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‘We’re working on a piece about...’ she began. This was the introduction used to signal that the wheels were already in motion, could not be stopped, and the plural first-person pronoun slightly diminished the responsibility this single journalist had for the unpleasant questions she was about to ask. Harry looked out at the traffic, grasped that it was about Weng, and about Harry posing as a policeman. That they would be quoting Chief Superintendent Bodil Melling when she said there was up to a six-month sentence for impersonating an officer of the law, and that she hoped the Minister of Justice in the wake of this case could put a stop to dubious and unauthorised private investigations and how, furthermore, it was of the utmost importance that this be done with immediate effect in regard to this murder inquiry.

Mona was calling to offer him the opportunity to respond, in line with the code of press ethics. Mona Daa was pushy and tough but had always been fair in that regard.

‘No comment,’ Harry said.

‘No? Does that mean you don’t dispute the facts of the story as presented?’

‘I’m pretty sure it means that I’m not commenting on it, doesn’t it?’

‘All right, Harry, but then we need to print “no comment”.’ He heard the tap of rapid keystrokes in the background.

‘Do you all still say print?’

‘It’s the kind of thing that lingers.’

‘True. Which is why I call what I’m about to do hanging up. OK?’

He heard Mona Daa sigh. ‘OK. Have a nice weekend, Harry.’

‘Likewise. And—’

‘Yes, I’ll say hi to Anders.’

Harry put the phone in the inside pocket of Røed’s slightly too baggy suit jacket.

‘Trouble?’

‘Yeah,’ Harry said.

A new grunt from the back seat, louder and angrier this time.

Harry half turned, saw the light of the phone display and realised Mona had been sitting with her finger on the publish trigger. ‘What did they write?’

‘That you’re deceitful.’

‘Fair enough, it is true after all, and I don’t have a reputation to protect.’ Harry shook his head. ‘What’s worse is that they’ll close us down.’

‘No,’ Truls said.

‘No?’

‘What’s worse is that they’ll arrest you.’

Harry raised an eyebrow. ‘For helping them locate a body they’d been trying to find for over three weeks?’

‘It’s not about that,’ Truls said. ‘You don’t know Melling. Battleaxe wants to get ahead. And you’re in the way, aren’t you?’

‘Me?’

‘If we solve this case first it’ll make her look like an amateur, won’t it?’

‘Mm. OK. But arresting me sounds a bit drastic.’

‘That’s the way they play their power games, that’s why those scheming bastards are where they are. That’s how you become... well, Minister of Justice, for example.’

Harry glanced once more at Truls. His forehead was as red as the traffic light they had stopped for.

‘I’m getting out here,’ Harry said. ‘Get some rest over the weekend, but don’t switch off your phones, and don’t leave town.’

At seven o’clock, Katrine opened the front door for Harry.

‘Yes, I’ve read VG,’ she said, walking back to the dresser in the hallway to put on a pair of earrings.

‘Mm. How do you think Melling would like it if she found out the enemy was babysitting for the lead detective?’

‘Oh, you probably won’t be much of a threat any more come Monday.’

‘You seem awfully sure of that?’

‘Melling hasn’t given the Minister of Justice much of a choice with her comments about dubious private investigations.’

‘No, maybe not.’

‘Shame, we could’ve used you. Everybody knew you’d cut some corners, but screwing up over something so unnecessary.’

‘Got overeager and made a bad judgement call.’

‘It’s like you’re so predictably unpredictable. What have you got there?’ She pointed at the plastic bag he had placed on top of the shoes he had removed.

‘Laptop. I need to do a bit of work after he falls asleep. Is he...?’

‘Yeah.’

Harry went into the living room.

‘Mummy smell na-ice,’ said Gert, sitting on the floor with two cuddly toys.

‘Perfume,’ Harry said.

‘Na-ice,’ said Gert.

‘Look what I’ve got.’ Harry carefully took a chocolate bar out of his pocket.

‘Shoco-ha.’

‘Sugar high?’ Harry smiled. ‘We’ll keep it a secret then.’

‘Mummy! Uncle Hawny has shoco-ha!’

After Katrine had gone, Harry entered a virtual world where he did his best to keep pace with a three-year-old’s imaginative transitions in thought and contribute with some of his own in between.

‘You aw good at pwaying,’ Gert commended him. ‘Whew is de dwagon?’

‘In the cave, of course,’ Harry said, pointing underneath the sofa.

‘Uhhoo,’ Gert said.

‘Double-uhhoo,’ Harry said.

‘Shoco-ha?’

‘OK,’ Harry said, and put his hand in the pocket of the jacket he had draped over the chair.

‘What is dat?’ Gert asked, pointing at the mask Harry was holding.

‘A cat,’ Harry said, placing the half-mask over his face.

Gert’s face contorted and his voice was suddenly tear-choked.

‘No, Uncle Hawny! Scawey!’

Harry quickly removed the mask. ‘OK, no cat. Just dragons. All right?’

But the tears had already begun to flow, and Gert sobbed. Harry cursed himself, another bad judgement call. Scary cats. No Mummy. A little past bedtime. What wasn’t there to cry about?