higher. Too great a risk of surviving. Too big a risk of ending up in a wheelchair . . .’
‘But you wouldn’t push someone off this bridge, either, if you were trying to kill them, would you?’
‘No, maybe not,’ she yawned.
‘So we’re looking for someone who broke Per Vollan’s neck and then threw him into the river from here.’
‘That’s what you call a theory, I suppose.’
‘No, that’s what we call a theory. That dinner . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Ring your other half and say it’s off.’
‘Oh?’
‘We’re starting door-to-door inquiries for potential witnesses. You can begin by ringing the doorbell of anyone whose balcony overlooks the river. Next we need to go through the archives with a fine-tooth comb for potential neck-breakers.’ Simon closed his eyes and inhaled the air. ‘Don’t you just love Oslo in the summer?’
9
EINAR HARNES NEVER had any ambition to save the world. Just a small part of it. More specifically his part. So he studied law. Just a small part of it. More precisely the part he needed to pass the exam. He got a job with a firm of lawyers operating decidedly at the bottom of Oslo’s legal system, worked for them just long enough to get his licence, started his own firm with Erik Fallbakken, an ageing, borderline alcoholic, and together they had set a new low for dregs. They had taken on the most hopeless cases and lost every one of them, but in the process had earned themselves a reputation as the defenders of the lowest in society. The nature of their clients meant the legal partnership of Harnes & Fallbakken mostly had its invoices paid – if indeed they ever were – on the same dates that people collected their benefits. Einar Harnes had soon realised that he wasn’t in the business of providing justice, he merely offered a marginally more expensive alternative to debt collectors, social services and fortune-tellers. He threatened the people he was paid to threaten with lawsuits, employed the city’s most useless individuals on minimum wage and promised potential clients victory in court without exception. However, he had one client who was the real reason Harnes was still in business. This client had no record in the filing system – if you could call the total chaos that reigned in the filing cabinets, managed by a secretary who was more or less permanently on sick leave, a system. This client always paid his bills, usually in cash, and rarely asked for an invoice. Nor was this client likely to ask for one for the hours Harnes was about to run up, either.
Sonny Lofthus sat cross-legged on the bed with white desperation radiating from his eyes. It was six days since the notorious interview and the boy was having a rough time, but he had lasted longer than they had expected. The reports from the other inmates Harnes was in contact with were remarkable. Sonny hadn’t tried to score drugs; on the contrary, he had turned down offers of speed and cannabis. He had been seen in the gym where he had run on the treadmill for two hours without stopping and then lifted weights for another two. Screams had been heard coming from Sonny’s cell at night. But he was holding out. A guy who had been a hard-core H user for twelve years. The only people Harnes had heard of who had managed that before were people who had replaced drugs with something equally addictive, which could stimulate and motivate them just as much as the high from a hit. And it was a short list. They might find God, fall in love or have a child. That was it. In short, they finally found something which gave their lives a new and different purpose. Or was it only a drowning man’s last trip to the surface before he finally went under? All Einar Harnes knew for certain was that his paymaster wanted an answer. No. Not an answer. Results.
‘They have DNA evidence so you’ll be convicted whether or not you confess. Why prolong the agony for no reason?’
No reply.
Harnes ran his hand so hard over
‘But you wouldn’t push someone off this bridge, either, if you were trying to kill them, would you?’
‘No, maybe not,’ she yawned.
‘So we’re looking for someone who broke Per Vollan’s neck and then threw him into the river from here.’
‘That’s what you call a theory, I suppose.’
‘No, that’s what we call a theory. That dinner . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Ring your other half and say it’s off.’
‘Oh?’
‘We’re starting door-to-door inquiries for potential witnesses. You can begin by ringing the doorbell of anyone whose balcony overlooks the river. Next we need to go through the archives with a fine-tooth comb for potential neck-breakers.’ Simon closed his eyes and inhaled the air. ‘Don’t you just love Oslo in the summer?’
9
EINAR HARNES NEVER had any ambition to save the world. Just a small part of it. More specifically his part. So he studied law. Just a small part of it. More precisely the part he needed to pass the exam. He got a job with a firm of lawyers operating decidedly at the bottom of Oslo’s legal system, worked for them just long enough to get his licence, started his own firm with Erik Fallbakken, an ageing, borderline alcoholic, and together they had set a new low for dregs. They had taken on the most hopeless cases and lost every one of them, but in the process had earned themselves a reputation as the defenders of the lowest in society. The nature of their clients meant the legal partnership of Harnes & Fallbakken mostly had its invoices paid – if indeed they ever were – on the same dates that people collected their benefits. Einar Harnes had soon realised that he wasn’t in the business of providing justice, he merely offered a marginally more expensive alternative to debt collectors, social services and fortune-tellers. He threatened the people he was paid to threaten with lawsuits, employed the city’s most useless individuals on minimum wage and promised potential clients victory in court without exception. However, he had one client who was the real reason Harnes was still in business. This client had no record in the filing system – if you could call the total chaos that reigned in the filing cabinets, managed by a secretary who was more or less permanently on sick leave, a system. This client always paid his bills, usually in cash, and rarely asked for an invoice. Nor was this client likely to ask for one for the hours Harnes was about to run up, either.
Sonny Lofthus sat cross-legged on the bed with white desperation radiating from his eyes. It was six days since the notorious interview and the boy was having a rough time, but he had lasted longer than they had expected. The reports from the other inmates Harnes was in contact with were remarkable. Sonny hadn’t tried to score drugs; on the contrary, he had turned down offers of speed and cannabis. He had been seen in the gym where he had run on the treadmill for two hours without stopping and then lifted weights for another two. Screams had been heard coming from Sonny’s cell at night. But he was holding out. A guy who had been a hard-core H user for twelve years. The only people Harnes had heard of who had managed that before were people who had replaced drugs with something equally addictive, which could stimulate and motivate them just as much as the high from a hit. And it was a short list. They might find God, fall in love or have a child. That was it. In short, they finally found something which gave their lives a new and different purpose. Or was it only a drowning man’s last trip to the surface before he finally went under? All Einar Harnes knew for certain was that his paymaster wanted an answer. No. Not an answer. Results.
‘They have DNA evidence so you’ll be convicted whether or not you confess. Why prolong the agony for no reason?’
No reply.
Harnes ran his hand so hard over
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