The Leopard by Jo Nesbø

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12
    Crime Scene
    H ARRY WAS SMOKING A CIGARETTE OUTSIDE THE HOSPITAL entrance. Above him the sky was pale blue, but beneath him, the town, lying in a dip between low, green mountain ridges, was wreathed in mist. The sight reminded him of his childhood in Oppsal when he and Øystein had skipped the first lesson at school and gone to the German bunkers in Nordstrand. From there they had looked down on the peasouper enveloping Oslo city centre. But with the years the morning fog had gradually drifted away from Oslo, along with industry and woodburning.
    Harry crushed the cigarette with his heel.
    Olav Hole looked better. Or perhaps it was merely the light. He asked why Harry was smiling. And what had actually happened to his jaw.
    Harry said something about being clumsy and wondered at what age the change took place, when children started protecting parents from reality. Around the age of ten, he concluded.
    ‘Your little sister was here,’ Olav said.
    ‘How is she?’
    ‘Fine. When she heard you were back, she said that now she would look after you. Because she’s big now. And you’re small.’
    ‘Mm. Smart girl. How are you today?’
    ‘Well. Very well, actually. Think it’s about time I got out of here.’
    He smiled, and Harry smiled back.
    ‘What do the doctors say?’
    Olav Hole was still smiling. ‘Far too much. Shall we talk about something else?’
    ‘Of course. What would you like to talk about?’
    Olav Hole reflected. ‘I’d like to talk about her.’
    Harry nodded. And sat silently listening to his father tell him about how he and Harry’s mother had met. Got married. About her illness when Harry was a boy.
    ‘Ingrid helped me all the time. All the time. But she needed me so rarely. Until she fell ill. Sometimes I thought the illness was a blessing.’
    Harry flinched.
    ‘It gave me the chance to repay, you understand. And I did. Everything she asked me, I did.’ Olav Hole fixed his eyes on his son. ‘Everything, Harry. Almost.’
    Harry nodded.
    His father kept talking. About Sis and Harry, how wonderfully gentle Sis had been. And what willpower Harry had possessed. How frightened he had been but kept it to himself. When he and Ingrid had listened at the door, they had heard Harry crying and cursing invisible monsters in turn. However, they knew they shouldn’t go in to console and reassure him. He would become furious, shout that they were ruining everything and tell them to get out.
    ‘You always wanted to fight the monsters on your own, you did, Harry.’
    Olav Hole told the ancient story about Harry not speaking until he was nearly five. And then – one day – whole sentences just flowed out of him. Slow, earnest sentences with adult words; they had no idea where he had learned them.
    ‘But your sister is right,’ Olav smiled. ‘You’re a small boy again. You don’t speak.’
    ‘Mm. Do you want me to speak?’
    Olav shook his head. ‘You have to listen. But that’s enough for now. You’ll have to come back another day.’
    Harry squeezed his father’s left hand with his right and stood up. ‘Is it OK if I stay in Oppsal for a few days?’
    ‘Thanks for the offer. I didn’t want to hassle you, but the house does need to be looked after.’
    Harry dropped his plan to tell him that the power was going to be cut off in his flat.
    Olav rang a bell and a young, smiling nurse came in and used his father’s first name in an innocent, flirty way. And Harry noted how his father deepened his voice as he explained that Harry needed the suitcase containing the keys. He saw the way the sick man in the bed tried to fluff his plumage for her. And for some reason it didn’t seem pathetic; it was the way it should be.
    In parting, his father repeated: ‘Everything she asked me.’ And whispered: ‘Bar one thing.’
    Leading him to the storage room, the nurse told Harry the doctor wanted to have a couple of words with him. After locating the keys in the suitcase, Harry knocked on the door