Cockroaches: The Second Inspector Harry Hole Novel Read Free Page B

the perfect man for the job.
    He glanced around the table. Politics, power and influence. This was a game he couldn’t begin to understand, but he realized that in some way or other it would work out in his favor, that whatever he said now would have consequences for his career. The Police Commissioner had stuck her neck out by suggesting a name. Probably one of the others had then asked to have Hole’s qualifications endorsed by his immediate superiors. He looked at his boss and tried to interpret her expression. Of course, everything might turn out fine with Hole. And if he advised them not to send him, would that not cast the Commissioner in an unfortunate light? He would be asked to suggest an alternative and then
his
head would be the one on the block if the officer concerned messed up.
    Møller looked at the painting above the Police Commissioner: Trygve Lie, the UN Secretary General, gazed down at him imperiously. A politician as well. Through the windows he saw the roofs of the apartment buildings in the low winter light, Akershus fortress and a weathercock shivering in the icy gusts on top of the Continental Hotel.
    Bjarne Møller knew he was a competent police officer, but this was a different game, and he didn’t know the rules. What would his father have advised him to do? Well, Officer Møller had never had to deal with politics, but he had known what was important if he was to be taken at all seriously and had forbidden his son to start Police College until he had completed the first part of a law course. He had done as his father said, and after the graduation ceremony his father had kept clearing his throat, overcome with emotion, while slapping his son on the back until he’d had to ask him to stop.
    “A great suggestion,” Bjarne Møller heard himself say in a loud, clear voice.
    “Good,” Torhus said. “The reason we wanted an opinion so quickly is that, of course, all this is urgent. He’ll have to drop everything he’s working on; he’s leaving tomorrow.”
    Well, perhaps it’s just the sort of job Harry needs right now, Møller hoped.
    “Sorry we have to deprive you of such an important man,” Askildsen said.
    PAS Bjarne Møller had to stop himself bursting into laughter.

3
Wednesday, January 8
    They found him at Schrøder’s in Waldemar Thranes gate, a venerable old watering hole located at the crossroads where Oslo East meets Oslo West. It was more old than venerable, to be honest. The venerable part was largely down to the authorities’ decision to put a preservation order on the smoke-filled brown rooms. But the order did not include the clientele: old boozers, a hunted and extinction-threatened bunch; eternal students; and jaded charmers long past their sell-by date.
    The two officers spotted their man sitting under a painting of Aker Church as the draft from the door allowed a brief glimpse through the curtain of smoke. His blond hair was cropped so short the bristles stood up straight and the three-day beard on the lean, marked face had a streak of gray even though he could hardly be older than his mid-thirties. He sat alone, straight-backed, wearing his reefer jacket, as if about to leave any minute. As if the beer in front of him on the table was not a source of pleasure but a job that had to be done.
    “They said we would find you here,” said the older of the two and sat down opposite him. “I’m Waaler.”
    “See the guy sitting in the corner?” Hole said without looking up.
    Waaler turned and saw a scrawny old man gazing into his glass of red wine while rocking backward and forward. He seemed to be freezing cold.
    “They call him the last Mohican.”
    Hole raised his head and beamed. His eyes were like blue-and-white marbles behind a network of red veins, and they focused on Waaler’s shirt.
    “Merchant seaman,” he said, his diction meticulous. “Used to be lots of them here a few years back apparently, but now there are hardly any left. He was torpedoed twice