Jo Nesbo - Police

Harry arrived at reception, saw people stare at him and recoil. A woman screamed, and someone ducked behind a counter. Harry discovered the reason in the mirror behind the counter.

Almost two metres of bomb-ravaged man with the world’s ugliest automatic still in his hand.

‘Sorry, folks,’ Harry mumbled, and left through the swing doors.

‘What’s going on?’ Bjørn asked.

‘Not much,’ Harry said, raising his face to the rain to cool the fire for a second. ‘Bjørn, I’m five minutes away from home, so I’ll drive there for a shower, some bandages and some more substantial clothes first.’

They rang off, and Harry saw the parking warden standing beside his car with his notepad out.

‘Thinking of fining me?’ Harry asked.

‘You’re blocking the entrance to a hospital, so you can bet your life I am,’ said the warden without looking up.

‘Perhaps better if you move and then we can get the car out of the way,’ Harry said.

‘I don’t think you should talk to me like-’ the warden started, looked up and froze when he saw Harry and the Odessa. And was still frozen to the spot when Harry got into his car, stuffed the gun back in the belt, twisted the key, let go of the clutch and shot off down the road.

Harry turned into Slemdalsveien, accelerated and passed an oncoming tram. Said a silent prayer that Arnold Folkestad would be on his way home just like him.

He swung into Holmenkollveien. Hoping Rakel wouldn’t freak out when she saw him. Hoping Oleg. .

God, how he was looking forward to seeing them. Even now, in the state he was in. Especially now.

He slowed before turning into the drive up to the house.

Then he jammed on the brakes.

Put the car into reverse.

Backed up slowly.

He looked at the parked cars he had just passed, lining the pavement. Stopped. Breathed through his nostrils.

Arnold Folkestad had been on his way home, true enough. Just like him.

For parked between two cars which were more typical of Holmenkollen — an Audi and a Mercedes — was a Fiat of indeterminate vintage.

Harry stood under the spruce trees for a few seconds studying the house.

From there he couldn’t see any signs of a break-in, neither through the door with the three locks nor through the bars on the windows.

Of course it was by no means certain that it was Folkestad’s Fiat on the road. Lots of people had a Fiat. Harry had placed his hand on the bonnet. It was still warm. He had left his own car in the middle of the road.

Harry ran through the trees until he was at the back of the house.

Waited, listened. Nothing.

He crept over to the wall. Stretched, peered in through the windows, but saw nothing, only darkened rooms.

He continued round the house until he came to the illuminated windows of the kitchen and the living room.

Stood up on his tiptoes and looked in. Ducked down again. Leaned back against the rough timber and concentrated on breathing. Because he had to breathe now. Had to ensure his brain had enough oxygen to think at speed.

A fortress. And what bloody good had that been?

He had them.

They were there.

Arnold Folkestad. Rakel. And Oleg.

Harry concentrated on memorising what he had seen.

They were sitting in the entrance hall by the front door.

Oleg on a spindle-back chair placed in the middle of the room, with Rakel right behind him. Oleg had a white gag in his mouth, and Rakel was tying him to the chair.

And a few metres behind them, ensconced in an armchair, was Arnold Folkestad with a gun in his hand, evidently giving Rakel orders.

The details. Folkestad’s gun was a Heckler amp; Koch, standard police issue. Reliable, wouldn’t jam. Rakel’s mobile phone was on the living-room table. Neither of them looked hurt for the moment. For the moment.

Why. .?

Harry stopped thinking. There wasn’t room, there wasn’t time for any whys, just how he could stop Folkestad.

Harry had already seen that it was an impossible shot. He wouldn’t be able to hit Arnold Folkestad without endangering Oleg and Rakel.

Harry raised his head above the windowsill and ducked down again.

Rakel would soon have finished her job.

Folkestad would soon start his.

He had seen the baton. It was leaning against the bookcase beside the armchair. Soon Folkestad would smash Oleg’s face the way he had with the others. A young boy who wasn’t even a policeman. And Folkestad had to be under the illusion that Harry was already dead, so the revenge was pointless. Why. .? Stop. No whys.

He had to ring Bjørn. Get Delta sent here. They were in the forest on the wrong side of town. It could easily take forty-five minutes. Fuck! He would have to do this on his own!

Harry told himself he had time.

He had several seconds, maybe a minute.

But he couldn’t hope for the element of surprise if he tried to burst in, not with three locks to open. Folkestad would hear him long before he was inside. Holding a gun to either Rakel’s or Oleg’s head.

Quickly, quickly! Something, anything, Harry.

He took out his mobile phone. Wanting to text Bjørn. But his fingers wouldn’t obey, they had frozen, they were numb, as though the blood supply had been cut off.

Not now, Harry, don’t freeze. This is a standard number. It’s not them, they are. . victims. Faceless victims. They are. . the woman you were going to marry, and the boy who called you Dad when he was small and was so tired he forgot himself. The boy you never wanted to disappoint, but whose birthday you still forgot and that — that on its own — could make you cry and you became so desperate you had to trick him. You always had to trick him.

Harry blinked into the darkness.

You old trickster.

The mobile phone on the table. Should he ring Rakel’s phone, see if it would make Folkestad stand up and move away from Rakel and Oleg? Shoot him as he picked it up?

And what if he didn’t? If he stayed where he was?

Harry took another peek. Ducked down, hoping Folkestad hadn’t seen the movement. Folkestad had got up with the baton in his hand and pushed Rakel to one side. And even if he got a clear shot in there was very little chance that at a distance of almost ten metres he would be lucky enough to stop Folkestad in his tracks. A better precision weapon was required than a Russian Odessa and a more suitable calibre than a Makarov 9x18mm. He had to get closer, preferably within two metres.

He heard Rakel’s voice through the window.

‘Take me! Please.’

Harry pressed his head against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut. Act, act. But how? Most merciful God, how? Give a terrible sinner of a trickster a hint and he’ll pay you back with. . whatever you want. Harry inhaled, whispering a promise.

Rakel stared at the man with the red beard. He was standing directly behind Oleg’s chair with the end of the baton resting on his shoulder. In the other hand he was holding a gun pointed at her.

‘I’m really sorry, Rakel, but I can’t spare the boy. He’s the real target, you see.’

‘But why?’ Rakel wasn’t aware of the crying, only the hot tears running down her cheeks, like a physical reaction disengaged from what she felt. Or didn’t feel. The numbness. ‘Why are you doing this, Arnold? It’s just. . it’s just. .’

‘Sick?’ Arnold Folkestad smiled, apologetically — or so it seemed. ‘That’s probably what all of you’d like to believe. That we can all enjoy our grandiose revenge fantasies, but none of us is willing, or even capable, of carrying them out.’

‘But why?’

‘Because I can love, I can hate. Well, now I can’t love any more. So I’ve replaced it with. .’ He raised the baton aloft. ‘. . this. I’m honouring my beloved. René, you see, wasn’t just any lover. He was. .’ He put the baton down on the floor, rested it against the back of the chair and groped in his pocket, but without lowering the gun by so much as a millimetre. ‘. . the apple of my eye. Who was taken from me. And nothing was done about it.’