Free The Bat by Jo Nesbø

about now.”
    “Where can we get hold of Evans?” Andrew asked.
    “He’s in Sydney quite a bit, but I saw him in town a couple of days ago. He’s got a kid with a chick from Brisbane who used to hang out here. I don’t know where she is now, but the kid’s definitely in the block of flats where he lives when he’s in Nimbin.”
    He explained where the block was.
    “What sort of fella is White?” Andrew pressed.
    “What can I say?” He scratched the beard he didn’t have. “A charming arsehole, isn’t that what they’re called?”
    Andrew and Harry didn’t know if that was what they were called, but nodded anyway.
    “He’s straight enough to deal with, but I wouldn’t want to be his girl, if you know what I mean.”
    They shook their heads to say they didn’t know what he meant.
    “He’s a playboy, not exactly known for making do with one chick at a time. There are always arguments with his women, they scream and shout, so it’s not unusual for one of them to sport a shiner once in a while.”
    “Hm. Do you know anything about a blonde-haired Norwegian girl called Inger Holter? She was found murdered by Watson’s Bay in Sydney last week.”
    “Really? Never heard of her.” He clearly wasn’t an avid newspaper reader, either.
    Andrew stubbed out his cigar and he and Harry got up.
    “Can I rely on you keeping your traps shut?” Kinski asked with a doubtful glare.
    “Of course,” Andrew said, striding toward the door.
    “What was the meal with our Swedish witness like?” Andrew asked after they had made a courtesy stop at the police station, a building that looked like any other house on the street, except for a little sign on the lawn announcing its purpose.
    “Good. Quite spicy, but good,” Harry answered pertly.
    “Come on, Harry. What did you talk about?”
    “Lots. Norway and Sweden.”
    “I see. Who won?”
    “She did.”
    “What’s Sweden got that Norway hasn’t?” Andrew asked.
    “First things first: a couple of good film directors. Bo Widerberg, Ingmar Bergman—”
    “Ah, film directors,” Andrew snorted. “We’ve got them, too. Edvard Grieg, on the other hand, is one of yours.”
    “Wow,” Harry said. “I didn’t know you were a connoisseur of classical music. In addition.”
    “Grieg was a genius. Take, for example, the second movement of the symphony in C minor where—”
    “Sorry, Andrew,” Harry said, “I grew up with two-chord punk and the closest I’ve been to a symphony is Yes and King Crimson. I don’t listen to music from previous centuries, OK? Everything before 1980 is Stone Age. We have a band called the Dumdum Boys who—”
    “The C minor symphony was first performed in 1981,” Andrew said. “Dumdum Boys? That’s a very pretentious moniker.”
    Harry gave up and learned about Grieg all the way to the White residence.

11

A Dealer
    Evans White regarded them through half-open eyes. Strands of hair hung over his face. He scratched his groin and belched deliberately. He didn’t seem at all surprised to see them. Not because he was expecting them, but probably because he didn’t think visits were anything special. After all, he was sitting on the region’s best acid, and Nimbin was a small place where rumors traveled fast. Harry imagined that a man like White did not bother with tiny amounts and certainly not from his home, but that was hardly likely to deter people from showing up for the odd wholesale purchase.
    “You’ve come to the wrong place. Try in town,” he said, closing the screen door.
    “We’re from the police, Mr. White.” Andrew held up his badge. “We’d like to talk to you.”
    Evans turned his back on them. “Not today. I don’t like cops. Come another time with an arrest warrant, a search warrant or whatever, then we’ll see what we can do for you. Until then goodbye.”
    He slammed the inner door as well.
    Harry leaned against the doorframe and shouted: “Evans White! Can you hear me? We are wondering whether