Текст книги "Phantom"

Автор книги: Jo Nesbo

Соавторы: Jo Nesbo,Jo Nesbo
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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

PART THREE
26

The rat scrabbled around the floor impatiently. The human heart was beating, but it was getting fainter and fainter. She stopped by the shoe again. Bit into the leather. Soft but thick, solid leather. She ran over the body again. The clothes smelt of more than shoes, they smelt of sweat, food and blood. He – because she could smell it was a he – was lying in the same position, he hadn’t stirred, he was still blocking the entrance. She scratched at the man’s stomach. Knew it was the shortest route. Faint heartbeat. It wouldn’t be long now before she could begin.

It’s not that you have to stop living, Dad. But that you have to die to put an end to the shit. There should be a better way, don’t you think? A pain-free exodus into the light instead of this damned cold darkness that seems to close in on you. Someone should definitely have put a pinch of opiate into the Makarov bullets, should have done what I did for Rufus, the mangy dog, should have bought me a single ticket to Euphoria, bon voyage for Christ’s sake! But everything that’s good in this shit world is either on prescription, sold out or so expensive you have to flog your soul to taste it. Life is a restaurant you can’t afford. Death the bill for the food you didn’t even have the chance to eat. So you order the most expensive thing on the menu, you’re in for it anyway, right, and you might get a mouthful.

OK, I’ll stop whingeing, Dad, so don’t go now, you haven’t heard the rest. The rest is good. Where were we? Yes, just a couple of days after the burglary in Alnabru Peter and Andrey came for Oleg and me. They tied a scarf round Oleg’s eyes and drove us to the old boy’s house and took us down to the cellar. I had never been there before. We were led into a long, narrow, low corridor where we had to bow our heads. Our shoulders scraped against the sides. I gradually twigged that it wasn’t a cellar but a subterranean tunnel. An escape passage perhaps. Which hadn’t helped Beret Man. He looked like a drowned rat. Well, he was a drowned rat.

Then they took Oleg back to the car while I was summoned to the old boy. He sat in a chair opposite me, with no table in between.

‘Were you two there?’ he asked.

I looked him straight in the eye. ‘If you’re asking whether we were in Alnabru the answer’s no.’

He studied me in silence.

‘You’re like me,’ he said at length. ‘It’s impossible to see when you’re lying.’

I wouldn’t swear to it, but I thought I detected a smile.

‘Well, Gusto, did you understand what that was, downstairs?’

‘It was the undercover cop. Beret Man.’

‘Correct. And why?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Have a guess.’

I imagine the guy must have been a crap teacher in a former life. But, whatever, I answered: ‘He’d nicked something.’

The old boy shook his head. ‘He found out I lived here. He knew he had no basis for a search warrant. After the arrest of Los Lobos and the recent seizure of Alnabru he saw the writing on the wall, he would never get a search warrant, however good his case was…’ The old boy grinned. ‘We’d given him a warning we thought would stop him.’

‘Oh?’

‘Cops like him rely on their false identity. They think it’s impossible to discover who they are. Who their family is. But you can find everything in police archives, provided you have the right passwords. Which you do if, for example, you hold a trusted position in Orgkrim. And how did we warn him?’

I answered without a second’s thought. ‘Bumped off his kids?’

The old boy’s face darkened. ‘We’re not monsters, Oleg.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Besides, he didn’t have any children.’ Chug-chug laugh. ‘But he had a sister. Or perhaps it was just a foster-sister.’

I nodded. It was impossible to see if he was lying.

‘We said she would be raped then put out of her misery. But I misjudged him. Instead of thinking he had other relatives to keep an eye on, he went on the attack. A very lonely, but desperate attack. He managed to break in here last night. We were not prepared for that. He probably loved this sister a lot. He was armed. I went down to the cellar, and he followed. And then he died.’ He tilted his head. ‘Of what?’

‘Water was coming out of his mouth. Drowning?’

‘Correct. But drowned where?’

‘Was he brought here from a lake or something?’

‘No. He broke in, and he drowned. So?’

‘Then I don’t know-’

‘Think!’ The word cracked like a whiplash. ‘If you want to survive you have to be able to think, draw conclusions from what you can see. That’s real life.’

‘Fine, fine.’ I tried to think. ‘The cellar’s not a cellar but a tunnel.’

The old boy crossed his arms. ‘And?’

‘It’s longer than this property. It could of course come out in a field.’

‘But?’

‘But you told me you own a neighbouring property, so it probably goes there.’

The old boy smiled with satisfaction. ‘Guess how old the tunnel is.’

‘Old. The walls were green with moss.’

‘Algae. After the Resistance movement had made four failed attacks on this house the Gestapo boss had a tunnel built. They succeeded in keeping it secret. When Reinhard came home in the afternoon he came in through the front door here so that everyone could see. He switched on the light and then walked through the tunnel to his real home next door and sent the German lieutenant everyone thought lived over there, over here. And this lieutenant strutted around, often close to windows, wearing the same kind of uniform as his Gestapo boss.’

‘He was a decoy.’

‘Correct.’

‘Why are you telling me this?’

‘Because I want you to know what real life is like, Gusto. Most people in this country don’t know anything about it, don’t know how much it costs to survive in real life. But I’m telling you all this because I want you to remember that I trusted you.’

He looked at me as if what he was saying was very important. I pretended to understand; I wanted to go home. Perhaps he could see that.

‘Nice to see you, Gusto. Andrey will drive you both back.’

When the car passed the university there must have been some student gig taking place on campus. We could hear the thrashing guitars of a rock band playing on an outdoor stage. Young people streamed towards us down Blindernveien. Happy, expectant faces, as if they had been promised something, a future or some such thing.

‘What’s that?’ asked Oleg, who was still blindfolded.

‘That,’ I said, ‘is unreal life.’

‘And you’ve no idea how he drowned?’ Harry asked.

‘No,’ Oleg said. ‘The foot-pumping had increased; his whole body was vibrating.

‘OK, so you were blindfolded, but tell me everything you can remember about the journey to and from this place. All the noises. When you got out of the car, for example, did you hear a train or a tram?’

‘No. But it was raining when we arrived, so basically that is what I heard.’

‘Heavy rain, light rain?’

‘Light. I hardly felt it as we left the car. But that was when I heard it.’

‘OK, if light rain doesn’t usually make much noise it might when it falls on leaves?’

‘Possibly.’

‘What was under your feet going towards the front door? Tarmac? Flagstones? Grass?’

‘Shingle. I think. Yes, there was a crunch. That’s how I knew where Peter was. He’s the heaviest, so he crunched most.’

‘Good. Steps by the door?’

‘Yes.’

‘How many?’

Oleg groaned.

‘OK,’ Harry said. ‘Was it still raining by the door?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘I mean, was it in your hair?’

‘Yes.’

‘So no porch-type structure then.’

‘Are you planning to search for places in Oslo without a porch?’

‘Well, different parts of Oslo were built in different periods, and they have a number of common features.’

‘And what’s the period for timber houses, shingle paths and steps to a door without an overhang or nearby tramlines?’

‘You sound like a chief superintendent.’ Harry did not reap the smile or laughter he had hoped he would. ‘When you left did you notice any sounds close by?’

‘Such as?’

‘Such as the peeping of the pedestrian crossing.’

‘No, nothing like that. But there was music.’

‘Recorded or live?’

‘Live, I think. The cymbals were clear. You could hear the guitars, sort of floating and fading on the wind.’

‘Sounds live. Well remembered.’

‘I only remember because they were playing one of your songs.’

‘ My songs?’

‘From one of your records. I remember because Gusto said this was unreal life, and I thought that must have been an unconscious train of thought. He must have heard the line they had just sung.’

‘Which line?’

‘Something about a dream. I’ve forgotten, but you used to play that song all the time.’

‘Come on, Oleg, this is important.’

Oleg looked at Harry. His feet stopped tapping. He closed his eyes and tried humming a tune. ‘ It’s just a dreamy Gonzales…’ He opened his eyes, his face was red. ‘Something like that.’

Harry hummed it to himself. And shook his head.

‘Sorry,’ Oleg said, ‘I’m not sure, and it lasted only a few seconds.’

‘That’s fine,’ Harry said, patting the boy’s shoulder. ‘Tell me what happened at Alnabru then.’

Oleg’s foot started up again. He took two breaths, two deep mouthfuls of air, as he had learned to do on the start line before he crouched down. Then he spoke.

Afterwards Harry sat for a long time rubbing the back of his neck. ‘So you drilled a man to death?’

‘We didn’t. A policeman did.’

‘Whose name you don’t know. Or where he worked.’

‘No, both Gusto and he were careful about that. Gusto said it was best if I didn’t know.’

‘And you’ve no idea what happened to the body?’

‘No. Are you going to report me?’

‘No.’ Harry took his pack of cigarettes and flipped out a smoke.

‘Do I get one?’ Oleg asked.

‘Sorry, son. Bad for your health.’

‘But-’

‘On one condition. That you let Hans Christian hide you and leave it to me to find Irene.’

Oleg stared at the blocks of flats on the hill behind the stadium. Flowerboxes still hung from the balconies. Harry studied his profile. The Adam’s apple going up and down the slim neck.

‘Deal,’ he said.

‘Good.’ Harry passed him a cigarette and lit up for both of them.

‘Now I understand the metal finger,’ Oleg said. ‘It’s so that you can smoke.’

‘Yep,’ Harry said, holding the cigarette between the titanium prosthesis and his index finger while selecting Rakel’s number. He didn’t need to ask for Hans Christian’s number as he was there with her. The solicitor said he would come at once.

Oleg bent double as if it had suddenly become colder. ‘Where’s he going to hide me?’

‘I don’t know, and I don’t want to know either.’

‘Why not?’

‘I have such sensitive testicles. I spill the beans at the very mention of the words car battery.’

Oleg laughed. It was short, but it was laughter. ‘I don’t believe that. You’d let them take your life before you said a word.’

Harry eyed the boy. He could crack weak jokes all day if only to see those glimpses of a smile.

‘You’ve always had such high expectations of me, Oleg. Too high. And I’ve always wanted you to see me as better than I am.’

Oleg looked down at his hands. ‘Don’t all boys see their fathers as heroes?’

‘Maybe. And I didn’t want you to expose me as a deserter, someone who clears off. But things happened as they did anyway. What I wanted to say was that even if I wasn’t there for you, that doesn’t mean you weren’t important to me. We can’t live the lives we would like to. We’re prisoners of… things. Of who we are.’

Oleg lifted his chin. ‘Of junk and shit.’

‘That too.’

They inhaled in unison. Watching the smoke drift in gusts towards the vast, open, blue sky. Harry knew that nicotine couldn’t appease the cravings in the boy, but at least it was a distraction. And that was all it was about, for the next few minutes.

‘Harry?’

‘Yes?’

‘Why didn’t you come back?’

Harry took another drag before answering. ‘Because your mother thought I wasn’t good for you or her. And she was right.’

Harry continued to smoke as he stared into the distance. Knowing Oleg would not want him to look at him now. Eighteen-year-old boys don’t like being watched when they’re crying. Nor would he want him to put an arm around his shoulder and say something. He would want him to be there. Without straying. To think alongside him about the impending race.

When they heard the car approach they walked down the stand and into the car park. Harry saw Hans Christian place a hand on Rakel’s arm as she was about to charge out of the car.

Oleg turned to Harry, puffed himself up, hooked his thumb round Harry’s and nudged his right shoulder with his. But Harry didn’t let him get away so easily and pulled him close. Whispered in his ear: ‘Win.’

Irene Hanssen’s last known address was her family home. The house was in Grefsen, semi-detached. A small overgrown garden with apple trees, no apples, and a swing.

A young man Harry guessed to be about twenty opened the door. The face was familiar, and Harry’s police brain searched for a tenth of a second before it had two hits on the database.

‘My name’s Harry Hole. And you are Stein Hanssen perhaps?’

‘Yes?’

His face had the combination of innocence and alertness of a young man who had experienced both good and bad, but still vacillated between overly revealing openness and overly inhibiting caution in his confrontation with the world.

‘I recognise you from a photo. I’m a friend of Oleg Fauke’s.’

Harry looked for a reaction in Stein Hanssen’s grey eyes, but it failed to materialise.

‘You may have heard that he’s been released? Someone has confessed to the killing of your foster-brother.’

Stein Hanssen shook his head. Still minimal expression.

‘I’m an ex-policeman. I’m trying to find your sister, Irene.’

‘How come?’

‘I want to be sure she’s OK. I’ve promised Oleg I would.’

‘Great. So that he can continue to feed her drugs?’

Harry shifted his weight. ‘Oleg’s clean now. As you may know, that takes its toll. But he’s clean because he wanted to try to find her. He loves her, Stein. But I’d like to try to find her for all our sakes, not only for his. And I’m reckoned to be quite handy at finding people.’

Stein Hanssen looked at Harry. Hesitated. Then he opened the door.

Harry followed him into the living room. It was tidy, nicely furnished and seemed completely unoccupied.

‘Your parents…’

‘They don’t live here now. And I’m only here when I’m not in Trondheim.’

He had a conspicuous trilled ‘r’, the kind that was once regarded as a status symbol for families who could afford nannies from Sorland. The kind of ‘r’ that makes your voice easy to remember, Harry thought without knowing why he did.

There was a photograph on the piano, which looked as if it had never been used. The photograph must have been six or seven years old. Irene and Gusto were younger, smaller versions of themselves, sporting clothes and hairstyles that Harry assumed would have been deadly embarrassing for them to see now. Stein stood at the back with a serious expression. The mother stood with her arms crossed and wore a condescending, almost sarcastic, smile. The father was smiling in a way that made Harry think it had been his idea to have this family photo taken. At least, he was the only person showing any enthusiasm.

‘So that’s the family?’

‘Was. My parents are divorced now. My father moved to Denmark. Fled is probably a more precise word. My mother’s in hospital. The rest… well, you obviously know the rest.’

Harry nodded. One dead. One missing. Big losses for one family.

Harry sat down unbidden in one of the deep armchairs. ‘What can you tell me that might help me find Irene?’

‘I haven’t a clue.’

Harry smiled. ‘Try.’

‘Irene moved to my place in Trondheim after going through an experience she wouldn’t tell me about. But which I’m sure Gusto was behind. She idolised Gusto, would do anything for him, imagined he cared because now and then he would pat her on the cheek. But after a few months there was a phone call and she said she had to return to Oslo. Refused to divulge why. That’s four months ago, and since then I’ve neither seen nor heard from her. When, after more than two weeks, I hadn’t been able to contact her, I went to the police and reported her missing. They took note, did a bit of checking, then nothing else happened. No one cares about a homeless junkie.’

‘Any theories?’ Harry asked.

‘No. But she hasn’t gone of her own free will. She’s not the type to clear off like… like some others.’

Harry had no idea whom he actually meant, yet the jibe hit home.

Stein Hanssen scratched a scab on his forearm. ‘What is it you all see in her? Your daughter? Do you think you can have your daughters?’

Harry looked at him in surprise. ‘You? What do you mean?’

‘You oldies drooling over her. Just because she looks like a fourteen-year-old Lolita.’

Harry recalled the picture on the wardrobe door. Stein Hanssen was right. And the thought took root in Harry. He might be wrong, Irene might be the victim of a crime that had nothing to do with this case.

‘You study in Trondheim. At the University of Science and Technology?’

‘Yes.’

‘What subject?’

‘Information technology.’

‘Mm. Oleg also wanted to study. Do you know him?’

Stein shook his head.

‘Never spoken to him?’

‘We must have met a couple of times. Very short meetings, you might say.’

Harry scrutinised Stein’s forearm. It was an occupational hazard for Harry. But apart from the scab there were no other marks. Of course not, Stein Hanssen was a survivor, one of those who would cope. Harry got to his feet.

‘Anyway, I’m sorry about your brother.’

‘Foster-brother.’

‘Mm. Could I take your mobile number? In case anything crops up.’

‘Like what?’

They looked at each other. The answer hung in the air between them, unnecessary to elucidate, unbearable to articulate. The scab had burst and a line of blood was trickling down towards his hand.

‘I know one thing that might help,’ Stein Hanssen said when Harry was outside on the step. ‘The places you’re planning to search for her. Urtegata. Motestedet Kafe. The parks. The hostels. Junkie hovels. Red-light district. Forget it. I’ve been there.’

Harry nodded. Put on his sunglasses. ‘Keep your mobile switched on, OK?’

Harry went to Lorry Kafe for lunch, but on the steps felt a sudden craving for beer and about-turned in the doorway. Instead he went to a new place opposite the Literature House. Left after a quick scan of the clientele, and ended up in Pla where he ordered a Thai variant of a tapa.

‘Drink? Singha?’

‘No.’

‘Tiger?’

‘Have you only got beer?’

The waiter took the hint and returned with water.

Harry had king prawns and chicken but declined sausage Thai-style. Then he called Rakel at home and asked her to go through the CDs he had taken to Holmenkollen over the years and which had been left there. Some he had wanted to listen to for his own pleasure, and some he had wanted to redeem them with. Elvis Costello, Miles Davis, Led Zeppelin, Count Basie, Jayhawks, Muddy Waters. They hadn’t saved anyone.

She kept what, without any tangible irony, she called ‘Harry music’ in its own section on the rack.

‘I’d like you to read all the titles,’ he said.

‘Are you joking?’

‘I’ll explain later.’

‘OK. The first is Aztec Camera.’

‘Have you-’

‘Yes, I’ve organised them alphabetically.’ She sounded embarrassed.

‘That’s a boy thing.’

‘It’s a Harry thing. And they’re your CDs. Can I read them now?’

After twenty minutes they had got to W and Wilco without Harry picking up on any associations. Rakel heaved a sigh, but went on.

‘“When You Wake Up Feeling Old”.’

‘Mm. no.’

‘“Summerteeth”.’

‘Mm. Next.’

‘“In a Future Age”.’

‘Hang on!’

Rakel hung on.

Harry started laughing.

‘Was that funny?’ Rakel asked.

‘The chorus on “Summerteeth”. It goes like this… It’s just a dream he keeps having.’

‘That doesn’t sound great, Harry.’

‘Yes, it does! I mean, the original does. So beautiful that I’ve played it several times for Oleg. But he thought the lyrics went “It’s just a dreamy Gonzales”.’ Harry laughed again. And began to sing: ‘ It’s just a dreamy Gonz – ’

‘Please, Harry.’

‘OK. Could you go onto Oleg’s computer and find something on the Net for me?’

‘What?’

‘Google Wilco and find their home page. See if they’ve had any concerts in Oslo this year. And if so, where exactly.’

Rakel came back after six minutes.

‘One.’ She told Harry where.

‘Thank you,’ Harry said.

‘You’ve got that voice again.’

‘Which voice?’

‘The hyped-up one. The boy’s voice.’

Like a hostile armada, the ominous steel-grey clouds came rolling over Oslo fjord at four o’clock. Harry turned from Skoyen towards Frogner Park and parked on Thorvald Erichsens Vei. After ringing Bellman’s mobile three times without any luck he had called Police HQ and been told that Bellman had left early to do some training with his son at Oslo Tennis Club.

Harry watched the clouds. Then he went in and surveyed OTC’s facilities.

A superb clubhouse, shale courts, hard courts, even a centre court with stands. Yet only two of the twelve courts were in use. In Norway you played football and skied. Declaring yourself a tennis player attracted whispers and suspicious glances.

Harry found Bellman on a shale court. He was plucking balls out of a basket and hitting them gently at a boy who might have been practising backhand cross-court shots; it was hard to say, because the balls were going all over the place.

Harry went through the gate behind Bellman, onto the court and stood beside him. ‘Looks like he’s struggling,’ Harry said, taking out his pack of cigarettes.

‘Harry,’ Mikael Bellman said, without stopping or taking his eyes off the boy. ‘He’s getting there.’

‘There’s a certain similarity. Is he…?’

‘My son. Filip. Ten.’

‘Time flies. Talented?’

‘He’s got a bit of his father in him, but I have faith. He just needs to be pushed.’

‘I didn’t think that was legal any more.’

‘We want the best for our children, Harry, but may do them a disservice. Move your feet, Filip!’

‘Did you find out about Martin Pran?’

‘Pran?’

‘The hunchback weirdo at the Radium Hospital.’

‘Oh, yes, the gut instinct. Yes and no. That is, yes, I checked. And no, we’ve got nothing on him. Nothing at all.’

‘Mm. I was thinking about asking for something else.’

‘Down on your knees! What would that be?’

‘A warrant to dig up Gusto Hanssen to see if there was any blood under his nails for a new test.’

Bellman took his eyes off his son, evidently to check whether Harry was serious.

‘There’s a very plausible confession, Harry. I think I can say with some confidence that warrant would be rejected.’

‘Gusto did have blood under his nails. The sample went missing before it was tested.’

‘That sort of thing happens.’

‘Very rarely.’

‘And whose blood is it, in your opinion?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘You don’t know?’

‘No. But if the first sample was sabotaged that means it spells danger for someone.’

‘This dealer who confessed, for example. Adidas?’

‘Real name: Chris Reddy.’

‘Anyway, aren’t you done with this case now that Oleg Fauke has been released?’

‘Anyway, shouldn’t he have both hands on the racket for backhand?’

‘Do you know anything about tennis?’

‘Seen a bit on TV.’

‘One-handed backhands develop character.’

‘I don’t even know if the blood has anything to do with the killing. Perhaps someone’s frightened of being linked with Gusto?’

‘Such as?’

‘Dubai maybe. Besides, I don’t think Adidas killed Gusto.’

‘Why not?’

‘A hardened dealer suddenly confessing out of the blue?’

‘See your point,’ Bellman said. ‘But it is a confession. And a good one.’

‘And it’s just a drugs killing,’ Harry continued, ducking a stray ball. ‘And you’ve got enough cases to crack.’

Bellman sighed. ‘It’s the same as it’s always been, Harry. Our resources are under too much pressure for us to be able to prioritise cases for which we already have a solution.’

‘ A solution? What about the solution?’

‘As boss one is obliged to acquire slippery formulations.’

‘OK, so let me offer you two case solutions. In exchange for help with finding a house.’

Bellman stopped hitting balls. ‘What?’

‘A killing in Alnabru. A biker called Tutu. A source informed me he got a drill through his head.’

‘And the source is willing to testify?’

‘Maybe.’

‘And the second?’

‘The undercover guy who washed up by the Opera House. Same source saw him dead on Dubai’s cellar floor.’

Bellman scrunched up one eye. The pigment stains flared up and Harry was reminded of a tiger.

‘Dad!’

‘Go and fill the water bottle in the dressing room, Filip.’

‘The dressing room’s locked, Dad!’

‘And the code is?’

‘The year the king was born, but I don’t remember-’

‘Remember and quench your thirst, Filip.’

The boy shuffled through the gate, arms hanging by his sides.

‘What do you want, Harry?’

‘I want a team combing the area around Frederikkeplassen, at the university, over a radius of one kilometre. I want a list of all the detached houses that fit this description.’ He passed Bellman a sheet of paper.

‘What happened at Frederikkeplassen?’

‘Just a concert.’

Realising he wasn’t going to be told any more, Bellman looked down at the paper and read aloud: ‘“Old timber house with long shingle drive, deciduous trees and steps by the front door, no overhang”? Sounds like a description of half the houses in Blindern. What are you after?’

Harry lit a smoke. ‘A rat’s nest. An eagle’s lair.’

‘And if we find it, what then?’

‘You and your officers need a search warrant to be able to do anything while a normal civilian like me could get lost one autumn evening and be forced to take refuge in the nearest house.’

‘OK, I’ll see what I can do. But explain to me first why you’re so keen to catch this Dubai.’

Harry shrugged. ‘Professional deformation perhaps. Get the list and email it to the address at the bottom. Then we’ll see what I can get for you.’

Filip returned without water as Harry was leaving, and on his way to the car he heard a ball hit the racket frame and a low curse.

Distant cannons rumbled in the armada of clouds, and it was as dark as night when Harry got into his car. He started the engine and rang Hans Christian Simonsen.

‘Harry here. What are the current penalties for grave desecration?’

‘Er, four to six years, I would guess.’

‘Are you willing to risk that?’

A tiny pause. Then: ‘To what end?’

‘To catch the person who killed Gusto. And perhaps the person who’s after Oleg.’

‘And if I’m not willing?’

A very tiny pause. ‘I’m in.’

‘OK, find out where Gusto is buried and get some spades, a torch, nail scissors and two screwdrivers. We’ll do it tomorrow night.’

As Harry drove across Solli plass the rain came. It lashed the rooftops, lashed the streets, lashed the man standing in Kvadraturen opposite the open door to the bar.

The boy in reception sent Harry a dour look as he came in.

‘Would you like to borrow an umbrella?’

‘Not unless your hotel’s leaking,’ Harry said, running a hand through his brush-like hair and sending a fine spray through the air. ‘Any messages?’

The boy laughed as if it were a joke.

As Harry was climbing the stairs to the second floor he thought he heard footsteps further down and stopped. Listened. Silence. Either it had been the echo of his own steps he had heard, or else the other person had stopped as well.

Harry walked on slowly. In the corridor he increased his speed, inserted the key in the lock and opened the door. Scanned the darkened room and peered across the yard to the woman’s illuminated room. No one there. No one there, no one here.

He switched on the light.

As it came on he saw his reflection in the window. And someone else standing behind him. At once he felt a heavy hand squeeze his shoulder.

Only a phantom can be so fast and silent, Harry thought, whirling round, but he knew it was already too late.