Harry tapped in the last of the eight digits.
The phone rang three times before he answered.
“Harry?” The first syllable expressed surprise and joy, the second surprise, but mixed with a degree of anxiety. On the rare occasions that Harry and Oleg called each other, it happened in the evening, not in the middle of the working day. And even then, it was to discuss things of a practical nature. Obviously the practical pretext was sometimes rather contrived, but neither Oleg nor Harry were that fond of talking on the phone, so even if they were really only calling to see how the other was, they usually kept things brief. None of that had changed since Oleg and his girlfriend Helga moved up north to Lakselv in Finnmark, where Oleg was doing a year’s practical training before his final year at Police College.
“Oleg,” Harry said, and heard that his voice sounded choked. Because he was about to pour boiling water over Oleg, and Oleg would bear the scars of the burns he was about to receive for the rest of his life. Harry knew that because he had so many similar scars himself.
“Is something wrong?” Oleg asked.
“It’s about your mother,” Harry said, then stopped abruptly because he couldn’t go on.
“Are you getting back together again?” Oleg’s voice sounded hopeful.
Harry closed his eyes.
Oleg had been angry when he found out that his mother had broken up with Harry. And because Oleg had been spared any explanation of the causes, his anger had been directed at Rakel rather than Harry. Not that Harry could see how he had been a good enough dad to warrant anyone taking his side. When Harry had come into their lives he had taken a very low profile, as both a parent and a shoulder to cry on, because it was obvious the boy didn’t need a replacement dad. And Harry definitely didn’t need a son. But the problem—if that’s what it was—was that Harry had taken a liking to the serious, sullen young man. And vice versa. Rakel used to accuse them of being like each other, and perhaps there was something in that. And after a while—when the boy was particularly tired or wasn’t concentrating—the word “Dad” would slip out instead of the “Harry” they had agreed on.
“No,” Harry said. “We’re not getting back together. Oleg, it’s bad news.”
Silence. Harry could tell Oleg was holding his breath. Harry poured the water.
“She’s been reported dead, Oleg.”
Two seconds passed.
“Can you say that again?” Oleg said.
Harry didn’t know if he could manage that, but he did.
“How do you mean, ‘dead’?” Oleg said, and Harry heard all the metallic desperation in his voice.
“She was found in the house this morning. It looks like murder.”
“Looks like?”
“I’ve only just found out myself. The crime team are already there, I’m about to head over.”
“How…?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“But…”
Oleg didn’t get any further, and Harry knew there was no continuation to that all-encompassing “but.” It was just an instinctive objection, a self-sustaining protest, a rejection of the possibility that things could be the way they actually were. An echo of his own “but…” in Katrine Bratt’s office twenty-five minutes ago.
Harry waited while Oleg struggled to hold back tears. He replied to Oleg’s next five questions with the same “I don’t know, Oleg.”
He heard the hiccough in the boy’s voice, and thought that, as long as he’s crying, I won’t.
Oleg ran out of questions and the line went quiet.
“I’ll keep my phone on, and I’ll call as soon as I know more,” Harry said. “Are there any flights…?”
“There’s one that leaves Tromsø at one o’clock.” Oleg’s heavy, laboured breathing echoed through the phone.
“Good.”
“Call as soon as you can, OK?”
