Free The Bat by Jo Nesbø Page A

thisis you in the photo, sir. And if so, whether you knew the blonde woman sitting beside you. Her name’s Inger Holter. She’s dead now.”
    Silence for a while. Then the door hinges creaked. Evans peered out.
    Harry placed the photo against the netting.
    “She didn’t look so good when Sydney police found her, Mr. White.”
    In the kitchen newspapers were scattered across the worktop, the sink was overflowing with plates and glasses, and the floor had not seen soapy water for a few months. Nevertheless, Harry could see at a glance that the place did not show any signs of real decay, and that it wasn’t the home of a junkie on his uppers. There were no week-old leftovers, there was no mold, there was no stink of piss and the curtains weren’t drawn. Furthermore, there was a kind of basic order in the room which made Harry realize Evans White still had a grip on things.
    They found themselves chairs, and Evans fetched a stubby from the fridge which he put straight to his mouth. The belch resounded round the kitchen and was followed by a contented chuckle from Evans.
    “Tell us about your relationship with Inger Holter, Mr. White,” Harry said, waving away the smell of the belch.
    “Inger was a nice, attractive and very stupid girl with some notion that she and I could be happy together.” Evans studied the ceiling. Then he sniggered contentedly again. “I think, in fact, that sums it up very neatly.”
    “Have you any idea how she could have been killed or who could have done it?”
    “Yes, we have newspapers up in Nimbin, too, so I know she was strangled. But who did it? A strangler, I suppose.” He threw his head back and grinned. A curl fell over his brow, his white teeth glistened in the tanned face and thelaughter lines around his brown eyes stretched back toward ears hung with pirate rings.
    Andrew cleared his throat. “Mr. White, a woman whom you knew well and with whom you had an intimate relationship has just been murdered. What you might or might not feel about that is not our business. However, as you are no doubt aware, we are looking for a murderer, and unless you try to help us this very minute we will be forced to have you taken to the police station in Sydney.”
    “I’m going to Sydney anyway so if that means you’ll pay for my plane ticket, fine by me.”
    Harry didn’t know what to think. Was Evans White as tough as he was trying to make out, or was he suffering from deficient mental faculties? Or an inadequately developed soul, a typically Norwegian concept? Harry wondered. Did courts anywhere else in the world judge the quality of a soul?
    “As you wish, Mr. White,” Andrew said. “Plane ticket, free board and lodging, free solicitor and free PR as a murder suspect.”
    “Big deal. I’ll be out again within forty-eight hours.”
    “And then we’ll offer you a round-the-clock tail, a free wake-up service, maybe even the odd free raid thrown in as well. And who knows what else we can cook up.”
    Evans knocked back the rest of the beer and sat fiddling with the label on the bottle. “What do you gentlemen want?” he said. “All I know is that one day she was suddenly gone. I was going to Sydney, so I tried to ring her, but she wasn’t at work or at home. The day I arrive in Sydney I read in the newspaper she’s been found murdered. I walk around like a zombie for two days. I mean to say, m-u-r-d-e-r-e-d? What are the statistical chances of ending your life being throttled to death, eh?”
    “Not high. But have you got an alibi for the time of the murder? It’d be good …” Andrew said, taking notes.
    Evans started with horror. “Alibi? What do you mean?Surely you can’t suspect me, for Christ’s sake. Or are you telling me the cops have been on the case for a week and still don’t have any real leads?”
    “We’re looking at all the evidence, Mr. White. Can you tell me where you were for the two days before you arrived in Sydney?”
    “I was here, of