Silence.
“Bjørn?”
“I just needed to get away from everyone. That’s crazy! What can you see?”
“Not much, sadly. I was wondering if you could help me get it analysed. It’s dark, but you’ve got methods of getting more out of the images than I can manage. There are a few silhouettes and reference points, the height of the door frame, that sort of thing. A 3-D specialist might be able to come up with a decent description.” Harry rubbed his chin. He was itching somewhere, he just didn’t know where.
“I can try,” Bjørn said. “I can use an external expert. Because I’m assuming you’d like this done discreetly?”
“If I’m to have any chance of following this line of inquiry undisturbed, yes.”
“Have you made copies of the recordings?”
“No, it’s all on the memory card.”
“OK. Leave it in an envelope at Schrøder’s and I’ll call in and pick it up later today.”
“Thanks, Bjørn.” Harry ended the call. Tapped in R for Rakel. The other entries in his contacts were O for Oleg, Ø for Øystein, K for Katrine, B for Bjørn, S for Sis and A for Ståle Aune. That was all. That was enough for Harry, even if Rakel had told Ståle that Harry was open to meeting new people. But only if those letters weren’t already taken.
He keyed in Rakel’s work number without her extension.
“Roar Bohr?” he said when the receptionist answered.
“It looks like Bohr isn’t here today.”
“Where is he, and when will he be back?”
“It doesn’t say anything about that here. But I’ve got a mobile number.”
Harry made a note of the number and tapped it into the app for directory inquiries. It came up with an address between Smestad and Huseby, and a landline number. He looked at his watch. Half past one. He called the number.
“Yes?” a woman’s voice said after the third ring.
“Sorry, wrong number.” Harry hung up and started to walk towards the tram stop at the top of Birkelunden. He rubbed his upper arm. That wasn’t where the itch was either. It wasn’t until he was on the metro heading towards Smestad that he realised that the itch was probably in his head. And that it had almost certainly been triggered by Ringdal’s possibly well-meant, possibly calculated gesture. And that he would actually have preferred to have gone on being barred, rather than be the recipient of irritating, broad-minded benevolence. And that he might possibly have underestimated judo.
—
The woman who opened the door of the yellow house exuded the sort of sharp vitality that was typical of women between thirty and fifty in the upper social segment here on the west side of the city. It was difficult to know if it was an ideal they were trying to live up to, or their true energy level, but Harry had a suspicion that there was something status-related about the effortless, loud way they marshalled their two children, gun dog and husband, preferably in a public place.
“Pia Bohr?”
“How can I help you?” No confirmation, and gently dismissive politeness, but said with a confident smile. She was short, wasn’t wearing makeup, and her wrinkles suggested she was closer to fifty than forty. But she was as slim as a teenager. A lot of time at the gym and plenty of outdoor living, Harry guessed.
“Police.” He held up his ID.
“Of course, you’re Harry Hole,” she said without looking at it. “I’ve seen your face in the paper. You were Rakel Fauke’s husband. My condolences.”
“Thank you.”
“I presume you’re here to talk to Roar? He isn’t here.”
“When…”
“This evening, possibly. Give me your number and I’ll ask him to contact you.”
“Mm. Perhaps I could talk to you, Mrs. Bohr?”
“To me? What for?”
