Death in Oslo by Anne Holt Page A

them when he thought no one was looking, which had only resulted in one brawl. But that was what it was like when you were with your mates. He’d managed to stasha couple of minis in his inside pocket when it was all over. Hairymary wouldn’t mind. What a girl, eh! She had landed on her feet when she was picked up by that policewoman and her filthy-rich dyke friend. Turned into a proper little lady’s housekeeper in the West End. But Hairymary hadn’t forgotten where she came from. She might never leave that fort of a flat that she had holed herself up in, but she did send money to Backyard Berit twice a year, on the 17th of May and Christmas Eve. Then the old gang had a party with food and the real thing.
    He shouldn’t be feeling so bad after such a good night.
    It wasn’t the alcohol, it was the bloody cancer in his balls.
    The light on the fjord had been beautiful when he’d wandered through the town in the early morning – it must have been around four. The Russ was still being rowdy and carrying on, of course, but whenever there was a quiet moment he had taken time to sit down. On a bench or on that fence by the rubbish bin where he had found a full, unopened bottle of beer.
    The light was so beautiful in spring. The trees somehow seemed friendlier, and even the hooting of car horns was less aggressive when he stumbled out on to the road a bit too suddenly and the drivers had to brake.
    Oslo was his town.
    ‘
The police ask anyone who might have seen anything to. . . ’
    Where the hell was the remote control?
    There. At last. It was hidden away under the pizza box. He turned down the volume and sank back into the sofa.
    ‘Shit,’ he said in a flat voice.
    They were showing a picture of some clothes. A pair of blue trousers. A bright red jacket. Some shoes that just looked like any old shoes.
    ‘
According to police information, this is the outfit that President Bentley was wearing when she disappeared. It is important that. . .’
    It was at ten past four.
    He had just looked at the clock on the tower outside the old Østbanen station when she went by. Her and two men. Her jacket was red, but she was far too old to be one of the Russ.
    Fucking hell, his balls were burning.
    Had someone disappeared?
    It had been a good night. He wasn’t too bad, so he had managed to stagger home through the town, full and happy. The streets were decorated with colourful garlands and he had noticed how clean everywhere was.
    The smell of sick was bothering him now. He had to do something. He had to tidy up a bit in here. Clean, so that he wouldn’t get kicked out.
    He closed his eyes.
    This bloody cancer. Well, everyone dies of something or other, he comforted himself. That’s life. He was only sixty-one, but that was old enough, really, when he thought about it.
    Slowly he slipped sideways and into a deep sleep, with his ear in his own vomit once again.

VII
    ‘… and there you have it.’The Prime Minister sat back in his chair. There was silence in the large room. The air smelt dank. The place had been closed for a long time. Peter Salhus clasped his hands behind his neck and let his eyes wander round the room. There was a long, counter-like piece of furniture along one wall. Otherwise, the room was dominated by a huge meeting table with fourteen chairs around it. There was a plasma screen on one of the walls. The loudspeakers were on a glass shelf down by the floor. A faded map of the world hung on the wall opposite.
    ‘So we’re going to have these . . .’ the Chief of Oslo Police, Terje Bastesen, looked as if he actually wanted to say
gorillas
, but tactfully said something else, ‘these agents hanging over our shoulders. Sticking their noses into everything we find, everything we do, anything we might think or believe. OK.’
    Before the Prime Minister had a chance to answer, Peter Salhus took a breath. He leant forward suddenly and propped his arms on the table. ‘First of all, I think one thing should be