The Redbreast hh-3

by Jo Nesbo

  Harry spoke in a low voice without looking at her: 'Do you think his family will see it like that when he comes home in a wheelchair?'

  'My God, Harry!' Ellen had raised her voice and saw that the woman at the counter was watching them with increasing interest. She could probably smell a juicy quarrel brewing.

  'There are always some unlucky ones, some who don't make it, Harry. That's the way it is. It's no one's fault. Did you know that every year 60 per cent of all hedge sparrows die? 60 per cent! If we were to down tools and ponder the meaning of it, before we knew what was going on, we would end up among the 60 per cent ourselves, Harry'

  Harry didn't answer. He sat bobbing his head up and down over the checked tablecloth with black cigarette burns.

  'I'm going to hate myself for saying this, Harry, but I would regard it as a personal favour if you would come tomorrow. Just turn up. I won't talk to you and you don't breathe on me, OK?'

  Harry put his little finger through one of the holes in the cloth. Then he moved his glass so it covered one of the other holes. Ellen waited.

  'Is that Waaler waiting in the car outside?' Harry asked.

  Ellen nodded. She knew exactly how badly the two of them got on. She had an idea, wavered, then took the risk: 'He's got two hundred kroner on you not making an appearance.'

  Harry laughed his soft laugh again. Then he supported his head on his hands and looked at her.

  'You're a really bad liar, Ellen. But thank you for trying.'

  'Fuck you.'

  She drew in breath, was going to say something but changed her mind and observed Harry for a while. Then she breathed in again.

  'OK, it's actually Moller who should tell you this, but now I'll tell you: they're going to make you an inspector in POT.'

  Harry's laughter purred like the engine of a Cadillac Fleetwood. 'Alright, with a little practice, perhaps you won't be such a bad liar after all.'

  'It's true!'

  'It's impossible.' His gaze wandered out of the window again.

  'Why? You're one of our best detectives. You've just proved you're a damned good policeman. You read law. You -'

  'It's impossible, I'm telling you. Even if someone has come up with the crazy idea.'

  'But why?'

  'For a very simple reason. Wasn't it 60 per cent of those birds, you said?'

  He pulled the tablecloth and the glass across the table. 'They're called hedge sparrows.'

  'Right. And what do they die of?'

  'What do you mean?'

  'They don't just lie down and die, do they?'

  'Of hunger. Predators. Cold. Exhaustion. Flying into windows perhaps. Anything and everything.'

  'OK. I bet none of them is shot in the back by a Norwegian policeman without a firearms permit because he didn't pass the shooting test. A policeman who, as soon as this is discovered, will be prosecuted and probably sentenced to between one and three years in prison. A pretty dodgy basis for promotion to inspector, don't you think?'

  He lifted his glass and slammed it down on the plastic folder.

  'Which shooting test?' she asked.

  He gave her a sharp look. She met his eyes with an expression of confidence.

  'What do you mean?' he asked.

  'I've no idea what you're talking about, Harry.'

  'You know bloody well that -'

  As far as I'm aware, you passed the shooting test this year. And Moller is of the same opinion. He even took a walk to the gun-licensing office this morning to check with the shooting instructor. They went through the files and, as far as they could see, you had scored more than enough points to pass. They don't make POT inspectors out of people who shoot at Secret Service agents without proper accreditation, you know.'

  She flashed a broad smile to Harry, who now seemed more bewildered than drunk.

  'But I haven't got a gun licence!'

  'Yes, you have. You just lost it. You'll find it, Harry, you'll find it.'

  'Now listen. I…'

  He paused and stared down at the plastic folder in front of him on the table. Ellen stood up. 'See you at nine, Inspector.' All Harry could manage was a mute nod.

  16

  Radisson SAS, Holbergs Plass.

  5 November 1999.

  Betty Andresen had such blonde, curly, Dolly Parton hair it looked like a wig. It was not a wig, however, and all similarities with Dolly Parton finished with the hair. Betty Andresen was tall and thin, and when she smiled, as she was doing now, the crack in her mouth was small and barely revealed her teeth. This smile was directed at the old man on the other side of the desk in the reception area of the Radisson SAS Hotel in Holbergs plass. It wasn't a reception desk in the general understanding of the term, but one of several multi-functional 'islands' with computer monitors, which allowed them to serve a number of guests at the same time.

  'Good morning,' Betty Andresen said. That was something she had picked up at the hotel management school in Stavanger, to distinguish between different times of the day when she greeted people. Thus in six hours' time she would say, 'Good afternoon,' and two hours later, 'Good evening.' Then she would go home to her two-room apartment in Torshov and wish there were someone to whom she could say, 'Good night.'

  'I'd like to see a room as high up as possible.'

  Betty Andresen stared at the dripping wet shoulders of the old man's coat. It was pouring outside. A quivering raindrop clung to the brim of his hat.

  'You want to see a room?'

  Betty Andresen's smile didn't flinch. She had been trained according to the principle, which she observed religiously, that everyone was to be treated as a guest until the opposite was proven irrefutably. But she knew equally well that what she had in front of her was an example of the genus: old-man-visiting-the-capital-who-woul d-like-to-see-the-view-from-the-SAS-hotel-without-paying. They were still coming here, particularly in the summer. And it wasn't only to see the view. Once a woman had asked to see the Palace Suite on the twenty-first floor so that she could describe it to her friends and tell them that she had stayed there. She had even offered Betty fifty kroner if she would enter her name in the guest book so that she could use it as proof.

  'Single room or double?' Betty asked. 'Smoker or non-smoker?' Most started to falter at that point.

  'Doesn't make any difference,' the old man said. 'The most important thing is the view. I'd like to see one facing south-west.'

  'Yes, you'll be able to see the whole town from there.'

  'Quite so. What is the best room you have?'

  'The best is obviously the Palace Suite, but wait a moment. Shall I check if we have a standard room available?'

  She clattered away on the keyboard and waited to see if he would take the bait. It didn't take long.

  'I'd like to see the suite.'

  Of course you would, she thought. She cast her eye over the old man. Betty was not an unreasonable woman. If an old man's greatest wish was to see the view from the SAS hotel, she wouldn't stand in his way.

  'Let's go and have a look,' she said, flashing her most radiant smile, which was usually reserved for regular guests.

  Are you visiting someone here in Oslo?' she asked out of politeness in the lift.

  'No,' the old man said. He had white bushy eyebrows like her father. Betty pressed the lift button, the doors slid to and the lift was set in motion. She never got used to it-it was like being sucked up to heaven. The doors slid open and, as always, she half expected she would come out into a new and different world, more or less like the girl in The Wizard of Oz. But it was always the same old world. They walked through the corridors with matching wallpaper and carpets and expensive art on the walls. She put the key card in the lock of the suite, then said, 'After you,' and held the door open for the man, who slipped by with what she interpreted as an air of expectation.

  'The Palace Suite measures 105 square metres,' Betty said. 'The suite has two bedrooms, each with their own king-size bed, and two bathrooms, each with Jacuzzi and telep
hone.'

  She went into the room where the old man had taken up a position by the window.

  'The furniture was designed by Poul Henriksen, a Danish designer,' she said, stroking her hand over the paper-thin glass top on the coffee table. 'Perhaps you would like to see the bathrooms?'

  The old man didn't answer. He had kept his soaking-wet hat on, and in the silence that followed Betty heard a drip land on the cherrywood parquet floor. She stood beside him. From here they could see everything that was worth seeing: the Town Hall, the National Theatre, the Palace, the Norwegian Parliament-the Storting-and Akershus Fortress. Beneath them lay the Palace Gardens, where the trees pointed up towards a leaden grey sky with black splayed witches' fingers.

  'You ought to come here on a fine spring day,' Betty said.

  The old man turned and sent her an uncomprehending look, and Betty realised what she had just said. She might as well have added: Since you have only come here to take in the view.

  She passed it off with a smile as well as she could. 'When the grass is green and the leaves are on the trees in the Palace Gardens. It's absolutely beautiful then.'

  He studied her face, but his thoughts appeared to be elsewhere.

  'You're right,' he said at last. 'Trees have leaves. I didn't think about that.'

  He pointed to the window. 'Does this open?'

  'A little,' Betty said, relieved at the change of topic. 'You twist the handle there.'

  'Why only a little?'

  'In case someone should get any silly ideas.'

  'Silly ideas?'

  She shot him a quick glance. Was the old man going a bit senile?

  'Take a hike,' she said. 'Commit suicide, I mean. There are a lot of unhappy people who…' She made a gesture with her hand which was intended to illustrate what unhappy people do.

  'So that's a silly idea, is it?' The old man rubbed his chin. Did she detect the hint of a smile among the wrinkles? 'Even if you're unhappy?'

  'Yes,' Betty said resolutely. At least, in this hotel while I'm on duty'

  'While I'm on duty.' The old man chuckled. 'That was a good one, Betty Andresen.'

  The mention of her name made her jump. Of course, he had read it on her name tag. There was nothing wrong with his eyesight then; the letters forming her name were as small as the letters of receptionist were large. She pretended to take a discreet peek at the clock.

  'Yes,' he said. 'You've probably got other more important things to do.'

  'I suppose I have,' she said.

  'I'll take it,' the old man said.

  'I beg your pardon?'

  'I'll take the room. Not for tonight, but -'

  'You're taking the room?'

  'Yes. It is available for booking, isn't it?'

  'Mm, yes it is, but… it's terribly expensive.'

  'I prefer to pay in advance.'

  The old man pulled out a wallet from his inside pocket and removed a wad of notes.

  'No, no, I didn't mean it like that, but 7,000 for one night. You wouldn't rather see -?'

  'I like this room,' the old man said. 'Please count it, just in case.' Betty stared at the thousand-kroner notes he wafted in front of her.

  'We can sort out the payment when you come,' she said. 'Mm, when would you like to…?'

  'As you recommended, Betty. One day in the spring.'

  'Right. Any particular day?'

  'Of course.'

  17

  Police HQ. 5 November 1999.

  Bjarne Moller sighed and gazed out of the window. His thoughts wandered freely as they had tended to do of late. The rain had held off, although the leaden grey sky still hung low over police HQ in Gronland. A dog trotted over the brown, lifeless lawn outside. There was a Crime Squad post vacant in Bergen. The deadline for applications was next week. He had heard from a colleague over there that it only rained twice every autumn in Bergen: from September to November, and from November to New Year. They always exaggerated, folk from Bergen did. He'd been there and he liked the town. It was a long way from the politicians in Oslo and it was small. He liked small.

  'What?' Moller turned and met Harry's resigned expression.

  'You were in the process of explaining to me that a move would do me good.'

  'Oh?'

  'Your words, boss.'

  'Oh yes. Yes, that's right. We have to make sure we don't get stuck in a rut, with old habits and routines. We have to move on and develop. We have to get away'

  'There's getting away and getting away. POT is only three floors up.'

  'Get away from everything, I mean. The head of the Security Service, Meirik, thinks you'll fit superbly into the post he has for you up there.’

  ‘Don't jobs like that have to be advertised?’

  ‘Don't worry about it, Harry.'

  'No? But can I be allowed to wonder why on earth you want me in surveillance work. Do I look like undercover material?’

  ‘No, no.’

  ‘No?'

  'I mean yes. Not yes exactly, but well… why not?’

  ‘Why not?'

  Moller scratched the back of his head furiously. His face had turned fiery red.

  'For fuck's sake, Harry. We're offering you a job as an inspector, five notches up the pay scale, no more night shifts and a bit more respect from the bloody rookies. That's good going, Harry.'

  'I like night shifts.'

  'No one likes night shifts.'

  'Why don't you give me the vacant inspector's post here?’

  ‘Harry! Do me a favour and just say yes.'

  Harry fidgeted with his paper cup. 'Boss,' he said. 'How long have we known each other?'

  Moller raised an admonitory finger. 'Don't try that one on me. Not the we've-been-through-thick-and-thin-together number…'

  'Seven years. And for seven years I've interviewed people in this city who are probably the most stupid beings to walk on two legs, and still I haven't met anyone who is a worse liar than you. Perhaps I'm stupid, but I still have a couple of brain cells left doing the best they can, and they're telling me that it can't exactly be my record that's earned me this post. Nor that, to my astonishment, I can suddenly have one of the best scores in the department at the annual shooting test. They're telling me that my plugging a Secret Service agent might have something to do with it. And you don't need to say a thing, boss.'

  Moller opened his mouth, closed it again and instead demonstratively crossed his arms.

  Harry continued: 'I know you're not responsible for putting on this show. And even if I can't see the whole picture, I have some imagination and I can guess the rest. If I'm right, it means that my own wishes regarding other options for my career in the police are of minor importance. So just answer me this. Have I any choice?'

  Moller blinked, and kept blinking. He was thinking about Bergen again. Of snow-free winters. Of Sunday outings with his wife and boys on Mount Floyen. Somewhere decent to grow up. A few good-natured pranks, a bit of hash, no criminal gangs and no fourteen-year-olds taking overdoses. Bergen police station. Yeah, well.

  'No,' he said.

  'Right,' Harry said. 'I didn't think so.' He crumpled the paper cup and took aim at the waste-paper basket. 'Up five pay grades, did you say?'

  'And your own office.'

  'Nicely partitioned off from the others, I would imagine.' He threw with a slow, deliberate arm movement. 'Overtime?’

  ‘Not at that grade.'

  'Then I'll have to hurry home at four.' The paper cup landed on the floor half a metre from the bin.

  'I'm sure that's fine,' Moller said with a suggestion of a smile.

  18

  Palace Gardens. 10 November 1999.

  It was a cold, clear evening. The first thing that struck the old man as he came out of the Metro station was how many people were still in the street. He had imagined that the centre would be almost deserted, but the taxis in Karl Johans gate were shooting back and forth under the neon lights, and crowds of people were drifting up and down the pa
vements. He stood at a pedestrian crossing with a gang of swarthy youths jabbering away in another language and waited for the green man. He guessed they were Pakistani. Or Arab perhaps. His thoughts were interrupted by the changing lights and he stepped purposefully across the road and up the hill towards the illuminated facade of the Palace. Even here there were people, most of them young, on their way to and from God-only-knew what. On the hill he stopped for a breather, in front of the statue of Karl Johan astride his horse, staring dreamily down towards the Storting and the power he had tried to have moved to the Palace behind him.

  It hadn't rained for over a week and the dried leaves rustled as the old man turned right between the trees in the gardens. He leaned back and studied the bare branches outlined against the starry sky above. A verse from a poem occurred to him:

  Elm and poplar, birch and oak,

  Deathly pale, blackened cloak.

  It would have been better if there hadn't been a moon this evening, he thought. On the other hand, it made it easier to find what he was looking for: the huge oak tree he had rested his head against the day he learned his life was approaching its end. He followed the trunk with his eyes up to the crown of the tree. How old could it be? Two hundred years? Three hundred? The tree might already have been fully grown when Karl Johan was proclaimed King of Norway. Nevertheless, all life comes to an end. His own, the tree's, yes, even kings' lives. He stood behind the tree so that he could not be seen from the path and eased off his rucksack. Then he crouched down, opened the rucksack and laid out the contents: three bottles of a glyphosate solution, which the sales assistant in a hardware shop in Kirkeveien had called Round-Up, and a horse syringe with a strong steel point, which he bought at a chemist's. He had said he was going to use the syringe for cooking, to inject fat into meat, but that had been unnecessary because the assistant had just given him a bored look and had probably forgotten him before he was out of the door.

  The old man looked quickly around before sticking the long steel point through the cork on one of the bottles and slowly withdrawing the plunger so that the shiny liquid filled the syringe. He probed with his fingers until he found an opening in the bark and stuck the syringe in. Things didn't go as easily as he had imagined. He had to press hard for the syringe to penetrate the tough wood. It wouldn't have any effect if he injected the outer layer; he had to reach the cambium, the tree's inner, life-giving organs. He applied more pressure to the syringe. The needle shook. Damn! He mustn't break it, he only had the one. The tip slid in, but after a few centimetres it came to a complete stop. Despite the chilly temperature, sweat was pouring off him. He gripped the syringe tight and was about to push again when he heard leaves rustling over by the path. He let go of the syringe. The sound came nearer. He closed his eyes and held his breath. The steps passed close by. When he opened his eyes again he glimpsed two figures disappearing behind the bushes, by the lookout point over Frederiks gate. He breathed out and turned his attention to the syringe again. He resolved to go for broke and pushed with all his might. And just as he was expecting to hear the sound of the needle snapping, it slid into the trunk. The old man mopped his brow. The rest was easy.