The Devil's Star Read Free Page B

that shadow. But he hadn’t managed it.
    Rakel . . .
    Harry raised his head cautiously and gazed at the lifeless, black eye of the telephone answer machine. There had been no life in it for however many weeks had passed since his meeting with the head of Kripos , the Norwegian CID, at the Boxer. Presumably burned up by the sun as well.
    Shit, it was hot in here!
    Rakel . . .
    He remembered now. At one point in the dream the face had changed and it became Rakel’s. Sis, Ellen, Mum, Rakel. Women’s faces. As if in one constantly pumping, pulsating movement they could change and merge again.
    Harry groaned and let his head sink back down on the floor. He caught a glimpse of the bottle balancing on the edge of the table above him. Jim Beam from Clermont, Kentucky. The contents were gone. Evaporated, vaporised. Rakel. He closed his eyes. There was nothing left.
    He had no idea what the time was, he just knew that it was late. Or early. Whatever it was, it was the wrong moment to wake up. Or to be precise, to be asleep. You should do something else at this time of day. Such as drink.
    Harry got up onto his knees.
    There was something vibrating in his trousers. That, he now realised, was what had woken him. A moth trapped and desperately flapping its wings. He shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out his mobile phone.
    Harry walked slowly towards St Hanshaugen. His headache throbbed behind his eyeballs. The address Møller had given him was within walking distance. He had splashed a little water over his face, found a drop of whisky in the cupboard under the sink and set off hoping that a walk would clear his head. Harry passed Underwater: 4 p.m. till 3 a.m., 4 p.m. till 1 a.m. on Mondays, closed Sundays. This was not one of his more frequent watering holes since his local, Schrøder, was in the parallel street, but like most serious drinkers Harry always had a place in his brain where the opening hours of taprooms were stored automatically.
    He smiled at his reflection in the grimy windows. Another time.
    At the corner he turned right, down Ullevålsveien. Harry didn’t like walking in Ullevålsveien. It was a street for cars, not for pedestrians. The best thing he could say about Ullevålsveien was that the pavement on the right afforded some shade on days like this.
    Harry stopped in front of the house bearing the number he had been given. He gave it a quick once-over.
    On the ground floor was a launderette with red washing machines. The note on the window gave the opening times as 8.00 till 21.00 every day and offered a 20-minute dry for the reduced price of 30 kroner. A dark-skinned woman in a shawl sat beside a rotating drum, staring out into the air. Next to the launderette was a shop window with headstones in, and further down, a green neon sign displaying KEBAB HOUSE above a snack-bar-cum-grocer’s. Harry’s eyes wandered over the filthy house front. The paint on the old window frames had cracked, but the dormer windows on the roof suggested there were new attic conversions on top of the original four floors. A camera was placed over the newly installed intercom system by the rusty iron gate. Money from Oslo’s West End was flowing slowly but surely into the East End. He rang the top bell next to the name of Camilla Loen.
    ‘Yes,’ the loudspeaker replied.
    Møller had warned him, but nevertheless he was taken aback when he heard Tom Waaler’s voice.
    Harry tried to answer, but could not force a sound from his vocal cords. He coughed and made a fresh attempt.
    ‘Hole. Open up.’
    There was a buzzing sound and he grasped the cold, rough door handle of black iron.
    ‘Hi.’
    Harry turned round.
    ‘Hi, Beate.’
    Beate Lønn was just under average height, with dark blonde hair and blue eyes, neither good-looking nor unattractive. In short, there was nothing particularly striking about Beate Lønn, apart from her clothes. She was wearing a white boiler suit that looked a bit like an astronaut’s