It felt like the sun outside had gone behind a cloud, as if Alexandra’s heart had stopped.
“From the call log on his phone I see that the two of you have called each other several times in the past few weeks, the past few days.”
“Hole?” she said, as if she needed to dig the name out, and saw from the look on his face how fake it sounded. “Yes, we’ve talked on the phone. He’s a detective.”
“Maybe you’ve done more than talked?”
“More?” She tried to raise an eyebrow, but wasn’t sure if she managed it, it felt like all the muscles in her face were out of control. “What makes you think that?”
“Two things,” Larsen said. “That you instinctively pretended not to remember his name even though you’ve spoken to him six times and called his number twelve times in the past three weeks, two of them on the evening before Rakel Fauke was found murdered. And that during those same three weeks, his phone has been tracked to base stations that overlap with your home address.”
He said this without aggression, suspicion or anything else that gave her any sense of manipulation or game-playing. Or rather, he said it as if the game was already over, like a croupier who had no stake in the game reading out the number before raking in the chips.
“We’re…wewerelovers,” she said. And realised when she heard herself say it that that’s exactly how it was. That they had been lovers, no more, no less. And that it was over.
But the second implication only dawned on her when Sung-min Larsen said: “Before we go on, I ought to advise you to consider if you’d like a lawyer present.”
She must have looked aghast, because Larsen hurried to add: “You’re not suspected of anything, this isn’t an official interview, and I’m primarily trying to get information about Harry Hole, not you.”
“So why would I need a lawyer?”
“For advice not to talk to me, seeing as your close relationship to Harry Hole could potentially connect you to a murder.”
“You mean I might have murdered his wife?”
“No.”
“Ah! You think I murdered her out of jealousy.”
“Like I said, no.”
“I told you we weren’t seeing each other anymore.”
“I don’t think you’ve killed anyone. But I’m cautioning you because the answers you give could lead to you being suspected of having helped him to avoid being charged with the murder of his wife.”
Alexandra realised that she had made the most classic of all drama-queen gestures, and had clutched the string of pearls that she was actually wearing.
“So,” Sung-min Larsen said, lowering his voice when the first of the Norwegian early birds entered the canteen. “Shall we continue this conversation?”
He had informed her that she could have a lawyer present, even if it would make his job more complicated. He would have lowered his voice out of consideration to her even if they’d been alone in the room. Maybe he could be trusted. Alexandra looked into his warm brown eyes. She let her hand fall. Straightened her back, pushing—perhaps unconsciously—her breasts forward.
“I’ve got nothing to hide,” she said.
Again, that half-smile of his. She realised she was already looking forward to seeing the rest of it.
—
Sung-min looked at the time. Four o’clock. He needed to take Kasparov to an appointment at the vet’s, so this summons to Winter’s office was doubly inconvenient.
But he was finished with the investigation. He didn’t have absolutely everything, but he had all he needed.
Firstly, he had proved that Hole’s alibi—provided by his neighbour, Gule—was worthless. The reconstruction had proved that he couldn’t possibly have heard if Hole was in his flat, or if he had arrived or then left. Hole had evidently also thought about this, because Gule had said he had been there asking exactly the same questions.
Secondly, the 3-D expert, Freund, had completed his analysis. There wasn’t much to be gleaned from the hunched figure who had stumbled into Rakel’s house at almost half past eleven on the night of the murder. The figure looked twice as fat as Harry Hole, but Freund said that was probably because he was leaning forward and his coat was hanging down in front of him. His posture also made it impossible to determine his height. But when he came out again three hours later, at half past two in the morning, he was clearly more sober, was standing upright in the doorway, showing his true, slim self, and he was the same height as Harry Hole, around 1.92 metres. He had got into a Ford Escort before remembering to remove his wildlife camera, then he drove away.
Thirdly, he had got hold of a final, decisive piece of evidence from Alexandra Sturdza.
There had been a look of quiet despair on that hard but lively face when he told her about the evidence they had against Harry Hole. And gradually a look of resignation. In the end he had seen her let go of the man she claimed to have already given up. Then he had gently prepared her for some even worse news. And told her that Hole was dead. That he had taken his own life. That—looking at the situation as a whole—perhaps it was for the best. At that point there had been tears in her dark eyes, and he had considered putting his hand on hers as it lay motionless and dead on the table. Just a gentle, comforting touch, then take his hand away again. But he hadn’t. Perhaps she sensed his half-intention, because the next time she lifted her coffee cup, she did so with her left hand, leaving her right motionless, like an invitation.
