by Jo Nesbo
She caught her breath.
'I . . .' she started.
'I would be very happy to take you to meet some of these people,' he said. 'Then you might understand better.'
She sat shaking her head. 'I would like to clear up a few misunderstandings as far as our intentions are concerned,' she said. 'Are you busy Thursday evening?'
'No, but—'
'Let's meet at Feinschmecker at eight.'
'What is Feinschmecker?'
She had to smile. 'A restaurant in Frogner. Let me put it this way: the taxi driver will know where it is.'
'If it's in Frogner, I'll cycle.'
'Fine. See you.'
She called a meeting with Mads and her father-in-law and reported back on the outcome.
'Sounds like the key is this adviser of theirs,' said the father-in-law, Albert Gilstrup. 'If we can get him on our side, the properties are ours.'
'But I'm telling you he's not interested in any price we would pay.'
'Oh yes, he is,' said the father-in-law.
'No, he isn't!'
'Not to the Salvation Army, he isn't. He can wave his moral flag there as much as he likes. We have to appeal to his personal greed.'
Ragnhild shook her head. 'Not to this person's. He . . . he's not the kind to do that.'
'Everyone has their price,' Albert Gilstrup said with a sad smile, wagging his forefinger from side to side, like a metronome, in front of her face. 'The Salvation Army grew out of pietism, and pietism was the practical person's approach to religion. That's why pietism was such a hit in the unproductive north: bread first, then a prayer. I propose two million.'
'Two million?' Mads Gilstrup gasped. 'For . . . recommending them to sell?'
'Providing that there's a sale, of course. No cure, no pay.'
'That's still an insane sum of money,' the son protested.
The father-in-law answered without a glance: 'The only thing that's insane is that we have managed to decimate a family fortune at a time when everything else has gone up.'
Mads Gilstrup opened his mouth like an aquarium fish, but nothing came out.
'This adviser of theirs won't have the stomach to negotiate the price if he thinks the first offer is too low,' the father-in-law said. 'We have to knock him out with the first punch. Two million. What do you say, Ragnhild?'
Ragnhild nodded slowly, concentrating on something outside the window because she couldn't bring herself to look at her husband, who sat with bowed head in the shadow beyond the reading lamp.
Jon Karlsen was already at the table waiting when she arrived. He seemed smaller than she remembered, but perhaps that was because he had swapped his uniform for a sack of a suit she assumed had been bought in Fretex. Or he looked as though he felt lost in the fashionable restaurant. He knocked over the flower vase as he stood up to greet her. They rescued the flowers in a joint operation and laughed. Afterwards they talked about a variety of things. When he asked her if she had any children, she just shook her head.
Did he have any children? No. Right, but maybe he had . . . ? No, not that either.
The conversation moved over to the properties owned by the Salvation Army, but she noticed he was arguing without the usual spark. He wore a polite smile and sipped his wine. She increased the offer by 10 per cent. He shook his head, still smiling, and complimented her on the necklace she knew contrasted well with her skin.
'A present from my mother,' she lied without effort. Thinking it was her eyes he was admiring. The light blue irises with the clear sclera.
Between main course and dessert she threw in the offer of a personal emolument of two million. She was spared looking into his eyes because he was studying his wine glass, silent, suddenly white-faced.
At length, he asked, in a whisper: 'Was this your idea?'
'Mine and my father-in-law's.' She noticed she was short of breath.
'Albert Gilstrup?'
'Yes. Apart from us two and my husband no one will ever know about this. We would have as much to lose if this came out as . . . er, as you.'
'Is it something I've said or done?'
'I beg your pardon?'
'What made you and your father-in-law think I would agree to a handful of silver?'
He looked up at her and Ragnhild could feel the blush spreading across her face. She couldn't remember blushing since her adolescence.
'Shall we drop the dessert?' He took the serviette from his lap and put it on the table beside the dinner plate.
'Take your time and think before you answer, Jon,' she stammered. 'For your own good. This can give you the chance to realise some dreams.'
The words grated and jarred even in her ears. Jon signalled to the waiter for the bill. 'And what dreams are they? The dream of being a corrupt servant, a miserable deserter? Driving around in a fine car while everything you're trying to achieve as a person lies in ruins around you?' The fury in his voice was making it quiver. 'Is that the kind of dream you have, Ragnhild Gilstrup?'
She was unable to answer.
'I must be blind,' he said. 'Because do you know what? When I met you I thought I saw . . . an altogether different person.'
'You saw me,' she whispered, sensing the onset of trembling, the same as she had experienced in the lift.
'What?'
She cleared her voice. 'You saw me. And now I've offended you. I am so sorry.'
In the ensuing silence she felt herself sinking through hot and cold layers of water.
'Let's put all this behind us,' she said as the waiter approached and took the card she had held up in one hand. 'It's not important. Not for either of us. Would you like to walk with me in Frogner Park?'
'I . . .'
'Please?'
He looked at her in astonishment.
Or did he?
How could those eyes – that saw everything – be astonished?
Ragnhild Gilstrup looked down from her window in Holmenkollen at a dark square below. Frogner Park. That was where the insanity had all started.
It was past midnight, the soup bus was parked in the garage and Martine felt pleasantly exhausted, but also blessed. She was standing on the pavement in front of the Hostel in the dark, narrow street of Heimdalsgata, waiting for Rikard, who had gone to fetch the car, when she heard the snow crunch behind her.
'Hi.'
She turned and felt her heart stop as she saw the silhouette of a tall figure towering up under the solitary street light.
'Don't you recognise me?'
One heartbeat. Two. Then three and four. She had recognised the voice.
'What are you doing here?' she asked, hoping her voice would not reveal how frightened she had been.
'I found out you were working on the bus this evening and that it was parked here at midnight. There has been a development in the case, as they say. I've been doing a bit of thinking.' He stepped forward and the light fell on his face. It was harder, older than she remembered. Strange how much you can forget in twenty-four hours. 'And I have a couple of questions.'
'Which couldn't wait?' she asked with a smile, and saw that her smile had made the policeman's face soften.
'Are you waiting for someone?' Harry asked.
'Yes, Rikard is going to drive me home.'
She looked at the bag the policeman was carrying over his shoulder. It had JETTE written on one side, but looked too old and worn to be the fashionable retro model.
'You should get yourself a couple of new insoles for the trainers you've got in there,' she said, pointing.
He eyed her in astonishment.
'You don't need to be Jean-Baptiste Grenouille to recognise the smell,' she said.
'Patrick Süskind,' he said. 'Perfume.'
'A policeman who reads,' she said.
'A Salvation Army soldier who reads about murder,' he said. 'Which leads us back to the reason for my being here, I'm afraid.'
A Saab 900 drove up and stopped. The window was lowered without a sound.
'Shall
we be off, Martine?'
'Just a moment, Rikard.' She turned to Harry. 'Where are you going?'
'Bislett. But I prefer—'
'Rikard, is it alright if Harry joins us as far as Bislett? You live there, too, don't you?'
Rikard stared out into the dark before replying with a drawled 'Of course'.
'Come on,' Martine said, passing a hand to Harry.
Harry sent her a look of surprise.
'Slippery shoes,' she whispered, grabbing his hand. She could feel his hand was warm and dry, and it automatically squeezed hers as if he was afraid she would fall that instant.
Rikard drove with care, his eyes jumping from mirror to mirror as though expecting an ambush from behind.
'Well?' said Martine from the front seat.
Harry cleared his throat. 'Someone tried to shoot Jon Karlsen today.'
'What?' cried Martine.
Harry met Rikard's eyes in the mirror.
'Had you already heard?' Harry asked.
'No,' Rikard said.
'Who . . . ?' Martine started.
'We don't know,' Harry said.
'But . . . both Robert and Jon. Has this got something to do with the Karlsen family?'
'I think they were only after one of them,' Harry said.
'What do you mean?'
'The gunman postponed his trip home. He must have discovered he had shot the wrong man. Robert wasn't the intended target.'
'Robert hadn't—'
'That's why I had to talk to you. I think you can tell me whether my theory is right or not.'
'Which theory?'
'That Robert died because he was unlucky enough to take Jon's shift in Egertorget.'
Martine swivelled round and looked in alarm at Harry.
'You have the duty roster,' Harry said. 'When I first went to see you, I noticed the roster hanging from the board in reception. Where everyone could see who was on duty that night in Egertorget. It was Jon Karlsen.'
'How . . . ?'
'I popped in after going to the hospital and checked. Jon's name was there. But Robert and Jon swapped shifts after the list was typed up, didn't they.'
Rikard turned up Stensberggata towards Bislett.
Martine chewed her lower lip. 'Shifts are changed all the time, and if people arrange switches I don't always find out.'
Rikard drove down Sofies gate. Martine's eyes widened.
'Ah, now I remember! Robert rang to tell me they had swapped, so I didn't need to do anything. That must be why I didn't think of it. But . . . but that means that . . .'
'Jon and Robert are very similar,' Harry said. 'And in uniform . . .'
'And it was dark and snowing . . .' Martine said in a hushed voice, as though to herself.
'What I wanted to know is if anyone had rung you to ask about the roster. And about that evening in particular.'
'Not as far as I can remember,' Martine said.
'Can you have a think? I'll call you tomorrow.'
'OK,' said Martine.
Harry held her eyes and in the light from the street lamp again he noticed the irregularities in her pupils.
Rikard pulled into the kerb.
'How did you know?' Harry asked.
'Know what?' Martine asked with alacrity.
'I was asking the driver,' Harry said. 'How did you know I live here?'
'You said,' Rikard answered. 'I know my way around. As Martine said, I live in Bislett too.'
Harry stood on the pavement watching the car drive away.
It was obvious the boy was besotted. He had driven here first so that he could be alone with Martine for a few minutes. To talk to her. To have the requisite peace and quiet when you have something to say, to make it clear who you are, to unburden your soul, to find out about yourself and all the stuff that is part of being young, and with which, he was happy to say, he had finished. All for a kind word, a hug and the hope of a kiss before she went. To beg for love the way that infatuated idiots do. Of all ages.
Harry ambled towards the front door as his hand instinctively searched for the keys in his trouser pocket, and his mind searched for something that was repelled every time he came close. And his eyes sought something he struggled to hear. It was a tiny sound, but at this late hour Sofies gate was quiet. Harry looked down at the piles of snow left by the ploughs today. It sounded like a cracking noise. Melting. Impossible; it was eighteen degrees below.
Harry put the key in the lock.
And he could hear it was not a melting sound. It was ticking.
He turned slowly and scrutinised the snowdrifts. A glint. Glass.
Harry walked back, bent down and picked up the watch. The glass on Møller's present was as shiny as the surface of water. Not a scratch. And the time was accurate to the second. Two minutes ahead of his watch. What was it Møller had said? So that he would be in time for what he thought he would miss.
14
The Night of Wednesday,
17 December. The Darkness.
THE ELECTRIC RADIATOR IN THE RECREATION ROOM OF THE Hostel banged as though someone were throwing pebbles at it. The hot air quivered above the brown burn marks on the burlap wallpaper which sweated nicotine, glue and the greasy smell of those who had lived here and moved on. The sofa material scratched him through his trousers.
Despite the dry, crackling heat from the radiator, he was trembling as he watched the news on the TV set attached to the wall bracket. He recognised the pictures of the square, but understood nothing of what they were saying. In the other corner an old man was sitting in an armchair smoking thin roll-ups. When there was so little left that they were burning his black fingertips he quickly produced two matchsticks from a box, trapped the cigarette end between them and inhaled until he burned his lips. A decorated lopped-off top end of a spruce tree stood on a table in the corner, attempting to glitter.
He thought about the Christmas dinner in Dalj.
It was two years after the end of the war and the Serbs had withdrawn from what once had been Vukovar. The Croatian authorities had packed them into Hotel International in Zagreb. He had asked lots of people if they knew where Giorgi's family had ended up, and one day he had met another refugee who knew that Giorgi's mother had died during the siege and that he and his father had moved to Dalj, a small border town not far from Vukovar. On 26 December he caught the train to Osijek and then from there to Dalj. He talked to the conductor who confirmed that the train would go on to Borovo, the terminal, and would be back in Dalj by half past six. It was two o'clock when he alighted in Dalj. He asked for directions to the address, which was a low block of flats as grey as the town. He went into the hallway, found the door and before ringing said a silent prayer that they would be at home. His heart was pounding fast as he heard light footsteps inside.