Killing Moon

He had also used her to rehearse the act itself. Well, used might not be the right word — she had been the more active of the two. He had met her at a party where there were so many others above him in the pecking order that, upon seeing her peering over his shoulder, he realised he would only get the chance to say a few words before she was gone. He had, however, been effective, had complimented her on her body, and asked which gym she went to. When she answered tersely SATS in Bislett, he said it was strange he hadn’t seen her as he went there himself three days a week, but perhaps they went on different days? She made a curt reply about going there in the mornings, and looked annoyed when he said he did too, so on which days did she train?

‘Tuesdays and Thursdays,’ she replied, as though to conclude the conversation, and turned her attention to a man in a tight-fitting black shirt who had wandered over in their direction.

The following Tuesday, he had been standing outside the gym when she came out. Pretended he happened to be passing and had recognised her from the party. She didn’t remember him, had smiled and was about to be on her way. But then she stopped, turned right round to face him, giving him her full attention as they stood there on the street. Looked at him as though only now really becoming aware of him, no doubt wondering how it could have escaped her notice at the party. He did the talking, she wasn’t exactly the most communicative. Not verbally, at least — her body language told him what he needed to know. It was only when he said they should meet up that she spoke.

‘When?’ she said. ‘Where?’

And when he told her, she just nodded in response. It was that simple.

She came as arranged. He had been nervous. So much could go wrong. But she was the one who took the initiative, who unbuttoned his clothes, fortunately without saying too much.

He knew this could happen, and even though he and the Woman he loved had not exchanged any promises, this was a form of infidelity, was it not? A betrayal of love, at least. But he had convinced himself that it was a sacrifice on the altar of love, something he did for Her, that he performed the deed because he needed all the practice he could get, so that on the day it counted he would meet the requirements She demanded of a lover.

But now the woman on the other side of the table had served her purpose.

Not that he hadn’t enjoyed making love to her. But any repeat of it was out of the question. And — if he was being honest — he didn’t like her smell or her taste. Should he say it out loud? Tell her this was where they would part ways? He stared down at his plate in silence. When he looked up again she had tilted her head a little to the side, still with that inscrutable smile in place, as though she were viewing his monologue as an amusing performance. And suddenly he felt like a prisoner. A prisoner in his own home. Because he couldn’t just get up and leave, he had nowhere else to go. And he couldn’t very well ask her to leave, could he? She didn’t look like she was planning on going anywhere just yet, not at all, and the almost unnatural intensity of the gleam in her eyes dazzled him, made him lose perspective. It occurred to him there was something warped and confused about the entire situation. She had taken control, and without uttering a single word. What was it she actually wanted?

‘What...’ he began. Cleared his throat. ‘What is it you actually want?’

She made no reply, just tilted her head slightly more to the side. Looked like she was emitting silent laughter, with teeth shining blue-white in that beautiful mouth of hers. And then Prim noticed something he hadn’t seen until now. That she had the mouth of a predator. And it struck him: this was a game of cat and mouse. And it was he, not she, who was the mouse.

Where had that absurd thought come from?

Nowhere. Or, the place where all his crazy thoughts came from.

He was frightened, but knew he mustn’t show it. He tried to breathe calmly. He had to go. She had to go.

‘This was nice,’ he said, folding his napkin and putting it on the plate. ‘Let’s do it again sometime.’

Johan Krohn had just sat down at the dining table with his wife Alise when the phone rang. He had yet to call Markus Røed with the bad news that Harry Hole had declined their generous offer. That’s to say, Harry had already declined before Krohn had time to mention the fee. And he hadn’t changed his mind after Krohn had presented the conditions to him and told him they had booked him a business-class seat on the 09.55 flight to Oslo via Copenhagen.

He saw by the number that the incoming call was from Harry’s old phone, the one he had only got messages from saying ‘unavailable’ when he had tried to call. So perhaps his saying no had merely been a negotiating tactic. That was fine, Røed had given him carte blanche to raise the amount.