The Redeemer hh-6

by Jo Nesbo

  He stuffed his hands in his pockets and began to jog down the road. The cars passing by didn't bother him any more.

  The patient mumbled a 'thank you', and Mathias Lund-Helgesen closed the door after him and flopped down into his office chair. Yawned and looked at the clock. Six. An hour to go before the morning shift took over. Before he could go home. A few hours' sleep and then up to Rakel's. She would be lying under the duvet in the large timber-clad house in Holmenkollen at this moment. He still hadn't found the right tone with the boy, but it would come. It usually did for Mathias Lund- Helgesen. It wasn't that Oleg disliked him; it was more that the boy had formed too strong a link with the predecessor. The policeman. Odd how a child could elevate an obviously disturbed alcoholic into a father figure and role model without demur.

  He had been thinking of mentioning this to Rakel for a while, but had let the matter drop. It would only make him look like a helpless idiot. Or even make her wonder if he was the right man for them.

  And that was what he wanted. To be the right man. He was willing to be whoever he had to be to keep her. And to know who that was, he had to ask of course. So he had done. What it was about that policeman. And she had answered it wasn't anything in particular. Except that she had loved him. And if she hadn't formulated it like that perhaps he wouldn't have mused on why she had never used that word about him.

  Mathias Lund-Helgesen dismissed these idle thoughts, checked the name of the next patient on the computer and walked down the central aisle where the nurses first received them. But at this time of night it was deserted, so he went on to the waiting room.

  Five people looked at him, eyes begging for it to be their turn. Apart from a man in the far corner, sleeping with his mouth open and his head on the wall. Had to be a drug addict. The blue jacket and the stench of stale urine coming in waves were sure signs. Just as sure as he would complain of pains and ask for pills.

  Mathias went over to him and wrinkled his nose. Shook him hard and took a hasty step back. Quite a few addicts, after years of being robbed of drugs and money when they were out of it, had an automatic response if they were woken: thrashing out or stabbing with a knife.

  The man blinked and regarded Mathias with surprisingly clear eyes.

  'How can I help?' Mathias asked. Standard procedure, of course, was that you only asked a patient this question when you had privacy, but Mathias was exhausted and sick to death of junkies and drunks who took time and resources away from other patients.

  The man pulled the jacket around him more tightly and said nothing.

  'Hello! I'm afraid you have to tell me why you're here.'

  The man shook his head and pointed to one of the others as if explaining it wasn't his turn.

  'This is not a lounge,' Mathias said. 'You're not allowed to sleep here. Scram. Now.'

  'I don't understand,' the man said.

  'Leave,' Mathias said. 'Or I'll call the police.'

  To his astonishment, Mathias could feel he had to control himself not to drag this stinking junkie out of the chair. The others had turned to watch.

  The man nodded and staggered to his feet. Mathias stood watching him after the glass door had slid to.

  'It's good you chuck their kind out,' a voice behind him said.

  Mathias gave an absent-minded nod. Perhaps he hadn't told her enough times. That he loved her. Perhaps that was it.

  It was half past seven and still dark outside the neurosurgical ward and room 19 where Police Officer Stranden was looking down at the neat yet unoccupied bed where Jon Karlsen had been lying. Soon another patient would be there. That was a strange thought. But now he needed to find a bed to lie in himself. For a long time. He yawned and checked he hadn't left anything on the bedside table, took the newspaper from the chair and turned to leave.

  A man was standing in the doorway. It was the inspector. Hole.

  'Where is he?'

  'Gone,' Stranden said. 'They came for him a quarter of an hour ago. Drove him away.'

  'Oh? Who authorised that?'

  'The consultant. They didn't want him here any more.'

  'I meant who authorised the transport. And where to.'

  'That was your new boss in Crime Squad. He rang.'

  'Hagen? In person?'

  'Yep. And they took Karlsen to his brother's flat.'

  Hole shook his head slowly. Then he left.

  Dawn was breaking in the east as Harry trudged up the stairs of the reddish-brown brick-built block in Gorbitz gate, a short stretch of tarmac full of potholes between Kirkeveien and Fagerborggata. He stopped on the first floor as instructed via the door intercom. Embossed in white on a pale blue strip of plastic on the door that had been left ajar was a name: ROBERT KARLSEN.

  Harry entered and gave the flat a once-over. It was a tiny, messy studio that confirmed the impression one gained of Robert from seeing his office. Although the possibility could not be ruled out that Li and Li might have contributed to the mess while searching for letters and any other paperwork that could help them. A colour print of Jesus dominated one wall, and it struck Harry that if the crown of thorns was exchanged for a beret, you would have Che Guevara.

  'So Gunnar Hagen decided you should be brought here?' Harry addressed the back of the person sitting at the desk by the window.

  'Yes,' said Jon Karlsen, turning round. 'Since the gunman knows the address of my flat, he said I would be safer here.'

  'Mm,' Harrry said, looking around. 'Sleep well?'

  'Not particularly.' Jon Karlsen wore an embarrassed smile. 'I lay listening for sounds that weren't there. And when in the end I did fall asleep, Stranden, the guard, came and scared the living daylights out of me.'

  Harry moved a pile of comics off a chair and flopped down. 'I can understand you being afraid, Jon. Have you thought any more about who would want to take your life?'

  Jon sighed. 'I haven't thought about anything else since last night. But the answer is the same: I really don't have a clue.'

  'Have you ever been to Zagreb?' Harry asked. 'Or Croatia?'

  Jon shook his head. 'The furthest I've been from Norway is Sweden and Denmark. And then I was just a boy.'

  'Do you know any Croats?'

  'Only the refugees we give lodging to.'

  'Mm. Did the police say why they brought you here of all places?'

  Jon shrugged. 'I said I had a key to the flat. And it's empty of course, so…'

  Harry ran a hand across his face.

  'There used to be a computer here,' Jon said, pointing to the desk.

  'We picked it up,' Harry said, standing up again.

  'Do you have to go already?'

  'I have to catch a flight to Bergen.'

  'Oh,' Jon said with a blank stare.

  Harry felt an inclination to lay a hand on the ungainly boy's narrow shoulders.

  The airport express was late. It was the third time in a row. 'Because of a delay,' came the brief and vague justification. Oystein Eikeland, Harry's taxi-driving and only pal from his boyhood, had explained to Harry that a train's electromotor was one of the simplest things in existence. His little sister could make it work, and if the technical staff of SAS and the Norwegian Railways were to swap places for a day, all the trains would run on time and all the planes would still be on the ground. Harry preferred the situation as it was.

  He rang Gunnar Hagen's direct line after they emerged from the tunnel before Lillestrom.

  'Hole speaking.'

  'I can hear.'

  'I've authorised round-the-clock surveillance for Jon Karlsen. And I didn't authorise his removal from Ulleval Hospital.'

  'The hospital determines the latter,' Hagen said. 'And I determine the former.'

  Harry counted three houses in the white landscape before answering. 'You put me in charge of this investigation, Hagen.'

  'Yes, but not of overtime expenses. Which as you ought to know went over-budget ages ago.'

  'The boy's scared out of his wits,' Harry said. 'So you
put him in the flat belonging to the killer's previous victim, his own brother. To save the few hundred kroner a day a hotel room would have cost.'

  The loudspeakers announced the next stop.

  'Lillestrom?' Hagen sounded surprised. 'Are you on the airport express?'

  Harry mouthed a silent curse. 'Quick trip to Bergen.'

  'Is that so?'

  Harry gulped. 'I'll be back this afternoon.'

  'Are you out of your mind, man? We're under the spotlight here. The media-'

  'A tunnel's coming,' Harry said, pressing the red button.

  Ragnhild Gilstrup awoke slowly from a dream. It was dark in the room. She knew it was morning, but she didn't know what the sound was. It was like a large, mechanical clock. But they didn't have any clocks like that in the bedroom. She rolled over and recoiled. In the gloom she saw a naked figure standing by the foot of the bed watching her.

  'Good morning, darling,' he said.

  'Mads! You frightened me.'

  'Oh?'

  He had just had a shower. Behind him the door to the bathroom was open and the ticking sound came from the soft, resonant drips of water from his body onto the parquet floor.

  'Have you been standing like that for long?' she asked, pulling the duvet round her more tightly.

  'How do you mean?'

  She shrugged, but was taken aback. There was something about the way he said it. Cheery, almost teasing. And the tiny smile. He never used to be like that. She stretched and yawned – a sham, she acknowledged to herself.

  'When did you get home last night?' she asked. 'I didn't wake up.'

  'You must have been enjoying the sleep of the innocent.' Again that little smile.

  She studied him. Over recent months he had indeed changed. He had always been slim, but now he looked stronger and fitter. And there was something about his stance; he seemed to have become more erect. Of course she had wondered if he had a lover, but that had not bothered her overmuch. Or so she thought.

  'Where were you?' she asked.

  'Meal with Jan Petter Sissener.'

  'The stockbroker?'

  'Yes. He thinks the market prospects are good. Also for property.'

  'Isn't it my job to talk to him?' she asked.

  'Just like to keep myself up to date.'

  'You don't think I keep you up to date, dear?'

  He looked at her. Held her gaze until she felt something that never happened when she was speaking to Mads: blood suffusing her face.

  'I'm sure you tell me what I need to know, darling.' He went into the bathroom where she heard him turn on the tap.

  'I've been examining a couple of interesting property ideas,' she shouted, mostly to say something, to break the strange silence that had followed the last thing he said.

  'Me too,' Mads shouted. 'I went to have a look at an apartment building in Goteborggata yesterday. The one the Salvation Army owns, you know.'

  She froze. Jon's flat.

  'Fine property. But do you know what? There was police tape over the door to one of the flats. A resident told me there had been a shooting there. Can you imagine?'

  'Well I never,' she shouted. 'What was the police tape for?'

  'That's what the police do, secure the premises while they turn the flat upside down for fingerprints and DNA to find out who's been there. Anyway, the Salvation Army may be willing to lower the price if there's been a shooting in the building, don't you think?'

  'They don't want to sell. I've told you.'

  'They didn't want to sell, darling.'

  A thought struck her. 'Why would the police search the flat if the shooting came from the corridor outside?'

  She heard Mads turn off the tap and looked up. He was standing in the doorway, with a yellow smile in the white shaving foam and a razor in his hand. And soon he would sprinkle on the expensive aftershave she could not bear.

  'What are you talking about?' he said. 'I didn't say anything about corridors. And why so pale, darling?'

  ***

  The day had risen late and there was still a layer of transparent icy mist hanging over Sofienberg Park as Ragnhild hurried up Helgesens gate breathing into her beige Bottega Veneta scarf. Even wool bought in Milan for nine thousand kroner could not keep the cold out, but at least it covered her face.

  Fingerprints. DNA. To find out who had been there. That must not happen; the consequences would be disastrous.

  She rounded the corner to Goteborggata. There weren't any police cars outside anyway.

  The key slid into the lock of the main entrance, and she scuttled in towards the lift. It was a long time since she had been here, and the first time she was arriving unannounced, of course.

  Her heart was pounding as the lift was going up and she was thinking of her hair in his shower cabinet, clothing fibres in the carpet, fingerprints everywhere.

  The corridor was empty. The orange tape across the door showed that no one was at home, but she knocked anyway and waited. Then she took out the key and tried it. It didn't fit. She tried again, but could only get the tip into the cylinder. Christ, had Jon changed the lock? She took a deep breath, turned the key round and said a silent prayer.

  The key slipped in and the lock gave a gentle click as it opened.

  She inhaled the smell of the flat that she knew so well and made for the wardrobe where she knew he kept the vacuum cleaner. It was a black Siemens VS08G2040, the same model as they had at home, 2000 watts, the most powerful on the market. Jon liked things to be clean. The vacuum cleaner gave a hoarse roar as she plugged it in at the wall. It was ten o'clock. She should be able to clean all the floors and wipe all the walls and surfaces within an hour. She regarded the closed bedroom door and wondered whether to start there. Where the memories, and the evidence, were strongest. No. She placed the nozzle of the vacuum cleaner against her forearm. It felt like a bite. She pulled it away and saw that blood had already gathered.

  She had been cleaning for a few minutes when she remembered. The letters! God, she had almost forgotten they might find the letters she had written. The first ones in which she had written about her innermost dreams and desires, and the last ones, the desperate, naked ones where she had implored him to get in touch. She left the vacuum cleaner on, draped the hose over a chair and ran over to Jon's desk and began to pull out the drawers. The first contained pens, tape and a hole punch. The second telephone directories. The third was locked. Of course.

  She grabbed the letter opener from the bureau, forced it in above the lock and leaned with all her strength against the shaft. The old, dry wood creaked. And while she was thinking the letter opener would break, the front of the drawer split along its length. She pulled out the drawer with a jerk, brushed away the wooden splinters and looked down at the envelopes. The piles of them. Her fingers flipped through them. Hafslund Energi. Den norske Bank. Intelligent Finance. The Salvation Army. A blank envelope. She opened it. 'Dear Son,' it said at the top. She continued to flick through the pile. There! The envelope bore the investment fund's name – Gilstrup Invest – in a discreet pale blue, down in the right-hand corner.

  Relieved, she took out the letter.

  When she had finished reading she laid the letter aside and felt the tears streaming down her cheeks. It was as though her eyes had been opened again, as though she had been blind and now she could see and everything was as it had been. As though everything she had believed in and had once rejected was true again. The letter had been brief, yet, after reading it, everything was changed.

  The vacuum cleaner groaned without remorse and drowned everything except the simple, unambiguous sentences on the writing paper, their absurd and at the same time self-evident logic. She didn't hear the traffic from the street, the creaking of the door or the person standing right behind her chair. It wasn't until she caught his aroma that the hairs on her neck stood up.

  The SAS plane landed at Flesland Airport buffeted by westerly gales. In the taxi to Bergen the windscreen wipers hissed and the studded w
inter tyres crunched on wet, black tarmac as they cut their way between cliff faces with comb-overs of wet grassy tufts and bare trees. Winter in western Norway.

  When they arrived in Fyllingsdalen, Skarre rang.

  'We've found something.'

  'Out with it then.'

  'We've been through Robert Karlsen's hard drive. The only thing of doubtful character was cookies to a couple of porn sites on the Net.'

  'We would have found that on your computer too, Skarre. Get to the point.'

  'We didn't find any persons of doubtful character in the papers or letters, either.'

  'Skarre…' Harry warned.

  'On the other hand, we did find an interesting ticket stub,' he said. 'Guess where to.'

  'I'll clobber you.'

  'To Zagreb,' Skarre hurried to add. And then when Harry didn't answer: 'In Croatia.'

  'Thank you. When was he there?'

  'In October. Departure 12 October, returning the same evening.'

  'Mm. Just the one October day in Zagreb. Doesn't sound like a holiday.'

  'I checked with his boss at Fretex in Kirkeveien, and she says that Robert didn't do any jobs abroad for them.'

  Harry rang off wondering why he hadn't told Skarre he was pleased with his work. He could have done that, no problem. Was he becoming mean in his old age? No, he thought, as he took the four kroner change from the taxi driver; he had always been mean.

  Harry stepped out into a sad, gonorrhoeal discharge of a Bergen squall which, according to myth, starts one afternoon in September and finishes one afternoon in March. He walked the few paces to the front door of Bors Kafe and stood inside scanning the room and wondering what the imminent smoking law would do to places like this. Harry had been to Bors twice before and it was a place where he instinctively felt at home, yet an outsider at the same time. The waiters bustled around wearing red jackets and expressions that said they were working at a high-class establishment while serving half-litres and bone-dry witticisms to local crabbers, retired fishermen, hardy wartime seamen and others whose lives had capsized. The first time Harry went there a washed-up celeb had been dancing the tango with a fisherman between the tables while an older lady dressed to the nines had sung German ballads to accordion accompaniment and reeled off rhythmic obscenities with heavily rolled 'r's during the instrumental breaks.