Not yes exactly, but well . . . why not?’
‘Why not?’
Møller scratched the back of his head furiously. His face had turned fiery red.
‘For fuck’s sake, Harry. We’re offering you a job as an inspector, five notches up the pay scale, no more night shifts and a bit more respect from the bloody rookies. That’s good going, Harry.’
‘I like night shifts.’
‘No one likes night shifts.’
‘Why don’t you give me the vacant inspector’s post here?’
‘Harry! Do me a favour and just say yes.’
Harry fidgeted with his paper cup. ‘Boss,’ he said. ‘How long have we known each other?’
Møller raised an admonitory finger. ‘Don’t try that one on me. Not the we’ve-been-through-thick-and-thin-together number . . .’
‘Seven years. And for seven years I’ve interviewed people in this city who are probably the most stupid beings to walk on two legs, and still I haven’t met anyone who is a worse liar than you. Perhaps I’m stupid, but I still have a couple of brain cells left doing the best they can, and they’re telling me that it can’t exactly be my record that’s earned me this post. Nor that, to my astonishment, I can suddenly have one of the best scores in the department at the annual shooting test. They’re telling me that my plugging a Secret Service agent might have something to do with it. And you don’t need to say a thing, boss.’
Møller opened his mouth, closed it again and instead demonstratively crossed his arms.
Harry continued: ‘I know you’re not responsible for putting on this show. And even if I can’t see the whole picture, I have some imagination and I can guess the rest. If I’m right, it means that my own wishes regarding other options for my career in the police are of minor importance. So just answer me this. Have I any choice?’
Møller blinked, and kept blinking. He was thinking about Bergen again. Of snow-free winters. Of Sunday outings with his wife and boys on Mount Fløyen. Somewhere decent to grow up. A few good-natured pranks, a bit of hash, no criminal gangs and no fourteen-year-olds taking overdoses. Bergen police station. Yeah, well.
‘No,’ he said.
‘Right,’ Harry said. ‘I didn’t think so.’ He crumpled the paper cup and took aim at the waste-paper basket. ‘Up five pay grades, did you say?’
‘And your own office.’
‘Nicely partitioned off from the others, I would imagine.’ He threw with a slow, deliberate arm movement. ‘Overtime?’
‘Not at that grade.’
‘Then I’ll have to hurry home at four.’ The paper cup landed on the floor half a metre from the bin.
‘I’m sure that’s fine,’ Møller said with a suggestion of a smile.
18
Palace Gardens. 10 November 1999.
I T WAS A COLD, CLEAR EVENING . T HE FIRST THING THAT struck the old man as he came out of the Metro station was how many people were still in the street. He had imagined that the centre would be almost deserted, but the taxis in Karl Johans gate were shooting back and forth under the neon lights, and crowds of people were drifting up and down the pavements. He stood at a pedestrian crossing with a gang of swarthy youths jabbering away in another language and waited for the green man. He guessed they were Pakistani. Or Arab perhaps. His thoughts were interrupted by the changing lights and he stepped purposefully across the road and up the hill towards the illuminated façade of the Palace. Even here there were people, most of them young, on their way to and from God-only-knew what. On the hill he stopped for a breather, in front of the statue of Karl Johan astride his horse, staring dreamily down towards the Storting and the power he had tried to have moved to the Palace behind him.
It hadn’t rained for over a week and the dried leaves rustled as the old man turned right between the trees in the gardens. He leaned back and studied the bare branches outlined against the starry sky above. A verse from a poem occurred to him:
Elm and
‘Why not?’
Møller scratched the back of his head furiously. His face had turned fiery red.
‘For fuck’s sake, Harry. We’re offering you a job as an inspector, five notches up the pay scale, no more night shifts and a bit more respect from the bloody rookies. That’s good going, Harry.’
‘I like night shifts.’
‘No one likes night shifts.’
‘Why don’t you give me the vacant inspector’s post here?’
‘Harry! Do me a favour and just say yes.’
Harry fidgeted with his paper cup. ‘Boss,’ he said. ‘How long have we known each other?’
Møller raised an admonitory finger. ‘Don’t try that one on me. Not the we’ve-been-through-thick-and-thin-together number . . .’
‘Seven years. And for seven years I’ve interviewed people in this city who are probably the most stupid beings to walk on two legs, and still I haven’t met anyone who is a worse liar than you. Perhaps I’m stupid, but I still have a couple of brain cells left doing the best they can, and they’re telling me that it can’t exactly be my record that’s earned me this post. Nor that, to my astonishment, I can suddenly have one of the best scores in the department at the annual shooting test. They’re telling me that my plugging a Secret Service agent might have something to do with it. And you don’t need to say a thing, boss.’
Møller opened his mouth, closed it again and instead demonstratively crossed his arms.
Harry continued: ‘I know you’re not responsible for putting on this show. And even if I can’t see the whole picture, I have some imagination and I can guess the rest. If I’m right, it means that my own wishes regarding other options for my career in the police are of minor importance. So just answer me this. Have I any choice?’
Møller blinked, and kept blinking. He was thinking about Bergen again. Of snow-free winters. Of Sunday outings with his wife and boys on Mount Fløyen. Somewhere decent to grow up. A few good-natured pranks, a bit of hash, no criminal gangs and no fourteen-year-olds taking overdoses. Bergen police station. Yeah, well.
‘No,’ he said.
‘Right,’ Harry said. ‘I didn’t think so.’ He crumpled the paper cup and took aim at the waste-paper basket. ‘Up five pay grades, did you say?’
‘And your own office.’
‘Nicely partitioned off from the others, I would imagine.’ He threw with a slow, deliberate arm movement. ‘Overtime?’
‘Not at that grade.’
‘Then I’ll have to hurry home at four.’ The paper cup landed on the floor half a metre from the bin.
‘I’m sure that’s fine,’ Møller said with a suggestion of a smile.
18
Palace Gardens. 10 November 1999.
I T WAS A COLD, CLEAR EVENING . T HE FIRST THING THAT struck the old man as he came out of the Metro station was how many people were still in the street. He had imagined that the centre would be almost deserted, but the taxis in Karl Johans gate were shooting back and forth under the neon lights, and crowds of people were drifting up and down the pavements. He stood at a pedestrian crossing with a gang of swarthy youths jabbering away in another language and waited for the green man. He guessed they were Pakistani. Or Arab perhaps. His thoughts were interrupted by the changing lights and he stepped purposefully across the road and up the hill towards the illuminated façade of the Palace. Even here there were people, most of them young, on their way to and from God-only-knew what. On the hill he stopped for a breather, in front of the statue of Karl Johan astride his horse, staring dreamily down towards the Storting and the power he had tried to have moved to the Palace behind him.
It hadn’t rained for over a week and the dried leaves rustled as the old man turned right between the trees in the gardens. He leaned back and studied the bare branches outlined against the starry sky above. A verse from a poem occurred to him:
Elm and
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