The Redbreast hh-3

by Jo Nesbo

  'Beatrice Hoffmann is alive,' he said accelerating through the lights. 'She's at an old people's home in MauerbachstraBe. That's up in the Vienna Woods.'

  The BMW turbo squealed with glee. The blocks of flats gave way to half-timbered houses, vineyards and finally the green deciduous forest, with the afternoon sun playing on the leaves and creating a magical atmosphere as they sped along avenues lined with beech and chestnut trees.

  A nurse led them out into the large garden.

  Beatrice was sitting on a bench in the shade of an enormous, gnarled oak tree. A straw hat dominated the tiny, wrinkled face. Fritz spoke with her in German and explained why they had come. The old woman inclined her head with a smile.

  'I'm ninety years old,' she said in a shaky voice. 'And tears still come to my eyes when I think about Fraulein Helena.'

  'Is she still alive?' Harry asked in his schoolboy German. 'Do you know where she is?'

  'What's that he says?' she asked with her hand behind her ear. Fritz explained.

  'Yes,' she said. 'Yes, I know where Helena is. She's sitting up there.' She pointed up into the treetops.

  There you go, Harry thought. Senile. But the old lady hadn't finished speaking.

  'With St Peter. Good Catholics, the Langs, but Helena was the angel in the family. As I said, it always brings tears to my eyes thinking about it.'

  'Do you remember Gudbrand Johansen?' Harry asked.

  'Uriah,' Beatrice said. 'I only met him once. A handsome, charming young man, but sick unfortunately. Who would have believed that such a nice, polite boy would have been able to kill? Their emotions ran away with them, yes, with Helena too. She never got over him, the poor thing. The police never found him and although Helena was never accused of anything, Andr6 Brockhard saw to it that she was thrown out of the hospital. She moved into town and did voluntary work for the Archbishop until the family was in such dire financial straits that she was forced to find paid work. So she started a sewing business. Within two years she had fourteen women sewing for her full-time. Her father was released but couldn't find work after the Jewish banker scandal. Frau Lang took the family's fall from grace worst. She died after a long illness in 1953 and Herr Lang the same autumn in a car accident. Helena sold the business in 1955 and left the country without any explanation to anyone. I can remember the day. It was 15 May, Austria's liberation day'

  Fritz saw Harry's curious expression and explained.

  Austria is a little unusual. Here we don't celebrate the day Hitler capitulated, but the day the Allies left the country.'

  Beatrice spoke about how she had received news of Helena's death.

  'We hadn't heard from her for more than twenty years when one day I received a letter postmarked Paris. She was there on holiday with her husband and daughter, she wrote. It was a kind of final journey, I realised. She didn't say where she had settled down, whom she had married or what illness she had. Only that she hadn't long to live and she wanted me to light a candle for her in Stephansdom. She was an unusual person, Helena was. She was seven years old when she came to me in the kitchen and turned these grave eyes on me. "Humans were created by God to love," she said.'

  A tear ran down the old lady's lined cheek.

  Til never forget it. Seven years old. I think she decided then and there how she was going to live her life. And even though it definitely wasn't as she had imagined and her trials were many and sore, I'm convinced she believed it to the bottom of her heart all her life-that humans were created by God to love. That's how she was.'

  'Do you still have the letter?' Harry asked.

  She wiped away her tears and nodded.

  'I have it in my room. Let me sit here and reminisce a little. We can go there afterwards. By the way, this will be the first hot night of the year.'

  They sat in silence, listening to the rustle of the branches and the small birds singing as the sun went down behind Sophienalpe, as each of them thought of those gone before. Insects jumped and danced in the pillars of light under the trees. Harry thought about Ellen. He spotted a bird he could have sworn was the flycatcher he had seen pictures of in the bird book.

  'Let's go,' said Beatrice.

  Her room was small and plain, but light and snug. A bed stood against the back wall, which was covered with pictures of all sizes. Beatrice rummaged through some papers in a large dressing-table drawer.

  'I have a system, so I'll find it,' she said. Naturally, Harry thought.

  At that moment his eyes fell on a photograph in a silver frame.

  'Here's the letter,' Beatrice said.

  Harry didn't answer. He stared at the photograph and didn't react until he heard her voice right behind him.

  'That photograph was taken while Helena was working at the hospital. She was beautiful, wasn't she?'

  'Yes, she was,' Harry said. 'There's something oddly familiar about her.'

  'Nothing odd about her,' Beatrice said. 'They've been painting her on icons for almost two thousand years.'

  It was a hot night. Hot and sultry. Harry tossed and turned in the four-poster, threw the blanket on the floor and pulled the sheet off the bed as he tried to shut out all his thoughts and sleep. For a moment he had considered the minibar, but then he remembered he had taken the minibar key off the ring and handed it in to reception. He heard voices in the corridor outside. Someone grabbed the handle of his door and he shot up in bed, but no one came in. Then the voices were inside, their breath hot against his skin, the ripping sound of clothes being shredded, but when he opened his eyes he saw flashes of light and he knew it was lightning.

  A rumble of thunder, sounding like distant explosions, came first from one part of town, then another. He went to sleep again and kissed her, took off her white nightdress. Her skin was white and cold and uneven from sweating, from the terror; he held her for a long, long time until she was warm, until she came back to life in his arms, like a flower filmed over a whole spring and then played back at breakneck speed.

  He continued to kiss her, on the neck, on the inside of her arms, on the stomach, not with insistence, not even teasingly, but half to comfort her, half comatose, as if he could vanish at any moment. And when she followed, waveringly, because she thought it was safe where they were going, he continued to lead her until they arrived in a landscape not even he recognised, and when he turned it was too late and she threw herself into his embrace, cursing him, begging him and tearing at him with her strong hands until his skin bled.

  He was awoken by his own panting and had to turn over in bed to make sure he was still alone. Afterwards, everything merged in a maelstrom of thunder, sleep and dreams. He awoke in the middle of the night to the sound of beating rain; he went over to the window and stared down at the street where water was streaming over the edges of the pavement and an ownerless hat drifted along with it.

  When Harry was awoken by his early-morning alarm call it was light outside and the streets were dry.

  He looked at his watch on the bedside table. His flight to Oslo left in two hours.

  88

  Thereses Gate. 15 May 2000.

  Stale Aune's office was yellow and the walls were covered with shelves crammed with specialist books and drawings of Kjell Aukrust's cartoon characters.

  'Take a seat, Harry,' Doctor Aune said. 'Chair or divan?'

  That was his standard opener, and Harry responded by raising the left-hand corner of his mouth in his standard that's-funny-but-we've-heard-it-before smile. When Harry had rung from Gardemoen Airport, Aune had said Harry could come, but that he didn't have a lot of time as he had to go to a seminar in Hamar at which he was to give the opening speech.

  'It's entitled "Problems Related to the Diagnosis of Alcoholism",' Aune said. 'You won't be mentioned by name.'

  'Is that why you're all dressed up?' Harry asked.

  'Clothes are one of the strongest signals we transmit,' Aune said, running a hand along a lapel. 'Tweed signals masculinity and confidence.'

  'And the bow
-tie?' Harry asked, taking out his notebook and pen.

  'Intellectual frivolity and arrogance. Gravity with a touch of self-irony, if you like. More than enough to impress second-rate colleagues, it seems.'

  Aune leaned back, pleased with himself, his hands folded over his bulging stomach.

  'Tell me about split personalities,' Harry said. 'Or schizophrenia.’

  ‘In five minutes?' Aune groaned. 'Give me a summary then.'

  'First of all, you mention split personalities and schizophrenia in the same breath, and that is one of these misunderstandings that for some reason has caught the public's imagination. Schizophrenia is a term for a whole group of widely differing mental disorders and has nothing at all to do with split personalities. It's true schizo is Greek for split, but what Doctor Eugen Bleuler meant was that psychological functions in a schizophrenic's brain are split. And if

  …'

  Harry pointed to his watch.

  'Right,' Aune said. 'The personality split you talked about is called an MPD, a multiple personality disorder, defined as the existence of two or more personalities in an individual which take turns in being the dominant partner. As with Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.'

  'So, it exists?'

  'Oh, yes. But it's rare, a lot rarer than some Hollywood films would have us believe. In my twenty-five years as a psychologist I've never been lucky enough to observe a single instance of an MPD. But I do know something about it all the same.'

  'For example?'

  'For example, it is almost always connected with a loss of memory. In other words, an MPD sufferer could wake up with a hangover without realising that it is because their other personality is a drinker. Well, in fact, one personality can be an alcoholic and the other a teetotaller.'

  'Not literally, I take it?'

  'Certainly.'

  'But alcoholism is a physical ailment too.'

  'Yes, and that's what makes MPDs so fascinating. I have a report of an MPD case where one of the personalities was a big smoker while the other never touched cigarettes. And when you measured the blood pressure of the smoker it was 20 per cent higher. Women with an MPD have reported that they menstruate several times a month because every personality has its own cycle.'

  'So these people can change their own physical nature?'

  'To a certain degree, yes. The story about Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde is in fact not so far from the truth as one might think. In one well-known case described by Dr Osherson, one of the personalities was heterosexual while the other was homosexual.'

  'Can the personalities have different voices?'

  'Yes. Actually the voice is one of the easiest ways to observe the shift between personalities.'

  'So different that even someone who knows this person extremely well would not recognise one of these other voices. On the phone, for example?'

  'If the individual concerned knew nothing about the other personality, yes. With people who have only a superficial knowledge of the MPD patient, the change in gestures and body language can be enough for them to sit in the same room and not recognise the person.'

  'Could someone with an MPD keep it hidden from those closest to them?'

  'It's feasible, yes. How frequently the other personalities appear is an individual matter and patients can to some degree control the changes themselves, too.'

  'But then the personalities would have to know about each other?'

  'Yes, indeed, but that's not unusual either. And, just as in the novel about Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, there can be bitter clashes between the personalities because they have different goals, perceptions of morality, sympathies and antipathies with respect to the people around them and so on.'

  'What about handwriting? Can they mess around with that too?'

  'This is not messing around, Harry. You aren't the same person all the time, either. When you get home from work a whole load of imperceptible changes take place in you too: your voice, body language and so on. It's odd that you should mention handwriting because somewhere here I've got a book with a picture of a letter written by an MPD patient with seventeen totally different and totally consistent handwriting styles. I'll see if I can find it one day when I have more time.'

  Harry noted down a few reminders on his pad.

  'Different menstrual cycles, different handwriting; it's just absolutely insane,' he mumbled.

  'Your words, Harry. I hope that helped because I've got to run.'

  Aune ordered a taxi and they went out on to the street together. As they stood on the pavement Aune asked Harry if he had any plans for Independence Day on 17 May. 'Wife and I are going to have a few friends round for a meal. You're very welcome.'

  'Kind of you, but the neo-Nazis are planning to "take" the Muslims who celebrate Eid on the seventeenth and I've been instructed to coordinate surveillance round the mosque in Gronland,' Harry said, both happy and embarrassed at the surprise invitation. 'They always ask us singles to work on such family celebration days, you know'

  'Couldn't you just drop in for a while? Most of the people who come have something of their own to go to later on in the day.'

  'Thanks. Let's see what happens and I'll give you a ring. What are your friends like anyway?'

  Aune checked his bow-tie to make sure it was straight.

  'They're like you,' he said. 'But my wife knows a few respectable people.'

  At that moment the taxi pulled into the kerb. Harry held the door open while Aune scrambled in, but as he was about to shut it he suddenly remembered something.

  'What are MPDs caused by?'

  Aune bent over in his seat and looked up at Harry.

  'What's this actually about, Harry?'

  'I'm not quite sure, but it might be important.'

  'Alright. MPD cases have often been subject to abuse in their childhood. But a disorder could also be caused by extremely traumatic experiences later in life. Another personality is created to flee from problems.'

  'What sort of traumatic problems might that be if we're talking about an adult male?'

  'You just have to use your imagination. He might have experienced a natural disaster, lost someone he loved, been a victim of violence or lived in fear for a protracted period of time.'

  'Like being a soldier at war, for example.'

  'War could certainly be a trigger, yes.'

  'Or guerrilla warfare.'

  Harry said the latter to himself, as the taxi taking Aune was already on its way down Thereses gate.

  'Scotsman,' Halvorsen said.

  'You're going to spend 17 May in the Scotsman pub?' Harry grimaced, putting his bag behind the hatstand.

  Halvorsen shrugged his shoulders. 'Any better suggestions?'

  'If it has to be a pub, at least find one with a bit more style than the Scotsman. Or better still, relieve one of the fathers here and do one of the watches during the children's parade. Double pay and zero hangover.'

  'I'll think about it.'

  Harry slumped down into the chair.

  'Aren't you going to get it fixed soon? It sounds decidedly out of sorts.'

  'It can't be fixed,' Harry said sulkily. 'Sorry. Did you find anything in Vienna?’

  ‘I'm coming to that. You first.'

  'I tried to check Even Juul's alibis for the time his wife went missing. He claimed he was walking round the city centre, popped into the Kaffebrenneri in Ullevalsveien, but he didn't meet anyone there who could corroborate his story. The staff working in the Kaffebrenneri say they're too busy to be able to prove or disprove anything.'

  'The Kaffebrenneri is right across the street from Schroder's,' Harry said.

  'So?'

  'I'm just stating a fact. What did Weber say?'

  'They haven't found anything. Weber said that if Signe Juul had been taken to the fortress in the car the night-watchman saw, they would have found something on her clothes, fibres from the back seat, soil or oil from the boot, something.'

  'He'd spread out bin liners in the car,' Harry said.
/>   'That's what Weber said too.'

  'Did you check the dry hay they found on her coat?'

  'Yep. It could be from Mosken's stable. Plus a million other places.'

  'Hay. Not straw.'

  'There's nothing special about the hay, Harry, it's just… hay.’

  ‘Damn.' Harry looked around him grumpily. 'What about Vienna?'

  'More hay. Do you know anything about coffee, Halvorsen?’

  ‘Eh?'

  'Ellen used to make decent coffee. She bought it in some shop here in Gronland. Maybe…'

  'No!' Halvorsen said. 'I'm not making you coffee.'

  'Promise me you'll try,' Harry said, getting up again. 'I'll be out for a couple of hours.'

  'Was that all you had to say about Vienna? Hay? Not even a straw in the wind?'

  Harry shook his head. 'Sorry. That was a dead end too. You'll get used to it.'

  Something had happened. Harry walked up along Gronlandsleiret as he tried to put his finger on what it was. There was something about the people in the streets, something had happened to them while he was in Vienna. He was a long way up Karl Johans gate before he realised what it was. Summer had arrived. For the first time in years Harry was aware of the smell of tarmac, of the people passing him, of the flower shop in Grensen. As he walked through the Palace Gardens the smell of freshly mown grass was so intense that he had to smile. A man and a woman wearing Palace overalls stood looking up at the top of a tree, discussing and shaking their heads. The woman had unbuttoned the top of her overall and tied it around her waist. Harry noticed that when she looked up at the tree and pointed, her colleague was stealing furtive glances at her tight T-shirt instead.

  In Hedgehaugsveien the hip and the not quite so hip fashion boutiques were going through their final paces to dress people up for the Independence Day celebrations. The kiosks were selling ribbons and flags, and in the distance he could hear the echo of a band putting its final touches to the traditional marching tune. Showers were forecast, but it would be warm.

  Harry was sweating when he rang the doorbell at Sindre Fauke's.

  Fauke was not particularly looking forward to the national holiday.