He held up one hand, and only now did she see that what she had thought was a nasty scar on the back of his hand was actually an open hole that went right through.
He left, and Dagny Jensen sank weakly onto the dirty snow by the railings with a stifled sob. Through her tears she saw the man’s back, and the plait of hair, as he walked calmly through the cemetery towards the northern gate. There was a bleeping, pulsating sound, and the man stopped, pulled up his sleeve and pressed his wrist. The bleeping stopped.
—
Harry opened his eyes. He was lying on something soft, staring up at the ceiling, at the small but beautiful crystal chandelier Rakel had brought home with her when she moved back after her years at the embassy in Moscow. Seen from below, the crystals formed the letter S, he had never noticed that before. A woman’s voice said his name. He rolled over but couldn’t see anyone. “Harry,” the voice repeated. He was dreaming. Was this waking up? He opened his eyes. He was still sitting upright. He was still in Schrøder’s.
“Harry?” It was Nina’s voice. “You’ve got a visitor.”
He looked up. Right into Rakel’s worried eyes. The face had Rakel’s mouth, Rakel’s faintly glowing skin. But the father’s smooth Russian hair. No, he was still dreaming.
“Oleg,” Harry said in a thick voice, made an attempt to get up and give his stepson a hug, but had to give up. “I didn’t think you’d get here until later.”
“I arrived in Oslo an hour ago.” The tall young man sank onto the chair where Katrine had sat earlier. He pulled a face as if he’d sat on a drawing pin.
Harry looked out of the window and discovered to his amazement that it had gotten dark.
“And how did you know…”
“Bjørn Holm tipped me off. I’ve spoken to a funeral director and have arranged a meeting for tomorrow morning. Will you come with me?”
Harry let his head fall forward. Groaned. “Of course I’ll come with you, Oleg. Christ, here I am, drunk when you arrive, and now you’re doing what ought to be my job.”
“Sorry, but it’s easier to keep busy. Keep my head working on practical things. I’ve started to think about what we should do with the house when…” He stopped, raised one hand in front of his face and pressed his thumb and middle finger to his temples. “That’s sick, right? Mum’s barely even cold, and…” His fingers massaged his temples, and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down.
“It’s not sick,” Harry said. “Your brain is trying to find a way to avoid the pain. I’ve found my own way, but I wouldn’t recommend it.” He moved the empty glass that was between them. “You can fool the pain for a while, but it will always catch up with you. When you relax a little, let your guard down, when you stick your head up out of the trench. Until then, it’s fine not to feel too much.”
“Numb,” Oleg said. “I just feel numb. I realised earlier that I hadn’t eaten anything today, so I bought a chili hotdog. I smothered it with the strongest mustard they had, just so I couldfeelsomething. And you know what?”
“Yes,” Harry said. “I know. Nothing.”
“Nothing,” Oleg repeated, blinking something out of his eyes.
“The pain will come,” Harry said. “You don’t have to look for it. It will find you. You, and all the chinks in your armour.”
“Has it found you?”
“I’m still asleep,” Harry said. “I’m trying not to wake up.” He looked at his hands. He would have given anything to take some of Oleg’s pain on himself. What could he say? That nothing will ever be so painful as the first time you lose someone you really love? He no longer even knew if that was true. He cleared his throat.
“The house is shut off until the crime-scene team are finished. Are you staying at mine?”
“I’m staying with Helga’s parents.”
“OK. How’s Helga taking it?”
“Badly. She and Rakel had become good friends.”
Harry nodded. “Do you want to talk about what happened?”
Oleg shook his head. “I had a long talk with Bjørn, he told me what we know. And don’t know.”
We. Harry noted that just a few months into the practical year of his training, Oleg found it perfectly natural to use the pronoun “we” about the police in general. The same “we” that he himself had never used even after twenty-five years in the force. But experience had taught him that it was more deeply imprinted in him than he was aware of. Because it was a home. For better or worse. And when you’ve lost everything else, mostly for better. He hoped that Oleg and Helga would cling tight to each other.
“I’ve been called in for an interview first thing tomorrow morning,” Oleg said. “Kripos.”
“Right.”
“Will they ask about you?”
