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At the other end there were two people sitting at a conference table. He knew one of them as Johan Krohn. The other he recognised from the newspaper articles. Markus Røed let Krohn get to his feet first and approach Harry with hand outstretched. Harry gave Krohn a quick smile without taking his eye off the man behind. Saw Markus Røed fasten a button on his suit jacket with an automatic movement, but remain standing at the table. After shaking Krohn’s hand, Harry walked over to the table and did the same with Røed. Noticed they were probably much the same height. Estimated Røed had at least twenty kilos extra to wrestle with. Now, close up, Røed’s sixty-six years showed behind the artificially smooth skin, the white teeth and the thick, black hair. But OK, he had at least used better surgeons than some of the people he had seen in LA. Harry noticed a slight twitch in the large pupils in Røed’s narrow blue irises, as though he had a fascicular condition.

‘Have a seat, Harry.’

‘Thanks, Markus,’ Harry said, unbuttoning his jacket and sitting down. If Røed disliked the form of address or registered the riposte, his facial expression didn’t reveal it.

‘Thanks for coming at such short notice,’ Røed said, gesturing something to the young man in the doorway.

‘A certain momentum suits me fine.’ Harry let his gaze wander over the portraits of the three serious-looking men on the wall. Two paintings and a photograph, all with gold plaques at the bottom of the frame, all with the surname Røed.

‘Yes, well, of course things move at a different pace over there,’ Krohn said, the last two words in English, in what sounded to Harry like a slightly stressed diplomat’s small talk.

‘I don’t know,’ Harry said. ‘I think Los Angeles is laid-back compared to New York and Chicago. But you’re cracking on here too, I see. Office hours on a Sunday. Impressive.’

‘It does a man good to take a little time away from the hell of home life and the family,’ Røed said, and grinned at Krohn. ‘Especially on a Sunday.’

‘You have children?’ Harry asked. He hadn’t got that impression from the newspaper articles.

‘Yes,’ Røed replied, looking at Krohn as if he was the one who had asked. ‘My wife.’

Røed laughed, and Krohn joined dutifully in. Harry pulled the corners of his mouth up slightly so as not to appear undemonstrative. He thought about the pictures of Helene Røed he had seen in the newspapers. How big was the age difference? Had to be at least thirty years. In all the pictures the couple were photographed against backdrops with logos, in other words at premieres, fashion shows and the like. Helene Røed was of course dressed up and dolled up, but she looked more self-aware, less ridiculous than some of the women — and the men — you see posing for the camera at similar events. She was beautiful, but there was something faded about her beauty, a youthful lustre that seemed to have disappeared a tad too early. A little too much work? A little too much alcohol or other things? A little too little happiness? Or a little of all three?

‘Well,’ Krohn said, ‘knowing my client as I do, I’d say he’d spend a lot of time here no matter. You don’t get to where he’s got without hard work.’

Røed shrugged, but offered no objection. ‘What about you, Harry? Do you have children?’

Harry was looking at the portraits. All three men were pictured in front of large buildings. Erected or owned by themselves, Harry presumed.

‘Combined with a solid family fortune, perhaps,’ he said.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Along with the hard work. It makes it that bit easier, doesn’t it?’

Røed raised a well-groomed eyebrow below his shiny black hair and looked enquiringly at Krohn, as though to demand an explanation for what kind of guy Krohn had got hold of. Then he raised his head to lift the onset of a double chin over his shirt collar and fixed his eyes on Harry.

‘Fortunes don’t take care of themselves, Hole. But perhaps you know that?’

‘Me? What makes you think that?’

‘No? You certainly dress like a man of means. Unless I’m very much mistaken, that suit of yours was sewn by Garth Alexander of Savile Row. I have two of them myself.’

‘I don’t remember the name of the tailor,’ Harry said. ‘I got it from a lady for agreeing to be her escort.’

‘Bloody hell. Was she so ugly?’

‘No.’

‘No? A looker, then?’

‘Yeah, I’ll say. For a septuagenarian.’

Markus Røed put his hands behind his head and leaned back. His eyes became narrow slits.

‘You know what, Harry, you and my wife have something in common there. You only take your clothes off to change into something more expensive.’