The Bat Read Online Free PDF Page A

went back to the bar and waved to Birgitta.
    “Sorry, just one last question.”
    “Yes?”
    Harry took a deep breath. He was already regretting his decision, but it was too late. “Do you know a good Thai restaurant in town?”
    Birgitta had a think. “Mmm, there’s one in Bent Street, in the city center. Do you know where that is? It’s supposed to be pretty good, I’m told.”
    “So good you would go with me?”
    That didn’t come out right, Harry thought. Besides, it was unprofessional. Very unprofessional, in fact. Birgitta gave a groan of despair, but the despair was not so convincing that Harry couldn’t see an opening. Anyway, the smile was still in residence.
    “That one of your more frequent lines, Officer?”
    “Fairly frequent.”
    “Does it work?”
    “Statistically speaking? Not really.”
    She laughed, inclined her head and studied Harry with curiosity. Then she shrugged.
    “Why not? I’m free tomorrow. Nine o’clock. And you’re paying.”

6

A Bishop
    Harry jammed the blue light on top of the car and got behind the wheel. The wind rushed through the car as he took the curves. Stiansen’s voice. Then silence. A bent fence post. A hospital room, flowers. A photograph in the corridor, fading.
    Harry sat bolt upright. The same dream again. It was still only four o’clock in the morning. He tried to go back to sleep, but his mind turned to Inger Holter’s unknown murderer.
    At six he reckoned he could get up. After an invigorating shower, he walked out to a pale blue sky with an ineffectual morning sun to find somewhere to go for breakfast. There was a buzz coming from the city center, but the morning rush hour had not yet reached the red lamps and black mascara eyes here. King’s Cross had a certain slapdash charm, a lived-in beauty that made him hum as he walked. Apart from a few late, slightly worse-for-wear night birds, a couple sleeping under a rug on some steps and a wan, thinly clad prostitute on the early shift, the streets were empty for the moment.
    Outside a terrace cafe the owner stood hosing down the pavement and Harry smiled his way to an impromptubreakfast. As he was eating his toast and bacon, a teasing breeze tried to whisk away his serviette.
    “You’re up at sparrow’s fart, Holy,” McCormack said. “It’s good. The brain works best between half past six and eleven. After that it’s mush, if you ask me. It’s also quiet here in the morning. I can hardly add two and two with the racket after nine. Can you? My boy claims he has to have the stereo on to do his homework. He gets so distracted if it’s bloody quiet. Can you understand that?”
    “Er—”
    “Anyway, yesterday I’d had enough and marched in and switched off the sodding machine. ‘I need it to think!’ screamed the boy. I said he would have to read like normal folk. ‘People are different, Dad,’ he said, pissed off. Yup, he’s at that age, you know.”
    McCormack paused and looked at a photograph on the desk.
    “You got kids, Holy? No? Sometimes I wonder what the hell I’ve done. What rathole did they book you into, by the way?”
    “Crescent Hotel in King’s Cross, sir.”
    “King’s Cross, OK. You’re not the first Norwegian to have stayed there. A couple of years ago we had an official visit from the Bishop of Norway, or someone like that, can’t remember his name. Anyway, his staff in Oslo had booked a room for him at King’s Cross Hotel. Perhaps the name had some biblical connotation or other. When the bishop arrived with his retinue one of the seasoned prostitutes caught sight of the clerical collar and harangued him with a few juicy suggestions. Think the bishop checked out before they’d even carried his bags up the stairs …”
    McCormack laughed so much there were tears in his eyes.
    “Yeah, well, Holy, what can we do for you today?”
    “I was wondering if I could see Inger Holter’s body before it’s sent to Norway, sir.”
    “Kensington can take you to the morgue