Saturday, August 15th, 1995

My hands are quivering. Mercy has been bestowed on me again. On the other end of the telephone line is Harald Foss, an Inspector now, and head of the Violent Crime Department; so others have told me – we haven´t been in touch for a couple of years.
    «I´m listening,» I say as I fumble with the pack of cigarettes, manage to extract one from it and light it up. The screen saver on the PC suddenly turns on – the Windows logo, twisting slowly, otherwise only a black screen – and the room falls into eerie semi-darkness, now that the white glare from the screen no longer lights it up. It is eleven at night; I´ve been working all throught the day and well into the evening without noticing that the daylight faded away.
    Harald inhales sharply, it sounds like a gasp, then talks rapidly, staccato: «We´re in a helluva hurry. I don´t know anything about what happens next. I can´t promise you anything. But I need your help.»
    «Where is it?»
    «Vibe´s street number eight.»
    «I´m on my way.»
    «And Tom — it´s urgent!»
    «Okey-doke.»
    My hands are still quivering, and more so, as I replace the handset slowly, carefully. I switch on the lamp on the desk, bend over the computer keyboard, save my work and turn the PC off. I have to stand completely still and just breathe for a minute or so, to regain my composure, then I crush the cigarette into the ashtray, gather together my wallet, my car keys and everything else I need with me when leaving the apartment. I walk into the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth, then I put on a fresh shirt and a pair of jeans not quite as faded as the ones I´ve been wearing, and more importantly without coffee stains on the thighs (I don´t know why I always spill coffee on myself when I write, but I do), and then I´m in my BMW, en route to the address Harald gave to me, it´s not far from home, just a few miles north through the most quiet part of Oslo´s central west side.
    It is a warm, humid late summer evening, and people are strolling through the city, still dressed in mini dresses, shorts and shortsleeved print shirts, the whole scene very tropic in mood. Vacation´s over, but noone´s inclined to give in, they are on their way to the dockside open-air restaurants and to sidewalk cafés all over town, determined to wring the last few hours and minutes out of another swell, hot summer´s day — and tomorrow´s work be damned!
    But I am on my way to work, as I try to rid my mind of all irrelevant and for the time being superfluous thought before I get there. And suddenly I am there, but not at the address, no. I´m at the intersection between Bogstadveien and Vibes street, and it is closed. Two roadblocks with «No entry» signs hinders my way, and a few hundred yards up the street I can see the blinking yellow lights from two work trucks standing there spewing out diesel fumes and deep bass noise. Suddenly I am nervous, afraid that this is a cruel and sadistic prank, a practical joke devised by some of my former drinking buddies in the department during yesterday´s regular Friday night blowout, implemented without the least knowledge or concern about my real feelings for being able to return to service.
    A man dressed in the Traffic Department´s regular dark gray jumpsuit advances on my car, which now stands with its nose just an inch from the roadblocks. I lower the side window.
    «It´s closed for traffic,» he says in a civil and civilian tone.
    «I´ve been called.»
    «Your name?» His tone is no longer civilian, but neutrally businesslike.
    «Tom Sundbye.»
    «Driver´s licence, please?»
    It´s been waiting in the breast pocket of my shirt, ready and eager to get out. He inspects it shortly, but professionally, nods and says: «Park at the curb.»
    What the hell is going on here?
    Harald Foss is waiting on the sidewalk, under a mezzanine, half hidden from the truck lights, suddenly invisible, suddenly lit, wearing a dark suit with that distinct German elegant-casual cut – loose but narrow, as opposite to Italian floppyness – which only Hugo Boss creates. The suave son-of-a-bitch has obviously not changed. But mad he is, who can wear a knotted tie on a night like this.
    «Well, I´ll be damned,» he says and stares at my head as he takes my hand and squeezes.
    «I let it grow,» I say unneededly. My hair´s grown long and thick and wild, and I let it, and so I must look like a narc undercover agent now. And Harald is looking at me as if he finds it a shock that I have been able to – or had the gall to – grow so much hair at my age.
    «What´s going on?» I say.
    He shakes his head with something like irritation. «Listen,» he says in that warm, deep, intimate voice which reminds me of how much fun we used to have together, once. «We´re in a hell of a hurry. The forensics guys are just aching to get the body in.»
    «Body´s still here?»
    «Don´t you get it? We´re breaking every rule in this case. Come on now.»

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