Jo Nesbo - The Devil's star

‘So far.’

‘That’s where we come in, Harry. We take the responsibility. We see it as the sanitation job that society dare not take on.’

Harry sucked so hard that the cigarette paper crackled.

‘What do you mean?’ he asked, inhaling.

‘Sven Sivertsen,’ Waaler said, keeping a lookout through the window. ‘Human detritus. You have to get rid of him.’

Harry bent double and coughed the smoke back out.

‘Is that what you do? What about the other stuff? Smuggling?’

‘All our activities are carried out to finance this.’

‘Your cathedral?’

Waaler nodded slowly. Then he leaned across to Harry and Harry felt him put something in his jacket pocket.

‘An ampoule,’ Waaler said. ‘It’s called “Joseph’s Blessing”. Developed by the KGB during the Afghan War for assassinations, but best known as a means of committing suicide for captured Chechen soldiers. It stops your breathing, but unlike Prussic acid there’s no taste and there’s no smell. The ampoule fits nicely up the rectum or under the tongue. If he drinks the contents dissolved in water, he’ll die in seconds. Have you understood the job?’

Harry straightened up. He wasn’t coughing any more, but the tears stood in his eyes.

‘So, it’s supposed to look like suicide?’

‘Witnesses in the custody block will confirm that they omitted to search the rectum when he was brought in. It’s all arranged. Don’t worry.’

Harry breathed in deeply. The fumes from the petrol were making him feel nauseous. The whine of a siren rose and died in the distance.

‘You thought about shooting him, didn’t you?’

Waaler didn’t answer. Harry saw a police car roll up in front of the entrance to the custody block.

‘You never intended to arrest him. You had two guns because you planned to put the other one in his hand after you had shot him to make it look as though he’d threatened you. You put Beate and the mother in the kitchen, then you shouted so that they could testify afterwards that they’d heard you shout and that you had acted in self-defence. But Beate came into the hall too early and your plan went down the drain.’

Waaler gave a deep sigh.

‘We’re cleaning up, Harry. The same way you got rid of the murderer in Sydney. The legal system doesn’t work; it was made for a different time, a more innocent time. And until it is changed we cannot allow Oslo to be taken over by criminals. But you must know all that since you see it at close quarters every day?’

Harry studied the glow of his cigarette in the dark. Then he nodded.

‘I just needed to have the whole picture,’ he said.

‘OK, Harry, listen. Sven Sivertsen will be in cell number nine in the custody block up to and including tomorrow night. Until Monday morning, in other words. Then he’ll be moved to a secure cell in Ullersmo where we will not be able to get at him. The key to cell number nine is on the reception desk on the left. You’ve got until midnight tomorrow, Harry. Then I’ll ring Custody to be told that the Courier Killer has received his deserved punishment. Understood?’

Harry nodded again.

Waaler smiled.

‘Do you know what, Harry? Even though I’m happy that we’re finally on the same team, there is a little part of me that is a tiny bit sad. Do you know why?’

Harry shrugged his shoulders. ‘Because you thought there were things that money couldn’t buy?’

Waaler laughed.

‘Nice one, Harry. It’s because I feel I’ve lost a good enemy. We’re similar. You understand what I’m talking about, don’t you?’

‘“Isn’t it wonderful to have someone to hate?”’

‘What?’

‘Michael Krohn. Raga Rockers.’

‘Twenty-four hours, Harry. Good luck.’

Part Five

Sunday. The Swallows.

Rakel was in the bedroom studying herself in the mirror. The window was open so that she could listen out for the car and steps on the gravel leading up to the house. She looked at the photograph of her father on the dressing table in front of the mirror. It always struck her how young and innocent he seemed in the picture.

She had her hair held in place with a hairslide, as always. Should she do it differently? The dress was her mother’s, a red muslin dress she had had altered. She hoped she wasn’t overdressed. When she was small her father often used to tell her about the first time he saw her mother in this dress and Rakel never grew tired of hearing that it had been like in a fairy tale.

Rakel undid the hairslide and shook her head from side to side so that her dark hair fell over her face. The doorbell rang. She could hear Oleg’s footsteps as he ran down the hall. She could hear the enthusiasm in his voice and Harry’s deep laugh. Then she took a last look in the mirror. She could feel her heart beating faster. She went out the door.

‘Mummy, Harry’s…’

Oleg’s shout died when Rakel appeared at the top of the stairs. She placed one foot cautiously on the top stair – her high heels suddenly felt unsteady, wobbly – but then she found her balance and looked up. Oleg was standing at the foot of the stairs and staring at her open-mouthed. Harry was standing beside him. His eyes were shining so much that she could feel the heat from them burning in her own cheeks. He was holding a bunch of roses in his hand.

‘You’re beautiful, Mummy,’ Oleg whispered.

Rakel closed her eyes. Both side windows were rolled down and the wind brushed against her hair and skin as Harry carefully steered the Escort through the bends on the way down Holmenkollen. The faint smell of washing-up liquid lingered. Rakel moved the sun visor down to check her lipstick and noticed that even the little mirror on the inside had been buffed up.

She smiled at the thought of the first time they had met. He had offered to drive her to work and she had had to help push the car to get it started.

It was incredible really that he still had the same unroadworthy vehicle as then.

She observed him out of the corner of her eye.

And the same sharp bridge of the nose. And the same gently curved, almost feminine lips that contrasted with the other hard masculine features. And the eyes. He could hardly be called good-looking, not in the classical sense. However, he was – what was the word? – real. Real. It was his eyes. No, not his eyes. The expression in his eyes.

He turned towards her as if he could hear her thoughts.

He smiled. And there it was. The childlike softness in his eyes. The boy sitting behind them and laughing at her. There was a certain ingenuousness about the way he looked at her. An uncorrupted sincerity. Honesty. Integrity. It was a look you could rely on. Or you wanted to rely on.

Rakel smiled back.

‘What are you thinking about?’ he asked and had to get his eyes back on the road.

‘This and that.’

She had had plenty of time to think over the last few weeks. Time enough to realise that Harry had never made her a promise he hadn’t kept. He had never promised that he would not go to pieces again. He had never promised that work would not continue to be the most important thing in his life. He had never promised that it would be easy with him. All these were promises he had made to himself. She could see that now.

Olav Hole and Sis were standing at the entrance waiting for them when they arrived at the house in Oppsal. Harry had talked so much about it that Rakel occasionally felt that it was her who had grown up there in the small house.

‘Hi, Oleg,’ Sis said, looking adult and big-sister-like. ‘We’ve made meatballs.’

‘Have you?’ Oleg pushed impatiently at the back of Rakel’s seat to try to get out.

On the way back Rakel leaned her head back in her seat and said that she thought he was good-looking, but that he shouldn’t let it go to his head. He replied that he thought she was better looking and that she could let it go to her head as much as she liked as far he was concerned. When they reached the slopes of Ekeberg and Oslo lay below them, she saw black Vs intersecting the sky beneath.