The Redbreast (Harry Hole)

by Jo Nesbo

  ‘Deal, Hochner. We’ve got ten seconds. Who’s Uriah?’

  Hochner watched him between his fingers. ‘What?’

  ‘Quick, Hochner. They’ll be here in a moment!’

  ‘He’s . . . he’s an old guy, over seventy for sure. I only met him once, at the handover.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Old, as I said.’

  ‘Description!’

  ‘He was wearing a coat and hat. It was the middle of the night in a badly lit container port. Blue eyes, I think, medium height . . . mm.’

  ‘What did you talk about? Quick!’

  ‘This and that. We spoke English at first, but changed when he realised that I could speak German. I told him that my parents came from Elsass. He said he’d been there, somewhere called Sennheim.’

  ‘What’s his game?’

  ‘Don’t know, but he’s an amateur. He talked a lot, and when he got the gun, he said it was the first time he’d held a weapon for more than fifty years. He said he hates —’

  The door to the room was torn open. ‘Hates what?’ Harry shouted.

  At that moment he felt a hand tighten around his collar-bone. A hoarse voice close to his ear.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  Harry held Hochner’s gaze as they dragged him backwards towards the door. Hochner’s eyes had glazed over and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. Harry could see his lips move, but didn’t hear what he said.

  Then the door slammed in front of him.

  Harry rubbed his neck as Isaiah drove him to the airport. They had been driving for twenty minutes before Isaiah spoke.

  ‘We’ve been working on this case for six years. The list of arms deliveries covers twenty countries. We’ve been worried about precisely what happened today; that someone would dangle diplomatic help in front of him in order to get information.’

  Harry shrugged his shoulders. ‘So what? You’ve caught him and you’ve done your job, Isaiah. All that’s left is to pick up the medals. Whatever deals anyone makes between Hochner and the government has nothing to do with you.’

  ‘You’re a policeman, Harry. You know what it’s like to see criminals go free, people who don’t blink an eyelid about killing, who you know will continue where they left off as soon as they’re out on the street again.’

  Harry didn’t answer.

  ‘You do know, don’t you? Good, because this is the deal. It sounded like you got your end of the bargain with Hochner. That means it’s up to you whether you want to keep your part. Or let it go. Is that right?’

  ‘I’m just doing my job, Isaiah, and I could use Hochner at some point as a witness. Sorry.’

  Isaiah banged the steering wheel so hard it made Harry jump.

  ‘Let me tell you something, Harry. Before the elections in 1994,when we still had white minority rule, Hochner shot two black girls, both eleven years old, from a water tower outside the school grounds in a black township called Alexandra. We think someone in Afrikaner Volkswag, the apartheid party, was behind it. There was some controversy surrounding the school because it had three white pupils. He used Singapore bullets, the same type they use in Bosnia. They open after a hundred metres and bore their way through everything in their way, like a drill. Both girls were hit in the neck and for once it didn’t matter that the ambulances, as usual, took over an hour to turn up in a black township.’

  Harry didn’t answer.

  ‘But you’re wrong if you think it’s revenge we’re after, Harry. We’ve understood that you can’t build a new society on revenge. That’s why the first black majority government set up a commission to uncover assaults and harassment during apartheid times. It wasn’t about revenge; it was about owning up and forgiving. It has healed a lot of wounds and done the whole society some good. At the same time, though, we’re losing the fight against criminality, and particularly here in Jo’burg where everything is completely out of control. We’re a young, vulnerable nation, Harry, and if we want to make any progress we have to show that law and order means something, that chaos can be used as a pretext for crime. Everyone remembers the killings in 1994. Everyone is following the case in the papers now. That’s why it is more important than your personal agenda or mine, Harry.’

  He clenched his fist and hit the steering wheel again.

  ‘It’s not about being judges of life and death, but about giving a belief in justice back to ordinary people. Sometimes it takes the death penalty to give them that belief.’

  Harry tapped a cigarette out of the packet, opened the window a little and stared at the yellow slagheaps that broke the monotony of the arid landscape.

  ‘So what do you say, Harry?’

  ‘You’ll have to put your foot down if I’m going to make that flight, Isaiah.’

  Isaiah punched the steering column so hard Harry was amazed it survived.

  33

  Lainz Zoo, Vienna. 27 June 1944.

  HELENA SAT ALONE IN THE BACK SEAT OF ANDRÉ Brockhard’s black Mercedes. The car pitched gently between the large horse-chestnut trees lining both sides of the avenue. They were on their way to the stables at Lainz Zoo.

  She looked out on to the green clearings. A cloud of dust rose behind them from the dry gravel track, and even with the window open it was almost unbearably hot in the car.

  A herd of horses grazing in the shade from the edge of a beech wood raised their heads as the car passed.

  Helena loved Lainz Zoo. Before the war she had often spent her Sundays in the large wooded area to the south of the Vienna Woods, picnicking with her parents, aunts and uncles or riding with her friends.

  Early this morning when the hospital matron passed on a message to her that André Brockhard wanted to talk to her she had been prepared for everything and anything. He was going to send a car before lunch. Ever since she had received the recommendation from the hospital and her travel permit, she had been walking on cloud nine and the first thing she thought was that she would use the opportunity to thank Christopher’s father for the help the governing board had given her. Her second thought was that it was hardly likely that André Brockhard had summoned her to receive her gratitude.

  Calm down, Helena, she said to herself. They can’t stop us now. Early tomorrow morning we’ll be gone.

  The day before she had packed some clothes and her treasured belongings into two suitcases. The crucifix over her bed was the last thing she put into her case. The music box her father had bought her was still on the dressing-table. Things she had never believed she would part with lightly; it was strange how little they meant now. Beatrice had helped her and they had talked about old times as they listened to Mother’s pacing of the floor beneath them. It was going to be an awkward, difficult parting. Now she was only looking forward to the evening. Uriah had said it would be a terrible shame if he didn’t see anything of Vienna before leaving, so he had invited her out to dinner. Where, she didn’t know. He had simply winked confidentially and asked if she thought they would be able to borrow the forester’s car.

  ‘Here we are, Fräulein Lang,’ the chauffeur said, pointing to the fountain where the avenue came to an end. A gilt cupid balanced on one leg atop a soapstone globe over the water. A large mansion in grey stone stood behind it. Connected to the two sides of the main house were long, low, red wooden buildings which together with a simple stone house formed an inner courtyard.

  The chauffeur stopped the car, got out and opened the door for Helena.

  André Brockhard had been standing on the front steps of the mansion. Now he came towards them, his shiny riding boots glinting in the sun. André Brockhard was in his mid-fifties, but there was as much spring in his step as in a young man’s. He had unbuttoned his red woollen jacket, fully aware that his athletic upper torso would thus be seen to its advantage. His riding breeches were tight against muscular thighs. Brockhard Snr could hardly have been less like his son.

  ‘Helena!’ The voice was precisely as hearty and warm as it i
s with men who are so powerful that they are the ones who determine when a situation is going to be hearty and warm. It was a long time since she had seen him, but he looked as he always did, Helena thought: white-haired, erect, two blue eyes looking at her from either side of a large, majestic nose. The heart-shaped mouth did suggest that the man had a softer side, but for most this was something that still had to be proved.

  ‘How is your mother? I do hope it was not too impertinent of me to take you away from your work like this,’ he said, passing his hand to her for a brief, dry handshake. He continued without waiting for an answer.

  ‘I had to have a word with you, and I thought it couldn’t wait.’ He motioned towards the house. ‘Yes, you’ve been here before.’

  ‘No,’ Helena said, peering up at him with a smile.

  ‘No? I assumed Christopher would have brought you here. You were as thick as thieves when you were younger.’

  ‘Your memory must be playing tricks on you, Herr Brockhard. Christopher and I knew each other well enough, but —’

  ‘Really? In that case I’ll have to show you around. Let’s go down to the stables.’

  He placed a hand lightly against the middle of her back and steered her in the direction of the wooden buildings. The gravel crunched as they walked.

  ‘What happened to your father is sad, Helena. I’m really sorry. I wish there were something I could do for you and your mother.’

  You could have invited us to the Christmas party last winter as you used to, Helena thought, but she said nothing. She would have been pleased because then she wouldn’t have had to put up with her mother’s insistence on going.

  ‘Janjic!’ Brockhard shouted to a black-haired boy standing in the sun and polishing saddle gear. ‘Go and fetch Venezia.’

  The boy went into the stable while Brockhard stood still, whacking his whip lightly against his knee and rocking on his boot heels. Helena cast a glance at her wristwatch.

  ‘I’m afraid I cannot stay here long, Herr Brockhard. My shift . . .’

  ‘No, of course. I understand. Let me come to the point.’

  From inside the stable they heard fierce whinnying and the sound of hooves clattering on wooden boards.

  ‘Your father and I used to do a fair amount of business together. Before the sad bankruptcy, of course.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Yes, and you probably also know that your father was in a lot of debt. Indirectly, that was why things happened as they did. I mean this unfortunate . . .’ He searched for the right word. And found it. ‘. . . affinity with the Jewish loan sharks was of course very damaging for him.’

  ‘You mean Joseph Bernstein?’

  ‘I can’t remember the names of these people.’

  ‘You should do, he went to your Christmas party.’

  ‘Joseph Bernstein?’ André Brockhard smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. ‘That must have been many years ago.’

  ‘Christmas 1938. Before the war.’

  Brockhard nodded and darted an impatient glance towards the stable door.

  ‘You have a good memory, Helena. That’s good. Christopher could do with a good head. Since he occasionally loses his own, I mean. Apart from that, he’s a good boy, you’ll see that.’

  Helena could feel her heart beginning to pound. Had something gone wrong after all? Brockhard Snr was talking to her as if she were his future daughter-in-law. Instead of feeling terror, she felt anger gaining the upper hand. When she spoke again, she meant to sound friendly, but anger had her larynx in a stranglehold and made her voice sound hard and metallic.

  ‘I hope there has not been a misunderstanding, Herr Brockhard.’

  Brockhard must have noticed the timbre in her voice; at any rate there was not much left of the warmth he had greeted her with when he said:

  ‘In that case let us clear up these misunderstandings. I would like you to look at this.’

  He pulled a sheet from the inside pocket of his red jacket, straightened it and passed it to her.

  Bürgschaft, it said at the head of what appeared to be a contract. Her eyes ran across the dense text. She didn’t understand much of what was written there except that the house in the Vienna Woods was mentioned and that her father’s and André Brockhard’s names were at the bottom with their respective signatures. She sent him a quizzical look.

  ‘This appears to be a surety.’

  ‘It is a surety,’ he acknowledged. ‘When your father thought that the Jews’ loans were going to be called in, and thereby his own, he approached me and asked me if I would stand security for quite a large refinancing loan in Germany. Which, unfortunately, I was soft-hearted enough to do. Your father was a proud man, and to ensure that the security did not appear as pure charity, he insisted that the summer house you and your mother live in now should be used as a surety against the security.’

  ‘Why against the security and not against the loan?’

  Brockhard was taken aback.

  ‘Good question. The answer is that the value of the house was not enough as a guarantee against the loan that your father needed.’

  ‘But André Brockhard’s signature was enough?’

  He smiled and ran his hand down his powerful bull neck which, in the heat, was now covered in a shiny layer of sweat.

  ‘I own the odd property in Vienna.’

  A massive understatement. Everyone knew that André Brockhard had large holdings of shares in two of the largest Austrian industrial companies. After the Anschluss – Hitler’s ‘occupation’ in 1938 – the companies had transferred their production of toys and machines to production of weapons for the axis powers, and Brockhard had become a multi-millionaire. And now Helena knew that he also owned the house she was living in. She felt a large lump growing in her stomach.

  ‘Don’t look so worried, my dear Helena,’ Brockhard exclaimed, and the warmth was suddenly back in his voice. ‘I wasn’t considering taking the house from your mother, you understand.’

  But the lump in Helena’s stomach continued to grow and grow. He might as well have added: ‘Or from my own daughter-in-law.’

  ‘Venezia!’ he shouted.

  Helena turned towards the stable door where the groom emerged from the shadows, leading a shining white horse. Even though a storm of ideas was raging through her mind, the sight made Helena forget for a moment. It was the most beautiful horse she had ever seen; it was like a supernatural creature standing in front of her.

  ‘A Lipizzaner,’ Brockhard said. ‘The world’s best-trained breed of horse. Imported from Spain in 1562 by Maximilian II. You and your mother must have seen them performing at the Spanische Reitschule in town, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘It’s like watching ballet, isn’t it?’

  Helena nodded. She couldn’t take her eyes off the animal. ‘They take their summer holiday here in the Lainzer Tiergarten until the end of August. Unfortunately, no one else apart from the riders at the Spanish Riding School is allowed to ride them. Untrained riders could inculcate bad habits. Years of punctilious dressage would go to waste.’

  The horse was saddled. Brockhard grabbed the halter and the groom moved away. The animal stood stock still.

  ‘Some consider it cruel to teach horses dance steps. They say the animals suffer from having to do things which are contrary to their nature. People who say this kind of thing haven’t seen these horses in training, but I have. And, believe me, horses love it. Do you know why?’

  He stroked the horse’s muzzle. ‘Because that is the order of nature. In His wisdom God so ordained it that an inferior creature is never happier than when serving and obeying a superior creature. You only have to look at children and adults. At women and men. Even in so-called democratic countries the weak willingly concede power to an elite which is stronger and wiser than they. That is just the way it is. And because we’re all God’s creatures it is the responsibility of superior beings to ensure that inferior beings submit.’<
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  ‘To make them happy?’

  ‘Precisely, Helena. You understand a lot for ...such a young woman.’

  She couldn’t determine which of the two words he gave greater stress. ‘To know your place is important, both for high and low. If you resist it, in the long term you will never become happy.’

  He patted the horse on the neck and looked into Venezia’s large brown eyes.

  ‘You’re not the type to resist, are you?’

  Helena knew that the question was directed at her and closed her eyes while she tried to breathe deeply and calmly. She was aware that what she said now or what she didn’t say could be crucial for the rest of her life; she couldn’t afford to let the anger of the moment be the deciding factor.

  ‘Are you?’

  Suddenly Venezia whinnied and shook her head to the side, causing Brockhard to slip and lose balance. He hung on to the halter under the horse’s neck. The groom dashed to his aid, but before he could get there, Brockhard, his face red and sweat-stained, had struggled to his feet and angrily waved him away. Helena could not stifle a smile, and perhaps Brockhard saw it. In any event, he raised his whip to the horse, then came to his senses and let it fall again. He articulated a few words with his heart-shaped mouth, which amused Helena even more. Then he went over to Helena, placing his hand lightly but imperiously against the small of her back again:

  ‘We’ve seen enough, and you have important work awaiting you, Helena. Allow me to accompany you to the car.’

  They stood by the steps to the house while the chauffeur got into the car and drove forward.

  ‘I hope and assume we will see each other again soon, Helena,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘Incidentally, my wife asked me to pass on her regards to your mother. Indeed, I believe she said she would invite you over one weekend soon. I don’t remember when, but you will be hearing from her.’

  Helena waited until the chauffeur had got out and opened the door for her before saying, ‘Do you know why the dressage horse threw you to the ground, Herr Brockhard?’