Jo Nesbo - Knife

Someone had evidently wanted to be warned if anything was approaching. Possibly also to scare something off. He could feel Kasparov trembling against his leg.

“It’s only a firework,” he said, patting the dog. “But thanks for the warning, my friend.”

Sung-min walked over to the wooden terrace in front of the cabin.

Kasparov had plucked up courage again and ran past him, up to the door.

Sung-min saw from the splintered door frame beside the lock that he wasn’t going to have to break in, that job had already been done for him.

He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

He noted at once that the cabin had no electricity or water. There were ropes hanging from hooks on the walls, possibly strung up there to stop mice eating them.

But there was food on the bench by the west-facing window.

Bread. Cheese. And a knife.

Not like the short, all-purpose blade with the brown handle he had found when they searched Finne’s body. This one had a blade that he estimated to be just under fifteen centimetres long. Sung-min’s heart started to beat harder, more happily, almost like when he had seen Alexandra Sturdza walk into Statholdergaarden.

“You know what, Kasparov?” he whispered as he looked along the oak handle and horn collar. “I think winter really is almost over.”

Because there was no doubt. This was a Tojiro kitchen knife. This was the knife.

“What can I get you?” the white-clad bartender asked.

Harry let his eyes roam along the bottles of aquavit and whisky on the shelves behind him before settling once again on the silent television screen. He was the only person in the bar, and it was oddly quiet. Quiet for Gardermoen Airport, anyway. A sleep-inducing voice was making an announcement at one of the gates in the distance, and a pair of hard shoes was clicking on the floor. It was the sound of an airport that would soon be closing down for the night. But there were still several options. He had arrived on the flight from Lakselv, via Tromsø, an hour ago, and with only his hand luggage he had walked to the transit area instead of the arrivals hall. Harry squinted at the large screen of departures hanging next to the bar. The options were Berlin, Paris, Bangkok, Milan, Barcelona or Lisbon. There was enough time, and the SAS ticket desk was still open.

He looked back at the bartender, who was waiting for his order.

“Since you ask, I’d quite like some volume,” Harry said, pointing towards the television, where Katrine Bratt and the Head of Information, Kedzierski, a man with a head of thick, curly hair, were sitting behind the desk in the Parole Hall, the usual venue for press conferences, on the fourth floor of Police Headquarters. Below them ran the single, repeated line of text: Murder suspect Svein Finne shot by unknown sniper in Smestad.

“Sorry,” the bartender said. “All televisions in the airport have to be silent.”

“There’s nobody here except us.”

“Those are the rules.”

“Five minutes, just this item. I’ll give you a hundred kroner.”

“And I can’t accept bribes.”

“Mm. It wouldn’t be a bribe if I ordered a Jim Beam, then gave you a tip if I thought I’d received particularly good service?”

The bartender smiled briefly. Looked at Harry more closely. “Aren’t you that author?”

Harry shook his head.

“I don’t read, but my mum likes you. Can I have a selfie?”

Harry nodded towards the screen.

“OK,” the bartender said, leaning over the counter with his phone in his hand and snapping a selfie of the pair of them before pressing the remote. The television rose a few cautious decibels and Harry leaned forward to hear better.

Katrine Bratt’s face seemed to glow every time a flash went off. She was listening intently to a question from the floor that the microphone couldn’t pick up. Her voice was clear and firm when she answered the reporter.

“I can’t go into detail, only repeat that in the process of investigating the murder of Svein Finne earlier today, Oslo Police District has found compelling evidence that Finne was responsible for the murder of Rakel Fauke. The murder weapon has been found in Svein Finne’s hideout. And Finne’s lawyer has told the police that Finne told him he killed Rakel Fauke and afterwards planted evidence to frame Harry Hole. Yes?” Katrine pointed to someone in the room.

Harry recognised the voice of Mona Daa, VG ’s crime reporter. “Shouldn’t Winter be here to explain how he and Kripos were so thoroughly taken in by Finne?”

Katrine leaned towards the forest of microphones. “Winter will have to answer that when Kripos hold their own press conference. We at Oslo Police District will be sending what we know about Finne’s connection to the Rakel Fauke case to Winter, and we’re here primarily to account for Finne’s murder, seeing as that case is solely our responsibility.”

“Do you have any comment on Winter’s handling of the case?” Daa went on. “He and Kripos have gone public with allegations of murder against an innocent and deceased police officer who worked here in the Crime Squad Unit.”

Harry could see Katrine stop herself just as she was about to speak. Swallow. Compose herself. Then she said: “I and Oslo Police District aren’t here to criticise Kripos. On the contrary, one of Kripos’s detectives, Sung-min Larsen, has been instrumental in what appears to be our successful identification of Rakel Fauke’s killer. One last question. Yes?”

“ Dagbladet . You say you haven’t identified a suspect for Finne’s murder. We have sources who’ve told us he had been threatened by men he was in prison with who have since been released. Is that something the police are looking into?”

“Yes,” Katrine said, and looked at the Head of Information.

“Well, thanks very much for coming,” Kedzierski said. “We don’t have another press conference planned, but we’ll...”

Harry signalled to the bartender that he’d heard enough.

He saw Katrine stand up. Presumably she would be going home now. Someone would have been watching Gert for her. The child who had lain there in the baby carrier, smiling, just awake, peering up at Harry as he carried him through the city streets. He had rung the buzzer for Katrine’s flat, felt something around his forefinger and looked down. The tiny, pale baby fingers looked like they were clutching a baseball bat. Those intense blue eyes looked like they were commanding him not to go, not to leave him like this, not here. Telling Harry that he owed him a father now. And when Harry had stood in the darkness of one of the doorways on the other side of the street and watched Katrine come out, he had been on the verge of stepping forward into the light. And telling her everything. Letting her make the decision for herself, for them both. For all three of them.

Harry straightened up again on the bar stool.

He saw that the bartender had placed a glass containing something brown next to him on the bar. Harry studied it. Just one glass . He knew it was the voice he mustn’t listen to talking. Saying: Come on, you deserve a little celebration!

No.

No? OK, not to celebrate, but to show respect to the dead, to drink a toast in their memory, you heartless, dishonourable bastard.

Harry knew that if he entered into a discussion with that voice, he would lose.

He looked at the departure board. At the glass. Katrine was on her way home. He could walk out of here, get in a taxi. Ring her doorbell again. Wait in the light this time. Rise from the dead. Why not? He could hardly hide forever. And now that he was no longer a suspect, why should he? A thought struck him. In the car, under the ice in the river, there had been something there. But it had slipped away from him. The question was: What did he have to offer Katrine and Gert? Would the truth and his presence do them more damage than good? God knows. God knows if he had invented these dilemmas to give himself an excuse to leave. He thought of those small fingers wrapped around his. That commanding stare. His thoughts were interrupted when he felt his phone ring. He took it out and looked at it.