Katrine opened her desk drawer and handed Dagny a tissue. “Obviously it’s up to you if you want to change your mind, Miss Jensen. If you want to file a formal complaint against Hole for claiming to be a police officer on active duty and for the way he put you in danger, I’m sure he would be dismissed and charged to your full satisfaction.”
Katrine saw from Dagny Jensen’s expression that that had come out rather sharper than she intended.
“You don’t know, Bratt.” Dagny wiped the makeup running from her eyes. “You don’t know what it’s like, bearing a child that you don’t want…”
“We can help arrange an appointment to see a doctor who—”
“Let me finish!”
Katrine closed her mouth.
“Sorry,” Dagny whispered. “I’m just so exhausted. I was going to say that you don’t know how it feels…” She took a deep, trembling breath. “…to still want the baby anyway.”
In the silence that followed, Katrine could hear footsteps hurrying up and down the corridor outside her office. But they had been moving faster yesterday. Tired feet.
“Don’t I?” Katrine said.
“What?”
“Nothing. Of course I can’t know how you feel. Look, I want to get Finne as much as you. And we will. The fact that he tricked us with that deal won’t stop us. That’s a promise.”
“The last time I got a promise like that from a police officer, it came from Harry Hole.”
“This is a promise fromme. From this office. This building. This city.”
Dagny Jensen put the tissue down on the desk and stood up.
“Thanks.”
When she had gone, it struck Katrine that she had never heard a single syllable express so much and yet so little. So much resignation. So little hope.
—
Harry stared at the memory card he had put down on the bar counter in front of him.
“What can you see?” Øystein Eikeland asked. He was playing Kendrick Lamar’sTo Pimp a Butterfly. According to Øystein, that was where the bar was at its lowest for old men who wanted to overcome their prejudices against hip-hop.
“Night recordings,” Harry said.
“Now you sound like St. Thomas when he puts a cassette to his ear and says he can hear it. You’ve seen the documentary?”
“No. Good?”
“Good music. And a few interesting clips and interviews. Way too long, though. Looks like they had too much footage and couldn’t manage to focus.”
“Same here,” Harry said, turning the memory card over.
“Direction is everything.”
Harry nodded slowly.
“I’ve got a dishwasher to empty,” Øystein said, and disappeared into the back room.
Harry closed his eyes. The music. The references. The memories. Prince. Marvin Gaye. Chick Corea. Vinyl records, the scratch of a needle, Rakel lying on the sofa at Holmenkollveien, sleepy, smiling as he whispers: “Listen now, this bit…”
Perhaps she had been lying on the sofa when he arrived.
Who was he?
