Norwegian by Night by Derek B. Miller Read Free Book Online Page B

look for the man staring with the greatest intensity at his own shoes while in your presence. The kind of man who is too tongue-tied to even try talking to you. This is the one you’re looking for. And take it from me, you’ll have his love and you’ll win more arguments. In the long run, this is the key to longevity, which is apparently your goal.’
    Sigrid smiled. ‘You know, Papa, they tend to be more loquacious in Oslo.’
    â€˜Yes, well,’ he said, ‘the world is a tricky place.’
    Her father finished his second beer and sat back with a heavy wooden pipe that he lit with an experienced hand and a long match.
    â€˜So,’ he asked, ‘what will you do after university?’
    Sigrid now smiled broadly.
    â€˜I’m going to fight crime,’ she said.
    Sigrid ØdegÃ¥rd’s father nodded approvingly. ‘That’s the spirit.’
    Sigrid’s interests had led her to specialise in organised crime. Traditionally, this meant drug, weapons, and human trafficking, and a smattering of economic and corporate crime — though Oslo’s police department was woefully understaffed to deal with white-collar problems. Back when she started, organised criminals were more opportunistic and disorganised than today; they were generally not linked with matters of global criminal networks and terrorism. Only in recent years, as Europe’s borders grew soft, and wars raged on in the Balkans and the Middle East and Afghanistan, did organised crime come to resemble the sorts of American TV shows she often watched alone in the early evenings after returning from work.
    Sigrid, just over forty, had recently been promoted to the rank of Politiførstebetjent, or Police Chief Inspector, in her district, after dutifully working her way up from constable, to sergeant, to inspector, and now this. Not politically minded, she had little interest in this post, but it did provide an opportunity to survey the wider range of crime in the city and to see the movement of the times from a greater height and wider angle. She confidently believed this job was her final destination, and she was grateful that she had reached her potential without undue strain or frustration.
    From now on, Sigrid thought, I will work, witness, and assist when possible.
    Being a professional witness, she was aided by a corps of able, respectful men in her unit who understood that she took pleasure in odd events. They each made a concerted effort to bring the most noteworthy matters to her attention, and no one was more eager to do so than Petter Hansen. Petter, thirty-six and still not needing to shave, was able to spot oddities with the careful eye of an antique collector.
    His job had become easier over the past few years because Oslo was no longer the silent, uneventful city it once was. There were now rapes, thefts, armed hold-ups, violent domestic problems, and a growing tide of younger people who did not respect the police. New immigration from Africa and Eastern Europe — and Muslim countries farther east — created a new social tension in the city that still lacked the political maturity to address it. The liberals expounded limitless tolerance, the conservatives were racist or xenophobic, and everyone debated from philosophical positions but never from ones grounded in evidence, and so no sober consideration was being given to the very real question now haunting all of Western civilisation — namely, How tolerant should we be of intolerance?
    Sigrid sets her sandwich — now half molested — onto the brown paper bag that had sheltered it for the night and looks up as Petter walks to her desk with a smile, which can only mean he’s uncovered another buried treasure.
    â€˜Hi,’ she says.
    â€˜Hi,’ he says.
    â€˜Have something?’
    â€˜Yes,’ he says.
    â€˜Good for you.’
    Petter says, ‘Something awful.’
    â€˜OK.’
    â€˜But