“Aren’t you being a bit paranoid now?”
“I’m just hoping we get a confession in a proper police interview. The things I recorded in the bunker would be torn apart by a defense lawyer like Krohn.”
“Now that the press have published this, he’ll have to confess. If not, we’ll charge him for the rape. Katrine’s interviewing him right now.”
“Mm.” Harry tapped at his phone and raised it to his ear. “I need to update Oleg. What are you doing here, anyway?”
“I…er…promised Katrine that I’d check to make sure everything was OK with you. You weren’t at home and you weren’t at Schrøder’s. To be honest, I thought you were barred from here for life after last time…”
“Yes, but that idiot’s not working until this evening.” Harry nodded towards the pram. “Can I take a look?”
“He tends to notice people and wake up.”
“OK.” Harry lowered his phone. “Engaged. Any suggestions for next Thursday’s playlist?”
“Theme?”
“Cover versions that are better than the original.”
“Joe Cocker and ‘A Little—’ ”
“Already on it. What about Francis and the Lights’ version of ‘Can’t Tell Me Nothing?’ ”
“Kanye West? Are you ill, Harry?”
“OK. A Hank Williams song, then?”
“Are you mad?No onedoes Hank better than Hank.”
“What about Beck’s version of ‘Your Cheatin’ Heart’?”
“Do you want me to punch you?”
Harry and Øystein laughed, and Bjørn realised they were teasinghim.
Harry put his arm round Bjørn’s shoulders. “I miss you. Can’t the two of us solve a really gruesome murder together soon?”
Bjørn nodded as he looked at Harry’s smiling face in astonishment. The unnaturally intense glow in his eyes. Maybe he really had snapped? Maybe grief had finally tipped him over the edge. Then it was as if Harry’s smile suddenly shattered, like the morning ice in October, and Bjørn found himself looking into the black depths of desperate pain again. As if Harry had merely wanted to taste happiness. And had spat it out again.
“Yes,” Bjørn said quietly. “I’m sure we can manage that.”
—
Katrine stared at the red light above the microphone that indicated that recording was under way. She knew that if she raised her eyes she would see those of Svein Finne, “the Fiancé.” And she didn’t want to do that—not because it might influence her, but because it might influence him. They had discussed whether to use a male interviewer, given Finne’s warped attitude to women. But when they read through the transcripts of previous interviews with Finne, he seemed to open up more for female interviewers. She didn’t know if that had been with or without eye contact.
She had put on a blouse that shouldn’t seem provocative, or give the impression that she was afraid of him looking at her. She glanced over at the control room, where an officer was taking care of the recording equipment. In there with him were Magnus Skarre from the investigative team, and Johan Krohn, who somewhat reluctantly had left the interview room after Finne himself had asked to talk to Katrine alone.
Katrine gave a brief nod to the officer, who nodded back. She read out the case number, her own and Finne’s names, the location, date and time. It was a hangover from the time when audio tapes could go astray, but it also served as a reminder that the formal part of the interview had begun.
“Yes,” Finne replied with a slight smile and exaggeratedly clear diction when Katrine asked if he had been made aware of his rights, and the fact that the interview was being recorded.
“Let’s begin with the evening of the tenth of March and early morning of the eleventh of March,” Katrine said. “Hereafter referred to as the night of the murder. What happened?”
“I’d taken some pills,” Finne said.
Katrine looked down as she took notes.
“Valium. Stesolid. Or Rohypnol. Maybe a bit of everything.”
