Death in Oslo Read Online Free PDF Page B

with such a high-profile job. Whatever the reason, the forty-strong brass band and the theatrical singer continued doggedly with their rendition of ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ on the closed road that was doubling up as an unsuccessful parade ground, with only a lone policewoman as audience.
    ‘Jesus, Marianne! Jesus Christ!’
    The policewoman turned around. Her colleague came tearing out of a side entrance. He had lost his hat, and she adjusted the peak of her own cap as a reprimand.
    ‘The woman’s disappeared, Marianne.’ He was gasping for breath.
    ‘What?’
    ‘I overheard two . . . I just wanted to know what was going on, that’s all, and—’
    ‘We were told to stand here! To watch the door!’
    ‘I don’t need to take orders from them! They don’t have jurisdiction here. And we were supposed to knock off over half an hour ago. So I just went in there . . .’ he pointed frantically, ‘and the hotel staff, like, they didn’t stop me, uniform and all that, so I—’
    ‘Who’s disappeared?’
    ‘Bentley! The bloody president!’
    ‘Disappeared?’ she echoed in a flat voice.
    ‘Vanished! And no one knows where! That is . . . I heard two of the guys talking together and . . .’
    He stopped and pulled out his mobile phone.
    ‘Who . . .’ Marianne stuttered, covering one of her ears: the brass band was reaching a climax. ‘Who are you calling?’
    ‘The papers,’ her colleague whispered. ‘We’ll get at least ten thousand kroner for this story from VG.’
    She grabbed his phone from him in a flash.
    ‘We will not,’ she hissed. ‘We have to get hold of . . . to get hold of . . .’ She looked at the mobile phone as if it would give her the answer ‘Who should we . . .?’
    ‘. . .
and the hooome of the braaave!
’
    The song was sung. The singer gave a hesitant bow. Someone in the brass band laughed. Then there was silence.
    The policewoman’s voice was uncertain and shrill. Her hand shook as she held out the phone to her colleague and continued: ‘Who . . . who the hell should we ring?’

II
    T he Minister of Justice’s personal assistant was alone in the office. She took three lever arch lever files from a metal cabinet in the locked archive: one yellow, one blue and one red. She laid them on the minister’s desk and then went to put on some coffee. She went to the stationery cupboard and got pens, pencils and pads for the meeting room. With a deft hand, she switched on three computers, her own, the minister’s and the Secretary General’s. She picked up a stopwatch from her desk before going back to the archive. She pushed aside one set of bookshelves without much problem. A panel with red numbers on it came into view. She started the stopwatch, then punched in a ten-figure code and checked the time. Thirty-four seconds later she punched in a new code. Stared at the stopwatch. Waited. Waited. Ninety seconds later, another code. The door opened.
    She picked up the grey box and let the rest stay where it was. Then she went through an equally rigorous routine to lock everything and closed the door of the archive.
    It had taken her exactly six minutes to get to the office. She and her husband had been on their way to visit a niece in Bærum to celebrate national day with egg-and-spoon races and waffles at Evje school when her mobile phone rang. As soon as she saw the number on the display, she asked her husband to turn round. He had driven her straight to the Ministry without any questions.
    She was the first one there.
    She sank slowly into a chair and smoothed down her hair.
    Code Four, the voice on the mobile phone had said.
    It could just be a practice – they had rehearsed the routines regularly for the past three years. It could of course just be a practice.
    On the 17th of May?
    A practice on Norway’s national day?
    The PA jumped when the door burst open with a bang. The Minister of Justice walked in without greeting her. He took short, measured steps, as if he was trying