“They don’t usually refuse to serve a former owner.”
“Not until yesterday, maybe. According to Bjørn, the last thing the owner said to you was that you’re barred for life.”
“Really? I don’t remember that at all.”
“Let me see if I can help you there. You tried to persuade Bjørn to help you report the Jealousy to the police for the music they were playing, and then you wanted him to call Rakel and talk her round. From his phone, seeing as you’d left yours at home and weren’t actually sure if she’d answer if she saw it was you calling.”
“Bloody hell,” Harry said, covering his face with his hands as he massaged his temples.
“I’m not saying this to humiliate you, Harry, just to show you what happens when you drink.”
“Thanks a lot.” Harry folded his hands over his stomach. He saw that there was a two-hundred-kroner note lying on the edge of the desk in front of him.
“Not enough to get drunk on,” Katrine said. “But enough to help you sleep. Because that’s what you need. Sleep.”
He looked at her. Her gaze had got softer over the years, she was no longer the angry young woman who wanted to take her revenge on the world. Maybe that was thanks to other people, the team in the department, and her nine-month-old son. Sure, that sort of thing could raise awareness and make people gentler. During the vampirist case one and a half years ago, when Rakel had been in hospital and he had fallen off the wagon, Katrine had picked him up and taken him home. She had let him throw up in her otherwise spotless bathroom and granted him a few hours of carefree sleep in the bed she shared with Bjørn.
“No,” Harry said. “I don’t need sleep, I need a case.”
“You’ve got a case.”
“I need the Finne case.”
Katrine sighed. “The murders you’re referring to aren’t called the Finne case, there’s nothing to suggest that it’s him. And, as I’ve already told you, I’ve got the people I need on the case.”
“Three murders. Three unsolved murders. And you’re telling me you don’t need someone who can actually prove what you and I both know—that Finne is the man responsible?”
“You’ve got your case, Harry. Solve that one, and leave me to run things here.”
“My case isn’t even a case, it’s a domestic murder where the husband has confessed and we’ve got both a motive and forensic evidence.”
“He could suddenly withdraw his confession, so we need a lot more flesh on those bones.”
“It’s the sort of case you could have given to Wyller or Skarre or one of the juniors. Finne is a sexual predator and serial killer, and I’m the only detective you’ve got with specialist experience of that type of case, for fuck’s sake.”
“No, Harry! And that’s my final word on the subject.”
“But why?”
“Why? Look at yourself! If you were running Crime Squad, would you send a drunk, unstable detective to talk to our already skeptical colleagues in Copenhagen and Stockholm who have pretty much already made up their minds that the same manisn’tbehind the murders in their cities? You see serial killers everywhere because your brain is programmed to see serial killers.”
“That may well be true, but itisFinne. It’s got all the characteristic—”
“Enough! You’ve got to let go of this obsession, Harry.”
“Obsession?”
“Bjørn told me you were babbling about Finne the whole time when you were drinking, saying you have to get him before he gets you.”
“When I wasdrinking? Say it like it is: when I was drunk.Drunk.” Harry reached for the money and tucked it into his trouser pocket. “Have a good Sunday.”
“Where are you going?”
“Somewhere I can properly observe the day of rest.”
“You’ve got stones in your shoes, so pick your feet up properly when you walk across my parquet floor.”
—
