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drowned out by the answerphone:
    ‘Hi, it’s me again . . .’
    Harry felt his heart skip a beat and he reacted before thinking. He pressed STOP. But it was as if the echo of the words spoken in the charming, slightly husky woman’s voice continued to wash back and forth between the walls.
    ‘What was that?’ Rakel asked.
    Harry took a deep breath. One thought struggled to reach him before he answered, but it arrived too late: ‘Just the radio.’ He cleared his throat. ‘When you’re sure, let me know which flight you’ll be on and I’ll pick you up.’
    ‘Of course I will,’ she said with surprise in her voice.
    There was a strained pause.
    ‘I have to hang up now,’ Rakel said. ‘Shall we talk at eight tonight?’
    ‘Yes. I mean, no. I’ll be busy then.’
    ‘Oh? I hope it’s something nice for a change.’
    ‘Well,’ Harry said with a sharp intake of breath. ‘I’m going out with a woman anyway.’
    ‘Who’s the lucky person?’
    ‘Beate Lønn. New officer in the Robberies Unit.’
    ‘And what is the occasion?’
    ‘A chat with Stine Grette’s husband. She was shot during the Bogstadveien hold-up I told you about. And with the branch manager.’
    ‘Enjoy yourself. We’ll talk tomorrow. Oleg wants to say goodnight first.’
    Harry heard small feet running and then excited breathing on the line.
    After they had finished speaking, Harry stood in the hall staring at the mirror above the telephone table. If his theory held true, he was now looking at a competent policeman. Two bloodshot eyes, one on each side of a large nose with a network of fine blue veins in a pale, bony face with deep pores. His wrinkles looked like random knife slashes across a wooden beam. How had it happened? In the mirror he saw behind him the wall with the photograph of the suntanned, smiling face of the boy with his sister. But it wasn’t lost good looks or lost youth Harry’s mind was occupied with, because the thought had finally made its way through now. He was searching his own features for the deceit, the evasion, the cowardice which had just made him break one of the few promises he had made to himself: that he would never, ever, come what may, lie to Rakel. Of all the skerries in the sea for their relationship to founder on, and there were many, lies would not be one. So why had he told a lie? It was true he and Beate were going to meet Stine Grette’s husband, but why had he not told her he was going to meet Anna afterwards? An old flame, but so what? It had been a brief stormy affair which had left scars, though no lastinginjuries. They were only going to chat over a cup of coffee and tell each other the what-they-did-afterwards stories. And then each go their separate ways.
    Harry pressed PLAY on the answerphone to hear the rest of the message. Anna’s voice filled the hall: ‘. . . look forward to seeing you at M this evening. Just two things. Could you pop into the locksmith’s in Vibes gate on the way and pick up the keys I ordered? They’re open till seven and I’ve told them to keep them in your name. And would you mind wearing the jeans you know I like so much?’
    Deep, husky laugh. The room seemed to vibrate to the same rhythm. No doubt about it, she had not changed.

5
Nemesis
    T HE RAIN WAS MAKING SPEED LINES AGAINST THE PRE -maturely darkened October sky in the light from the outside lamp. From the ceramic sign beneath, Harry read that Espen, Stine and Trond Grette lived here, ‘here’ being a yellow terraced house in Disengrenda. He pressed the bell and surveyed the locality. Disengrenda was four long rows of terraced houses at the centre of a large flat field encircled by blocks of flats, which reminded Harry of pioneers on the prairie taking up a defensive position against Indian attacks. Perhaps that was how it was. The terraced houses were built in the sixties for the burgeoning middle classes and perhaps the dwindling local population of workers in the blocks in Disenveien and