you have only come here to take in the view .
She passed it off with a smile as well as she could. ‘When the grass is green and the leaves are on the trees in the Palace Gardens. It’s absolutely beautiful then.’
He studied her face, but his thoughts appeared to be elsewhere. ‘You’re right,’ he said at last. ‘Trees have leaves. I didn’t think about that.’
He pointed to the window. ‘Does this open?’
‘A little,’ Betty said, relieved at the change of topic. ‘You twist the handle there.’
‘Why only a little?’
‘In case someone should get any silly ideas.’
‘Silly ideas?’
She shot him a quick glance. Was the old man going a bit senile? ‘Take a hike,’ she said. ‘Commit suicide, I mean. There are a lot of unhappy people who . . .’ She made a gesture with her hand which was intended to illustrate what unhappy people do.
‘So that’s a silly idea, is it?’ The old man rubbed his chin. Did she detect the hint of a smile among the wrinkles? ‘Even if you’re unhappy?’
‘Yes,’ Betty said resolutely. ‘At least, in this hotel while I’m on duty.’
‘While I’m on duty.’ The old man chuckled. ‘That was a good one, Betty Andresen.’
The mention of her name made her jump. Of course, he had read it on her name tag. There was nothing wrong with his eyesight then; the letters forming her name were as small as the letters of receptionist were large. She pretended to take a discreet peek at the clock.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You’ve probably got other more important things to do.’
‘I suppose I have,’ she said.
‘I’ll take it,’ the old man said.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I’ll take the room. Not for tonight, but —’
‘You’re taking the room?’
‘Yes. It is available for booking, isn’t it?’
‘Mm, yes it is, but . . . it’s terribly expensive.’
‘I prefer to pay in advance.’
The old man pulled out a wallet from his inside pocket and removed a wad of notes.
‘No, no, I didn’t mean it like that, but 7,000 for one night. You wouldn’t rather see —?’
‘I like this room,’ the old man said. ‘Please count it, just in case.’ Betty stared at the thousand-kroner notes he wafted in front of her.
‘We can sort out the payment when you come,’ she said. ‘Mm, when would you like to . . . ?’
‘As you recommended, Betty. One day in the spring.’
‘Right. Any particular day?’
‘Of course.’
17
Police HQ. 5 November 1999.
B JARNE M ØLLER SIGHED AND GAZED OUT OF THE WINDOW . His thoughts wandered freely as they had tended to do of late. The rain had held off, although the leaden grey sky still hung low over police HQ in Grønland. A dog trotted over the brown, lifeless lawn outside. There was a Crime Squad post vacant in Bergen. The deadline for applications was next week. He had heard from a colleague over there that it only rained twice every autumn in Bergen: from September to November, and from November to New Year. They always exaggerated, folk from Bergen did. He’d been there and he liked the town. It was a long way from the politicians in Oslo and it was small. He liked small.
‘What?’ Møller turned and met Harry’s resigned expression.
‘You were in the process of explaining to me that a move would do me good.’
‘Oh?’
‘Your words, boss.’
‘Oh yes. Yes, that’s right. We have to make sure we don’t get stuck in a rut, with old habits and routines. We have to move on and develop. We have to get away.’
‘There’s getting away and getting away. POT is only three floors up.’
‘Get away from everything, I mean. The head of the Security Service, Meirik, thinks you’ll fit superbly into the post he has for you up there.’
‘Don’t jobs like that have to be advertised?’
‘Don’t worry about it, Harry.’
‘No? But can I be allowed to wonder why on earth you want me in surveillance work. Do I look like undercover material?’
‘No, no.’
‘No?’
‘I mean yes.
She passed it off with a smile as well as she could. ‘When the grass is green and the leaves are on the trees in the Palace Gardens. It’s absolutely beautiful then.’
He studied her face, but his thoughts appeared to be elsewhere. ‘You’re right,’ he said at last. ‘Trees have leaves. I didn’t think about that.’
He pointed to the window. ‘Does this open?’
‘A little,’ Betty said, relieved at the change of topic. ‘You twist the handle there.’
‘Why only a little?’
‘In case someone should get any silly ideas.’
‘Silly ideas?’
She shot him a quick glance. Was the old man going a bit senile? ‘Take a hike,’ she said. ‘Commit suicide, I mean. There are a lot of unhappy people who . . .’ She made a gesture with her hand which was intended to illustrate what unhappy people do.
‘So that’s a silly idea, is it?’ The old man rubbed his chin. Did she detect the hint of a smile among the wrinkles? ‘Even if you’re unhappy?’
‘Yes,’ Betty said resolutely. ‘At least, in this hotel while I’m on duty.’
‘While I’m on duty.’ The old man chuckled. ‘That was a good one, Betty Andresen.’
The mention of her name made her jump. Of course, he had read it on her name tag. There was nothing wrong with his eyesight then; the letters forming her name were as small as the letters of receptionist were large. She pretended to take a discreet peek at the clock.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You’ve probably got other more important things to do.’
‘I suppose I have,’ she said.
‘I’ll take it,’ the old man said.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I’ll take the room. Not for tonight, but —’
‘You’re taking the room?’
‘Yes. It is available for booking, isn’t it?’
‘Mm, yes it is, but . . . it’s terribly expensive.’
‘I prefer to pay in advance.’
The old man pulled out a wallet from his inside pocket and removed a wad of notes.
‘No, no, I didn’t mean it like that, but 7,000 for one night. You wouldn’t rather see —?’
‘I like this room,’ the old man said. ‘Please count it, just in case.’ Betty stared at the thousand-kroner notes he wafted in front of her.
‘We can sort out the payment when you come,’ she said. ‘Mm, when would you like to . . . ?’
‘As you recommended, Betty. One day in the spring.’
‘Right. Any particular day?’
‘Of course.’
17
Police HQ. 5 November 1999.
B JARNE M ØLLER SIGHED AND GAZED OUT OF THE WINDOW . His thoughts wandered freely as they had tended to do of late. The rain had held off, although the leaden grey sky still hung low over police HQ in Grønland. A dog trotted over the brown, lifeless lawn outside. There was a Crime Squad post vacant in Bergen. The deadline for applications was next week. He had heard from a colleague over there that it only rained twice every autumn in Bergen: from September to November, and from November to New Year. They always exaggerated, folk from Bergen did. He’d been there and he liked the town. It was a long way from the politicians in Oslo and it was small. He liked small.
‘What?’ Møller turned and met Harry’s resigned expression.
‘You were in the process of explaining to me that a move would do me good.’
‘Oh?’
‘Your words, boss.’
‘Oh yes. Yes, that’s right. We have to make sure we don’t get stuck in a rut, with old habits and routines. We have to move on and develop. We have to get away.’
‘There’s getting away and getting away. POT is only three floors up.’
‘Get away from everything, I mean. The head of the Security Service, Meirik, thinks you’ll fit superbly into the post he has for you up there.’
‘Don’t jobs like that have to be advertised?’
‘Don’t worry about it, Harry.’
‘No? But can I be allowed to wonder why on earth you want me in surveillance work. Do I look like undercover material?’
‘No, no.’
‘No?’
‘I mean yes.
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