The Redeemer

by Jo Nesbo

  'The parents, Josef and Dorthe, have passports, renewed four years ago. We haven't issued a passport to Jon. And let's see . . . the machine's a bit slow today . . . there, yes. Robert Karlsen has a ten-year-old passport which will soon be invalid, so you can tell him to—'

  'He's dead.'

  Harry dialled Skarre's internal number and asked him to join him at once.

  'Nothing,' said Skarre, who by chance or in a sudden fit of tact, sat on the edge of the desk instead of Halvorsen's chair. 'I've checked the Gilstrups' accounts and there is no link anywhere with Robert Karlsen or with Swiss bank accounts. The only unusual transaction was a cash withdrawal of five million kroner, in dollars, from one of the company accounts. I rang Albert Gilstrup and asked, and he said without any hesitation that they were the Christmas bonuses for the harbour masters in Buenos Aires, Manila and Bombay whom Mads visits in December. Quite a business those boys are in.'

  'And Robert's account?'

  'Incoming wages and minor outgoings throughout.'

  'What about calls from the Gilstrups?'

  'None to Robert Karlsen. But we came across something else while going through the itemised telephone bills. Guess who rang Jon Karlsen heaps of times and on occasion in the middle of the night?'

  'Ragnhild Gilstrup,' Harry said, looking into Skarre's disappointed face. 'Anything else?'

  'No,' Skarre said. 'Apart from a familiar number making an appearance. Mads Gilstrup rang Halvorsen the day he was attacked. Unanswered call.'

  'I see,' Harry said. 'I want you to check one more account.'

  'Whose?'

  'David Eckhoff 's.'

  'The commander? What shall I look for?'

  'Don't quite know. Just do it.'

  After Skarre had gone, Harry phoned Forensics. The female pathologist promised without any delay or fuss to fax a photograph of Christo Stankic's body for identification to a number at Hotel International in Zagreb.

  Harry thanked her, put down the telephone and dialled the number of the same hotel.

  'There's also the question of what to do with the body,' he said when he had been put through to Fred. 'The Croatian authorities don't know anything about a Christo Stankic and therefore have not requested his extradition.'

  Ten seconds later he heard her schooled English.

  'I would like to suggest another deal,' Harry said.

  Klaus Torkildsen in Telenor Operations Centre for the Oslo region had one aim in life: to be left in peace. And since he was very overweight, always perspiring and for the most part grumpy, by and large his wish was fulfilled. With regard to the contact he was forced to have with others, he made sure there was maximum distance. That was why he sat alone a lot, enclosed in a room in the operations section with several hot machines and cooling fans where few, if any, knew exactly what he got up to; all they knew was that he was indispensable. The need for distance may also have been the motivation for him practising indecent exposure and thus on the odd occasion achieving satisfaction with a partner who was five to fifty metres away. However, Klaus Torkildsen's utmost desire was peace. And he had had enough hassle for this week. First it was that Halvorsen who wanted a line to a hotel in Zagreb monitored. Then Skarre needed a list of the conversations between a Gilstrup and a Karlsen. Both had referred to Harry Hole whom Klaus Torkildsen still owed a certain debt of gratitude. And that was the only reason he did not put down the telephone when Harry Hole himself called.

  'There's something called the Police Answering Service,' Torkildsen said in a sulky tone. 'If you go by the book you should ring them if you need help.'

  'I know,' Harry said. He didn't need to say any more. 'I've rung Martine Eckhoff four times without getting an answer,' Hole said. 'No one in the Salvation Army knows where she is, not even her father.'

  'They're the last to know,' said Klaus, who knew nothing about that kind of thing, but it was the sort of knowledge you could acquire if you were a regular cinema-goer. Or, in Klaus Torkildsen's case, an extremely regular cinema-goer.

  'She may have switched off her mobile, but I was wondering whether you could try to locate it for me. So that I know whether she's in town or not, at any rate.'

  Torkildsen sighed. A pose, pure and simple, because he adored these little police jobs. Especially when they were of the shady variety.

  'May I have her number?'

  Fifteen minutes later Klaus rang back to say that her SIM card was definitely not in Oslo. Two base stations, both to the west of the E6 had received signals. He explained where the base stations were, and what range they had. As Hole thanked him and rang off at once, Klaus presumed he had been of some help and returned with relish to the day's cinema screening information.

  Jon let himself into Robert's flat.

  The walls still smelt of smoke, and there was a dirty T-shirt lying on the floor in front of the cupboard. As though Robert had been in and then popped out to the shop to buy coffee and cigarettes.

  Jon put the black bag Mads had given him next to the bed and turned up the radiator. Threw off all his clothes, went into the shower and let the hot water beat down on his skin until it was red and nubbly. He dried himself, left the bathroom, sat down naked on the bed and stared at the bag.

  He hardly dared open it. For he knew what was inside, behind the thick, smooth material. Perdition. Death. Jon thought he could smell the stench of decay already. He closed his eyes. He needed to think.

  His mobile rang.

  Thea must be wondering where he was. He didn't feel like talking to her now. But it kept ringing, insistent and inescapable, like Chinese water torture, and in the end he snatched the phone and said in a voice he could hear was shaking with anger: 'What is it?'

  But there was no answer. He read the display but didn't recognise the number. Jon realised it was not Thea calling.

  'Hello, this is Jon Karlsen,' he said, guarded.

  Still nothing.

  'Hello, who is it? Hello, I can hear someone is there. Who . . . ?'

  Panic tiptoed up his spine.

  'Hello?' he heard himself say in English. 'Who is this? Is that you? I need to speak to you. Hello!'

  There was a click and the connection was cut.

  Ridiculous, thought Jon. Probably a wrong number. He swallowed. Stankic was dead. Robert was dead. And Ragnhild was dead. They were all dead. Just the policeman was still alive. And him. He stared at the bag, felt the cold come creeping in and pulled the duvet over him.

  After turning off the E6 and driving some way down the narrow roads in the snow-covered rural landscape, Harry looked up and saw the stars were out.

  He had a strange trembling feeling that something was going to happen soon. And when he saw a shooting star tear a parabola through the base of the sky ahead of him he thought if omens existed, a planet perishing before his very eyes had to mean something.

  He saw light in the windows on the ground floor of Østgård.

  Turning into the drive, he saw the electric car and the feeling that something was looming was reinforced.

  He walked towards the house, observing the footprints in the snow. Stood by the door with his ear to it. There was the sound of low voices.

  He knocked. Three quick taps. The voices died away.

  Then he heard steps and her soft voice. 'Who is it?'

  'It's Harry,' he said. 'Hole.' He added the latter so as not to awaken a third party's suspicion that he and Martine Eckhoff had too personal a relationship.

  There was some fumbling with the lock, then the door opened.

  His first and only thought was that she was pretty. She was wearing a soft, thick, white cotton blouse open at the neck and her eyes were radiant.

  'I'm glad,' she laughed.

  'I can see,' Harry smiled. 'And I'm glad, too.'

  Then her arms were around his neck and he could feel her accelerated pulse.

  'How did you find me?' she whispered in his ear.

  'Modern technology.'

  The heat from her body, the
gleam in her eyes, the whole ecstatic welcome gave Harry an unreal sense of happiness, a pleasant dream he, for his part, had no desire to wake from in the immediate future. But he had to.

  'Is anyone here?' he asked.

  'Er, no . . .'

  'I thought I heard voices.'

  'Oh that,' she said, letting him go. 'That was just the radio. I switched it off when I heard the knocking. I got a bit frightened. And then it was you . . .' She patted him on the arm. 'It was Harry Hole.'

  'No one knows where you are, Martine.'

  'Wonderful.'

  'Some of them are worried.'

  'Oh?'

  'Especially Rikard.'

  'Oh, forget Rikard.' Martine took Harry's hand and led him into the kitchen. She reached down a blue coffee cup from the cupboard. Harry noticed there were two plates and two cups in the sink.

  'You don't look that ill to me,' he said.

  'I just needed a day off after all that's happened.' She poured and passed him the cup. 'Black, wasn't it?'

  Harry nodded. She had the heating on high and he took off his jacket and sweater before sitting at the table.

  'But tomorrow it's the Christmas concert and I have to go back,' she sighed. 'Are you coming?'

  'Well, I was promised a ticket . . .'

  'Say you're coming!' Then Martine bit her lower lip. 'Oh dear, in fact I had tickets for us in the VIP box. Three rows behind the Prime Minister. But I had to give yours to someone else.'

  'That doesn't matter.'

  'You would have been left on your own anyway. I have to work back stage.'

  'So it really doesn't matter.'

  'No!' She laughed. 'I want you to be there.'

  She took his hand. Harry looked at her small hand which was squeezing and stroking his large paw. It was so quiet he could hear his blood rushing like a waterfall in his ears.

  'I saw a shooting star on the way here,' Harry said. 'Isn't that strange? Seeing the demise of a planet is supposed to bring good luck.'

  Martine gave a silent nod. Then she stood up without letting go of Harry's hand, walked round the table and sat astride his lap facing him. Put her hand around his neck.

  'Martine . . .' he began.

  'Shh.' She ran her index finger over his lips.

  And without taking her finger away she leaned forward and placed her lips gently against his.

  Harry closed his eyes and waited, feeling his heart pound, heavy, pleasurable, though he was sitting quite still. It occurred to him he was waiting for her heart to beat in tune with his, but knew for certain only this: he would have to wait. Then he felt her lips part and automatically he opened his mouth and his tongue lay flat in his mouth, against his teeth, ready to receive hers. Her finger had an exciting, bitter taste of soap and coffee that burned the tip of his tongue. Her hand squeezed his neck tighter. Then he felt her tongue. It pressed against his finger so that he had contact on both sides and it made him think it was split, like a snake's tongue. That they were giving each other two half-kisses.

  She let go.

  'Keep your eyes closed,' she whispered by his ear.

  Harry leaned back and resisted the temptation to put his hands on her hips. The seconds passed. Then he felt the soft cotton material on the back of his hand as her blouse slipped to the floor.

  'Now you can open them,' she whispered.

  Harry did as instructed. And sat watching her. Her face expressed a mixture of anxiety and anticipation.

  'You're so beautiful,' he said in a voice which had become constricted and odd. Also bewildered.

  He noticed her swallow. Then a triumphant smile spread across her face.

  'Raise your arms,' she commanded. She grabbed hold of his T-shirt at the bottom and pulled it over his head.

  'And you're ugly,' she said. 'Wonderful and ugly.'

  Harry felt an intoxicating stab of pain as she bit into his nipple. One of her hands had moved behind her back and between his legs. Her breathing against his neck began to race and her other hand grabbed his belt. He held his arm against her lithe back. That was when he felt it. An involuntary quiver of her muscles, a tension she had managed to hide. She was frightened.

  'Wait, Martine,' Harry whispered. Her hand froze.

  Harry lowered his mouth to her ear. 'Do you want this? Do you know what you're getting yourself into here?'

  He could feel her breathing, quickened and moist against his skin as she gasped: 'No, do you?'

  'No. Then perhaps we shouldn't . . .'

  She sat up. Looking at him with wounded, desperate eyes. 'But I . . . I can feel that you . . .'

  'Yes,' Harry said, caressing her hair. 'I want you. I have wanted you from the first moment I saw you.'

  'Is that the truth?' she said, taking his hand and laying it against a hot, flushed cheek.

  Harry smiled. 'The second anyway.'

  'The second time?'

  'OK, the third then. All good music takes a little time.'

  'And I'm good music?'

  'I'm lying. It was the first time. But that doesn't mean I'm a pushover, OK?'

  Martine smiled. Then she started laughing. Harry, too. She leaned forward and rested her forehead against his chest. Sobbed with laughter and banged against his shoulder, and it was only then that Harry felt her tears running down his stomach and realised she was crying.

  Jon was woken by the cold. He thought. Robert's flat was dark and there could be no other explanation. But then his brain rewound and he knew that what he assumed were the final fragments of a dream were not. He had heard a key in the lock. And the door opening. Now someone was in the room, breathing.

  With a sense of déjà vu, that everything in this nightmare was repeating itself, he whirled round.

  A figure stood over the bed.

  Jon gasped for air as the fear of death attacked, its teeth sinking into his flesh and striking the nerves beneath. For he had total certainty, was quite sure that this person wished him dead.

  'Stigla sam,' the figure said.

  Jon didn't know many Croatian words, but the ones he had picked up from the tenants from Vukovar were enough for him to be able to work out what the voice had said. 'I have come.'

  'Have you always been lonely, Harry?'

  'I think so.'

  'Why?'

  Harry shrugged. 'I've never been the sociable type.'

  'Is that all?'

  Harry blew a ring of smoke up to the ceiling and could feel Martine sniffing at his sweater and his neck. They were in the bedroom, him on top of the duvet, her beneath.

  'Bjarne Møller, my former boss, says people like me always choose the line of most resistance. It's in what he calls our "accursed nature". That's why we always end up on our own. I don't know. I like being alone. Perhaps I have grown to like my self-image of being a loner, too. What about you?'