“Is it about Svein Finne?”
“Yes. I’ve just received confirmation from the Oslo Police that they’re dropping their investigation into the baseless accusations of rape that have been tossed about in the chaos surrounding the accusation of murder.”
“And I can quote you on that?”
“You can quote me as confirming the rumours that have spread about it, which I presume are the reason you’ve called me.”
A pause.
“I understand, but I can’t write that, Krohn.”
“Then say that I’ve made it public to preempt the rumours. Whether or not you’ve heard the rumours is irrelevant.”
Another pause.
“Fine,” Daa said. “Can you give me any details about—”
“No!” Krohn interrupted. “You can have more this evening. And hold off publishing anything until after five o’clock today.”
“Cards on the table, Krohn. If I can have an exclusive on this—”
“This is all yours, my dear. Speak later.”
“Just one last thing. How did you get my number? It’s not available anywhere.”
“Like I said, you’ve called my mobile before, so your number appeared on the screen.”
“So you stored it?”
“Yes, I suppose I must have.” He ended the call and turned towards the leather sofa. “Alise, my little friend, if you could put your blouse back on, we’ve got some work to do.”
—
Bjørn Holm was standing on the pavement outside the Jealousy Bar in Grünerløkka. He opened the door and could tell by the music streaming out that he was probably going to find him here. He pulled the pram behind him into the almost empty bar. It was a medium-sized English-style pub with simple wooden tables in front of a long bar, with booths along the walls. It was only five o’clock; it would get busier later in the evening. During the brief period that Øystein Eikeland and Harry had run the bar, they had managed to achieve something rare: a pub where people came to listen to the music being played on the sound system. There was no fancy DJ, just track after track, chosen according to the themed evenings announced on the weekly list on the door. Bjørn had been allowed to act as a consultant on the country evenings and Elvis evenings. And—most memorably—when they were putting together the playlist of “songs that were at least forty years old by artists and bands from American states beginning with M.”
Harry was sitting at the bar with his head bowed, his back to Bjørn. Behind the bar, Øystein Eikeland raised a half-litre glass towards the new arrival. That didn’t bode well. But Harry was at least sitting upright.
“Minimum age is twenty, mate!” Øystein called above the music: “Good Time Charlie’s Got The Blues,” early seventies, Danny O’Keefe’s only real hit. Not typical Harry music, but a typical track for Harry to brush the dust off and play at the Jealousy Bar.
“Even when accompanied by an adult?” Bjørn asked, parking the pram in front of one of the booths.
“Since when have you been an adult, Holm?” Øystein put his glass down.
Bjørn smiled. “You become an adult the moment you see your kid for the first time and realise he’s utterly helpless. And is going to need a fuckload of adult help. Same as this guy.” Bjørn put his hand on Harry’s shoulder. He noticed that Harry was sitting with his head bowed, reading on his mobile.
“Have you seenVG’s headline about the arrest?” Harry asked, picking up a cup in front of him. Coffee, Bjørn noted.
“Yes. They’ve used a picture of you.”
“I don’t give a damn about that. Look at what they’ve just published.” Harry held his phone up for Bjørn to read.
“They’re saying we’ve done a deal,” Bjørn said. “Murder in exchange for rape. OK, it’s not common, but it does happen.”
“But it doesn’t usually appear in the press,” Harry said. “And, if it does, not until after the bear has been shot.”
“You don’t think it’s been shot?”
“If you do a deal with the devil, you need to ask yourself why the devil thinks it’s a good deal.”
