Free Death in Oslo by Anne Holt

you all.’
    He left the government’s secret crisis meeting with the faint smell of decay in his nostrils.

VIII
    T he young man at the petrol station was thoroughly pissed off. It was the second year in a row that he had had to work on the 17th of May. OK, so he was only nineteen and the youngest employee, but it just wasn’t fair that he should have to die of boredom at work on a day when practically no one needed petrol. And not many people would come to buy hot dogs either, as the station was too far from the centre of town. They should just close the damn place. If anyone was desperate for fuel, the card-payment-only pumps were still available.
    ‘Junior’ll do it,’ the boss had boomed when they were arguing about shifts a couple of weeks before.
    Junior’ll do it
. As if the boss was his dad or something.
    Two boys of about ten came running in. They were wearing maroon band uniforms, black hats and white patent-leather bandoliers. They had obviously left their drums somewhere and were fencing energetically with their sticks.
    ‘En garde,’ one of them shouted and made a hit.
    ‘Ow! That hurt!’
    The smaller of the two dropped his drumsticks and clutched his shoulder.
    ‘Stop making such a racket,’ the assistant said. ‘You going to buy anything, or what?’
    Without saying anything, the two boys rushed over to the freezer. It was a bit too high for them. One of them used the shelf with chocolates on it as a ladder.
    ‘Cornetto,’ screamed the other.
    ‘Leave it out.’ The assistant hit the counter.
    The cheeky bugger who had climbed on the shelf was an Asian.
    They could camouflage themselves in band uniforms and national costumes if that was what they wanted. They were still bloody foreigners. It was really pathetic the way they tried to Norwegianify themselves. Earlier that day a whole flock of little black kids had come in. They’d chatted and made a noise and took over the whole shop, as if they were at home in Tamil-land or Africa or wherever they came from. And they didn’t buy much. But they were all wearing 17th of May ribbons. Great red, white and blue ribbons on their jacket collars and Salvation Army coats. Grinning and laughing and ruining the national day for everyone else.
    ‘Hey, you!’
    The assistant came out from behind the counter and went over to the boys. He took hold of the Paki by the scruff of the neck.
    ‘Drop the ice-cream.’
    ‘I’m going to pay for it! I was going to pay!’
    ‘Drop the bloody ice cream!’
    ‘Ow, that hurts!’
    His voice wasn’t as cocky now. The assistant could have sworn the kid was about to cry. He let go.
    ‘Hi.’
    A man came in. He stood for a moment looking askance at the two boys. The assistant mumbled hello.
    ‘Sorry to park right up by the window,’ the man said and nodded towards a blue Ford on the other side of the glass. ‘I didn’t see the sign until I was out of the car. I just want some mineral water, so . . .’
    The assistant lifted his chin in the direction of the fridge and returned to his place behind the counter. The youngerof the boys, his blond hair curling out from under his hat, slapped a fifty-krone note down in front of him.
    ‘Two ice creams,’ he hissed through gritted teeth. ‘Two Cornettos, you creep.’
    The man from the Ford came up behind him. The boy took his change without a word and turned away. Then he held one of the ice creams out towards his friend, who had sought refuge by the door.
    ‘Dickhead!
’ they chorused as the door closed behind them.
    ‘Three mineral waters,’ the man said.
    ‘You paying by card?’ the assistant asked, curtly.
    ‘No. Here.’
    The man took his change from the one-hundred-kroner note and stuffed it in his pocket.
    The assistant glanced over at the car. It was parked so the driver’s seat was right up by the window, less than a metre away. He thought he saw someone in the passenger seat, a thigh, and a hand that reached out for something. There was a woman in the