Phantom Read Online Free

returning it. Placed a form on the counter and handed him a pen.
    “The marked sections are enough.”
    A checking-in form at the Leon? the man thought with surprise. Perhaps some things had changed after all. He took the pen and saw the receptionist staring at his hand, his middle finger. The one that had been his longest finger before it was cut off in a house on Holmenkollen Ridge. Now the first joint had been replaced with a grayish-blue titanium prosthesis. It wasn’t a lot of use, but it did provide balance for his adjacent fingers when he had to grip, and it was not in the way, since it was so short. The only disadvantage was the endless explanations when he had to go through security at airports.
    He filled in FIRST NAME and LAST NAME .
    DATE OF BIRTH .
    He knew he looked more like a man in his mid-forties now than had the damaged geriatric who left Norway three years ago. He had subjected himself to a strict regime of exercise, healthy food, plentiful sleep and—of course—absolutely no addictive substances. The aim of the regime had not been to look younger, but to avoid death. Besides, he liked it. In fact he had always like fixed routines, discipline, order. So why had his life been chaos instead, such self-destruction and a series of broken relationships between dark periods of intoxication? The blank boxes looked up at him questioningly. But they were too small for the answers they required.
    PERMANENT ADDRESS .
    Well, the flat on Sofies Gate had been sold right after he left three years ago, and the same with his parents’ house in Oppsal. In his present occupation an official address would have carried a certain inherent risk. So he wrote what he usually wrote when he checked in atother hotels: Chungking Mansions, Hong Kong. Which was no farther from the truth than anything else.
    O CCUPATION .
    Murder. He didn’t write that. This section hadn’t been marked.
    TELEPHONE NUMBER .
    He put a fictitious one. Cell phones could be traced, the conversations and where you had them.
    NEXT OF KIN’S TELEPHONE NUMBER .
    Next of kin? What husband would voluntarily give his wife’s number when he checked in at Hotel Leon? The place was the closest Oslo had to a public brothel, after all.
    The receptionist could evidently read his mind. “In case you should feel indisposed and we have to call someone.”
    He nodded. In case of a heart attack during the act.
    “You don’t need to write anything if you don’t—”
    “No,” he said, looking at the words. NEXT OF KIN . He had Sis. A sister with what she herself called “a touch of Down syndrome,” but who had always tackled life a great deal better than her elder brother. Apart from Sis, there was no one else. Absolutely no one. All the same, next of kin.
    He ticked CASH for mode of payment and signed and passed the form to the receptionist. Who skimmed through it. And then at last he saw it shine through: the mistrust.
    “Are you … are you Harry Hole?”
    Harry nodded. “Is that a problem?”
    The boy shook his head. Gulped.
    “Fine,” said Harry. “Do you have a key for me?”
    “Oh, sorry! Here. Three-oh-one.”
    Harry took it and noticed that the boy’s pupils had widened and his voice was constricted.
    “It … it’s my uncle,” the boy said. “He runs the hotel. Used to sit here before me. He’s told me about you.”
    “Only nice things, I trust,” Harry said, grabbing his canvas suitcase and heading for the stairs.
    “The elevator—”
    “Don’t like elevators,” Harry said without turning.
    The room was the same as before. Tatty, small and more or less clean. No, in fact, the curtains were new. Green. Stiff. Probably drip-dry. Which reminded him. He hung his suit in the bathroom and turned on the shower so the steam would remove the creases. Thesuit had cost him eight hundred Hong Kong dollars at Punjab House on Nathan Road, but in his job it was an essential investment; no one respected a man dressed in rags. He stood under the