The Redbreast

by Jo Nesbo

  Brandhaug left the rest of the sentence hanging in the air as he cast his eyes around the table.

  ‘Fortunately for us,’ he said, ‘the Americans would rather concede a glitch with one of their Secret Service agents than concede a fundamental lack of co-operation with one of their closest allies.’

  ‘That means’, said Rakel without glancing up from the pad in front of her, ‘. . . that we do not need a Norwegian scapegoat.’ Then she raised her eyes and looked directly at Bernt Brandhaug. ‘Quite the contrary. We need a Norwegian hero, don’t we?’

  Brandhaug rested his gaze on her with a mixture of surprise and interest. Surprise because she had known so quickly where he was heading, and interest because he had realised she was definitely someone to be reckoned with.

  ‘That’s correct. The day it leaks out that a Norwegian policeman has shot a Secret Service agent, we have to have our version of events straight,’ he said. ‘And our version must be that nothing untoward happened on our side. Our liaison officer at the scene acted according to instructions and the blame lies solely with the Secret Service agent. This is a version both we and the Americans can live with. The challenge is getting the media to buy it. And that is why —’

  ‘— we need a hero,’ the Chief Constable added. ‘Excuse me,’ Møller said. ‘Am I the only person here who doesn’t get the nub of this?’ He made a relatively unsuccessful attempt to add a brief chuckle.

  ‘The officer showed presence of mind in what was a potentially threatening situation for the President,’ Brandhaug said. ‘If the person in the booth had been an assassin, which he was obliged to assume, in line with instructions laid down for this particular scenario, he would have saved the President’s life. The fact that the individual turned out not to be an assassin doesn’t change anything.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Anne Størksen said. ‘In such situations instructions take precedence over personal assessment.’

  Meirik didn’t say anything, but nodded in assent.

  ‘Good,’ Brandhaug said. ‘The “nub”, as you call it, Bjarne, is to convince the press, our superiors and everyone who has had any dealings with this case that we have had not a second’s doubt that our liaison officer acted correctly. The “nub” is that we must behave as if to all practical intents and purposes he performed an heroic deed.’

  Brandhaug could see Møller’s consternation.

  ‘Were we not to reward the officer, we would already have half-admitted that he made an error of judgment in shooting the agent, and, accordingly, that the security arrangements during the President’s visit were wanting.’

  Nods of assent around the table.

  ‘Ergo . . .’ Brandhaug said. He loved the word. It was a word clothed in armour, almost invincible because it called upon the authority of logic. From this it follows that.

  ‘Ergo, we give him a medal?’ It was Rakel again.

  Brandhaug felt a twinge of irritation. The way she said ‘medal’. As if they were writing the manuscript of a comedy in which all sorts of amusing suggestions were pounced on with enthusiasm. That his presentation was a comedy.

  ‘No,’ he said slowly, with emphasis. ‘Not a medal. Medals and distinctions do not have the gravitas. Nor do they give us the credibility we are after.’ He leaned back in the chair, his hands behind his head. ‘Let’s promote the guy. Let’s make him an inspector.’

  A long silence ensued.

  ‘Inspector?’ Bjarne Møller stared at Brandhaug in disbelief. ‘For shooting a Secret Service agent?’

  ‘It may sound a little macabre, but give it some thought.’

  ‘It’s . . .’ Møller blinked and seemed to be on the point of saying a great deal, but he chose to keep his mouth shut.

  ‘He does not have to perform the same duties that usually pertain to the rank of inspector,’ Brandhaug heard the Chief Constable say. The words came with some hesitation. As if threading cotton through the eye of a needle.

  ‘We have given this a little thought too, Anne,’ he answered with gentle emphasis on her name. It was the first time he had used her Christian name. One of her eyebrows gave a slight jerk, but otherwise he didn’t see anything to suggest that she objected. He continued: ‘The problem is that if all the colleagues of this trigger-happy liaison officer of yours consider the promotion conspicuous and start to think of the title as window-dressing, then we haven’t got very far. That is, we haven’t got anywhere at all. If they suspect a cover-up, rumours will immediately begin to fly, and we will give the impression that we have consciously tried to hide the fact that we, you, this policeman, committed a blunder. In other words, we have to give him a post where it seems reasonable that no one can keep too close an eye on what he is actually doing. Put another way, a promotion combined with a move to a screened operation.’

  ‘A screened operation. A free hand.’ Rakel gave a wry smile. ‘Sounds like you’re thinking of sending him over to us.’

  ‘What do you think, Kurt?’ Brandhaug said.

  Kurt Meirik scratched behind his ear while chuckling quietly.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We can always find a home for an inspector, I reckon.’

  Brandhaug bowed. ‘That would be a great help.’

  ‘Yes, we have to help each other when we can.’

  ‘Terrific,’ Brandhaug said with a broad smile and a glance at the clock on the wall to indicate that the meeting was over. Chairs scraped.

  15

  Sanksthanshaugen. 4 November 1999.

  OVER THE SPEAKERS, PRINCE WAS PARTYING LIKE IT WAS 1999.

  Ellen looked over at Tom Waaler, who had just that minute shoved a cassette into the machine and turned up the volume so loud that the bass was making the dashboard vibrate. Prince’s shrill falsetto pierced her eardrums.

  ‘Groovy or what?’ Tom shouted above the music. Ellen didn’t really want to offend him, so she simply shook her head. Not that she had any preconceptions that Tom Waaler was easy to offend, but she had decided not to go against the grain for as long as it was possible. She hoped until the pairing of Tom Waaler with Ellen Gjelten came to an end. Bjarne Møller, the head of their section, had definitely said that the pairing was only provisional. Everyone knew that Tom would get the new inspector’s post in the spring.

  ‘Black poof,’ Tom shouted. ‘Too much.’

  Ellen didn’t answer. It was raining so hard that, even with the wipers on full speed, the water lay like a soft filter on the windscreen and made the buildings in Ullevålsveien look like soft toy houses undulating to and fro. Møller had sent them off this morning to find Harry. They had already rung his flat in Sofies gate and established that he was not at home. Or he didn’t want to open up. Or he wasn’t capable of opening up. Ellen feared the worst. She watched people hurrying along the pavement. They had distorted, bizarre features too, like in crazy mirrors at the fair.

  ‘Turn left here and pull over outside Schrøder’s,’ she said. ‘You can wait in the car and I’ll go in.’

  ‘Fine with me,’ Waaler said. ‘Drunks are the worst.’

  She glanced at him from the side, but his expression didn’t betray whether he meant Schrøder’s morning clientele in general or Harry in particular. He pulled into the bus stop outside and as Ellen got out she saw that a Kaffebrenneri had opened on the other side of the street. Or perhaps it had been there for ages and she simply hadn’t noticed it. On the bar stools along the windows young people in roll-necked sweaters sat reading foreign newspapers or staring out into the rain, holding large white coffee cups between their hands, presumably wondering if they had chosen the right subject at university, the right designer sofa, the right partner, the right football club or the right European town.

  In the doorway to Schrøder’s she almost bumped into a man wearing an Icelandic sweater. The alcohol had washed nearly all the blue from his irises; his hands were as big as frying pans and black with dirt. Ellen caught the sweet smell of sweat and stale alcohol as he sailed past. Inside, there was a slow morn
ing atmosphere. Only four of the tables were occupied. Ellen had been there before, a long time ago, and as far as she could determine nothing had changed. Large pictures of Oslo in centuries past hung on the walls, and the brown paintwork and the faux glass ceiling in the middle gave it a little of the feel of an English pub. Very little, if you were absolutely honest. The plastic tables and benches made it look more like the smokers’ saloon bar on a ferry along the Møre coast. At the back of the room a waitress wearing an apron was leaning against a counter and smoking while keeping half an eye on Ellen. Harry was sitting right in the corner near the window with his head down over the table. A half-empty beer glass in front of him.

  ‘Hi,’ Ellen said, taking a seat opposite him.

  Harry looked up and nodded. As if he had been waiting exclusively for her. His head slipped down again.

  ‘We’ve been trying to get hold of you. We rang your flat.’

  ‘Was I at home?’ he said in a flat tone, no smile.

  ‘I don’t know. Are you at home, Harry?’ She indicated the glass.

  He shrugged.

  ‘He’s going to live,’ she said.

  ‘I heard. Møller left a message on my answerphone.’ His diction was surprisingly clear. ‘He didn’t say how badly injured he was. Plenty of nerves and stuff in the back, aren’t there?’

  He cocked his head, but Ellen didn’t answer. ‘Perhaps he’ll only be paralysed?’ Harry said, tapping his now-empty glass. ‘Skål.’

  ‘Your sick leave runs out tomorrow,’ she said.‘Then we’ll be expecting to see you back on the job.’

  He raised his head. ‘Am I on sick leave?’

  Ellen pushed a little plastic folder across the table. The back of a pink piece of paper could be seen inside.

  ‘I’ve been talking to Møller. And Dr Aune. Take this copy of the sick leave form. Møller said it was normal to have a few days off to recover after a shooting incident in the line of duty. Come in tomorrow.’

  His gaze shifted to the window with its coloured, uneven glass. Presumably for reasons of discretion, so that people inside could not be seen from the outside. The exact opposite of Kaffebrenneri, Ellen thought.

  ‘Well? Are you coming?’

  ‘Well,’ he looked at her with the same glazed eyes she remembered from the mornings after he returned from Bangkok, ‘I wouldn’t bet on it.’

  ‘Come anyway. There are a couple of amusing surprises waiting for you.’

  ‘Surprises?’ Harry laughed softly. ‘I wonder what that could be? Early retirement? Honourable dismissal? Will the President give me the Purple Heart?’

  He raised his head enough for Ellen to see his bloodshot eyes. She sighed and turned towards the window. Behind the rough glass, shapeless cars slid by, as in a psychedelic film.

  ‘Why do you do this to yourself, Harry? You know, I know, everyone knows it wasn’t your fault! Even the Secret Service admits it was their fault we weren’t informed. And that we – you – acted properly.’

  Harry spoke in a low voice without looking at her: ‘Do you think his family will see it like that when he comes home in a wheelchair?’

  ‘My God, Harry!’ Ellen had raised her voice and saw that the woman at the counter was watching them with increasing interest. She could probably smell a juicy quarrel brewing.

  ‘There are always some unlucky ones, some who don’t make it, Harry. That’s the way it is. It’s no one’s fault. Did you know that every year 60 per cent of all hedge sparrows die? 60 per cent! If we were to down tools and ponder the meaning of it, before we knew what was going on, we would end up among the 60 per cent ourselves, Harry.’

  Harry didn’t answer. He sat bobbing his head up and down over the checked tablecloth with black cigarette burns.

  ‘I’m going to hate myself for saying this, Harry, but I would regard it as a personal favour if you would come tomorrow. Just turn up. I won’t talk to you and you don’t breathe on me, OK?’

  Harry put his little finger through one of the holes in the cloth. Then he moved his glass so it covered one of the other holes. Ellen waited.

  ‘Is that Waaler waiting in the car outside?’ Harry asked.

  Ellen nodded. She knew exactly how badly the two of them got on. She had an idea, wavered, then took the risk: ‘He’s got two hundred kroner on you not making an appearance.’

  Harry laughed his soft laugh again. Then he supported his head on his hands and looked at her.

  ‘You’re a really bad liar, Ellen. But thank you for trying.’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  She drew in breath, was going to say something but changed her mind and observed Harry for a while. Then she breathed in again.

  ‘OK, it’s actually Møller who should tell you this, but now I’ll tell you: they’re going to make you an inspector in POT.’

  Harry’s laughter purred like the engine of a Cadillac Fleetwood. ‘Alright, with a little practice, perhaps you won’t be such a bad liar after all.’

  ‘It’s true!’

  ‘It’s impossible.’ His gaze wandered out of the window again. ‘Why? You’re one of our best detectives. You’ve just proved you’re a damned good policeman. You read law. You —’

  ‘It’s impossible, I’m telling you. Even if someone has come up with the crazy idea.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘For a very simple reason. Wasn’t it 60 per cent of those birds, you said?’

  He pulled the tablecloth and the glass across the table.

  ‘They’re called hedge sparrows.’

  ‘Right. And what do they die of ?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They don’t just lie down and die, do they?’

  ‘Of hunger. Predators. Cold. Exhaustion. Flying into windows perhaps. Anything and everything.’

  ‘OK. I bet none of them is shot in the back by a Norwegian policeman without a firearms permit because he didn’t pass the shooting test. A policeman who, as soon as this is discovered, will be prosecuted and probably sentenced to between one and three years in prison. A pretty dodgy basis for promotion to inspector, don’t you think?’

  He lifted his glass and slammed it down on the plastic folder. ‘Which shooting test?’ she asked.

  He gave her a sharp look. She met his eyes with an expression of confidence.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, Harry.’

  ‘You know bloody well that —’

  ‘As far as I’m aware, you passed the shooting test this year. And Møller is of the same opinion. He even took a walk to the gun-licensing office this morning to check with the shooting instructor. They went through the files and, as far as they could see, you had scored more than enough points to pass. They don’t make POT inspectors out of people who shoot at Secret Service agents without proper accreditation, you know.’

  She flashed a broad smile to Harry, who now seemed more bewildered than drunk.

  ‘But I haven’t got a gun licence!’

  ‘Yes, you have. You just lost it. You’ll find it, Harry, you’ll find it.’

  ‘Now listen. I . . .’

  He paused and stared down at the plastic folder in front of him on the table. Ellen stood up.

  ‘See you at nine, Inspector.’

  All Harry could manage was a mute nod.

  16

  Radisson SAS, Holbergs Plass. 5 November 1999.

  BETTY ANDRESEN HAD SUCH BLONDE, CURLY, DOLLY PARTON hair it looked like a wig. It was not a wig, however, and all similarities with Dolly Parton finished with the hair. Betty Andresen was tall and thin, and when she smiled, as she was doing now, the crack in her mouth was small and barely revealed her teeth. This smile was directed at the old man on the other side of the desk in the reception area of the Radisson SAS Hotel in Holbergs plass. It wasn’t a reception desk in the general understanding of the term, but one of several multi-functional ‘islands’ with computer monitors, which allowed them to serve a number of gue
sts at the same time.

  ‘Good morning,’ Betty Andresen said. That was something she had picked up at the hotel management school in Stavanger, to distinguish between different times of the day when she greeted people. Thus in six hours’ time she would say, ‘Good afternoon,’ and two hours later, ‘Good evening.’ Then she would go home to her two-room apartment in Torshov and wish there were someone to whom she could say, ‘Good night.’

  ‘I’d like to see a room as high up as possible.’

  Betty Andresen stared at the dripping wet shoulders of the old man’s coat. It was pouring outside. A quivering raindrop clung to the brim of his hat.

  ‘You want to see a room?’

  Betty Andresen’s smile didn’t flinch. She had been trained according to the principle, which she observed religiously, that everyone was to be treated as a guest until the opposite was proven irrefutably. But she knew equally well that what she had in front of her was an example of the genus: old-man-visiting-the-capital-who-would-like-to-see-the-view-from-the-SAS-hotel-without-paying. They were still coming here, particularly in the summer. And it wasn’t only to see the view. Once a woman had asked to see the Palace Suite on the twenty-first floor so that she could describe it to her friends and tell them that she had stayed there. She had even offered Betty fifty kroner if she would enter her name in the guest book so that she could use it as proof.

  ‘Single room or double?’ Betty asked. ‘Smoker or non-smoker?’ Most started to falter at that point.

  ‘Doesn’t make any difference,’ the old man said. ‘The most important thing is the view. I’d like to see one facing south-west.’

  ‘Yes, you’ll be able to see the whole town from there.’

  ‘Quite so. What is the best room you have?’

  ‘The best is obviously the Palace Suite, but wait a moment. Shall I check if we have a standard room available?’

  She clattered away on the keyboard and waited to see if he would take the bait. It didn’t take long.

  ‘I’d like to see the suite.’

  Of course you would, she thought. She cast her eye over the old man. Betty was not an unreasonable woman. If an old man’s greatest wish was to see the view from the SAS hotel, she wouldn’t stand in his way.