Free Death in Oslo by Anne Holt Page A

back, sleeping. Her head was leant against the window. Her jacket had somehow got caught around her shoulders and it made the angle of her neck look unnatural. The skin on her neck was almost as red as the jacket.
    ‘Bye, thank you,’ said the man. He pulled his cap down over his forehead and disappeared out the door.
    Bloody 17th of May. It was almost four o’clock. At least his shift would be finished soon, if the boss bothered to turn up, that is. You never knew. What a crap day.
    He took his time, dropped the sausage into a roll, then covered it with prawn mayonnaise, relish and loads of mustard before wolfing it down.
    It was his ninth hot dog since the morning, and it didn’t taste good.

IX
    ‘T he palace is just up there,’ Ambassador George A. Wells said, and nodded towards the park on the other side of Drammensveien. ‘And it’s not just a monument, they actually live there. The royal family. Nice people. Very nice people.’The men looked quite similar, standing as they were with their backs to the room, looking out over the street behind the fortifications that surrounded the triangular building. They might easily be mistaken for brothers. The ambassador had to put up with his wife nagging him daily about losing some of the extra pounds round his stomach. But the two men standing in front of the window of the American Embassy in Oslo, watching the Norwegian people celebrate in all their finery on the other side of the aggressive metal barriers, both took their food and golf very seriously. And they both looked good on it. George Wells was nearly seventy, but was still blessed with thick silver hair. His guest was younger and had the same thick hair, though not as well groomed. They both had their hands in their pockets. Their jackets had been abandoned long ago.
    ‘The royal family appears to be less well protected than we are,’ the guest said, and pointed towards the park around the palace. ‘Anyone can walk right up to the palace.’
    ‘Not only can, but do. The endless parade they have every year to mark the seventeenth of May passes right under the balcony where the royals stand waving to the crowd. There’s never been a problem. But then they . . .’ he gave a wan smileand ran his fingers through his hair, ‘are a bit more popular than us.’
    Neither of the men said anything for a while. They looked down at the street, where it was difficult to tell whether people were coming or going. Suddenly, and at the same time, they both caught sight of a little boy with an American flag. He was probably about five or six years old and was wearing dark blue trousers and a bright red V-neck sweater with a white T-shirt underneath. He stopped and looked up. There was no way that he could see them; he was too far away, and the smoked windows made it impossible to see in. He smiled all the same and timidly waved his flag. His mother turned round and grabbed him by the arm, irritated. The boy carried on waving until he was out of sight.
    ‘He can get away with that because he’s little,’ the ambassador said. ‘He’s a sweet little Afro-American boy, so he’s allowed to wave the Star-Spangled Banner on the Norwegian national day. Won’t be like that in a few years’ time.’
    Silence again. The guest seemed to be fascinated by what was going on down on the street and remained standing at the window. The ambassador showed no sign of wanting to sit down either. A large group of young people came storming down from the Nobel Institute. They were singing so loudly and out of tune that it penetrated even through the reinforced glass. One of the girls was around eighteen and was so drunk that she had to be supported by two friends. One had his left hand cupped around her breast, which didn’t seem to bother her in the slightest. Coming towards them was a primary-school class, walking hand-in-hand in a crocodile. The front pair, two girls with blonde plaits, burst out crying when one of the youths roared in