Larsen clicked his pen several times as he studied Harry, like a poker player toying with his chips before deciding whether to risk them or not. “OK,” he said, putting the pen down. “We’ve checked the base stations in the area around the crime scene for the time in question, and none of them picked up any signal from your mobile.”
“OK. I’ve been out of the game, but is it still the case that all mobile phones automatically send a signal to the nearest base station every thirty minutes?”
Larsen didn’t answer.
“So either I left my phone at home, or I went there and back within half an hour. So I’ll ask again: have I got an alibi?”
This time Larsen couldn’t help it, he glanced over at the control room and Winter. From the corner of his eye Harry saw Winter rub his hand over his granite head before giving the detective a slight nod.
“Bjørn Holm says the two of you left the Jealousy Bar at half past ten, and the owner has confirmed that. Holm says he helped you into your flat and put you to bed. On his way out, Holm met your neighbour, Gule, who was coming home from his shift on the trams. I understand that Gule lives on the floor below you, and he says he was up until three o’clock that night, that the walls are thin and that he would have heard if you’d gone out again before then.”
“Mm. And when does the medical officer say the victim died?”
Larsen looked down at his notebook as if he needed to check it, but Harry knew the young detective had all the facts firmly fixed in his memory, and just wanted time to figure out how much he could tell his interviewee—or how much he wanted to. Harry also noted that Larsen didn’t look at Winter before making his decision.
“Forensics are basing their findings on body temperature versus room temperature, seeing as the body wasn’t moved. It’s still hard to specify an exact time given that she’d probably been lying there for a day and a half, but sometime between ten o’clock in the evening and two o’clock in the morning seems most likely.”
“Which means that I’m officially ruled out?”
The suited detective nodded slowly. Harry noted that Winter was sitting up in his chair outside, as if he wanted to protest, and that Larsen was ignoring him.
“Mm. And now you’re wondering if I wanted to get rid of her, but that as a homicide detective I knew I’d inevitably be one of the suspects, so did I sort out a hitman and an alibi? Is that why I’m still here?”
Larsen ran his hand over his tie clip, which Harry noticed had the British Airways logo on it. “Not really. But we’re aware of how important the first forty-eight hours are, so we wanted to get this out of the way before asking you whatyouthink happened.”
“Me?”
“You’re no longer a suspect. But you’re still…” Larsen let this hang in the air for a moment before he said the name with his almost exaggerated pronunciation: “Harry Hole.”
Harry looked across at Winter. Was that why he had let his detective reveal what they knew? They were stuck. They needed help. Or was this Sung-min Larsen’s own initiative? Winter looked oddly stiff as he sat out there.
“So it’s true, then?” Harry said. “The perpetrator didn’t leave a single piece of forensic evidence at the scene?”
Harry took Larsen’s expressionless face as confirmation.
“I’ve got no idea what happened,” Harry said.
“Bjørn Holm said you’d found some unidentified boot marks on the property.”
“Yes. But they could just have been from someone who got lost, that sort of thing does happen.”
“Really? There’s no sign of a break-in, and Forensics have confirmed that your…that the victim was killed where she was found. Which suggests that the killer was invited in. Would the victim have let a man she didn’t know into the house?”
“Mm. Did you notice the bars on the windows?”
“Wrought-iron bars over all twelve windows, but not the four basement windows,” Larsen said without hesitation.
“That wasn’t paranoia, but a consequence of being married to a murder detective with a rather too-high profile.”
Larsen made a note. “Let’s assume the murderer was someone she knew. The presumed reconstruction suggests that they were standing face to face. The killer closer to the kitchen, the victim nearer the door, when he first stabbed her twice in the stomach.”
Harry took a deep breath. The stomach. Rakel had been in pain before the blow to the back of her neck. The blow that put her out of her misery.
“The fact that the killer was closer to the kitchen,” Larsen went on. “That made me think that the killer had moved into a more intimate part of the home, that he felt at home there. Do you agree, Hole?”
“That’s one possibility. Another is that he walked round her to grab the knife that’s missing from the block.”
“How do you know—”
