by Jo Nesbo
The trigger has been pulled back so far now there is no longer any resistance, the threshold lies somewhere in a no man’s land. Don’t think about the noise and the recoil, just press, let it come when it comes.
The bang took him completely by surprise. For a fraction of a second it was totally quiet. Then the echo reverberated and the wave of sound settled over the city and the sudden silence of thousands of sounds that died away at this instant.
Harry was sprinting through the corridors on the twenty-first floor when he heard the bang.
‘Fuck!’ he wheezed.
The walls coming towards him and passing him on both sides gave him the feeling he was moving inside a funnel. Doors. Pictures, motifs of blue cubes. His strides were almost inaudible on the thick carpet. Great. Good hotels think about reducing noise. And good policemen think about what they have to do. Fuck, fuck, lactic acid on the brain. An ice machine. Room 2154,room 2156. Another bang. The Palace Suite.
His heartbeat drum rolls against his ribs. Harry stood beside the door and pushed his key card into the lock. There was a dull buzz. Then a smooth click and the light on the lock went green. Harry gingerly pressed down the handle.
The police had fixed procedures for situations like this. Harry had been on the course and learned them. He had no intention of following a single one of them now.
He tore open the door, rushed in with his gun held in front of him with both hands and threw himself into a kneeling position in the doorway to the living room. The light flooded into the room, dazzled him and stung his eyes. An open window. The sun behind the glass was like a halo over the head of the white-haired man who slowly turned round.
‘Police! Drop the gun,’ Harry shouted.
Harry’s pupils shrank and out of the light crept the silhouette of the rifle pointing at him.
‘Drop the gun,’ he repeated.‘You’ve done what you came to do, Fauke. Mission accomplished. It’s over now.’
It was peculiar but the brass bands were still playing outside as if nothing had happened. The old man raised the rifle and rested the butt against his cheek. Harry’s eyes had got used to the light and he stared down the barrel of this weapon he had hitherto only ever seen in pictures.
Fauke mumbled something, but it was drowned out by a new bang, this time sharper and clearer.
‘Well I’m . . .’ Harry whispered.
Outside, behind Fauke, he saw a puff of smoke rise into the air like a white speech bubble from the cannon on the ramparts of Akershus Fortress. The 17 May salutes. What he’d heard was the 17 May gun salutes! Harry heard the cheering. He breathed in through his nostrils. The room didn’t smell of burned powder. He realised that Fauke had not fired the gun. Not yet. He gripped the butt of his revolver tightly as he watched the wrinkled face staring blankly back at him over the sights. It wasn’t just a matter of his own and of the old man’s life. The instructions were clear.
‘I’ve come from Vibes gate. I’ve read your diary,’ Harry said. ‘Gudbrand Johansen. Or is it Daniel I’m talking to now?’
Harry clenched his teeth and crooked his trigger finger.
The old man mumbled again. ‘What was that?’
‘Passwort,’ the old man said. His voice was hoarse and totally unrecognisable from the one he had heard before.
‘Don’t do it,’ Harry said. ‘Don’t force me.’
A drop of sweat ran down Harry’s forehead, down to the bridge of his nose until it hung off the tip, where it seemed unable to make up its mind. Harry shifted his grip on the gun.
‘Passwort,’ the old man repeated.
Harry could see the old man’s finger tighten round the trigger. He could feel the fear of death squeezing his heart.
‘No,’ Harry said. ‘It’s not too late.’
But he knew it wasn’t true. It was too late. The old man was beyond reasoning, beyond this world and this life.
‘Passwort.’
Soon it would be over for them both. There was only some slow time left, the time on Christmas Eve before . . .
‘Oleg,’ Harry said.
The gun was pointing directly at his head. A car horn sounded in the distance. A spasm flitted across the old man’s face.
‘The password is Oleg,’ Harry said.
The finger on the trigger paused.
The old man opened his mouth to say something.
Harry held his breath.
‘Oleg,’ the old man said. It sounded like a wisp of wind from his lips.
Harry was never quite able to explain it afterwards, but he saw it: the old man was dying at that very moment. And then it was a child’s face looking at Harry from behind the wrinkles. The gun was no longer pointed at him and he lowered his revolver. Then he stretched out a hand and put it on the old man’s shoulder.
‘Do you promise me?’ The old man’s voice was barely audible. ‘That they won’t . . .’
‘I promise,’ Harry said. ‘I shall personally see to it that no names will appear publicly. Oleg and Rakel will not suffer in any way . . .’
The old man rested his eyes on Harry for a long time. The rifle hit the floor with a thud and then he collapsed.
Harry took the magazine out of the rifle and put it on the sofa before dialling reception and asking Betty to call an ambulance. Then he rang Halvorsen’s mobile and said the danger was over. Afterwards he pulled the old man on to the sofa and sat down in a chair to wait.
‘I got him in the end,’ the old man whispered. ‘He was about to slip away, you know. In the mud.’
‘Who did you get? Harry asked, pulling hard on his cigarette. ‘Daniel, of course. I got him in the end. Helena was right. I was always stronger.’
Harry stubbed out his cigarette and stood by the window. ‘I’m dying,’ the old man whispered. ‘I know.’
‘It’s on my chest. Can you see it?’
‘See what?’
‘The polecat.’
But Harry couldn’t see a polecat. He saw a white cloud scud across the sky like a passing doubt. In the sunshine, he saw the Norwegian flags wafting on all the flagpoles of the city and he saw a grey bird flap past the window. But no polecats.
Part Ten
THE RESURRECTION
105
Ullevål Hospital. 19 May 2000.
BJARNE MØLLER FOUND HARRY IN THE WAITING ROOM OF the oncological department. The head of Crime Squad took a seat beside Harry and winked at a small young girl, who frowned and turned away.
‘I heard it’s all over,’ he said.
Harry nodded. ‘Four o’clock this morning. Rakel has been here the whole time. Oleg’s in there now. What are you doing here?’
‘Just wanted a little chat with you.’
‘I could do with a smoke,’ Harry said. ‘Let’s go outside.’
They found a bench under a tree. Wispy clouds hurried past in the sky above them. All the signs were that it would be another warm day.
‘So Rakel doesn’t know anything?’ Møller asked. ‘Nothing.’
‘The people in the know are me, Meirik, the Chief Constable, the Minister of Justice and the Prime Minister. And you, of course.’
‘You know better than I do who knows what, boss.’
‘Yes. Naturally. I’m merely thinking aloud.’
‘So what was it you wanted to say to me?’
‘Do you know what, Harry? Some days I wish I worked somewhere else. Some place where there is less politics and more police work. In Bergen, for example. But then you get up on days like today, stand by your bedroom window looking at the fjord, the islands in it, and listen to the birds singing and . . . do you understand? . . . Then you don’t want to go anywhere.’
Møller watched a ladybird crawling up his thigh.
‘What I wanted to say is that we would like to keep things as they are, Harry.’
‘And what things are we talking about?’
‘Did you know that no American president in the last twenty years has lasted the full term without at least ten at
tempts on his life being uncovered? And that all the perpetrators without exception were arrested without anything coming to the ears of the media? No one profits from plans to assassinate a head of state becoming public knowledge, Harry. Especially not ones which could have succeeded, theoretically speaking.’
‘Theoretically, boss?’
‘Not my words. But the conclusion is, nevertheless, that we keep a lid on this. We don’t want to sow instability. Or reveal weaknesses in the security system. Those aren’t my words, either. Assassinations are contagious, just like . . .’
‘I know what you mean,’ Harry said, expelling smoke through his nose. ‘Primarily we’re doing this for those sitting in positions of power, aren’t we? People who could have and should have sounded the alarm before.’
‘As I said,’ Møller replied. ‘On some days Bergen seems like a handsome alternative.’
Neither of them said anything for a few minutes. A bird strutted in front of them, wagged its tail, pecked at the grass and kept a watchful eye open.
‘Wagtail,’ Harry said. ‘Motacilla alba. Cautious chap.’
‘What?’
‘Our Small Birds. What shall we do about the murders Gudbrand Johansen committed?’
‘We cleared up all the early murders to our satisfaction, didn’t we?’
‘What do you mean?’
Møller squirmed.
‘The only thing we’ll achieve by stirring up things now is ripping open old wounds for the next of kin, and there’s a risk someone will poke around and dig up the whole story. The cases were closed.’
‘Right. Even Juul. And Sverre Olsen. What about the murder of Hallgrim Dale?’
‘No one will kick up a fuss about him. After all, Dale was a . . . er . . .’
‘Just an old piss artist no one would give a toss about?’
‘Please, Harry, don’t make this more difficult than it already is. You know I’m not happy with this, either.’
Harry stubbed out his cigarette on the armrest of the bench and put the cigarette end back in the packet.
‘I have to go in again, boss.’
‘So we can count on you keeping this to yourself ?’
Harry gave a laconic smile. ‘Is it true what I’ve heard? About the person who wants to take over my job in POT?’
‘Absolutely,’ Møller said. ‘Tom Waaler has said he’ll apply. Meirik wants to make the whole neo-Nazi section part of the job description, so it’ll become a kind of springboard for the top jobs. I’m going to recommend him, by the way. I suppose you’re just happy he’s going to disappear now you’re back in Crime Squad? Now that his inspector post with us will become vacant.’
‘So that’s the reward for keeping my mouth shut?’
‘What on earth makes you think that, Harry? It’s because you’re the best. You’ve proved it yet again, haven’t you? I’m just wondering whether we can rely on you.’
‘You know which job I want to work on?’
Møller rolled his shoulders. ‘Ellen’s murder has been cleared up, Harry.’
‘Not quite,’ he said. ‘There are a couple of details we still don’t know. Among other things, what happened to the 200,000 Norwegian kroner for the purchase of the rifle. Perhaps there were several middlemen.’
Møller nodded.
‘OK. You and Halvorsen have two months. If you don’t find anything, the case is closed.’
‘Fair enough.’
Møller stood up to go. ‘There’s just one thing I’ve been wondering, Harry. How did you guess the password was “Oleg”?’
‘Well, Ellen was always telling me that the first thing that came into her mind was almost invariably right.’
‘Impressive.’ Møller nodded his head in appreciation. ‘And so the first thing that came into your mind was the name of his grandchild?’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘I’m not Ellen. I had to give it some thought.’
Møller sent him a sharp look. ‘Are you teasing me now, Hole?’
Harry smiled. Then he gestured towards the wagtail. ‘I read in the bird book I mentioned that no one knows why wagtails wag their tails when they stand still. It’s a mystery. The only thing we know is that they can’t stop . . .’
106
Police HQ. 19 May 2000.
HARRY HAD JUST PLACED HIS FEET ON THE DESK AND FOUND the perfect sitting position when the telephone rang. So as not to lose his position, he stretched forward while using his backside muscles to balance on the new office chair with the treacherous well-oiled wheels. He was able to reach the phone with the tips of his fingers.
‘Hole.’
‘Harry? Isaiah Burne in Johannesburg speaking. How are you?’
‘Isaiah? This is a surprise.’
‘Is it? I’m ringing to thank you, Harry.’
‘Thank me for what?’
‘For not starting anything?’
‘Starting what?’
‘You know what I mean, Harry. For not starting any diplomatic moves for a reprieve or anything like that.’
Harry didn’t answer. He had been half expecting this call for a while. The sitting position wasn’t comfortable any longer. Andreas Hochner’s begging eyes were suddenly present. And Constance Hochner’s imploring voice: Do you promise to do what you can, Mr Hole?
‘Harry?’
‘I’m still here.’
‘The sentence was passed yesterday.’
Harry stared at the picture of Sis on the wall. It had been an unusually warm summer that year, hadn’t it? They had gone swimming even when it was raining. He felt an inexpressible sadness wash over him.
‘Death penalty?’ he heard himself ask.
‘With no right of appeal.’
107
Schrøder’s. 2 June 2000.
‘WHAT ARE YOU DOING THIS SUMMER, HARRY?’
Maja was counting up the change.
‘I don’t know. We’ve talked about hiring a chalet somewhere here in Norway. Teach the boy to swim and all that.’
‘I didn’t know you had any children.’
‘No, well, it’s a long story.’
‘Really? Hope I get to hear it one day.’
‘We’ll see, Maja. Keep the change.’
Maja performed a deep curtsey and went off with a wry grin on her face. It was empty in the café for a Friday afternoon. The heat had probably sent most people up to the terrace restaurant in St Hanshaugen.
‘Well?’ Harry said.
The old man stared down into his glass without answering. ‘He’s dead. Aren’t you happy, Åsnes?’
The Mohican raised his head and looked at Harry. ‘Who’s dead?’ he said. ‘No one’s dead. Just me. I’m the last of the dead.’
Harry sighed, stuffed the newspaper under his arm and walked out into the shimmering afternoon heat.
About the Author
JO NESBØ is a musician, songwriter, economist, and one of Europe’s most critically acclaimed and successful crime writers today. His first novel featuring Police Detective Harry Hole was an instant hit in Norway, winning the Glass Key Award for Best Nordic Crime Novel—the most prestigious crime-writing award in Northern Europe. In 2004, The Redbreast was voted the “Best Norwegian Crime Novel Ever Writtenn” by members of Norwegian book clubs. Nesbe lives in Oslo.
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Also by Jo Nesbø
The Devil’s Star
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
THE REDBREAST. Copyright © 2000 by Jo Nesbø. English translation copyright © 2006 by Don Bartlett. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By paymen
t of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST U.S. EDITION
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN: 978-0-06-113399-2
ISBN-10: 0-06-113399-X
07 08 09 10 11 OFF/RRD 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
EPub Edition © January 2012 ISBN: 9780062194039
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