laughing out loud.
‘I don’t quite understand what you mean now, Clas.’ Although I was trying to appear relaxed, I could hear that my voice had a metallic timbre and my thoughts were wading through syrup. I was unable to mobilise a counter-attack before the next question came.
‘Money is not actually my motivation, Roger. But if you like, we can try to increase the salary. A third of more …’
… is more. He had taken over the interview completely now and gone straight from step two to step seven: Present the alternative. In this case, give the suspect an alternative motivation for confessing. The execution was perfect. Of course he could have brought my family into play, said something about how proud my deceased parents or my wife would be if they heard how I had pushed up the salary, our commission, my bonus. But Clas Greve knew that would be going too far, of course he knew that. I had quite simply met my match.
‘OK, Clas,’ I heard myself say. ‘I give in. It is just as you say.’
Greve leaned back in his chair again. He had won, and now he was letting his breath out and smiling. Not with a sense of triumph, just happy that it was over. Used to winning , I noted down on the sheet I already knew I would throw away afterwards.
The strangest part about it was that it didn’t feel like a defeat, but a relief. Yes, I felt nothing less than invigorated.
‘Nevertheless, the client requires concrete information,’ I said. ‘Would you mind if we went on?’
Clas Greve closed his eyes, placed the tips of his fingers against each other and shook his head.
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Then I would like you to tell me about your life.’
I made notes as Clas Greve told his story. He had grown up as the youngest of three. In Rotterdam. It was a rough seaport , but his family were among the privileged, his father had a top job with Philips. Clas and his two sisters had learned Norwegian during the long summers with their grandparents in a chalet in Son, on the Oslo fjord. He had had a strained relationship with his father, who considered the youngest child spoilt and lacking in discipline.
‘He was right,’ Greve smiled. ‘I was used to achieving good results at school and on the sports track without doing any work. By the time I was around sixteen everything bored me, and I began to visit “shady areas”. They’re not hard to find in Rotterdam. I had no friends there and didn’t make any new ones, either. But I did have money. So, systematically, I began to try out everything that was forbidden: alcohol, hash, prostitution, minor break-ins and bit by bit harder drugs. At home my father believed I had taken up boxing and that was why I returned with a bloated face, a runny nose and bloodshot eyes. I was spending more and more time in these places where people let me stay and above all left me in peace. I don’t know if I cared for this new life of mine. Those around me saw me as a weirdo, a lonely sixteen-year-old they couldn’t make out. And it was precisely this reaction that I liked. Gradually my lifestyle began to show in my school results, but I didn’t care. Eventually my father woke up. And perhaps I thought I finally had what I had always wanted: his attention. He spoke to me in calm, serious tones; I yelled back. Sometimes I could see he was on the point of losing control. I loved it. He sent me to my grandparents in Oslo where I did my last two years of school. How did you get on with your father, Roger?’
I jotted down three words with ‘self’. Self-assured . Self-deprecating . And Self-aware .
‘We didn’t speak much,’ I said. ‘We were quite different.’
‘Were? So he’s dead?’
‘My parents died in a road accident.’
‘What did he do?’
‘Diplomatic corps. The British Embassy. He met my mother in Oslo.’
Greve tilted his head and studied me. ‘Do you miss him?’
‘No. Is your father alive?’
‘Doubt it.’
‘Doubt it?’
Clas Greve took a deep breath and
‘I don’t quite understand what you mean now, Clas.’ Although I was trying to appear relaxed, I could hear that my voice had a metallic timbre and my thoughts were wading through syrup. I was unable to mobilise a counter-attack before the next question came.
‘Money is not actually my motivation, Roger. But if you like, we can try to increase the salary. A third of more …’
… is more. He had taken over the interview completely now and gone straight from step two to step seven: Present the alternative. In this case, give the suspect an alternative motivation for confessing. The execution was perfect. Of course he could have brought my family into play, said something about how proud my deceased parents or my wife would be if they heard how I had pushed up the salary, our commission, my bonus. But Clas Greve knew that would be going too far, of course he knew that. I had quite simply met my match.
‘OK, Clas,’ I heard myself say. ‘I give in. It is just as you say.’
Greve leaned back in his chair again. He had won, and now he was letting his breath out and smiling. Not with a sense of triumph, just happy that it was over. Used to winning , I noted down on the sheet I already knew I would throw away afterwards.
The strangest part about it was that it didn’t feel like a defeat, but a relief. Yes, I felt nothing less than invigorated.
‘Nevertheless, the client requires concrete information,’ I said. ‘Would you mind if we went on?’
Clas Greve closed his eyes, placed the tips of his fingers against each other and shook his head.
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Then I would like you to tell me about your life.’
I made notes as Clas Greve told his story. He had grown up as the youngest of three. In Rotterdam. It was a rough seaport , but his family were among the privileged, his father had a top job with Philips. Clas and his two sisters had learned Norwegian during the long summers with their grandparents in a chalet in Son, on the Oslo fjord. He had had a strained relationship with his father, who considered the youngest child spoilt and lacking in discipline.
‘He was right,’ Greve smiled. ‘I was used to achieving good results at school and on the sports track without doing any work. By the time I was around sixteen everything bored me, and I began to visit “shady areas”. They’re not hard to find in Rotterdam. I had no friends there and didn’t make any new ones, either. But I did have money. So, systematically, I began to try out everything that was forbidden: alcohol, hash, prostitution, minor break-ins and bit by bit harder drugs. At home my father believed I had taken up boxing and that was why I returned with a bloated face, a runny nose and bloodshot eyes. I was spending more and more time in these places where people let me stay and above all left me in peace. I don’t know if I cared for this new life of mine. Those around me saw me as a weirdo, a lonely sixteen-year-old they couldn’t make out. And it was precisely this reaction that I liked. Gradually my lifestyle began to show in my school results, but I didn’t care. Eventually my father woke up. And perhaps I thought I finally had what I had always wanted: his attention. He spoke to me in calm, serious tones; I yelled back. Sometimes I could see he was on the point of losing control. I loved it. He sent me to my grandparents in Oslo where I did my last two years of school. How did you get on with your father, Roger?’
I jotted down three words with ‘self’. Self-assured . Self-deprecating . And Self-aware .
‘We didn’t speak much,’ I said. ‘We were quite different.’
‘Were? So he’s dead?’
‘My parents died in a road accident.’
‘What did he do?’
‘Diplomatic corps. The British Embassy. He met my mother in Oslo.’
Greve tilted his head and studied me. ‘Do you miss him?’
‘No. Is your father alive?’
‘Doubt it.’
‘Doubt it?’
Clas Greve took a deep breath and
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