t give a shit. I don’t have the authorization to do that. You’ll have to talk to Henmo, and he—”
“He’s asleep and we don’t have the time!” Harry shouted. At that moment another shot rang out and a cupboard in the kitchen was hit. A set of dishes slid out with a clatter and smashed on the floor.
“What on earth was that?” Tresko asked.
“What do you think? You can choose between the responsibility for a forty-second blackout or that for a pile of human bodies.”
Silence at the other end for a few moments. Then it came, slowly:
“Imagine that, eh, Harry? Now I’m sitting here and I’m in charge. You would never have believed that, would you, eh?”
Harry took a deep breath. Saw a shadow glide across the terrace. “No, Tresko. I wouldn’t have believed it. Can you—”
“You and Øystein never thought I’d amount to much, did you?”
“No, we made a big boo-boo there.”
“What about saying pleas—”
“Turn the fucking electricity off!” Harry yelled. And heard the dial tone. He got to his feet, took the elderly woman under his arm and half-dragged her into the bathroom. “Stay here,” he whispered, closing the door behind him and running to the open front door. He charged into the light, steeling himself for the deluge of bullets.
And then everything went black.
So black that he landed on the flagstones and rolled forward, thinking for a confused instant that he was dead. Before he realized that Asbjørn “Tresko” Treschow had flicked the switch or pressed the key or whatever it was they did at the substation. And that he had forty seconds.
Harry ran blindly into the pitch black. Stumbled over the picket fence, felt pavement under his feet and ran on. Heard shouting and sirens coming closer. But also the growl of a powerful car engine starting up. Harry kept to the right, could see enough to stay on the road. He was south of Frogner Park. There was a chance he would make it. He passed darkened detached houses, trees, forest. The district was still without electricity. The car engine was coming closer. He lurched left into the parking lot by the tennis courts. A puddle in the gravel almost brought him to grief, but he stumbled on. The only objects reflecting enough light to be seen were the white chalk stripes on the tennis courts behind the wire fence. Harry saw the outline of the OTC clubhouse. He sprinted to the wall in front of the dressing-room door and dived headlong as the light from two car headlights swept across. He landed and rolled sideways on the concrete. It was a soft landing, but nevertheless it made him dizzy.