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‘Like Harry Hole?’ the interviewer asked, as if that had anything to do with it!

‘Hole is paid by Røed,’ the police lawyer said. ‘But Hole has been educated and trained within the Norwegian police and clearly possesses the integrity we expect of members of the force, both past and present.’

‘Thank you for joining us, Chris Hinnøy...’

Prim turned the volume down. Swore while he pondered matters. If the police lawyer was right, then Markus Røed could stay locked up indefinitely, safe in a cell where he couldn’t be reached. That wasn’t the plan.

He tried to think.

Did the plan — the grand plan — need changing?

He looked at the pink slug on the coffee table. At the slimy trail it had left behind after a half-hour’s exertion. Where was it going? Did it have a plan? Was it hunting something? Or fleeing? Was it aware that sooner or later the cannibal slugs would find the trail and take up pursuit? That coming to a standstill was death?

Prim pressed his fingers against his temples.

Harry ran, felt his heart pump blood out to his body as he watched the news presenter thank Hinnøy.

Chris Hinnøy was one of the three police lawyers Harry and Johan Krohn had contacted a couple of hours ago to ask them to provide a subjective and unofficial assessment of the likelihood of Markus Røed being found guilty given the evidence in the case. Two of them had wanted to answer straight off, but Krohn had asked them to sleep on it until the morning.

The trainer of Bodø/Glimt was being interviewed on the news, and Harry shifted his gaze from the TV screen attached to the treadmill to the mirror in front of him.

He had the hotel’s small gym to himself. He had left his suit hanging in his room and put on a hotel bathrobe, which was now hanging on a peg behind him. The mirror in front covered the entire wall. He was running in underwear, a T-shirt and his handmade John Lobb shoes, which functioned surprisingly well as running shoes. He looked ridiculous, of course, but didn’t give a shit. On his way down he had even stopped by the reception in this outfit and said he had met an affable priest in the bar but forgotten his name. The black female receptionist had nodded and smiled. ‘He isn’t a guest at the hotel, but I know who you mean, Mr Hole. Because he was here enquiring about you as well.’

‘Really? When?’

‘Not long after you checked in, I don’t remember exactly when. He asked for your room number. I told him we don’t give out that information but that I could place a call to your room. He declined and left.’

‘Mm. Did he say what he wanted?’

‘No, just that he was... curious.’ She’d said the last word in English. And smiled again. ‘People tend to speak English to me.’

‘But he’s American, isn’t he?’

‘Maybe.’

Harry turned up the speed on the treadmill. He still had the pace. But was he running well enough? Would he ultimately be able to outrun everything? Everything behind him? Those who were out after him? Interpol had access to the guest lists of every hotel in the world, as did every halfway decent hacker. Suppose the priest was there to keep an eye on him, suppose he was the one who, in two days, when the deadline expired without the debt being paid, was going to take care of Harry. So what? Debt collectors don’t kill their debtors before all hope of getting their money is out, and then only as a warning to other debtors. And now Røed had been arrested. Saliva on the victim’s nipple. You don’t get better fucking forensic evidence than that. In the morning, the three police lawyers would say the same thing, the money would be transferred, the debt cleared, and he and Lucille would be free. So why was his mind still churning? Was it because it felt as though there was something else he was trying to run from, something that had to do with this case?

The phone, which Harry had placed in the bottle holder in the treadmill, rang. No initials appeared on the screen, but he recognised the number, and answered.

‘Talk to me.’

He heard laughter in response. Then a soft voice. ‘I can’t believe you’re still using that same expression from back when we worked together, Harry.’

‘Mm. I can’t believe you’re still using the same number.’

Mikael Bellman laughed again. ‘Congratulations on Røed.’

‘Which part?’

‘Oh, both on the job and the arrest.’

‘What do you want, Bellman?’

‘Now now.’ He laughed again, that charming, hearty laughter so effective in making men and women believe that Mikael Bellman was a warm, sincere individual, someone they could trust. ‘I must admit, you become a little spoilt as Minster of Justice, you get used to being the one pressed for time, it’s never the person you’re talking with.’

‘I’m not pressed for time. Not any longer.’

The pause that followed was a long one. When Bellman continued, the cordiality sounded slightly more forced.