TAKE MALIK’S IN Thereses gate, for example. It was a hamburger bar and had nothing of what gave Schrøder’s, for all its failings, a certain dignity as a licensed taproom. It was true they had the hamburgers they pushed, rumoured to be a cut above the competition; with a degree of charity one might say that the slightly Indian-inspired interior with the picture of the Norwegian Royal Family did have a kind of naff charm; however, it was and always would be a fast-food outlet where those willing to pay for alcoholic credibility would never dream of imbibing their beer. Harry had never been one of them. He hadn’t been to Malik’s for a long time, but as he gave it the once-over, he was able to confirm that nothing had changed. Øystein was sitting with his male (and one female) drinking pals at the smokers’ table. With a backdrop of outdated pop hits, Eurosport and sizzling fat they were enjoying a convivial conversation about lottery wins, a recent triple murder and an absent friend’s moral shortcomings.
