The Redbreast

by Jo Nesbo

  ‘I checked your friend’s record. I saw he had been given a short sentence for possession of hash. Kripos still think he’s the one. I’ve never met him and, God knows, I’m no judge of character, but from what you told me about him, he doesn’t strike me as the type. Do you agree? I rang Forensics and they said they hadn’t found a single hair on the cap, just some skin particles. They’re sending it off for a DNA test and reckon the results will be back within four weeks. Do you know how many hairs an adult loses every single day? I checked. Approximately 150. And not one strand of hair on that cap. Afterwards, I went down to Møller and asked him to get a list drawn up of all the men who have been sentenced for GBH over the last four years and at present have shaven heads.

  ‘Rakel came to my office with a book: Our Small Birds. Strange book. Do you think Helge likes millet cobs? Take care.’

  55

  Jens Bjelkes Gate. 15 March 2000.

  ‘HI, THIS IS ELLEN AND HELGE’S ANSWERPHONE. PLEASE leave a message.’

  ‘They buried you today. I wasn’t there. Your parents deserved a dignified commemorative service and I wasn’t particularly presentable today, so instead I thought of you at Schrøder’s. At eight o’clock last night I got in the car and drove up to Holmenkollveien. It wasn’t a good idea. Rakel had a visitor, the same guy I’ve seen there before. He introduced himself as something or other from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and gave the impression he was on business there. I think he was called Brandhaug. Rakel didn’t seem very pleased to receive his visit, but then again perhaps that’s just me. So I beat a hasty retreat before it became too embarrassing. Rakel insisted I should take a taxi. But, looking out of the window now, I can see the Escort parked in the street, so I can’t have followed her advice.

  ‘Things are, as you know, a little chaotic right now. But at least I went to the pet shop and bought some bird seed. The lady behind the counter suggested Trill, so that’s what I took.’

  56

  Jens Bjelkes Gate. 16 March 2000.

  ‘HI, THIS IS ELLEN AND HELGE’S ANSWERPHONE. PLEASE leave a message.’

  ‘I went for a walk to Ryktet today. It’s a bit like Schrøder’s. At least they don’t give you a funny look when you order a Pils for breakfast. I sat down at a table with an old man and after a struggle managed to get some sort of conversation off the ground. I asked him what he had against Even Juul. He gave me a long, searching look; it was obvious he didn’t recognise me from the previous time I had been there. But after buying him a beer I got the whole story. The old boy had fought at the Eastern Front – I had already guessed that – and he knew Juul’s wife, Signe, from when she was a nurse there. She had volunteered because she was engaged to one of the soldiers in the Norge regiment. Juul clapped eyes on her when she was found guilty of treason in 1945. She was given two years, but Juul’s father, who had a high position in the Socialist Party, arranged for her to be released after only a few months. When I asked the old boy why that bothered him so much, he mumbled that Juul wasn’t the saint he appeared to be. That was precisely the word he used – “saint”. He said that Juul was like all the other historians – he wrote myths about Norway during the war in the way the victors wanted them presented. The man couldn’t remember the name of her first fiancé, only that he had been a kind of hero to the others in the regiment.

  ‘Afterwards I went to work. Kurt Meirik dropped by to see me. He didn’t say anything. I called Bjarne Møller, and he informed me that there were thirty-four names on the list I had requested. Are men with no hair more prone to violence, I wonder? Anyway, Møller has put an officer on the case to ring round and check the alibis to get the number down. I can see from the preliminary report that Tom Waaler drove you home and that when he dropped you off at 22.15 you were in a calm frame of mind. He also testifed that you had talked about trivialities. Nevertheless, when you left me a message, at 22.16 according to Telenor – in other words as soon as you had got in the door – you were obviously pretty excited that you were on the track of something. I think that’s odd. Bjarne Møller didn’t think so. Perhaps it’s just me.

  ‘Get in touch with me soon, Ellen.’

  57

  Jens Bjelkes Gate. 17 March 2000.

  ‘HI, THIS IS ELLEN AND HELGE’S ANSWERPHONE. PLEASE leave a message.’

  ‘I didn’t go to work today. It’s minus twelve outside, marginally warmer in the flat. The telephone has been ringing all day and when I finally decided to answer it, it was Doctor Aune. Aune is a good man, for a psychologist; at least he doesn’t behave as if he is less confused than the rest of us with respect to what goes on in our heads. Aune’s old contention that every alcoholic’s nightmare begins where the last drunken spree ended is a great warning, but not necessarily accurate. He was surprised that I was more or less together this time. Everything is relative. Aune also talked about an American psychologist who has discovered that the lives we lead are to a certain extent hereditary. When we step into our parents’ roles, our lives begin to resemble theirs. My father became a hermit after my mother died, and now Aune is frightened that I will be the same because of a couple of tough experiences I’ve had – the shooting accident in Vinderen, you know. And in Sydney. And now this. Right. I’ve told you about my days, but had to laugh when Doctor Aune told me that Helge, a great tit, was preventing me from letting my life go down the chute. As I said, Aune is a good man, but he should cut out all that psycho-stuff.

  ‘I called Rakel and asked her out. She said she would give it some thought and ring me back. I don’t know why I do this to myself.’

  58

  Jens Bjelkes Gate. 18 March 2000.

  ‘. . . IS A TELENOR ANNOUNCEMENT. THE NUMBER YOU HAVE dialled is no longer available. This is a Telenor announcement. The number . . .’

  Part Six

  BATHSHEBA

  59

  Møller’s Office. 25 April 2000.

  THE FIRST SPRING OFFENSIVE CAME LATE. IT WASN’T UNTIL the end of March that the gutters began to gurgle and flow. By April all the snow had disappeared as far as Sognsvann. But then the spring had to retreat again. The snow came swirling down and lay in huge drifts, even in the centre of town, and weeks passed before the sun melted it again. Dogs’ turds and refuse from the previous year lay stinking in the streets; the wind picked up speed across the open stretches in Grønlandsleiret and by Galleri Oslo, swept up the sand and made people go round rubbing their eyes and spitting. The talk of the town was the single mother who would perhaps become Queen one day, the European football championship and the unseasonal weather. At Police HQ, the talk was about what people did over Easter and the miserable increase in pay, and they went on as if everything was as before.

  Everything was not as before.

  Harry sat in his office with his feet on the table, looking out at the cloudless day, the retired ladies in their ugly hats out for the morning and taking up the whole of the pavement, delivery vans going through the lights on amber, all the small details which lent the town the false veneer of normality. He had been wondering about that for some time now – if he was the only one who was not allowing himself to be duped. It was six weeks since they had buried Ellen, but when he looked out, he saw no change.

  There was a knock at the door. Harry didn’t answer, but it opened anyway. It was the head of Crime Squad, Bjarne Møller.

  ‘I heard you were back.’

  Harry watched one of the red buses glide into a bus stop. The advertisement on the side of the vehicle was for Storebrand Life Insurance.

  ‘Can you tell me, boss,’ he asked, ‘why they call it life insurance when they obviously mean death insurance?’

  Møller sighed and perched on the edge of the desk. ‘Why haven’t you got an extra chair in here, Harry?’

  ‘If people don’t sit down, they get to the point quicker.’ He was still staring out of the window.

  ‘We missed you at the funeral, Harry.’

  ‘I had changed my clothes,’ Harry said, more
to himself than Møller. ‘I’m sure I was on my way, too. When I looked up and caught sight of the miserable gathering around me, I even thought for a moment that I had arrived. Until I saw Maja standing there in her pinny and waiting for my order.’

  ‘I guessed it was something like that.’

  A dog wandered across the brown lawn with its nose along the ground and its tail in the air. At least someone appreciated spring in Oslo.

  ‘What happened then?’ Møller asked. ‘We haven’t seen much of you for a while.’

  Harry gave a shrug.

  ‘I was busy. I’ve got a new lodger – a one-winged great tit. And I sat listening to old messages on my answerphone. It turned out all the messages I’ve been left over the last two years fit on to one thirty-minute tape. And they were all from Ellen. Sad, isn’t it? Well, perhaps not so sad. The only sad thing is that I wasn’t at home when she made her last call. Did you know that Ellen had found him?’

  For the first time since Møller had come in Harry turned round to face him.

  ‘You do remember Ellen, don’t you?’

  Møller sighed.

  ‘We all remember Ellen, Harry. And I remember the message she left on your answerphone, and you telling Kripos you thought this was a reference to the middleman in the arms deal. Because we haven’t managed to catch the killer doesn’t mean we’ve forgotten her, Harry. Kripos and the Crime Squad have been on the go for weeks, we’ve hardly slept. If you had come to work, perhaps you would have seen how hard we were working.’

  Møller immediately regretted what he had said. ‘I didn’t mean . . .’

  ‘Yes, you did. And, of course, you’re right.’

  Harry ran his hand across his face. ‘Last night I listened to one of her messages. I have no idea why she rang. The message was full of advice about the things she thought I should eat and concluded by reminding me to feed small birds, to do stretching exercises after training and to remember Ekman and Friesen. Do you know who Ekman and Friesen are?’

  Møller repeated his shake of the head. ‘They are two psychologists who have discovered that when you smile the facial muscles set off some chemical reactions in your brain, which gives you a more positive attitude towards the world around you, makes you more satisfied with your existence. What they did was to prove the old adage that if you smile at the world, the whole world smiles at you. For a while she got me to believe that.’

  He looked up at Møller. ‘Sad or what?’

  ‘So sad.’

  They broke into smiles and sat without speaking.

  ‘I can see from your face that you’ve come to tell me something, boss. What is it?’

  Møller jumped down from the desk and started pacing the room. ‘The list of thirty-four baldie suspects was reduced to twelve after we checked their alibis. OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘We can determine the blood type of the owner of the cap from the DNA tests on the skin particles we found. Four of the twelve have the same blood type. We took blood samples from these four and sent them for DNA testing. The results came today.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Nada.’

  The office went quiet. All that could be heard was Møller’s rubber soles, which made a little squeak every time he did an about-turn.

  ‘And Kripos have rejected the theory that Ellen’s boyfriend did it?’ Harry asked.

  ‘We checked his DNA too.’

  ‘So we’re back to square one?’

  ‘More or less, yes.’

  Harry faced the window again. A flock of thrushes took off from a large elm tree and flew west, towards the Plaza Hotel.

  ‘Perhaps the cap is meant to mislead us?’ Harry said. ‘It doesn’t make sense to me that a man who leaves no other traces and who covers over his boot prints is so clumsy that he could lose his cap just a few metres from the victim.’

  ‘Maybe. But the blood on the cap is Ellen’s. We have established that much.’

  Harry’s attention was caught by the dog returning, sniffing at the same trail. It stopped roughly in the middle of the lawn, stood for a moment with its nose on the ground, undecided, before taking a decision, going off to the left and disappearing from view.

  ‘We have to follow the cap,’ Harry said. ‘As well as the convictions, check anyone who has been brought in for or charged with GBH. Over the last ten years. Include Akershus too. And make sure that —’

  ‘Harry . . .’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘You don’t work for Crime Squad now. And anyway, the investigation is being led by Kripos. You’re asking me to tread on their toes.’

  Harry didn’t say a word. Just nodded slowly. His gaze was fixed on somewhere in Ekeberg.

  ‘Harry?’

  ‘Have you ever thought you should be somewhere else, boss? I mean, just look at this shit spring.’

  Møller stopped pacing and smiled. ‘Since you ask, I’ve always thought that Bergen could be a wonderful town to live in. For the kids and so on, you know.’

  ‘But you’d still be a policeman, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Because people like us are no good at anything else, are we?’ Møller rolled back his shoulders. ‘Maybe not.’

  ‘But Ellen was good at other things. I often thought what a waste of human resources it was having her work for the police. Catching naughty boys and girls. That’s enough for the likes of us, but not for her. Do you know what I mean?’

  Møller went over to the window and stood beside Harry.

  ‘It’ll be better when we get into May,’ he said.

  ‘Mm,’ Harry said.

  The clock on Grønland church struck two.

  ‘I’ll see if I can have Halvorsen put on to the case,’ Møller said.

  60

  Ministry of Foreign Affairs. 27 April 2000.

  BERNT BRANDHAUG’S LONG AND VARIED EXPERIENCE WITH women had taught him that on the rare occasions he decided that there was a woman he not only wanted but had to have, it was for one of the following four reasons: she was more beautiful than all the others; she satisfied him sexually more than any others; she made him feel more of a man than any others; or, more crucially, she wanted someone else.

  Brandhaug had realised that Rakel Fauke was that type of woman.

  He had rung her one January day under the pretext of needing an assessment of the new military attaché at the Russian embassy in Oslo. She had told him that she could send a memo, but he had insisted on a face-to-face report. Since it was Friday afternoon, he had suggested meeting over a glass of beer at the bar in the Continental. That was how he had found out that she was a single parent. In fact, she had turned down the invitation, saying she had to pick up her son from the nursery, and he had brightly asked, ‘I assume a woman of your generation has a man to take care of such things?’

  Although she didn’t give a direct answer he had intuited from her response that there was not a man on the scene.

  When he rang off he was generally pleased with his gains, even though he was mildly irritated that he had said your generation and thus emphasised the age difference between them.

  The next thing he did was to ring Kurt Meirik and discreetly pump him for information about Ms Fauke. The fact that he was less than discreet and Meirik smelled a rat didn’t bother him in the slightest.

  Meirik was his usual, well-informed self. Rakel had worked as an interpreter in Brandhaug’s own department for two years at the Norwegian embassy in Moscow. She had married a Russian, a young professor of gene technology who had taken her by storm and had immediately converted theory into practice by making her pregnant. However, the professor had been born with a gene that predisposed him to alcoholism, combined with a predilection for physical discussion, and so their wedded bliss was brief. Rakel Fauke had not repeated the mistake of many in her sisterhood: she didn’t wait, forgive or try to understand; she marched right out of the door with Oleg in her arms the second the first blow fell. Her husband and his r
elatively influential family had appealed for custody of Oleg, and had it not been for her diplomatic immunity she would not have succeeded in leaving Russia with her son.

  As Meirik was telling him that the husband had taken out a lawsuit against her, Brandhaug vaguely recalled a summons issued by a Russian court passing through his in-tray. But she had only been an interpreter at that time and he had delegated the whole business, without making a mental note of her name. When Meirik mentioned that the custody suit was still being chewed over by the Russian and Norwegian authorities, Brandhaug abruptly broke off the conversation and rang down to the legal department.

  The next call, to Rakel, was an invitation to dinner, no pretext this time, and upon her friendly but firm refusal he dictated a letter addressed to her, signed by the head of the legal department. The letter, in brief outline, told her that the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, since the business had dragged on, was now attempting to reach a compromise solution with the Russian authorities on custody ‘out of humane consideration for Oleg’s Russian family’. That would require Rakel and Oleg to appear before a Russian court and comply with the court’s ruling.

  Four days later Rakel phoned Brandhaug and asked to meet him concerning a private matter. He answered that he was busy, which was true, and asked if the meeting could be postponed for a couple of weeks. When, with a hint of shrillness behind her courteous professional tones, she begged him for a meeting as soon as possible, he discovered, after lengthy reflection, that Friday at six at the bar in the Continental was the only option. Once there, he ordered gin and tonic as she elucidated her problem with what he could only assume was a mother’s biologically determined desperation. He nodded gravely, did his utmost to express his sympathy with his eyes and was finally emboldened to place a fatherly, protective hand over hers. She stiffened, but he went on as if nothing had happened, telling her that unfortunately he was not in a position to overrule a department head’s decisions. Naturally, though, he would do whatever was in his power to prevent her having to appear before the Russian court. He also stressed that, bearing in mind the political influence of her ex-husband’s family, he fully shared her concern that the Russian court’s ruling might go against her. He sat there, staring spellbound into her tear-filled brown eyes, and it seemed to him that he had never seen anything to surpass her beauty. Nevertheless, when he suggested extending the evening to include dinner in the restaurant, she thanked him and declined. The rest of the evening, spent in the company of a glass of whisky and pay-TV, was an anticlimax.