The Redbreast hh-3

by Jo Nesbo

  The policewoman in Harry's car stayed where she was; her job was to maintain radio contact with the central switchboard and to keep potential spectators away. Waaler and the last officer waited until the other two were in position, secured their walkie-talkies in their breast pockets and jumped over the gate with service pistols raised. Harry and Halvorsen stood behind the police car, watching the whole show.

  'Cigarette?' Harry asked the policewoman.

  'No thanks,' she smiled.

  'I was wondering if you had any.'

  She stopped smiling. Typical non-smoker, Harry thought.

  Waaler and the officer were standing on the step, having taken up positions on either side of the door, when Harry's mobile phone rang.

  Harry saw the police officer's eyes roll. Typical amateur, she was probably thinking.

  Harry was about to switch off his mobile-he just checked it wasn't Rakel's number on the display first. The number was familiar, but it wasn't Rakel's. Waaler had already raised his hand to give the signal when Harry realised who was ringing. He took the walkie-talkie from the open-mouthed police officer.

  'Alpha! Stop. The suspect is ringing me right now. Can you hear me?'

  Harry looked over to the step where Waaler was nodding his head. Harry pressed the button on his mobile and pressed it to his ear.

  'Hole speaking.'

  'Hello.' To Harry's surprise, it wasn't Even Juul. 'This is Sindre Fauke. My apologies for disturbing you, but I am standing in Even Juul's house and I think you should come here.'

  'Why? And what are you doing there?'

  'I think I might have done something stupid. He rang me an hour ago and told me to come over immediately, his life was in danger. I drove up and found the door open, but no Even. And now I'm afraid he's locked himself in his bedroom.'

  'Why do you think that?'

  'The bedroom door is locked and when I tried to peep through the keyhole, the key was on the inside.'

  'OK,' Harry said, walking round the car and through the gate. 'Listen carefully. Stay exactly where you are. If you are holding anything in your hands put it down and keep your hands where we can see them. We'll be there in two seconds.'

  Harry walked towards the doorstep, with Waaler and the other policeman following his movements with amazement. He pressed down the door handle and went in.

  Fauke was standing in the hall with the telephone receiver in his hand, gaping at them in amazement.

  'My God,' was all he could say when he spotted Waaler with the revolver in his hand. 'That was quick…’

  ‘Where's the bedroom?' Harry asked. Fauke pointed mutely towards the stairs. 'Show us,' Harry said. Fauke led the way for the three officers. 'Here.'

  Harry felt the door; quite right, it was locked. There was a key in the lock which he tried to turn, but it wouldn't move.

  'I didn't manage to tell you. I was trying to open the door with one of the keys from the other bedroom,' Fauke said. 'Sometimes they fit.'

  Harry took out the key and put his eye to the keyhole. Inside he could see a bed and a bedside table. There was what seemed to be a lightshade lying on the bed. Waaler was talking in a low voice on the walkie-talkie. Harry could feel the sweat beginning to filter down the inside of his vest again. He didn't like the look of the lightshade.

  'I thought you said there was a key on the inside too?'

  'There was,' Fauke said. 'Until I knocked it out trying to get the other key in.'

  'So how will we get in?' Harry asked.

  'It's on the way,' Waaler said, and at that moment they heard heavy boots running up the stairs. It was one of the officers who had taken up a position behind the house and he was carrying a red crowbar.

  'This way,' Waaler said, pointing.

  Splinters flew. The door sprang open.

  Harry strode in and heard Waaler telling Fauke to wait outside.

  The first thing Harry noticed was the dog lead. Even Juul had hung himself with it. He had died wearing a white shirt, open at the neck, black trousers and checked socks. A toppled chair lay behind him in front of the wardrobe. His shoes were neatly placed under the chair. Harry looked up at the ceiling. The lead had been tied to a ceiling hook. Harry tried to refrain, but couldn't stop himself from examining Even Juul's face. One eye stared out into the room while the other was fixed on Harry. Independently. Like a two-headed troll with an eye in each head, Harry thought. He walked over to the window facing east and watched the children cycling along Irisveien, drawn by the rumours of police cars which always spread with inexplicable speed in areas like this.

  Harry closed his eyes and reflected. The first impression is important. The first thought that came into your mind at the scene is often the most accurate. Ellen had taught him that. His own trainee had taught him to concentrate on the first thing he felt when he came to the scene of the crime. That was why Harry didn't need to turn to know that the key was on the floor behind him. He knew they wouldn't find any fingerprints in the room and that no one had broken into the house. Quite simply because both the murderer and the victim were hanging from the ceiling. The two-headed troll had split.

  'Call Weber,' Harry said to Halvorsen, who had joined them and was standing in the doorway, staring at the hanging body.

  'He may have planned a different start to tomorrow's festivities, but console him with the fact that this one is cut and dried. Even Juul discovered the murderer and had to pay for it with his life.'

  'And who is it?' Waaler asked.

  'Was. He's dead too. He called himself Daniel Gudeson and lived in Juul's head.'

  On the way out, Harry told Halvorsen Weber should call him if he found the Marklin.

  Harry stood on the doorstep outside and surveyed the area. It was striking how many neighbours suddenly had jobs to do in their gardens and were standing on the tips of their toes to see over the hedges. Waaler came out too and stood beside Harry.

  'I didn't quite understand what you said in there,' Waaler said. 'Do you mean the guy committed suicide out of guilt?'

  Harry shook his head.

  'No, I meant what I said. They killed each other. Even killed Daniel to stop him. And Daniel killed Even so that he wouldn't be unmasked. For once their interests coincided.'

  Waaler nodded, but didn't seem to be any the wiser.

  'There's something familiar about the old guy,' he said. 'The living one, I mean.'

  'Right. It's Rakel Fauke's father, if you -'

  'Of course, the totty up at POT. That's the one.'

  'Have you got a smoke?' Harry asked.

  'No can do,' Waaler said. 'The rest of what happens here is your responsibility, Hole. I'm thinking of leaving, so if you need any help, tell me now.'

  Harry shook his head, and Waaler walked towards the gate. 'Oh, by the way,' Harry said. 'If you're not doing anything special tomorrow, I need an experienced officer to take my shift.' Waaler laughed and kept walking.

  'You just have to organise surveillance during the service at the mosque in Gronland,' Harry shouted. 'I can see you're pretty good at that sort of thing. We just have to make sure the skinheads don't beat up the Muslims for celebrating Eid.'

  Waaler had reached the gate and suddenly stopped.

  'And you're in charge of that?' he asked over his shoulder.

  'It's no big deal,' Harry said. 'Two cars, four men.'

  'How long?'

  'Eight till three.'

  Waaler turned round with a broad smile.

  'Do you know what?' he said. 'Now that I think about it, I owe you a favour. That's great. I'll do your shift.'

  Waaler saluted, got into the car, started it up and was off.

  Owes me a favour for what? Harry mused, and listened to the lazy thwacks of the ball coming from the tennis court. But the next moment he had forgotten because his mobile rang again, and this time the number on the display was Rakel's.

  92

  Holmenkollveien. 16 May 2000.

  'Are those for me?'

 
Rakel clapped her hands and took the bunch of daisies.

  I couldn't get to the florist, so these are from your own garden,' Harry said, stepping inside the door. 'Mm, that smells of coconut milk. Thai?'

  'Yes, and congratulations on the new suit.'

  'That obvious, is it?'

  Rakel laughed and stroked the lapels.

  'Good quality wool.'

  'Super no.'

  Harry had no idea what Super no meant. In a moment of exuberance he had marched into one of the trendy shops in Hedgehaugsveien as they were closing and had managed to get the sales staff to find him the only suit into which they could fit his long body. Of course, seven thousand kroner was way over what he had intended to pay, but the alternative was to look like something out of a farce in the old suit, so he had closed his eyes, put his card in the machine and tried to forget.

  They went into the dining room, where a table was set for two.

  'Oleg is asleep,' she said before Harry could ask. There was a silence.

  I didn't mean…' she began.

  'Didn't you?' Harry said with a smile. He hadn't seen her blush before. He pulled her into him, breathed in the aroma of freshly washed hair and felt her slight tremble.

  'The food…' she whispered.

  He let her go and she disappeared into the kitchen. The window facing the garden was open and the white butterflies which had not been there yesterday fluttered like confetti in the sunset. Inside it smelled of green soap and damp wooden floors. Harry closed his eyes. He knew that he would need many days like this before the image of Even Juul hanging from the dog lead would completely go away, but it was fading. Weber and his boys hadn't found the Marklin, but they had found Burre, the dog. In a bin bag in the freezer with its throat cut. And in the toolbox they had found three knives, all bloodstained. Harry guessed that some of the blood was Hallgrim Dale's.

  Rakel called him from the kitchen to help her to carry in a few things. It was already fading.

  93

  Holmenkollveien. 17 May 2000.

  The janizary music came and went with the wind. Harry opened his eyes. Everything was white. White sunlight gleaming and flashing like morse code between the flapping white curtains, white walls, white ceiling and white bedding, soft and cool against hot skin. He turned. The pillow retained the mould of her head, but the bed was empty. He looked at his wristwatch. Five past eight. She and Oleg were on their way to Akershus Fortress parade ground where the children's parade was due to start. They had arranged to meet in front of the guardhouse by the Palace at eleven.

  He closed his eyes and replayed the night one more time. Then he got up and shuffled into the bathroom. White there too: white tiles, white porcelain. He showered in freezing cold water and before he realised it he was singing an old song by The The.

  '… a perfect day!'

  Rakel had put out a towel for him, white, and he rubbed his skin with the thick woven cotton to get his circulation going as he studied his face in the mirror. He was happy now, wasn't he? Right now. He smiled at the face in front of him. It smiled back. Ekman and Friesen. Smile at the world and the world…

  He laughed aloud, tied the towel around his waist and walked slowly on damp feet across the hall to the bedroom door. It took a second before he realised it was the wrong bedroom because everything was white again: walls, ceiling, a dressing-table with family photographs on and a neatly made double bed with an old-fashioned crocheted bedspread.

  He turned, was about to leave and had reached the door when he suddenly went rigid. He froze, as if part of his brain was ordering him to keep going and forget while another part wanted him to go back and check whether what he had just seen was what he thought it was. Or, to be more precise, what he feared it was. Exactly what he feared and why, he didn't know. He only knew that when everything is perfect, it can't be better and you don't want to change a thing, not one single thing. But it was too late. Of course it was too late.

  He breathed in, turned round and went back.

  The black and white photograph was in a simple gold frame. The woman in the photograph had a narrow face, high, pronounced cheekbones and calm, smiling eyes, which were focused on something slightly above the camera, presumably the photographer. She looked strong. She was wearing a plain blouse, and over the blouse hung a silver cross.

  They have been painting her on icons for almost two thousand years.

  That wasn't why there had been something familiar about her the first time he had seen a photograph of her.

  There was no doubt. It was the same woman he had seen in the photograph in Beatrice Hoffmann's room.

  Part Nine

  JUDGMENT DAY

  94

  Oslo. 17 May 2000.

  I am writing this so that whoever finds it shall know a little about why I have taken the decisions I have. The decisions in my life have often been between two or more evils, and I have to be judged on the basis of that. But I should also be judged on the fact that I have never run away from decisions; I have never evaded my moral obligations. I have risked taking the wrong decision rather than living like a coward as part of the silent majority, as someone seeking security in the crowd, someone who allows others to take decisions for them. I have taken this final decision so that I will be ready when I meet the Lord and my Helena.

  'Fuck!'

  Harry stamped on the brakes as the crowd of people wearing suits and national costumes streamed out on to the pedestrian area at the crossing in Majorstuen. The whole city seemed to be on the move already. And it felt as if the lights would never change to green again. Finally he could slip the clutch and accelerate. He double-parked in Vibes gate, located Fauke's doorbell and pressed. A toddler ran past on loud leather soles and the ear-piercing bray of his toy horn made Harry jump.

  Fauke didn't answer. Harry went back to his car and collected the crowbar he always kept in the car rather than the boot because of the fickle boot lock. He returned and put both arms across the two rows of doorbells. After a few seconds there was a cacophony of animated voices, probably belonging to people rushing against the clock, with hot irons or shoe polish in their hands. He said he was from the police and someone must have believed him, because there was an angry buzz and he was able to push open the door. He sprinted up, four steps at a time. Then he was on the third floor, his heart now beating even faster than it had since he had seen the photograph a quarter of an hour earlier.

  The task I have set myself has already cost several innocent human lives, and of course there is the risk it may cost more. It will always be that way with war. So judge me as a soldier who wasn't given many options. That is my wish. But if you should judge me harshly, know that you too are only fallible, and it will always be thus, for both you and me. In the end there is only one judge: God. These are my memoirs.

  Harry hit Fauke's door twice with his fist and shouted his name. On hearing nothing, he jammed the crowbar in beneath the lock and launched himself at it. At the third attempt the door gave with a loud bang. He stepped across the threshold. It was dark and quiet in the flat and in a strange way it reminded him of the bedroom he had just left. There was something vacant and utterly abandoned about it. He understood why when he went into the sitting room. It was abandoned. The papers that had been strewn over the floor, the books on the slanting book shelves and the half-full coffee cups were gone. The furniture had been shoved into a corner and draped with white sheets. A stripe of sunlight through the window fell on a pile of papers bound together with string, lying in the middle of the cleared sitting-room floor.

  When you read this, I hope I will be dead. I hope we will all be dead.

  Harry crouched down beside the pile of papers.

  On the top sheet was typed The Great Betrayal: A Soldier's Memoirs. Harry untied the string.

  Next page: I am writing this so that whoever finds it shall know a little about why I have taken the decisions I have. Harry leafed through the pile. There must have been several hundred densely writ
ten pages. He glanced at his watch: 8.30. He found Fritz's number in his notebook, pulled out his mobile phone and caught the Austrian on his way home after night duty. After talking to Fritz for a minute, Harry rang directory enquiries, who found the number and put him through.

  'Weber.'

  'Hole. Happy Independence Day. Isn't that what we're supposed to say?'

  'To hell with that. What do you want?’

  ‘Well, you probably have plans for today…’

  ‘Yes, I was planning to keep the door locked and the windows closed and read the papers. Spit it out.'

  'I need to have some fingerprints taken.’

  ‘Great. When?'

  'Right now. You'll have to bring your case with you, so we can send them from here. And I'll need a Smith amp; Wesson.'

  Harry gave him the address. Then he took the pile of papers with him to one of the shrouded chairs, sat down and began to read.

  95

  Oslo. 17 May 2000.

  Leningrad. 12 December 1942.

  The flares light up the grey night sky, making it resemble a filthy top canvas drawn over the drab, bare landscape surrounding us on all sides. Perhaps the Russians have launched an offensive, perhaps it is a feint, we never know until afterwards. Daniel has proved himself as a fantastic marksman again. If he was not a legend before, he assured himself immortality today. He hit and killed a Russian from a range of half a kilometre. Then he went into no man's land alone and gave the dead man a Christian burial. I have never heard of anyone doing anything like that before. He brought the Russian's cap back with him as a trophy. Afterwards he was in his usual high spirits and sang and entertained everyone (apart from a few envious killjoys). I am extremely proud to have such a resolute, courageous person as my friend. Even though some days it seems as if this war will never end and the sacrifices for our home country are great, a man like Daniel Gudeson gives us all hope that we will stop the Bolsheviks and return to a safe, free Norway.