plastic bag containing a Salvation Army packed lunch.
Harry swung through the door with a nod to the guard wearing the Salvation Army hoody.
'Anything?' the guard asked.
Harry patted his pockets. 'Nothing.'
A sign on the wall said all alcohol had to be handed in at the door and taken away when leaving. Harry knew they had given up on drugs and the equipment. No junkie would hand that in.
Harry entered, poured himself a cup of coffee and sat on the bench by the wall. Fyrlyset , the Lighthouse, was the Army's café, the new millennium's version of the soup kitchen where the needy were given free snacks and coffee. A cosy, well-lit room where the only difference between this and the usual cappuccino bar was the clientele. Ninety per cent of drug users were male. They ate slices of white bread with Norwegian brown or white cheese, read the newspapers and had quiet conversations round the tables. It was a free zone, a chance to thaw out and have a breather from the search for the day's fix. Although undercover police dropped by now and again, there was a tacit agreement that no arrests would be made inside.
A man sitting next to Harry had frozen into a deep bow. His head hung down over the table and in front of him black fingers held a cigarette paper. There were a few emptied dog-ends scattered around.
Harry noticed the uniformed back of a mini-woman changing burnt-down candles on a table with four picture frames. Inside three of them were individual photographs; inside the fourth a cross and a name on a white background. Harry stood up and walked over.
'What are they?' he asked.
Perhaps it was the slim neck or the grace of the movement, or the smooth, raven-black, almost unnatural, shiny hair that made Harry think of a cat even before she had turned round. The impression was reinforced by the small face with the disproportionately broad mouth and the pertest of noses possible, like those the characters in Harry's Japanese comics had. But, more than anything else, it was the eyes. He couldn't put his finger on why, but something about them was not right.
'November,' she answered.
She had a calm, deep, gentle alto voice that made Harry wonder if it was natural or a way of speaking she had acquired. He had known women who did that, who changed their voices the way they changed clothes. One voice for home use; one for first impressions and social occasions; and one for night-time intimacies.
'What do you mean?' Harry asked.
'Our November crop of deaths.'
Harry looked at the photos and he realised what she meant.
'Four?' he said in a low voice. In front of the pictures was a letter written with an unsteady hand in pencilled capitals.
'On average one customer dies a week. Four is not out of the ordinary. Our remembrance day is on the first Wednesday of every month. Is there anyone you . . . ?'
Harry shook his head. ' My dearest Geir ,' the letter began. No flowers.
'Is there anything I can help you with?' she asked.
It struck Harry that she may not have had any other voices in her repertoire, just this deep, warm tone.
'Per Holmen . . .' Harry started, not knowing quite how to finish.
'Poor Per, yes. We'll have a remembrance day for him in January.
Harry nodded. 'First Wednesday.'
'That's it. And you're very welcome to come, brother.'
This 'brother' was enunciated with such unforced ease, like an underplayed and hence almost unarticulated appendix to the sentence. For a moment Harry almost believed her.
'I'm a detective,' Harry said.
The difference in height between them was so great that she had to crane her neck to see him clearly.
'I've seen you before, I think, but it must be years ago.'
Harry nodded. 'Maybe. I've been here once or twice, but I haven't seen you.'
'I'm part-time here. Otherwise I'm at the Salvation Army headquarters. And you work in the drugs division?'
Harry shook his head. 'Murder investigations.'
'Murder. But Per wasn't murdered . . . ?'
'Can we sit down for a moment?'
She
Harry swung through the door with a nod to the guard wearing the Salvation Army hoody.
'Anything?' the guard asked.
Harry patted his pockets. 'Nothing.'
A sign on the wall said all alcohol had to be handed in at the door and taken away when leaving. Harry knew they had given up on drugs and the equipment. No junkie would hand that in.
Harry entered, poured himself a cup of coffee and sat on the bench by the wall. Fyrlyset , the Lighthouse, was the Army's café, the new millennium's version of the soup kitchen where the needy were given free snacks and coffee. A cosy, well-lit room where the only difference between this and the usual cappuccino bar was the clientele. Ninety per cent of drug users were male. They ate slices of white bread with Norwegian brown or white cheese, read the newspapers and had quiet conversations round the tables. It was a free zone, a chance to thaw out and have a breather from the search for the day's fix. Although undercover police dropped by now and again, there was a tacit agreement that no arrests would be made inside.
A man sitting next to Harry had frozen into a deep bow. His head hung down over the table and in front of him black fingers held a cigarette paper. There were a few emptied dog-ends scattered around.
Harry noticed the uniformed back of a mini-woman changing burnt-down candles on a table with four picture frames. Inside three of them were individual photographs; inside the fourth a cross and a name on a white background. Harry stood up and walked over.
'What are they?' he asked.
Perhaps it was the slim neck or the grace of the movement, or the smooth, raven-black, almost unnatural, shiny hair that made Harry think of a cat even before she had turned round. The impression was reinforced by the small face with the disproportionately broad mouth and the pertest of noses possible, like those the characters in Harry's Japanese comics had. But, more than anything else, it was the eyes. He couldn't put his finger on why, but something about them was not right.
'November,' she answered.
She had a calm, deep, gentle alto voice that made Harry wonder if it was natural or a way of speaking she had acquired. He had known women who did that, who changed their voices the way they changed clothes. One voice for home use; one for first impressions and social occasions; and one for night-time intimacies.
'What do you mean?' Harry asked.
'Our November crop of deaths.'
Harry looked at the photos and he realised what she meant.
'Four?' he said in a low voice. In front of the pictures was a letter written with an unsteady hand in pencilled capitals.
'On average one customer dies a week. Four is not out of the ordinary. Our remembrance day is on the first Wednesday of every month. Is there anyone you . . . ?'
Harry shook his head. ' My dearest Geir ,' the letter began. No flowers.
'Is there anything I can help you with?' she asked.
It struck Harry that she may not have had any other voices in her repertoire, just this deep, warm tone.
'Per Holmen . . .' Harry started, not knowing quite how to finish.
'Poor Per, yes. We'll have a remembrance day for him in January.
Harry nodded. 'First Wednesday.'
'That's it. And you're very welcome to come, brother.'
This 'brother' was enunciated with such unforced ease, like an underplayed and hence almost unarticulated appendix to the sentence. For a moment Harry almost believed her.
'I'm a detective,' Harry said.
The difference in height between them was so great that she had to crane her neck to see him clearly.
'I've seen you before, I think, but it must be years ago.'
Harry nodded. 'Maybe. I've been here once or twice, but I haven't seen you.'
'I'm part-time here. Otherwise I'm at the Salvation Army headquarters. And you work in the drugs division?'
Harry shook his head. 'Murder investigations.'
'Murder. But Per wasn't murdered . . . ?'
'Can we sit down for a moment?'
She
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