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sheet of paper Harry presumed was her CV. ‘Law degree from Bergen University 1999, Police College and now she’s an officer here. For the moment no children, but she’s married.’
    One of Katrine Bratt’s thin eyebrows rose imperceptibly, and either Hagen saw this, or he thought this last scrap of information was superfluous, and added, ‘For those who may be interested …’
    In the oppressive and telling pause that followed, Hagen seemed to think he had made matters worse, coughed twice, with force, and said that those who had not yet signed up for the Christmas party should do so before Wednesday.
    Chairs scraped and Harry was already in the corridor when he heard a voice behind him.
    ‘Apparently I belong to you.’
    Harry turned and looked into Katrine Bratt’s face. Wondering how attractive she would be if she made an effort.
    ‘Or you to me,’ she said, showing a line of even teeth but without letting the smile reach her eyes. ‘Whichever way you look at it.’ She spoke Bergen-flavoured standard Norwegian with moderately rolled ‘r’s, which suggested, Harry wagered, that she was from Fana or Kalfaret or some other solidly middle-class district.
    He continued on his way, and she hurried to catch up with him. ‘Seems the
Politioverbetjent
forgot to inform you.’
    She pronounced the word with a slightly exaggerated stress on all the syllables of Gunnar Hagen’s rank.
    ‘But you should show me round and take care of me for the next few days. Until I’m up and running. Can you do that, do you think?’
    Harry eased off a smile. So far he liked her, but of course he was open to changing his opinion. Harry was always willing to give people another chance to wind up on his black list.
    ‘I don’t know,’ he said, stopping by the coffee dispenser. ‘Let’s start with this.’
    ‘I don’t drink coffee.’
    ‘Nevertheless. It’s self-explanatory. Like most things here. What are your thoughts on the case of the missing woman?’
    Harry pressed the button for Americano which, in this machine, was as American as Norwegian ferry coffee.
    ‘What about it?’ Bratt asked.
    ‘Do you think she’s alive?’ Harry tried to ask in a casual manner so that she wouldn’t realise it was a test.
    ‘Do you think I’m stupid?’ she said and watched with undisguised revulsion as the machine coughed and spluttered something black into a white plastic cup. ‘Didn’t you hear the
Politioverbetjent
say that I worked at the Sexual Offences Unit for four years?’
    ‘Mm,’ Harry said. ‘Dead then?’
    ‘As a dodo,’ said Katrine Bratt.
    Harry lifted the white cup. He pondered the possibility that he had just been allocated a colleague he might come to appreciate.
    Walking home in the afternoon, Harry saw that the snow was gone from the pavements and streets, and the light, flimsy flakes whirling through the air were eaten up by the wet tarmac as soon as they hit the ground. He went into his regular music shop in Akersgata and bought Neil Young’s latest even though he had a suspicion it was a stinker.
    As he unlocked his flat he noticed that something was different. Something about the sound. Or perhaps it was the smell. He pulled upsharp at the threshold to the kitchen. The whole of one wall was gone. That is, where early this morning there had been bright, flowery wallpaper and plasterboard, he now saw rust-red bricks, grey mortar and greyish-yellow studwork dotted with nail holes. On the floor was the mould man’s toolbox and on the worktop a note saying he would be back the following day.
    He went into the sitting room, slipped in the Neil Young CD, glumly took it out again after a quarter of an hour and put on Ryan Adams. The thought of a drink came from nowhere. Harry closed his eyes and stared at the dancing pattern of blood and total blindness. He was reminded of the letter again. The first snow. Toowoomba.
    The ringing of the telephone interrupted Ryan Adams’s ‘Shakedown on 9th Street’.
    A