The Redeemer hh-6

by Jo Nesbo

  Harry and Halvorsen exchanged glances.

  'We don't wish to go public with it yet, herr Eckhoff.'

  The commander's eyebrows sank menacingly close to his eyes. Halvorsen released a silent sigh and prepared himself for yet another of Harry's cockfights. But then the commander's eyebrows shot back up.

  'Forgive me, Inspector Hole. Professional deformation. As the commanding officer here, I sometimes forget that not everyone reports to me. How can I help?'

  'In a nutshell, I was wondering whether you could imagine any potential motives for what has happened.'

  'Hm. Of course, I have thought about this. It's difficult to see any causes. Robert was a mess, but a nice boy. Quite different from his brother.'

  'Jon isn't nice?'

  'He's not a mess.'

  'What sort of messes was Robert involved in?'

  'Involved? You're suggesting things of which I know nothing. I meant that Robert had no direction in his life, unlike his brother. I knew their father well. Josef was one of our best officers. But he lost his faith.'

  'You said it was a long story. Would it be possible to have a short version?'

  'Good question.' The commander heaved a heavy sigh and gazed out of the window. 'Josef was working in China at the time of floods. Few there had heard about Our Lord, and they were dying like flies. No one, according to Josef 's interpretation of the Bible, would be saved unless they received Jesus; they would burn in hell. He was distributing medicines in the Hunan province. The floodwaters were full of Russell's vipers and many people had been bitten. Even though Josef and his team had taken a whole chest of serum with them, they tended to arrive too late because this snake has a hemotoxic venom which dissolves artery walls and makes victims bleed from the eyes, ears and all other orifices, killing them within one to two hours. I was myself witness to the effects of this venom when I was working as a missionary in Tanzania and saw people bitten by boomslangs. A terrible sight.'

  Eckhoff closed his eyes for a moment.

  'However. In one of the villages Josef and his nurse were giving penicillin to twins who both had pneumonia. While they were doing this, the father came in. He had just been bitten by a Russell's viper in the water on the rice paddy. Josef Karlsen had one dose of serum left which he asked the nurse to load into a syringe and give to the man. In the meantime Josef went outside to evacuate as he, like many others, had stomach cramps and diarrhoea. While he was crouching in the floodwater he was bitten in the testicles and screamed so loudly that everyone knew what had happened. On returning to the house, the nurse said the Chinese heathen refused to let her inject him because if Josef had also been bitten, he wanted Josef to have the serum. And if Josef was allowed to live, he could save many children's lives, and he was only a farmer who didn't even have a farm any more.'

  Eckhoff took a breath.

  'Josef said he was so frightened he didn't even consider rejecting the offer, and told the nurse to give him the injection at once. Afterwards he began to cry while the Chinese farmer tried to console him. After he'd finally pulled himself together he asked the nurse to enquire whether the Chinese heathen had heard of Jesus. She didn't even have time to pose the question because the farmer's trousers started to run red with blood. He died within seconds.'

  Eckhoff watched them as though waiting for the story to sink in. A trained preacher's pause for effect, thought Harry.

  'So the man is burning in hell now?'

  'According to Josef 's understanding of the Bible, yes. However, Josef has renounced religion now.'

  'So that was the reason he lost his faith and left the country?'

  'That was what he told me.'

  Harry nodded and spoke to the notepad he had taken out: 'So now Josef Karlsen will burn because he was unable to accept… er, the paradox about faith. Have I understood correctly?'

  'You're moving into a difficult area for theologians, Hole. Are you a Christian?'

  'No. I'm a detective. I believe in proof.'

  'Which means?'

  Harry sneaked a peep at his watch and hesitated before giving a rapid answer, delivered in flat intonation.

  'I have problems with a religion which says that faith in itself is enough for a ticket to heaven. In other words, that the ideal is your ability to manipulate your own common sense to accept something your intellect rejects. It's the same model of intellectual submission that dictatorships have used throughout time, the concept of a higher reasoning without any obligation to discharge the burden of proof.'

  The commander nodded. 'A considered objection, Inspector. And of course you are not the first to have made it. Nevertheless, there are a great many far more intelligent people than you or I who believe. Is that not a paradox to you?'

  'No,' Harry said. 'I meet a lot of people who are more intelligent than me. Some of them kill for reasons neither you nor I can fathom. Do you think Robert's death may be directed against the Salvation Army?'

  The commander's instinctive reaction was to sit bolt upright in his chair.

  'If you think this is the action of a politically motivated group, I doubt it. The Salvation Army line has always been to remain neutral in political matters. And we have been pretty consistent in this. Not even during the Second World War did we come out with a public condemnation of the German occupation. We went about our work as before.'

  'Congratulations,' Halvorsen commented drily, and received a warning glare from Harry.

  'The one invasion we have given our blessing to is that of 1888,' Eckhoff said, undaunted, 'when the Swedish Salvation Army decided to occupy Norway, and we had the first soup station in the poorest working-class district of Oslo. Where your Police HQ is situated now, you know, boys.'

  'No one bears a grudge against you for that, I would imagine,' Harry said. 'It seems to me that the Salvation Army is more popular than ever.'

  'Well, yes and no,' Eckhoff said. 'We enjoy the trust of the Norwegian people. We can feel that. But recruitment is so-so. This autumn there were only eleven cadets at the Officer Training School in Asker although the hall of residence has room for sixty. And since it is our policy to adhere to a conservative interpretation of the Bible on issues such as homosexuality, it goes without saying that we are not popular in all quarters. We will catch up, we will, we're just a bit slower than our more liberal counterparts. But do you know what? I think in our changing times it doesn't matter so much if some things move a little slower.' He smiled at Halvorsen and Harry in a way that suggested they had expressed agreement. 'Anyway, younger personnel will take over. With a younger view of things, I assume. At the moment we are about to appoint a new chief of administration and some very young candidates have applied.' He placed a hand on his stomach.

  'Was Robert one of them?' Harry asked.

  The commander shook his head with a smile. 'I can say with confidence he was not. But his brother, Jon, is. The appointee will have control over considerable sums of money, among them all our properties, and Robert was not the type you would give that kind of responsibility. He hadn't been to the Officer Training School, either.'

  'Are the properties the ones in Goteborggata?'

  'We have many. Our own employees live in Goteborggata while other places, such as in Jacob Aalls gate, are used to house refugees from Eritrea, Somalia and Croatia.'

  'Mm.' Harry looked at his notepad, slapped the pen down on the arm of the chair and stood up. 'I think we've taken up enough of your time, herr Eckhoff.'

  'Oh, it wasn't so much. After all, this is a matter which concerns us.'

  The commander followed them to the door.

  'May I ask you a personal question, Hole?' the commander asked. 'Where have I seen you before? I never forget a face, you see.'

  'Maybe on the TV or in the paper,' Harry said. 'There was a great deal of fuss about me in connection with the murder of a Norwegian national in Australia.'

  'No, I forget those faces. I must have seen you in the flesh.'

  'Will you go and get t
he car?' Harry said to Halvorsen. When Halvorsen had gone, Harry turned to the commander.

  'I don't know, but the Army helped me once,' he said. 'Picked me up off the street one winter's day when I was so drunk that I couldn't look after myself. The soldier who found me wanted to ring the police at first, as he thought they could do the job better. However, I explained that I worked for the police and that would mean the sack. So he took me down to the Field Hospital where I was given an injection and allowed to sleep. I owe you all a big debt of gratitude.'

  David Eckhoff nodded. 'Well, I thought it was something like that, though I didn't want to say. And, as far as the gratitude is concerned, I think we should forget it for the time being. We will be indebted to you if you find the person who killed Robert. God bless you and your work, Hole.'

  Harry nodded and walked into the anteroom where he remained for a moment gazing at Eckhoff's closed door.

  'You're very similar,' Harry said.

  'Oh?' came the woman's deep voice. 'Was he severe?'

  'I mean in the photograph.'

  'Nine years old,' said Martine Eckhoff. 'You did well to recognise me.'

  Harry shook his head. 'By the way, I meant to get in touch. I wanted to talk to you.'

  'Oh?'

  Harry could hear how that sounded and hastened to add: 'About Per Holmen.'

  'Is there anything to talk about?' she replied with an indifferent shrug of her shoulders, although the temperature of her voice had fallen. 'You do your job and I do mine.'

  'Maybe. But I… well, I wanted to say it was not quite the way it may have looked.'

  'And how did it look?'

  'I told you I cared about Per Holmen. And ended up ruining what was left of his family. That's what my job is like sometimes.'

  She was going to answer when the telephone rang. She lifted the receiver and listened.

  'Vestre Aker church,' she replied. 'Sunday twenty-first, at twelve o'clock. Yes.'

  She put down the phone.

  'Everyone will be going to the funeral,' she said, flicking through paperwork. 'Politicians, clergy and celebs. Everyone wants a chunk of us in our hour of sorrow. The manager of one of our new singers phoned to say his artiste could sing at the funeral.'

  'Well,' Harry said, wondering what he was going to say, 'it's-'

  But the telephone rang again so he didn't find out. He knew it was time for a quick exit, nodded and walked towards the door.

  'I've put Ole down for Wednesday in Egertorget,' he heard her say behind him. 'Yes, for Robert. So the question is whether you can do the soup bus with me tonight.'

  In the lift he cursed under his breath and rubbed his face with his hands. Then he let out a desperate laugh. The way you laugh at terrible clowns.

  Robert's office seemed, if possible, even smaller today. And just as chaotic. The Salvation Army flag dominated, next to the icy patterns on the window, and the pocket knife was stuck in the desk beside a pile of papers and unopened envelopes. Jon was sitting at the desk letting his gaze wander across the walls. It stopped at a picture of Robert and himself. When was that taken? In Ostgard, of course, but which summer? Robert was trying to remain serious, but couldn't restrain a smile. His smile seemed unnatural, forced.

  He had read the newspapers today. It was unreal although he knew all the details, as if it were all about someone else and not Robert.

  The door opened. Outside stood a tall, blonde woman in a military-green pilot's jacket. Her mouth was narrow and bloodless, her eyes hard, neutral, and her features expressionless. Behind her stood a red-haired, squat man with a round, boyish countenance and the type of grin that seems to be etched into some people's faces. They greet all news with it, good or bad.

  'Who are you?' asked the woman.

  'Jon Karlsen.' When he saw the woman's eyes become even harder he went on. 'I'm Robert's brother.'

  'My apologies,' the woman said in a monotone, coming into the room and proffering her hand. 'Toril Li, police officer with Crime Squad.' Her hand was bone hard, but warm. 'This is Police Officer Ola Li.'

  The man nodded and Jon returned the nod.

  'We're sorry about what happened,' the woman said. 'But since this is a murder case, we have to seal off this room.'

  Jon continued nodding while his eyes found their way back to the photo on the wall.

  'I'm afraid that means we have to…'

  'Oh, yes, of course,' Jon said. 'Sorry, I'm not quite with it.'

  'Entirely understandable,' Toril Li replied with a smile. Not a broad, heartfelt smile, but a small, friendly one, appropriate for the situation. Jon was thinking that the police must have experience of this kind of thing, working with murders and so on. Like priests. Like his father.

  'Have you touched anything?' she asked.

  'Touched? No, why would I do that? I've been sitting in the chair.'

  Jon got up and, without knowing why, pulled the knife out of the desk, folded it and put it in his pocket.

  'It's all yours,' he said, leaving the room. The door was closed quietly behind him. He had reached the stairs when he realised it was an idiotic thing to do, to walk off with the knife, and he turned to take it back. Outside the closed door, he heard the woman's voice laughing: 'My goodness, what a shock that gave me! He's the spitting image of his brother. At first I thought I was seeing a ghost.'

  'They don't look at all similar,' said the man.

  'You've only seen a photo…'

  A terrible thought struck Jon.

  SK-655 to Zagreb took off from Gardemoen Airport, at 10.40 on the dot, banked left over Lake Hurdal and set a course south towards the navigation tower in Aalborg, Denmark. Since it was an unusually cold day the atmospheric layer known as the tropopause had sunk so low that the McDonnell Douglas MD-81 was already climbing through it when they were over central Oslo. And since planes in the tropopause leave vapour trails in the sky, he would have seen – if he had looked up from where he was standing and shivering by the phone boxes in Jernbanetorget – the plane he had a ticket for in the pocket of his camel-hair coat.

  He had left his bag in a luggage locker in Oslo Central Station. Now he needed a hotel room. And he had to complete the job. And that meant he had to have a gun. But how to get hold of one in a town where you don't have a single contact?

  He listened to the woman in directory enquiries explaining in singsong Scandinavian English that there were seventeen entries in the Oslo telephone book for people under the name of Jon Karlsen and she was afraid that she could not give him all of them. However, yes, she could give him the number for the Salvation Army.

  The lady at Salvation Army Headquarters said they had a Jon Karlsen, but he was not at work today. He told her he wanted to send him a Christmas present. Did she have his home address?

  'Let me see. Goteborggata 4, post number 0566. Nice that someone is thinking about him, poor thing.'

  'Poor thing?'

  'Yes, his brother was shot dead yesterday.'

  'Brother?'

  'Yes, in Egertorget. It's in today's paper.'

  He thanked her for her help and hung up.

  Something touched him on the shoulder and he whirled round.

  It was the paper cup that explained what the young man wanted. True, the denim jacket was a little grubby, but he was clean-shaven, had a modern hairstyle, substantial clothes and an open, alert gaze. The young man said something, but when he demonstrated with a shrug that he didn't speak Norwegian, the young man broke into perfect English:

  'I'm Kristoffer. I need money for a room tonight. Or else I'll freeze to death.'

  It sounded like something he had learned on a marketing course, a brief and concise message plus his name to add an effective emotional immediacy. The request came with a broad smile.

  He shook his head and made to go, but the beggar stood in front of him with the cup. 'Come on, mister. Haven't you ever had to sleep rough, frozen, dreading the night?'

  'As a matter of fact I have.' For one crazy moment
he felt like telling him he had hidden in a water-filled foxhole for four days waiting for a Serbian tank.

  'Then you know what I'm talking about, mister.'

  He answered with a slow nod. Stuffed his hand in his pocket, took out a note and gave it to Kristoffer without looking. 'You'll sleep rough anyway, won't you?'

  Kristoffer pocketed the money, nodded and said with an apologetic smile: 'Have to prioritise my medicine, mister.'

  'Where do you usually sleep?'

  'Down there.' The junkie pointed and he followed the long, slim forefinger with the trim nail. 'Container terminal. They're going to build an opera house there in the summer.' Kristoffer flashed another broad smile. 'And I love opera.'

  'Isn't it a bit cold there now?'

  'Tonight it might have to be the Salvation Army. They always have a free bed in the Hostel.'

  'Do they?' He studied the boy. He looked well groomed, and his smile revealed a set of shining white, even teeth. Nevertheless he smelt decay. As he listened he thought he could hear the crunching of a thousand jaws, of flesh being consumed from inside.

  11

  Wednesday, 17 December. The Croat.

  Halvorsen sat patiently behind the steering wheel waiting for a car with a Bergen number plate in front of him. Its wheels spun round on the ice as the driver pressed the accelerator to the floor. Harry was talking to Beate on his mobile phone.

  'What do you mean?' Harry shouted to drown the noise of the racing engine.

  'It doesn't look like it's the same person in these two pictures,' Beate repeated.

  'It's the same woolly hat, same raincoat and same neckerchief. It must be the same person, mustn't it?'

  She didn't answer.

  'Beate?'

  'The faces are unclear. There's something strange. I'm not quite sure what. Maybe something to do with the light.'

  'Mm. Do you think we're on a wild goose chase?'

  'I don't know. His position in front of Karlsen tallies with the technical evidence. What's all that noise?'

  'Bambi on ice. See you.'