The Redeemer hh-6

by Jo Nesbo

  The man stood up with a flurry of snow around him, stepped onto the path and stamped his feet. He turned and watched Harry. Harry didn't move. The man stood with his arms hanging down by his sides. Like a sleepwalker, thought Harry. Stankic raised his hand. Harry saw the gun and knew he was helpless where he lay. Stankic's hand continued up to his forehead in an ironic salute. Then he pivoted and set off at a run up the path.

  Harry closed his eyes and felt his heart pounding against the inside of his ribs.

  By the time Harry had fought his way through to the path, the man had long been swallowed up by the darkness. Harry slid out the magazine of the MP5 and checked. As he thought. In a sudden bout of fury he hurled the weapon in the air and it rose like an ugly black bird in front of the Plaza Hotel before falling and landing with a gentle splash in the black water beneath him.

  When Halvorsen arrived Harry was sitting in the snow with a cigarette between his lips.

  Halvorsen was bent double, holding his knees, his chest heaving. 'Christ, you can run,' he wheezed. 'Gone?'

  'Vanished,' Harry said. 'Let's go back.'

  'Where's the MP5?'

  'Didn't you just ask me that?'

  Halvorsen looked at Harry and decided not to dig any further.

  ***

  Two police cars stood in front of the Hostel with blue lights flashing. A crowd of shivering men with long lenses protruding from their chests were thronging outside the front door, which was obviously locked. Harry and Halvorsen walked down Heimdalsgata. Halvorsen was finishing a conversation on his mobile.

  'Why do I always think of the queue for a porn film when I see that?' Harry said.

  'Journalists,' Halvorsen said. 'How did they get wind of this?'

  'Ask the whelp on the walkie-talkie,' Harry said. 'My guess is he let the cat out of the bag. What did they say in the Ops Room?'

  'They're sending all available patrol cars to the river at once. Uniformed Division is sending a dozen foot soldiers. What do you think?'

  'He's good. They'll never find him. Call Beate and ask her to come.'

  One of the journalists had spotted them and came over.

  'Well, Harry?'

  'You're up late, Gjendem.'

  'What's going on?'

  'Not a great deal.'

  'Oh? I see someone has shot out the windscreen of one of your police cars.'

  'Who says someone didn't hit it with a stick?' Harry said, with the journalist still trotting after him.

  'The officer sitting in there. He says he was shot at.'

  'Christ, I'd better have a word with him,' Harry said. 'Excuse me, gentlemen!'

  The throng moved aside with grudging reluctance and Harry knocked on the front door. There was a clicking and buzzing of cameras and flashes.

  'Is there any connection between this and the murder in Egertorget?' one of the journalists shouted. 'Is the Salvation Army involved?'

  The door opened a crack and the driver's face came into view. He stepped back, and Harry and Halvorsen pushed through. They walked through reception where the young policeman was sitting in a chair staring into space with vacant eyes while a colleague crouched in front of him, speaking in a low voice.

  On the floor above, the door to room 26 was still open.

  'Touch as little as possible,' Harry said to the driver. 'Beate Lonn's sure to want fingerprints and DNA.'

  They cast around, opened cupboard doors and peeked under the bed.

  'Jeez,' Halvorsen said. 'Not a single thing. The guy had only what he was standing up in.'

  'He must have had a suitcase or something to bring the gun into the country,' Harry said. 'He may have got rid of it of course. Or put it somewhere for safekeeping.'

  'There aren't that many left-luggage places in Oslo any more.'

  'Think.'

  'Right. The luggage room in one of the hotels where he was staying. The lockers in Oslo Central Station of course.'

  'Follow the line of thought.'

  'Which line?'

  'He's out there now and has a bag somewhere.'

  'He might need it now, yes. I'll ring Ops and get someone sent to Scandia and the station and… what was the other hotel that had Stankic on their lists?'

  'Radisson SAS in Holbergs plass.'

  'Thank you.'

  Harry turned to the driver and asked if he wanted to go out and have a smoke. They went down and out of the back door. On the snow-covered handkerchief of a garden in the quiet backyard an old man was standing and smoking while contemplating the dirty yellow sky, oblivious of their presence.

  'How's your colleague?' Harry asked, lighting both of their cigarettes.

  'He'll survive. Sorry about the reporters.'

  'It's not your fault.'

  'Yes, it is. When he called me on the radio he said someone had entered the Hostel. I should have drilled things like that into him.'

  'There were a couple of other things you should have drilled more.'

  The driver's eyes shot up. And blinked twice, in quick succession. 'I apologise. I tried to warn you, but you ran off.'

  'OK. But why?'

  The glow of the cigarette lit up, red and reproachful, as the driver sucked hard. 'Most criminals give up the second they have an MP5 pointing at them.'

  'That wasn't what I asked.'

  The muscles in his jaw tensed and relaxed. 'It's an old story.'

  'Mm.' Harry regarded the policeman. 'We've all got old stories to tell. That doesn't mean we can put colleagues' lives at risk with empty magazines.'

  'You're right.' The man dropped the half-smoked cigarette and it disappeared into the fresh snow with a hiss. He took a deep breath. 'And you won't get into any trouble about it, Hole. I'll confirm your report.'

  Harry shifted weight. Studied his cigarette. He put the policeman's age at about fifty. There weren't so many of them left in patrol cars. 'The old story, is it one I would like to hear?'

  'You've heard it before.'

  'Mm. Young lad?'

  'Twenty-two, no previous.'

  'Killed?'

  'Paralysed from the chest down. I hit him in the stomach, but the bullet went right through.'

  The old man coughed. Harry looked across. He was holding the cigarette between two matches.

  In reception the young officer was still sitting on the chair being comforted. Harry motioned with his head for the sympathetic colleague to withdraw and sank down onto his haunches.

  'Trauma counselling doesn't help,' Harry said to the wan young man. 'Sort yourself out.'

  'Eh?'

  'You're frightened because you think you were a shot away from dying. You weren't. He wasn't aiming at you. He aimed at the car.'

  'Eh?' the whelp repeated in the same monotone.

  'This guy's a pro. He knows that if he had shot a policeman he wouldn't have had a hope of getting away. He fired to frighten you.'

  'How do you know…?'

  'He didn't fire at me, either. You tell yourself that and you'll be able to sleep. And don't go to a psychologist; there are other people who need them.' Harry's knees gave a nasty crack as he stood up. 'And remember that higher ranked officers are by definition cleverer than you. So, next time, follow orders, OK?'

  His heart was beating like a hunted animal's. A gust of wind caught the lamps hanging from the thin wires above the street and his shadow danced across the pavement. He wished he could take longer strides, but because of the ice's slippery surface he had to keep his legs beneath him as far as possible.

  It must have been the telephone call to Zagreb from the office that had led the police to the Hostel. And it had happened at such speed! As a result he would not be able to call her. He heard a car coming from behind and had to force himself not to turn round. Instead he listened. It hadn't braked so far. It passed by, followed by a rush of air and a flurry of powdery snow that settled on the tiny strip of neck not covered by the blue jacket, the jacket that the policeman had seen him wearing and meant he was no longer invisible.
He had considered discarding the jacket, but a man in a shirt would not only look suspicious but would also freeze to death. He glanced at his watch. There were quite a few hours before the town came to life, before cafes and shops opened where he could find refuge. He had to find somewhere before then. A bolt-hole, a place where he could keep warm and rest until day broke.

  He walked by a dirty yellow house front covered with graffiti. His eye was caught by one word painted there. 'Vestbredden'. The West Bank? A bit further up the street a man was standing bent double in front of an entrance. From a distance it looked like he was resting his head against a door. As he came closer he saw that the man was holding his finger on a bell.

  He stopped and waited. This might be his salvation.

  A voice crackled from the speaker above the bell and the stooped figure straightened up, swayed and started yelling furiously by way of answer. His reddened, booze-battered skin hung off his face like the folds of a Shar Pei dog. The man stopped and the echoes between the houses died away in the night-still town. There was a low electric buzz and, with some difficulty, he shifted his centre of gravity forwards, pushed open the door and staggered in.

  The door began to close and his reactions were lightning fast. Too fast. His sole slipped on the blue ice and he just managed to slap down the palms of his hands on the burning cold surface before the rest of his body hit the pavement. He scrambled up again, saw that the door was on the point of snapping shut, charged forward, stuck out his foot and felt the weight of the door trap his ankle. He sneaked inside and stood listening. Shuffling feet. Which seemed to stop before being painfully resumed. Knocking. A door opened and a woman's voice screamed something in this weird sing-song language of theirs. Then it came to an abrupt end, as though someone had cut her throat. After a few seconds of silence he heard a low whine, the noise children make when they are getting over the shock of hurting themselves. Then the door upstairs banged again and it was quiet.

  He let the door close behind him. Among the rubbish under the stairs were a couple of newspapers. In Vukovar they had put paper in their shoes as it insulated and absorbed moisture. His frosty breath was still visible, but for the time being he was safe.

  Harry sat in the office behind the reception desk of the Hostel waiting with the receiver against his ear as he tried to visualise the flat he was ringing. He saw photos of friends stuck to the mirror above the telephone. Smiling, in party mood, maybe on a trip abroad. Girlfriends in the main. He saw a flat with simple furnishings but cosy. Words of wisdom on the fridge door. Che Guevara poster in the toilet. Did people still do that?

  'Hello?' said a sleepy voice.

  'It's me again.'

  'Daddy?'

  Daddy? Intake of breath and Harry felt himself blush. 'The policeman.'

  'Ah yes.' Stifled laughter. Bright and deep at the same time.

  'Sorry to wake you, but we-'

  'That doesn't matter.'

  There was one of those pauses Harry had wanted to avoid.

  'I'm at the Hostel,' he said. 'We've been trying to arrest a suspect. The receptionist says you and Rikard Nilsen brought him here earlier this evening.'

  'The poor man without any outdoor clothes?'

  'Yes.'

  'What's he done?'

  'We suspect he killed Robert Karlsen.'

  'My God!'

  Harry noticed she pronounced these two words with equal stress.

  'If it's alright by you, I'll send an officer over to talk to you. In the meantime perhaps you might try to remember what he said.'

  'OK, but can't it…?'

  Pause.

  'Hello?' Harry said.

  'He said nothing,' she said. 'Just like war refugees. You can see it in the way they move. Like sleepwalkers. As if they're on autopilot. As if they're already dead.'

  'Mm. Did Rikard talk to him?'

  'Maybe. Do you want his number?'

  'Please.'

  'One moment.'

  She was gone. She was right. Harry thought about the man getting up from the snow. How it had fallen off him, the limp arms and the blank face, like the zombies rising from graves in Night of the Living Dead.

  Harry heard a cough and spun round in his chair. In the office doorway stood Gunnar Hagen and David Eckhoff.

  'Are we disturbing?' Hagen asked.

  'Come in,' Harry said.

  The two men came in and sat down on the other side of the desk.

  'We'd like a report,' Hagen said.

  Before Harry could ask who he meant by 'we', Martine's voice was back with the number. Harry jotted it down.

  'Thank you,' he said. 'Goodnight.'

  'I was wondering-'

  'I've got to go,' Harry said.

  'Uh-huh. Goodnight.'

  He put down the receiver.

  'We came as fast as we could,' Martine's father said. 'This is awful. What happened?'

  Harry looked at Hagen.

  'Tell us,' Hagen said.

  Harry gave them the bare bones of the failed arrest, described the bullet hitting the car and the chase through the park.

  'But if you were so close and had an MP5 with you, why didn't you shoot him?' Hagen asked.

  Harry cleared his throat, but waited. He observed Eckhoff.

  'Well?' Hagen said with incipient irritation in his voice.

  'It was too dark,' Harry said.

  Hagen contemplated his inspector before responding. 'So he was out walking at the time you were entering his room. Any idea why a gunman would be outdoors when it's twenty degrees below and the middle of the night?' The POB lowered his voice. 'I assume you have round-theclock protection for Jon Karlsen.'

  'Jon?' said David Eckhoff. 'But he's at Ulleval Hospital.'

  'I have an officer posted outside his room,' Harry said, hoping his voice gave an impression of the kind of control he wished he had. 'I was about to check everything was alright.'

  ***

  The first four notes of 'London Calling' by the Clash reverberated around the bare walls of the corridor in the neurosurgical ward of Ulleval Hospital. A man with flat hair and a dressing gown, walking with a drip on a stand, sent the police guard a reproachful glance as he passed. He was answering his mobile phone, contrary to hospital regulations.

  'Stranden.'

  'Hole here. Anything to report?'

  'Not much. There's an insomniac wandering the corridors. Dodgylooking, but seems harmless enough.'

  The man with the drip continued on his rounds with a sniff.

  'Anything earlier this evening?'

  'Yep. Spurs got trounced by Arsenal at White Hart Lane. And there was a power cut.'

  'And the patient?'

  'Not a peep.'

  'Have you checked everything is OK?'

  'Apart from haemorrhoids, everything seemed fine.'

  Stranden listened to the ominous silence. 'Just a joke. I'll go and check right away. Stay on the line.'

  The room smelt of something sugary. Sweets, he assumed. The light from the corridor swept across the room and went as the door closed behind him, but he could make out a face on the pillow. He went closer. It was quiet in here. Too quiet. As though sound was missing. One sound.

  'Karlsen?'

  No reaction.

  Stranden coughed and repeated the name a bit louder. 'Karlsen.'

  It was so quiet that Harry's voice on the phone rang out loud and clear. 'What's up?'

  Stranden put the phone to his ear. 'He's sleeping like a baby.'

  'Sure?'

  Stranden observed the face on the pillow. And realised that was what was bothering him. Karlsen was sleeping like a baby. Grown men tend to make more noise. He leaned over the face to listen to his breathing.

  'Hello!' Harry Hole's shout on the mobile phone sounded distant. 'Hello!'

  16

  Thursday, 18 December. The Refugee.

  The sun warmed him and the slight breeze across the sand dunes made the grass ripple and nod in appreciation. He must have been sw
imming because the towel beneath him was wet. 'Look,' said his mother, pointing. He shaded his eyes and scanned the gleaming, unbelievably blue Adriatic Sea. And there he saw a man wading towards land with a big smile. It was his father. Behind him, Bobo. And Giorgi. A small dog was swimming beside him with its tiny tail upright like a mast. While he was watching them many more rose from the sea. Some he knew very well. Like Giorgi's father. Others were familiar. A face in a doorway in Paris. The features were distorted beyond recognition, into grotesque masks grimacing at him. The sun disappeared behind a cloud and the temperature plummeted. The masks started shouting.

  He woke to a searing pain in his side and opened his eyes. He was in Oslo. On the floor under the stairs in an entrance hall. A figure stood over him, mouth open wide, shouting something. He recognised one word which was almost the same as in his own language. Narkoman.

  Then the figure, a man in a short leather jacket, took a step back and lifted his foot. The kick hit him on his sore side and he rolled over in pain. There was another man behind the one wearing the jacket, laughing and holding his nose. The leather jacket pointed to the door.

  He eyed the two of them. Put his hand on his jacket pocket and felt it was wet. And that he still had the gun. There were two bullets left in the magazine. But if he threatened them with the gun there was a chance they would alert the police.

  The leather jacket yelled and raised his hand.

  He held his arm over his head in defence and staggered to his feet. The man holding his nose opened the door with a grin and kicked his backside on the way out.

  The door snapped shut behind him and he heard the two men stomping up the stairs. He looked at his watch. Four o'clock in the morning. It was still dark and he was frozen to the marrow. And wet. He could feel with his hand that the back of his jacket was saturated and his trouser legs soaked. He stank of piss. Had he pissed himself? No, he must have been lying in it. A pool. On the floor. Frozen piss that he had thawed with his body heat.