came to Norway with the boat people in 1978 – on the head. So hard that Ho Dai would never be able to walk again. When Olsen started to speak, Johan Krohn Jr. was already mentally shaping the appeal he would lodge with the High Court.
‘ Rac-ism ,’ Olsen read, having found the definition in his papers, ‘is an eternal struggle against hereditary illness, degeneration and annihilation, as well as a dream of and a desire for a healthier society with a better quality of life. Racial mixture is a kind of bilateral genocide. In a world where there are plans to establish gene banks to preserve the smallest beetle, it is generally accepted that you can mix and destroy human races that have taken millennia to develop. In an article in the respected journal American Psychologist in 1972, fifty American and European scientists warned about the dangers of suppressing inheritance theory arguments.’
Olsen stopped, encompassed courtroom 17 in one sweeping glare and raised his right index finger. He had turned towards the prosecutor and Krohn could see the pale Sieg Heil tattoo on the shaven roll of fat between the back of his head and his neck – a mute shriek and a strangely grotesque contrast to the cool rhetoric of the court. In the ensuing silence Krohn could hear from the noise in the corridor that courtroom 18 had adjourned for lunch. Seconds passed. Krohn remembered something he had read about Adolf Hitler: that at mass rallies he would pause for effect for up to three minutes. When Olsen continued he beat the rhythm with his finger, as if to drum every word and sentence into the listeners’ brains.
‘Those of you who are trying to pretend that there is not a racial struggle going on here are either blind or traitors.’
He drank water from the glass the court usher had placed in front of him.
The prosecutor broke in: ‘And in this racial struggle you and your supporters, of whom there are a number in this court today, are the only ones who have the right to attack?’
Boos from the skinheads in the public gallery.
‘We don’t attack, we defend ourselves,’ Olsen said. ‘It’s the right and duty of every race.’
A shout from the benches, which Olsen caught and passed on with a smile: ‘In fact, even among people from other races there is race-conscious National Socialism.’
Laughter and scattered applause from the gallery. The judge asked for silence before looking enquiringly at the prosecutor.
‘That was all,’ Groth said.
‘Does the defence counsel have any more questions?’
Krohn shook his head.
‘Then I would like the first witness for the prosecution to be brought in.’
The prosecutor nodded to the usher, who opened the door at the back of the room. There was a scraping of chairs outside, the door opened wide and a large man strolled in. Krohn noted that the man was wearing a suit jacket which was slightly too small, black jeans and large Dr Martens boots. The close-shaven head and the slim athletic body suggested an age somewhere around the early thirties – although the bloodshot eyes with bags underneath and the pale complexion with thin capillaries bursting sporadically into small red deltas pointed more in the region of fifty.
‘Police Officer Harry Hole?’ the judge asked when the man had taken a seat in the witness box.
‘Yes.’
‘No home address given, I see?’
‘Private.’ Hole pointed with his thumb over his shoulder. ‘They tried to break into my place.’
More boos.
‘Have you ever made an affirmation, Police Officer Hole? Taken the oath, in other words?’
‘Yes.’
Krohn’s head wobbled like the nodding dogs some motorists like to keep on their parcel shelf. He began feverishly to flick through the documents.
‘You investigate murders for Crime Squad, don’t you?’ Groth said. ‘Why were you given this case?’
‘Because we wrongly assessed the case.’
‘Oh?’
‘We didn’t think that Ho Dai would survive. You usually don’t with a smashed
‘ Rac-ism ,’ Olsen read, having found the definition in his papers, ‘is an eternal struggle against hereditary illness, degeneration and annihilation, as well as a dream of and a desire for a healthier society with a better quality of life. Racial mixture is a kind of bilateral genocide. In a world where there are plans to establish gene banks to preserve the smallest beetle, it is generally accepted that you can mix and destroy human races that have taken millennia to develop. In an article in the respected journal American Psychologist in 1972, fifty American and European scientists warned about the dangers of suppressing inheritance theory arguments.’
Olsen stopped, encompassed courtroom 17 in one sweeping glare and raised his right index finger. He had turned towards the prosecutor and Krohn could see the pale Sieg Heil tattoo on the shaven roll of fat between the back of his head and his neck – a mute shriek and a strangely grotesque contrast to the cool rhetoric of the court. In the ensuing silence Krohn could hear from the noise in the corridor that courtroom 18 had adjourned for lunch. Seconds passed. Krohn remembered something he had read about Adolf Hitler: that at mass rallies he would pause for effect for up to three minutes. When Olsen continued he beat the rhythm with his finger, as if to drum every word and sentence into the listeners’ brains.
‘Those of you who are trying to pretend that there is not a racial struggle going on here are either blind or traitors.’
He drank water from the glass the court usher had placed in front of him.
The prosecutor broke in: ‘And in this racial struggle you and your supporters, of whom there are a number in this court today, are the only ones who have the right to attack?’
Boos from the skinheads in the public gallery.
‘We don’t attack, we defend ourselves,’ Olsen said. ‘It’s the right and duty of every race.’
A shout from the benches, which Olsen caught and passed on with a smile: ‘In fact, even among people from other races there is race-conscious National Socialism.’
Laughter and scattered applause from the gallery. The judge asked for silence before looking enquiringly at the prosecutor.
‘That was all,’ Groth said.
‘Does the defence counsel have any more questions?’
Krohn shook his head.
‘Then I would like the first witness for the prosecution to be brought in.’
The prosecutor nodded to the usher, who opened the door at the back of the room. There was a scraping of chairs outside, the door opened wide and a large man strolled in. Krohn noted that the man was wearing a suit jacket which was slightly too small, black jeans and large Dr Martens boots. The close-shaven head and the slim athletic body suggested an age somewhere around the early thirties – although the bloodshot eyes with bags underneath and the pale complexion with thin capillaries bursting sporadically into small red deltas pointed more in the region of fifty.
‘Police Officer Harry Hole?’ the judge asked when the man had taken a seat in the witness box.
‘Yes.’
‘No home address given, I see?’
‘Private.’ Hole pointed with his thumb over his shoulder. ‘They tried to break into my place.’
More boos.
‘Have you ever made an affirmation, Police Officer Hole? Taken the oath, in other words?’
‘Yes.’
Krohn’s head wobbled like the nodding dogs some motorists like to keep on their parcel shelf. He began feverishly to flick through the documents.
‘You investigate murders for Crime Squad, don’t you?’ Groth said. ‘Why were you given this case?’
‘Because we wrongly assessed the case.’
‘Oh?’
‘We didn’t think that Ho Dai would survive. You usually don’t with a smashed
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