Regards to your wife.’ Harry craned his head round on the way out. ‘Coriander’s on the far left, bottom shelf.’
Bjarne Møller stood staring into his shopping basket. He remembered the reason now. He liked the alcoholic, obstreperous, stubborn bastard.
7
White King
H ARRY NODDED TO ONE OF THE REGULARS AND SAT DOWN AT a table under the narrow, wavy window panes looking out onto Waldemar Thranes gate. On the wall behind him hung a large painting of a sunny day in Youngstorget with women holding parasols and being cheerily greeted by men promenading in top hats. The contrast with the forever autumnally gloomy light and the almost devout afternoon quiet in Restaurant Schrøder could not have been greater.
‘Nice that you could come,’ Harry said to the corpulent man already sitting at the table. It was easy to see he was not one of the regulars. Not by the elegant tweed jacket, nor by the bow tie with red dots, but because he was stirring a white mug of tea on a cloth smelling of beer and perforated with blackened cigarette burns. The unlikely customer was Ståle Aune, a psychologist, one of the country’s finest in his field and an expert to whom the police had had frequent recourse. Sometimes with pleasure and sometimes regret, as Aune was a thoroughly upright man who preserved his integrity and in a court of law never pronounced on matters which he could not support to the hilt with scientific evidence. However, since there islittle evidence for anything in psychology, it often happened that the prosecution witness became the defence’s best friend, the doubts he sowed generally working in favour of the accused. Harry, in his capacity as a police officer, had used Aune’s expertise in murder cases for so long that he regarded him as a colleague. In his capacity as an alcoholic, Harry had put himself so totally in the hands of this warmhearted, clever and becomingly arrogant man that – if cornered – he would have called him a friend.
‘So this is your refuge?’ Aune said.
‘Yes,’ Harry said, raising an eyebrow to Maja at the counter, who responded at once by scuttling through the swing doors into the kitchen.
‘And what have you got there?’
‘Japone. Chilli.’
A bead of sweat rolled down Harry’s nose, clung for a second to the tip, then fell onto the tablecloth. Aune studied the wet stain with amazement.
‘Sluggish thermostat,’ Harry said. ‘I’ve been in the gym.’
Aune screwed up his nose. ‘As a man of science, I ought to applaud you, I suppose, but as a philosopher I would question putting your body through that kind of unpleasantness.’
A steel coffee jug and a mug landed in front of Harry. ‘Thanks, Maja.’
‘Pangs of guilt,’ Aune said. ‘Some people can only deal with it by punishing themselves. Like when you go to pieces, Harry. In your case alcohol isn’t a refuge but the ultimate way to punish yourself.’
‘Thank you. I’ve heard you put forward that diagnosis before.’
‘Is that why you train so hard? Bad conscience?’
Harry shrugged.
Aune lowered his voice: ‘Is Ellen playing on your mind?’
Harry’s eyes shot up to meet Aune’s. He put the mug of coffee to his lips slowly and took a long drink before putting it down again with a grimace. ‘No, it’s not the Ellen Gjelten case. We’re gettingnowhere, but it’s not because we’ve done a bad job. That I do know. Something will turn up. We just have to bide our time.’
‘Good,’ Aune said. ‘It’s not your fault Ellen was killed. Keep that uppermost in your mind. And don’t forget: all your colleagues consider that the right man was arrested.’
‘Maybe, maybe not. He’s dead and can’t answer.’
‘Don’t let it become an idée fixe , Harry.’ Aune poked two fingers into the pocket of his tweed waistcoat, pulled out a silver pocket watch and cast a rapid glance at it. ‘But I scarcely imagine you wanted to speak about guilt?’
‘No, I didn’t.’ Harry took a wad of
Bjarne Møller stood staring into his shopping basket. He remembered the reason now. He liked the alcoholic, obstreperous, stubborn bastard.
7
White King
H ARRY NODDED TO ONE OF THE REGULARS AND SAT DOWN AT a table under the narrow, wavy window panes looking out onto Waldemar Thranes gate. On the wall behind him hung a large painting of a sunny day in Youngstorget with women holding parasols and being cheerily greeted by men promenading in top hats. The contrast with the forever autumnally gloomy light and the almost devout afternoon quiet in Restaurant Schrøder could not have been greater.
‘Nice that you could come,’ Harry said to the corpulent man already sitting at the table. It was easy to see he was not one of the regulars. Not by the elegant tweed jacket, nor by the bow tie with red dots, but because he was stirring a white mug of tea on a cloth smelling of beer and perforated with blackened cigarette burns. The unlikely customer was Ståle Aune, a psychologist, one of the country’s finest in his field and an expert to whom the police had had frequent recourse. Sometimes with pleasure and sometimes regret, as Aune was a thoroughly upright man who preserved his integrity and in a court of law never pronounced on matters which he could not support to the hilt with scientific evidence. However, since there islittle evidence for anything in psychology, it often happened that the prosecution witness became the defence’s best friend, the doubts he sowed generally working in favour of the accused. Harry, in his capacity as a police officer, had used Aune’s expertise in murder cases for so long that he regarded him as a colleague. In his capacity as an alcoholic, Harry had put himself so totally in the hands of this warmhearted, clever and becomingly arrogant man that – if cornered – he would have called him a friend.
‘So this is your refuge?’ Aune said.
‘Yes,’ Harry said, raising an eyebrow to Maja at the counter, who responded at once by scuttling through the swing doors into the kitchen.
‘And what have you got there?’
‘Japone. Chilli.’
A bead of sweat rolled down Harry’s nose, clung for a second to the tip, then fell onto the tablecloth. Aune studied the wet stain with amazement.
‘Sluggish thermostat,’ Harry said. ‘I’ve been in the gym.’
Aune screwed up his nose. ‘As a man of science, I ought to applaud you, I suppose, but as a philosopher I would question putting your body through that kind of unpleasantness.’
A steel coffee jug and a mug landed in front of Harry. ‘Thanks, Maja.’
‘Pangs of guilt,’ Aune said. ‘Some people can only deal with it by punishing themselves. Like when you go to pieces, Harry. In your case alcohol isn’t a refuge but the ultimate way to punish yourself.’
‘Thank you. I’ve heard you put forward that diagnosis before.’
‘Is that why you train so hard? Bad conscience?’
Harry shrugged.
Aune lowered his voice: ‘Is Ellen playing on your mind?’
Harry’s eyes shot up to meet Aune’s. He put the mug of coffee to his lips slowly and took a long drink before putting it down again with a grimace. ‘No, it’s not the Ellen Gjelten case. We’re gettingnowhere, but it’s not because we’ve done a bad job. That I do know. Something will turn up. We just have to bide our time.’
‘Good,’ Aune said. ‘It’s not your fault Ellen was killed. Keep that uppermost in your mind. And don’t forget: all your colleagues consider that the right man was arrested.’
‘Maybe, maybe not. He’s dead and can’t answer.’
‘Don’t let it become an idée fixe , Harry.’ Aune poked two fingers into the pocket of his tweed waistcoat, pulled out a silver pocket watch and cast a rapid glance at it. ‘But I scarcely imagine you wanted to speak about guilt?’
‘No, I didn’t.’ Harry took a wad of
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