Jo Nesbo - The Devil's star

‘Good evening. May I help you?’ she said, smiling her next best smile. Her best smile she kept in reserve for the day when the man walked in whom she would have as her own.

‘I hope so,’ the man smiled back, taking a handkerchief out of his breast pocket and pressing it against his forehead. ‘I have a meeting, but perhaps you would be so kind as to fetch me a glass of water first?’

Barbara thought she could detect a foreign accent, but she couldn’t quite place it. Nevertheless, the courteous yet commanding way he asked strengthened her conviction that this customer was a big cheese.

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘One moment.’

As she walked down the corridor she remembered that Wetterlid had mentioned something about a possible bonus for all employees if their annual figures came up to scratch this year. Perhaps then the firm could also afford to think about getting a water cooler like those she had seen in other places. Then, completely out of the blue, something odd happened. Time accelerated. It jerked forward. It only lasted a few seconds and then time went back to being slow again, but it felt as if, quite unaccountably, the seconds had been taken from her.

She went into the ladies’ lavatory and turned on the tap above one of the three basins. She pulled a plastic beaker out of the container and waited as she held her finger under the water. Lukewarm. The man outside would just have to be patient. They said on the radio today that sea temperatures in Nordmarka would be around 22 degrees. Yet, if you let the water run for long enough, the drinking water that came from Lake Maridal was wonderfully cold. While staring at her finger, she wondered how that could be. When the water was really cold, her finger would go white and almost completely lose feeling. The ring finger on her left hand. When would she wear a wedding ring? She hoped before her heart went white and lost feeling. She felt a current of air and then it was gone, so she didn’t bother to turn round. The water was still lukewarm. And time was passing. Running out, just as the water was. Nonsense. She wouldn’t be 30 for another 20 months. She had plenty of time.

A sound made her look up. In the mirror she saw two white cubicle doors. Had someone come in without her noticing?

She almost gave a start when the water suddenly went ice cold. Deep cavities under the earth. That’s what it was, that’s why it was so cold. She put the beaker under the tap and it was soon full to the brim. She felt an urge to hurry, to get out. She turned and dropped the beaker on the floor.

‘Did I frighten you?’

The voice appeared to be genuinely concerned.

‘Sorry,’ she said, forgetting to pull her shoulders back. ‘I’m a bit jittery today.’ She bent down to pick up the beaker and added: ‘Actually, you’re in the ladies’ lavatory.’

The beaker had whirled around and stopped in an upright position. There was still some water left in it, and as she reached out towards it, she could see her own face reflected in the circular white surface. Beside her face, on the outer edge of the narrow reflection, she saw something move. Again time seemed to pass slowly. Unendingly slowly. Once more she caught herself thinking that time was ticking away.

Monday. Vena Amoris.

Harry’s rusty red-and-white Ford Escort pulled up in front of the television shop. Two police cars and Waaler’s red sports supercar looked as if they had been strewn randomly across the pavements around the crossroads with the flattering name of Carl Berners plass.

Harry parked, took the green chisel out of his jacket pocket and put it on the passenger seat. As he hadn’t been able to find his car keys in his flat he had taken some wire and the chisel with him while he trawled the neighbourhood. He found his beloved car again in Stensberggata. And, sure enough, with the car keys in the ignition. The green chisel was perfect for bending the car door so that he could flip up the locking device with the wire.

Harry crossed the pedestrian crossing on red. He walked slowly; his body wouldn’t allow high speeds. His stomach and head ached, and his sweaty shirt was stuck to his back. It was 5.55 and he had managed without his medicine so far, but he wasn’t making any promises to himself.

The board in the hallway said the solicitors’ firm of Halle, Thune amp; Wetterlid was on the fifth floor. Harry groaned. He cast a glance at the lift. Sliding doors. No grille.

The lift was manufactured by KONE and when the shiny metal doors closed, he had the feeling he was inside a welded tin can. Harry tried not to listen to the lift machinery as they rose. He closed his eyes, but opened them again in a hurry when images of Sis appeared on the inside of his eyelids.

One of the uniformed regulars opened the door to the office area.

‘She’s in there,’ he said, pointing down the corridor to the left of the reception desk.

‘Any uniformed officers here?’

‘On their way.’

‘They’d certainly appreciate it if you closed off the lift and the door downstairs.’

‘Fine.’

‘Anyone here from Forensics?’

‘Li and Hansen. They’ve gathered together all the people who were still here when she was found. They’re questioning them now in one of the conference rooms.’

Harry walked down the corridor. The carpets were worn and the reproductions of national romantic treasures faded. It was a firm that had seen better days. Or perhaps it hadn’t.

The door to the ladies’ lavatory was ajar and the carpets muffled the sound of Harry’s steps as he approached. He could hear the sound of Tom Waaler’s voice. Harry stopped outside. It sounded as if Waaler was talking on his mobile.

‘If it’s one of his, he’s obviously not going through us any more. OK, leave it with me.’

Harry pushed open the door and saw Waaler in a squat position. He looked up.

‘Hi, Harry. Be with you in a minute.’

Harry stood on the threshold, absorbing the scene and the sound of a distant crackling voice on Waaler’s phone in the background.

The room was surprisingly big, roughly four metres by five, with two white lavatory cubicles and three white basins placed below a long mirror. The neon lights in the ceiling cast a harsh glare on the white walls and white floor tiles. The absence of colour was almost conspicuous. Perhaps it was this background that made the body look like a small work of art, a carefully arranged exhibition. The woman was young and slim. She was kneeling with her forehead on the ground, like a Muslim at prayer, except that her arms were beneath her body. Her suit skirt had ridden up over her underwear, revealing a cream-yellow G-string. A narrow, dark red stream of blood ran in the grouting between the woman’s head and the drain. It looked almost painted on to achieve maximum effect.

The body was in balance, supported at five points: the two feet, the knees and the forehead. The suit, the bizarre position and the bared posterior made Harry think of a secretary preparing herself to be penetrated by the boss. Stereotypes again. For all he knew, she could be the boss.

‘OK, but we can’t deal with that now,’ Waaler said. ‘Call me this evening.’

The detective inspector put the phone back in his inside pocket, but remained in a squat position. Harry noticed that his other hand was on the woman’s white skin, just below the edge of her underwear. To support himself, he supposed.

‘They’ll be good photos, won’t they,’ Waaler said as if he had been reading Harry’s thoughts.

‘Who is she?’

‘Barbara Svendsen, twenty-eight years old from Bestum. She was the receptionist here.’

Harry squatted down beside Waaler.

‘She was shot through the back of her head, as you can see,’ Waaler said. ‘Must have been with the gun under the basin over there. It still smells of cordite.’