At first, she had put her hand to her mouth, cast a quick glance at the little box he was holding up in front of her and exclaimed: ‘I can’t accept it.’

Such a spontaneous, panicky response is of course not surprising when you’re taken unawares, Prim thought. When someone holds something up in front of you, a symbol of the rest of your life, an object representing something too great to be squeezed into one sentence.

So he had allowed her to draw breath before repeating the words he had decided would accompany the presentation.

‘Take this ring. Take me. Take us. I love you.’

But again, she shook her head. ‘Thank you. But it wouldn’t be right.’

Wouldn’t be right? What could be more right? Prim explained to her how he had scrimped and saved and just waited for this occasion, precisely because it was right. More than that, perfect. Look, even the celestial bodies up in the velvet blackness above them were marking this as a special occasion.

‘It’s a perfect ring,’ she said. ‘But it’s not for me.’

She tilted her head and gave him this mournful look to let him know what a sorry situation this was. Or rather, how sorry she felt for him.

Yes, he had heard right.

Prim could hear a rushing sound. Not the swish of a gentle breeze through the treetops as he had imagined, but the sound of a TV no longer receiving any transmission, alone, without contact, without purpose and meaning. The sound continued to rise, the pressure in his head increased, though already unbearable. He needed to disappear, to be no more. But he couldn’t disappear, couldn’t just nullify himself. So she needed to disappear. She needed to be no more. Or — that was when it occurred to him — he, the other man, needed to disappear. The cause. The man who poisoned her, blinded her, confused her. The man who made it so that she was no longer able to tell the difference between his, Prim’s, true love and the man’s, the parasite’s, manipulation. It was he, the policeman, that was her toxoplasma.

‘Well, if it’s not for you,’ Prim said, closing the box with the diamond ring, ‘then this is.’

The eclipse had begun above them, like a ravenous cannibal the night had started to gnaw at the left edge of the moon. But there was still more than enough moonlight where the two of them sat, and he could see her pupils dilate as she stared at the knife he had produced.

‘What...’ she said. Her voice sounded dry, and she swallowed before continuing: ‘...is... that?’

‘What do you think it is?’

He could tell by her eyes what she was thinking, saw her lips form the words, but they wouldn’t come out. So he said them for her.

‘It’s the murder weapon.’

She looked like she was going to say something but he got to his feet quickly and was behind her. Pulled her head back and pressed the knife to her throat.

‘It’s the murder weapon that opened the jugulars of Susanne Andersen and Helene Røed. And which will open yours. If you don’t do exactly as I say.’

He pulled her head so far back that he could look her in the eyes.

The way in which the two of them were viewing each other now, upside down, was probably the way they viewed each other’s worlds too. Yes, so perhaps it would never have worked. Perhaps he had known that too. Perhaps that was why, despite everything, he had planned this alternative solution if she didn’t accept the ring. He had expected her to look at him with disbelief. But she didn’t. She looked like she believed every word he said.

Good.

‘Wh-what will I do?’

‘You’re going to call your policeman with an invitation he can’t refuse.’

50

Friday

Missed calls

The head waiter lifted the handset of the ringing telephone. ‘Frognerseteren Restaurant.’

‘This is Harry Hole. I’m trying to get hold of Inspector Katrine Bratt who’s dining with you tonight.’

The head waiter was taken aback. Not only because the loudspeaker on the phone was on, but because there was something familiar about the man’s name. ‘I’m looking at the guest list now, Mr Hole. But I can’t see a reservation in her name.’

‘It’s probably under the gentleman’s name. He’s called Arne, I don’t know his surname.’

‘No Arne, but I do have several surnames here with no first names.’

‘OK. He’s blond, might be wearing a flat cap. She’s dark-haired, Bergen accent.’

‘Aha. Yes, they ate outside, that was my table.’

‘Ate?’

‘Yes, they’ve left the restaurant.’

‘Mm. Did you happen to hear anything that could give you some idea where they might be going?’

The head waiter hesitated. ‘I’m not sure if I—’

‘This is important, it’s concerning the police investigation of the murdered women.’

The head waiter realised where he had heard the name before.

‘The gentleman arrived early and asked to borrow two wine glasses. He had a bottle of Remoissenet Chassagne-Montrachet and said he was going to propose to her up by Tryvann after dinner, and then I gave him the glasses. It was a 2018 vintage, you see.’

‘Thanks.’

Harry reached out to the phone lying on Aune’s duvet and ended the call.