“Really?” Ringdal said, looking genuinely surprised.
“Oh, by the way,” Øystein said. “I remembered where I put your keys.” With what he hoped didn’t look like too exaggerated a gesture, he put his hand in the back pocket of his trousers.
“Here.”
He held up the key ring. Ringdal stared at it for a moment, then glanced at Harry. Then he snatched it from Øystein.
“Have a good night, boys.”
Ringdal strode towards the door.
“Fucking hell, Harry,” Øystein hissed as he watched him leave. “Fuckinghell!”
“Sorry,” Harry said. “A quick question. After Bjørn got me out of here on the night of the murder, what did Ringdal do?”
“Do?” Øystein thought. He stuck one finger in his ear as if the answer might be in there. “That’s right, he went straight home. He said his nose wouldn’t stop bleeding.”
Øystein felt something wet against his cheek. He turned towards the girl, who was standing there, her lips still in a pout. “Happy birthday. I’d never have guessed you were an Aries, Øyvind.”
“You know what they say.” Harry smiled, putting one hand on Øystein’s shoulder. “Up like a lion, down like a ram.”
“What did he mean by that?” the girl asked as she watched Harry march off towards the door in Ringdal’s wake.
“You tell me. He’s a man of mystery,” Øystein mumbled, hoping Ringdal wouldn’t pay any attention to his date of birth on his next wage slip. “Let’s put some Stones on and get this place going, OK?”
—
His phone woke up after a few minutes’ charging in the car. Harry brought up a name, pressed Call and got an answer as he braked at a red light on Sannergata.
“No, Harry, I don’t want to have sex with you!”
The acoustics suggested Alexandra was in her office at the Forensic Medical Institute.
“Great,” Harry said. “But I’ve got a bloodstained sweater that—”
“No!”
Harry took a deep breath. “If Rakel’s DNA is in the blood, that puts the owner of the sweater at the scene on the night Rakel died. Please, Alexandra.”
There was silence at the other end of the line. A noisy drunk stopped on the crossing in front of the car, swayed, stared at Harry with a dark, foggy look in his eyes, hit the hood with his fist, then wandered off into the darkness.
“You know what?” she said. “I hate bed-hoppers like you.”
“OK, but youlovesolving murders.”
Another pause.
“Sometimes I wonder if you even like me at all, Harry.”
“Of course I do. I may be a desperate man, but not when it comes to who I go to bed with.”
“Someone you go to bed with? Is that all I am?”
“No, don’t be daft. We’re professional colleagues who catch criminals who would otherwise plunge our society into chaos and anarchy.”
“Ha ha,” she groaned drily.
“Obviously I’m willing to lie to you to get you to do this,” Harry said. “But I like you, OK?”
