Harry Hole 02 - Cockroaches by Jo Nesbø Page B

order.’
    ‘Let me get straight to the point, Bork. We’ve been trying to contact Ove Klipra, but all we got was a gatekeeper who says he doesn’t know where Klipra is or when he’ll be returning.’
    Bork chuckled. ‘That sounds like Klipra all right.’
    ‘I’ve been told he prefers to make contact himself, but we’re in the middle of a murder investigation here and I don’t have a lot of time. I gather you’re a close friend of Klipra’s, a kind of link to the outside world?’
    Bork angled his head. ‘I’m no adjutant, if that’s what you mean. But you’re right insomuch as I mediate contacts. Klipra doesn’t like speaking to people he doesn’t know.’
    ‘Was it you who arranged the contact between Klipra and the ambassador?’
    ‘Initially it was. But Klipra liked the ambassador, so they spent a lot of time together. The ambassador was also from Sunnmøre, although he was from the country and not a real Ålesund lad like Klipra.’
    ‘Odd he’s not here today then?’
    ‘Klipra travels all the time. He hasn’t answered his phone for a few days, so I would guess he’s out seeing to his businesses in Vietnam or Laos and doesn’t even know the ambassador is dead. This case hasn’t exactly hit the headlines.’
    ‘It generally doesn’t when a man dies of heart failure,’ Harry said.
    ‘So that’s why the Norwegian police are here, is it?’ Bork asked, drying the sweat from his neck with a large white handkerchief.
    ‘Routine when an ambassador dies abroad,’ Harry said, jotting down the telephone number of the police station on the back of a business card.
    ‘Here’s a number where you can reach me if Klipra should turn up.’
    Bork studied the card, appeared to be on the point of saying something, but changed his mind, put the card in his breast pocket and nodded.
    ‘I’ve got your number then,’ he said, shook hands and walked over to an old Land Rover. Behind him, half mounted on the pavement, came a glint from recently washed red paintwork. It was the same Porsche Harry had seen pull up in front of the Molneses’ house.
    Tonje Wiig strolled over to him. ‘Was Bork able to help you?’
    ‘Not this time round.’
    ‘What did he say about Klipra? Did he know where he was?’
    ‘He didn’t know anything.’
    She didn’t make a move to go, and Harry had a vague sense that she was waiting for more. In a moment of paranoia he saw the flinty glare of the diplomat at Fornebu Airport – ‘No scandals, OK?’ Could she have been told to keep an eye on Harry and let Director Torhus know if he went too far? He looked at her and immediately rejected the idea.
    ‘Who owns the red Porsche?’ he asked.
    ‘Porsche?’
    ‘There. I thought Østfold girls knew all the makes of car before they were sixteen?’
    Tonje Wiig ignored the comment and put on her sunglasses. ‘It’s Jens’s car.’
    ‘Jens Brekke?’
    ‘Yes. He’s over there.’
    Harry turned. On the steps stood Hilde Molnes, dressed in dramatic black silk robes with a serious-looking Sanphet in a dark suit. Behind them stood a younger, fair-haired man. Harry had noticed him in the church. He wore a waistcoat under his suit, despite the thermometer showing thirty-five degrees. His eyes were concealed behind a pair of expensive-looking sunglasses, and he was speaking in a low voice with a woman, also dressed in black. Harry stared at her, and as though she had felt his eyes on her she turned towards him. He hadn’t recognised Runa Molnes at once, and now he could see why. The singular asymmetry was gone. She was taller than the others on the steps. Her gaze was brief and betrayed no feelings, apart from boredom.
    Harry excused himself, walked up the steps and offered Hilde his condolences. Her hand was limp and passive in his. She looked at him through glazed eyes, and the smell of strong perfume camouflaged the gin.
    Then he turned to Runa. She shielded her eyes from the sun and squinted up as though she had only just