by Jo Nesbo
'You?' Harry said. 'You gave your own brother away?'
Trond sighed. 'I said it was my bike. And my jacket. Lev and I look very similar.'
'Why on earth did you do that?'
'I was just fourteen and too young for them to do anything. Lev would have ended up in the detention centre where Roger Gausten was.'
'But what did your mother and father say?'
'What could they say? Everyone who knew us knew that Lev had done it. He was the nutcase who pinched sweets and threw stones, while I was the good, kind little boy who did his homework and helped old ladies across the road. It was never talked about afterwards.'
Beate cleared her throat: 'Whose idea was it that you should take the blame?'
'Mine. I loved Lev more than anything on earth. But as the case has been dropped, I can say that now. And the fact is . . .' Trond put on his absent smile. 'Sometimes I wished it had been me who had dared to do it.'
Harry and Beate fidgeted with their cups in silence. Harry wondered which of them would ask. If he had had Ellen with him, they would have known intuitively.
'Where . . . ?' they began in unison. Trond blinked at them. Harry gave Beate the nod.
'Where does your brother live now?' she asked.
'Where . . . Lev is?' Trond looked at them in bewilderment.
'Yes,' she said. 'We know he's been away for a while.'
Grette turned to Harry. 'You didn't say this was about Lev.' The intonation was accusatory.
'We said we wanted to talk about this and that,' Harry said. 'We've finished with this, now we're on to that.'
Trond bolted up from his chair, grabbed the cups, went over to the sink and threw out the cocoa. 'But Lev . . . after all he's my . . . what on earth has he got to do with . . . ?'
'Perhaps nothing,' Harry said. 'If he has, we would like your help to eliminate him from our inquiries.'
'He doesn't even live in this country,' Trond groaned, turning round to face them.
Beate and Harry looked at each other.
'So where does he live?' Harry asked.
Trond hesitated exactly a tenth of a second too long before answering: 'I don't know.'
Harry watched the yellow dustbin lorry pass outside. 'You're not very good at lying, are you.'
Trond answered him with a rigid stare.
'Mm,' Harry said. 'Perhaps we can't expect you to help us find your brother. On the other hand, it was your wife who was killed. And we have a witness who fingered your brother as the murderer.' He raised his eyes towards Trond as he said the last word and saw his Adam's apple give a jump under the pale skin. In the ensuing silence they could hear a radio playing in the next-door flat.
Harry coughed. 'So if there's anything you can tell us, we would greatly appreciate it.'
Trond shook his head.
They sat for a few moments, then Harry got up. 'Fine. You know where to find us if you think of anything.'
Outside on the step, Trond didn't seem as tired as when they arrived. Red-eyed, Harry peered up into the low sun protruding between the clouds.
'I understand this isn't easy for you, but maybe it's time you took off the red jacket.'
Grette didn't answer, and the last they saw as they turned out of the car park was Grette standing on the doorstep and playing with the diamond ring on his little finger, and a glimpse of a wrinkly, tanned face behind the neighbour's window.
In the evening the clouds disappeared. Harry stopped at the top of Dovregata on his way home from Schroder's and stared upwards. The stars twinkled in the moonless sky. One of the lights was a plane flying north towards Gardemoen airport. Orion's Horsehead Nebula. Horsehead Nebula. Orion. Who had told him about it? Had it been Anna, he wondered.
On returning to his flat, he switched on the TV to see the NRK news. Heroic tales about American firefighters. He switched it off. A man's voice screamed a woman's name down in the street; he sounded drunk. Harry rummaged around in his pockets to find the note he had made of Rakel's new number and discovered he still had the key engraved with AA. He put the key at the back of the drawer in the telephone table before ringing the number. No answer. When the telephone rang, he wasn't sure if it would be her; instead he had 0ystein on a crackly line.
'Shit, the way they drive here!'
'You don't need to shout, Oystein.'
'They're fucking trying to kill me on the roads here! I took a taxi from Sharm el-Sheikh. Great trip, I thought - right through the desert, not much traffic, straight road. Boy, was I wrong. It's a miracle I'm alive, I can tell you. And so hot! And have you heard the grasshoppers here - the desert crickets? They make the world's highest-pitched grasshopper noises. Goes right through the cerebral cortex, absolutely terrible. The water here is just amazing. Amazing! Completely clear with a dash of green. Body temperature, so you don't even feel it. Yesterday I got out of the sea and wasn't even sure if I'd been in . . .'
'Forget the sea temperatures, 0ystein. Have you found the server?'
'Yes and no.'
'What does that mean?'
Harry didn't get an answer. They had clearly been interrupted by a discussion at the other end. Harry caught fragments, like 'the boss' and 'the money'.
'Harry? Sorry, the guy here got a bit paranoid. And I am too. Bloody hot, it is! But I think I've found the right server. There's always a chance they're trying to screw me, but tomorrow I'll see the works and meet the boss in person. Three minutes on the keyboard and I'll know if it's the right one. And the rest is just a question of money. I hope. Ring you tomorrow. You should see the knives these Bedouins have here . . .'
Oystein's laugh sounded hollow.
The last thing Harry did before switching off the light was to consult the encyclopedia. Horsehead Nebula was a dark cloud. Not a lot was known about it, nor about Orion either, except that it was considered one of the most beautiful of all the constellations. Orion was a Greek mythical figure, a Titan and a great hunter. He was seduced by Eos, for which Artemis killed him in his fury. Harry went to sleep with the sensation that somebody was thinking about him.
On opening his eyes the following morning he could feel his thoughts were scattered far and wide, torn fragments and glimpses of half-forgotten scenes. It was as though someone had ransacked his brain, and the contents, which had been carefully tidied away in drawers and cupboards, lay strewn around. He must have been dreaming. The telephone in the hall rang and rang. Harry forced himself out of bed. It was Oystein again: he was in an office in El Tor.
'We've got a problem,' he said.
24
Sao Paulo
Raskol's mouth and lips formed a gentle smile. It was therefore impossible to say whether it was really a gentle smile or not. Harry guessed the latter.
'You have a friend in Egypt searching for a telephone number then,' Raskol said. Harry was unable to decipher whether the intonation was sarcastic or matter-of-fact.
'El Tor,' Harry said, rubbing his palm against the arm of his chair. He felt an intense discomfort. Not because he was sitting in the sterile visitors' room again, but on account of his errand. He had considered all the options. Taking a personal loan. Confiding in Bjarne Moller. Selling the Ford Escort to the garage where it was always being repaired. But this was the only realistic chance, the only logical way to go. It was madness.
'The telephone number is not simply a number,' Harry said. 'It will lead us to the client who sent me the e-mail. The e-mail which proves he knows details about Anna's death he would not have known, had he not been present just before she died.'
'And your friend says the owners of the ISP have asked for 60,000 Egyptian pounds. And that is?'
'Approximately 120,000 kroner.' 'Which you think I should give you?'
'I don't think anything. I'm just telling you what the situation is. They want money and I haven't got it.'
Raskol ran a finger along his top lip. 'Why should that be my problem, Harry? We made an agreement and I kept my part.'
'I'll keep my
part, but it will take longer without money.'
Raskol shook his head, threw out his arms and mumbled something in what Harry supposed was Romany. 0ystein had been desperate on the telephone. There was no doubt they had found the correct server, he had said. But he had imagined a rusty antique in a shed, wheezing but functional, and a horse trader with a turban who wanted three camels and a pack of American cigarettes. Instead he went to an air-conditioned office where the young besuited Egyptian behind a desk had gazed at him through silver-framed glasses and told him the price was 'non-negotiable', payment was to be in untraceable notes and the offer would stand for three days.
'I assume you've considered the consequences if it leaks out that you've been receiving money from someone like me while on duty?'
'I'm not on duty,' Harry said.
Raskol stroked his ears with the palms of his hands. 'Sun Tzu says if you do not control events, they will control you. You don't have any control over events, Spiuni. It means you've blundered. I don't like people who make blunders. Hence, I have a suggestion. We'll make this simple for both parties. You give me the name of this man and I'll sort out the rest.'
'No!' Harry slammed his hand down hard on the table. 'I don't want him roughed up by one of your gorillas. I want him behind lock and key.'
'You surprise me, Spiuni. If I've understood you correctly, you're already in a sensitive position. Why not let justice be meted out to the hilt as painlessly as possible?'
'No vendetta. That was our agreement.'
Raskol smiled. 'You're a tough nut, Hole. I like that. And I respect
agreements. But now you're beginning to screw up. How can I be sure this is the right man?'
'You were given the opportunity to check the key I found at the chalet was identical with Anna's.'
'And now you come to me for help again. So you'll have to give me a bit more.'
Harry swallowed. 'When I found Anna, she had a photo in her shoe.' 'Go on.'
'My thinking is she managed to put it there before the murderer shot her. It's a picture of the murderer's family.' 'Is that all?'
'Yes.'
Raskol shook his head, looked at Harry and then shook his head again.
'I don't know who's the most stupid here. You, for letting your friend pull the wool over your eyes. Your friend, who thinks he can hide after stealing money from me.' He heaved a deep sigh. 'Or me, for giving you money.'
Harry thought he would feel happiness or at least relief. Instead he only felt the knot in his stomach tightening. 'So what do you need to know?'
'Just the name of your friend and the bank in Egypt where he wants to pick up the money.'
'You'll have them in an hour.' Harry got to his feet.
Raskol rubbed his wrists as if he had taken off handcuffs. 'I hope you don't think you understand me, Spiuni.' He said it in a low voice without looking up.
Harry came to a halt. 'What do you mean?'
'I'm a gypsy. My world can be an inverted world. Do you know what God is in Romany?'
'No.'
'Devel. Devil. Strange, isn't it? When you sell your soul, it's good to know who you're selling it to, Spiuni.'
Halvorsen thought Harry looked drained.
'Define "drained",' Harry said, leaning back in his office chair. 'Or, in fact, don't.'
When Halvorsen asked Harry how things were going and Harry asked him to define 'going1, Halvorsen sighed and left the office to try his luck with Elmer.
Harry dialled the number he had received from Rakel, but again got the Russian voice he assumed was telling him he was generally barking up the wrong tree. So he rang Bjarne Moller and tried to give his boss the impression he wasn't barking up the wrong tree. Moller didn't sound convinced.
'I want good news, Harry. Not reports on how you've been spending your time.'
Beate came in to say she had watched the video ten more times and she no longer had any doubt that the Expeditor and Stine Grette knew each other. 'I think the last thing he tells her is that she is going to die. You can see it in her eyes. Defiant and frightened at the same time, just like in the war films where you see resistance fighters lined up ready to be shot.'
Pause.
'Hello?' She waved a hand in front of his eyes. 'You look drained.' He rang Aune.
'Harry here. How do people react when they know they're going to be executed?'
Aune chuckled. 'They're focused,' he said. 'On time.' 'And frightened? Panic-stricken?'
'That depends. What sort of execution are we talking about?'
'A public execution. In a bank.'
'I see. I'll ring you back in two minutes.'
Harry studied his watch as he waited. It took 120 seconds.
'The process of dying, much like the process of being born, is a very intimate affair,' Aune said. 'The reason people in such situations instinctively have a desire to hide is not just because they feel physically vulnerable. Dying in the sight of others, as in a public execution, is a double punishment as it is an affront to the victim's modesty in the most brutal way conceivable. It was one of the reasons public executions were considered to have a more criminally preventative effect on the population than execution in the solitude of the cell. Some allowances were made, however, such as obliging the executioner to wear a mask. That wasn't, as many think, to conceal the executioner's identity - everyone knew it was the local butcher or rope-maker. The mask was out of consideration for the condemned man, so that he didn't feel a stranger was close to him at the moment of death.'
'Mm. The bank robber was also wearing a mask.'
'The use of masks is a whole field of psychological research. For example, the modern notion that wearing a mask deprives us of freedom can be turned on its head. Masks can depersonalise in a way which allows freedom. To what do you otherwise attribute the popularity of masked balls in Victorian times? Or the use of masks in sexual games? A bank robber, on the other hand, has more prosaic reasons for wearing a mask, of course.'
'Maybe.' 'Maybe?'
'I don't know,' Harry sighed. 'You seem . . .' 'Tired. See you.'
Harry's position on earth slowly moved away from the sun and the afternoons became dark earlier and earlier. The lemons outside Ali's shop shone like small yellow stars and a silent spray of fine rain fell as Harry walked up Sofiesgate. The afternoon had been spent arranging the transfer of funds to El Tor. It hadn't been such a major job. He had chatted to Oystein, got his passport number plus the address of the bank beside the hotel where he was staying and phoned the information through to the prison inmates' newspaper the Returning Phantom, where Raskol was working on an article about Sun Tzu. Then it was simply a question of waiting.
Harry had arrived at the front door and was about to search for keys when he heard a padding of feet on the pavement behind him. He didn't turn.
Not until he heard the low growl.
In fact, he was not surprised. If you heat up a pressure cooker, you know that sooner or later something has to happen.
The dog's face was as black as the night and contrasted with the whiteness of the bared teeth. The feeble light from the lamp over the front door caught a trickle of saliva hanging off a large canine tooth and it sparkled.
'Sit!' said a familiar voice from the shadows beneath the garage entrance on the other side of the quiet, narrow street. The Rottweiler reluctantly lowered its broad, muscular hindquarters onto the wet tarmac, but its shiny brown eyes, the furthest thing from 'puppy-dog eyes' you could imagine, never left Harry.
The shadow from the cap fell across the approaching man's face.
'Good evening, Harry. Frightened of dogs?'
Harry looked down at the red jaws in front of him. A fragment of trivia floated to the surface. The Romans had used the Rottweiler's forefathers in the conquest of Europe. 'No, what do you want?'
'To make you an offer. An offer you . . . what's the phrase again?'
'That's fine, just make me the offer, Albu.'
'Truce.' Arne Albu flip
ped up the peak of his cap. He tried his boyish smile, but it didn't sit as well as the previous time. 'You keep away from me and I'll keep away from you.'
'Interesting. And what would you do to me, Albu?'
Albu nodded towards the Rottweiler, which was not sitting but on its haunches ready to pounce. 'I have my methods. And I'm not completely without resources.'
'Mm.' Harry patted his jacket pocket for cigarettes, but stopped when the growling became menacing. 'You look drained, Albu. Is all the running tiring you?'
Albu shook his head. 'It's not me who's running, Harry. It's you.'
'Oh? Vague threats against a police officer in a public place. I call that signs of fatigue. Why don't you want to play any more?'
