The Redeemer

by Jo Nesbo

  13

  Wednesday, 17 December. The Ticking.

  EVERY SO OFTEN MARTINE THOUGHT THAT THE SQUARE IN Plata had to be the basement staircase to hell. Nevertheless, she was terrified by rumours going around that in spring the town hall's welfare committee was going to abandon the scheme for the open trading of drugs. The overt argument put forward by opponents of Plata was that the area attracted young people to drugs. Martine's opinion was that anyone who thought that the life you saw played out in Plata could be attractive either had to be crazy or had never set foot there.

  The covert argument was that this terrain, delimited by a white line in the tarmac next to Jernbanetorget, like a border, disfigured the image of the city. And was it not a glaring admission of failure in the world's most successful – or at least richest – social democracy to allow drugs and money to exchange hands openly in the very heart of the capital?

  Martine agreed with that. That there had been a failure. The battle for the drug-free society was lost. On the other hand, if you wanted to prevent drugs from gaining further ground it was better for the drug dealing to take place under the ever-watchful eyes of surveillance cameras than under bridges along the Akerselva and in dark backyards along Rådhusgata and the southern side of Akershus Fortress. And Martine knew that most people whose work was in some way connected with Narco-Oslo – the police, social workers, street preachers and prostitutes – all thought the same: that Plata was better than the alternatives. But it was not a pretty sight.

  'Langemann!' she shouted to the man standing in the darkness outside their bus. 'Don't you want any soup tonight?'

  But Langemann sidled away. He had probably bought his fix and was off to inject the medicine.

  She concentrated on ladling soup for a Mediterranean type in a blue jacket when she heard chattering teeth beside her and saw a man dressed in a thin suit jacket awaiting his turn. 'Here you are,' she said, pouring out his soup.

  'Hello, sweetie,' came a rasping voice.

  'Wenche!'

  'Come over and thaw out a poor wretch,' said the ageing prostitute with a hearty laugh, and embraced Martine. The smell of the damp skin and body that undulated against the tight-fitting leopard-pattern dress was overwhelming. But there was another smell, one she recognised, a smell that had been there before Wenche's broadside of fragrances had overpowered everything else.

  They sat down at one of the empty tables.

  Although some of the foreign working girls who had flooded the area in the last year also used drugs, it was not as widespread as among their home-grown rivals. Wenche was one of the few Norwegians who did not indulge. Furthermore, in her words, she had begun to work more from home with a fixed clientele, so the intervals between meeting Martine had lengthened.

  'I'm here to look for a girlfriend's son,' Wenche said. 'Kristoffer. I'm told he's on shit.'

  'Kristoffer? Don't know him.'

  'Aaah!' She dismissed it. 'Forget it. You've got other things on your mind, I can see.'

  'Have I?'

  'Don't fib. I can see when a girl's in love. Is it him?'

  Wenche nodded towards the man in the Salvation Army uniform with a Bible in one hand who had just sat down next to the man in the thin suit jacket.

  Martine puffed out her cheeks. 'Rikard? No, thank you.'

  'Sure? His eyes have been trailing you ever since I arrived.'

  'Rikard is alright,' she sighed. 'At any rate he volunteered for this shift at short notice. The person who should have been here is dead.'

  'Robert Karlsen?'

  'Did you know him?'

  Wenche answered with a heavy-hearted nod, then brightened up again. 'But forget the dead and tell Mummy who you're in love with. It's not before time, by the way.'

  Martine smiled. 'I didn't even know I was in love.'

  'Come on.'

  'No, this is too silly. I—'

  'Martine,' said another voice.

  She peered up and saw Rikard's imploring eyes.

  'The man sitting there says he has no clothes, no money and nowhere to stay. Do you know if the Hostel has any free places?'

  'Call them and ask,' Martine said. 'They do have some winter clothes.'

  'Right.' Rikard didn't move, even though Martine was facing Wenche. She didn't need to look up to know that his top lip was sweaty.

  Then he mumbled a 'thanks' and went back to the man in the suit jacket.

  'Tell me then,' Wenche urged in a whisper.

  Outside, the northerly wind had lined up its small-calibre artillery.

  Harry walked along with his sports bag over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes against the wind, which was making the sharp, almost invisible snowflakes imbed small pinpricks in the cornea. As he passed Blitz, the squatters' property in Pilestredet, his mobile rang. It was Halvorsen.

  'There have been two calls to Zagreb in the last two days from the phones in Jernbanetorget. Same number both times. I rang the number and got through to a hotel receptionist. Hotel International. They couldn't tell me who had rung from Oslo or who this person was trying to contact. Nor had they heard of anyone called Christo Stankic.'

  'Hm.'

  'Shall I follow up?'

  'No,' Harry sighed. 'We'll let it go until something tells us this Stankic might be interesting. Switch off the light before you go and we'll talk tomorrow.'

  'Hang on!'

  'I'm not going anywhere.'

  'There's more. The uniformed boys have received a call from a waiter at Biscuit. He said he was in the toilet this morning and bumped into one of the customers.'

  'What was he doing there?'

  'I'll come to that. You see, the customer had something in his hand—'

  'I mean the waiter. Restaurant employees always have their own toilets.'

  'I didn't ask,' Halvorsen said, becoming impatient. 'Listen. This customer was holding something green and dripping.'

  'Sounds like he should see a doctor.'

  'Very funny. The waiter swore it was a gun covered in soap. The lid of the container was off.'

  'Biscuit,' Harry repeated as the information sank in. 'That's on Karl Johan.'

  'Two hundred metres from the crime scene. I bet a crate of beer that's our gun. Er . . . sorry, I bet—'

  'By the way, you still owe me two hundred kroner. Give me the rest of the story.'

  'Here comes the best bit. I asked for a description. He couldn't give me one.'

  'Sounds like the refrain in this case.'

  'Except that he recognised the guy by his coat. A very ugly camelhair coat.'

  'Yes!' Harry shouted. 'The guy with the scarf in the photo of Egertorget the night before Karlsen was shot.'

  'Incidentally, the waiter reckoned it was imitation. And he sounded like he knew about that sort of thing.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'You know. The way they speak.'

  'Who are they?'

  'Hello! Poofs. Whatever. The man with the gun was through the door and gone. That's all I have for the moment. I'm on my way to Biscuit to show the waiter the photos now.'

  'Good,' said Harry.

  'What are you wondering?'

  'Wondering?'

  'I'm getting to know your ways, Harry.'

  'Mm. I was wondering why the waiter didn't phone the police straight away this morning. Ask him, alright?'

  'In fact, I was intending to do just that, Harry.'

  'Of course you were. Sorry.'

  Harry hung up, but five minutes later his mobile rang again.

  'What did you forget?' Harry asked.

  'What?'

  'Oh, it's you, Beate. Well?'

  'Good news. I've finished at Scandia Hotel.'

  'Did you find any DNA?'

  'Don't know yet. I've got a couple of hairs which might belong to the cleaners or a previous guest. But I did get the ballistics results half an hour ago. The bullet in the milk carton at Jon Karlsen's place comes from the same weapon as the bullet we found in Egertorget.'


  'Mm. That means the theory about several gunmen is weakened.'

  'Yes. And there's more. The receptionist at Scandia Hotel remembered something after you left. This Christo Stankic had a particularly ugly piece of clothing. She reckoned it was a kind of imitation—'

  'Let me guess. Camel-hair coat?'

  'That's what she said.'

  'We're in business, 'Harry yelled, so loud that the graffiti-covered wall of Blitz sent an echo around the deserted city-centre street.

  Harry rang off and called Halvorsen back.

  'Yes, Harry?'

  'Christo Stankic is our man. Give the description of the camel-hair coat to the uniforms and the ops room and ask them to alert all patrol cars.' Harry smiled at an old lady tripping and scraping along with spiked cleats attached to the bottom of her fashionable ankle boots. 'And I want twenty-four-hour surveillance of telecommunications so we know if anyone calls Hotel International in Zagreb from Oslo. And which number they call from. Talk to Klaus Torkildsen in the Telenor Business Centre, Oslo region.'

  'That's wiretapping. We need a warrant for that and it can take days.'

  'It's not wiretapping. We just need the address of the incoming call.'

  'I'm afraid Telenor won't be able to tell the difference.'

  'Tell Torkildsen you've spoken to me. OK?'

  'May I ask why he would be willing to risk his job for you?'

  'Old story. I saved him from being beaten to pulp in the remand centre a few years back. Tom Waaler and his pals. You know what it's like when flashers and the like are brought in.'

  'So he's a flasher?'

  'Now retired. Happy to exchange services for silence.'

  'I see.'

  Harry rang off. They were on the move now, and he no longer felt the northerly wind or the onslaught of snow needles. Now and then the job gave him moments of unalloyed pleasure. He turned and walked back to Police HQ.

  In the private room at Ullevål Hospital Jon felt the phone vibrate against the sheet and grabbed it at once. 'Yes?'

  'It's me.'

  'Oh, hi,' he said, without quite managing to conceal his disappointment.

  'You sound as if you were hoping it was someone else,' Ragnhild said in the rather too cheerful tone that betrays a wounded woman.

  'I can't say much,' Jon said, glancing at the door.

  'I wanted to say how awful the news about Robert is,' Ragnhild said. 'And I feel for you.'

  'Thank you.'

  'It must be painful. Where are you actually? I tried to call you at home.'

  Jon didn't answer.

  'Mads is working late, so if you want I can walk over to yours.'

  'No, thanks, Ragnhild, I'll manage.'

  'I was thinking about you. It's so dark and cold. I'm afraid.'

  'You're never afraid, Ragnhild.'

  'Sometimes I am.' She put on her sulky voice. 'There are so many rooms here and there is no one about.'

  'Move to a smaller house then. I have to ring off now. We're not allowed to use mobiles here.'

  'Wait! Where are you, Jon?'

  'I've got slight concussion. I'm in hospital.'

  'Which hospital? Which department?'

  Jon was taken aback. 'Most people would have asked how I got the concussion.'

  'You know I hate not knowing where you are.'

  Jon visualised Ragnhild marching in with a large bunch of roses during visiting time next day. And Thea's questioning looks, first at her and then at him.

  'I can hear the sister coming,' he whispered. 'I'll have to ring off.'

  He pressed the OFF button and stared at the ceiling until the phone had played its fanfare and the display was extinguished. She was right. It was dark. But he was the one who was afraid.

  * * *

  Ragnhild Gilstrup stood by the window with her eyes closed. Then she looked at her watch. Mads had said he had work to do for the board meeting and would be late. He had started saying things like that in recent weeks. Before, he had always given her a time and arrived on the dot, sometimes he was a little early. Not that she wanted him home earlier, but it was somewhat odd. Somewhat odd, that was all. Just as it was odd that all the calls had been itemised on the last landline bill. And she had not requested any such thing. But there it was: five pages with much too much information. She should have stopped ringing Jon, but she couldn't. Because he had that look. That Johannes look. It wasn't kind or clever or gentle or anything like that. But it was a look that could read whatever she thought before she had got as far as thinking it herself. That saw her as she was. And still liked her.

  She opened her eyes again and surveyed the six-thousand-square-metre site of unsullied nature. The view reminded her of boarding school in Switzerland. The reflection off the snow shone into the large bedroom and covered the ceiling and walls in a bluish-white light.

  She was the one who had insisted on building here, high above the city, well, in the forest in fact. It would make her feel less enclosed and restricted, she had said. And her husband, Mads Gilstrup, who had imagined the city was the restriction she was referring to, had gladly spent some of the money he possessed on the construction. The extravagance had cost him twenty million kroner. When they moved in, Ragnhild felt as though she were moving from a cell to a prison yard. Sun, air and room. Yet still confined. Like at boarding school.

  At times – like this evening – she wondered how she had ended up here. Her external circumstances could be summed up as follows: Mads Gilstrup was heir to one of Oslo's great fortunes. She had met him during her degree outside Chicago, Illinois, where they had both studied business administration at a middling university that bestowed greater prestige than competent seats of learning in Norway, and anyway they were a lot more fun. Both came from wealthy families, but his was wealthier. While his family consisted of five generations of shipowners with old money, her family was peasant stock and their money still bore the whiff of printer's ink and farmed fish. They had lived in the interstices between agricultural subsidies and wounded pride until her father and uncle had sold their tractors and gambled their capital on a small fish farm in the fjord outside their sitting-room window on the southernmost, wind-blown coastline of Vest-Agder. The timing had been perfect, competition minimal, kilo price astronomical and in the course of four lucrative years they became multimillionaires. The house on the crag was demolished and replaced by a gateau of a house, bigger than the barn and boasting eight bay windows and a double garage.

  Ragnhild had just turned sixteen when her mother sent her from one crag to another crag: Aron Schüster's private school for girls nine hundred metres above sea level in a town with a station, six churches and a Bierstube in Switzerland. The official reason was that Ragnhild was to learn French, German and art history, subjects that were considered useful as the kilo price of farmed fish was still hitting record levels.