Jo Nesbo - The Devil's star

‘So, you anticipated all this?’

‘No, not this. I did it because mobile phones send signals to phone masts that pinpoint which part of the town the phone is in. If Waaler has got people working on the mobile phone network trying to trace me with the help of my mobile they’ll have something to sharpen their wits on because it is more or less in constant motion all over Oslo.’

‘I want to know as little about this as possible, Harry. But don’t send me anything here. OK?’

‘OK.’

‘I’m sorry, Harry.’

‘You’ve given me your right arm, Beate. You don’t need to apologise for holding on to your left.’

He knocked at the door. Five short knocks at room number 303. He hoped it was loud enough to be heard over the music. He waited. He was going to knock once more when he heard the music being turned down and the padding of bare feet on the floor. The door opened. She looked as if she had been asleep.

‘Yes?’

He flashed his ID card which, strictly speaking, was false since he was no longer a police officer.

‘Apologies again for what happened on Saturday,’ Harry said. ‘Hope you weren’t too frightened when they burst in.’

‘That’s OK,’ she said with a grimace. ‘I suppose you were only doing your job.’

‘Yes.’ Harry rocked on his heels while casting quick glances up and down the corridor. ‘A colleague from Forensics and I are checking Marius Veland’s room for clues. We have to send off a document right this minute but my laptop has gone on strike. It’s pretty important. I remembered that you were surfing the Net on Saturday and so I wondered…’

She gestured that any further explanation was superfluous and switched on the computer.

‘The computer’s on. I suppose I ought to apologise for the mess or something like that. Hope you don’t mind if I don’t give a damn.’

He sat down in front of the screen, got the e-mail program up, pulled out a slip of paper and banged Eva Marvanova’s address in with the greasy keys. The message was brief. Ready. This address. Send.

He swung round on the chair and watched the girl, who was sitting on the sofa, pulling on a tight pair of jeans. He hadn’t even noticed that she was only wearing a pair of knickers, presumably because of the baggy T-shirt with a picture of a hemp leaf on.

‘On your own today?’ he asked, mostly to say something while waiting for Eva. He could tell by the expression on her face that it was not a particularly successful attempt at conversation.

‘I only screw at weekends,’ she said, sniffing a sock before she put it on. And she beamed with pleasure when it was apparent that Harry had no intention of following up her comment. It was apparent to Harry that she could have done with a trip to the dentist.

‘You’ve got an e-mail,’ she said.

He turned round to the screen. It was from Eva. No text, just an attachment. He double-clicked on it. The screen went black.

‘He’s old and sluggish,’ the girl said with an even broader grin. ‘He’ll get it up eventually. You’ll just have to wait a bit.’

In front of Harry the picture had begun to appear on the screen, first as a blue glaze, and then, when there was no more sky, a grey wall and a black and green monument. Then the square. And the tables. Sven Sivertsen. And a man in a leather jacket with his back to the camera. Dark hair. Powerful neck. It was no good as evidence, of course, but Harry was in no doubt at all that it was Tom Waaler. Nevertheless, that was not what made him sit and stare at the picture.

‘Er, you, I have to go to the loo,’ the girl said. Harry had no idea how long he had been sitting there. ‘And the bloody sound carries, so I get very embarrassed, don’t I? So if you could…’

Harry stood up, mumbled his thanks and left.

On the stairs between the third and the fourth floor he stopped.

The picture.

It couldn’t be chance. It was theoretically impossible.

Or was it?

Anyway, it couldn’t be true. No-one did that kind of thing.

No-one.

Monday. Confession.

The two men standing opposite each other in the church of the Holy Apostolic Princess Olga were the same height. The warm, clammy air smelled of sweet smoke and acrid tobacco. The sun had shone on Oslo every day now for almost five weeks, and the sweat was running in streams down Nikolai Loeb’s thick woollen tunic as he was reading the prayer to take confession:

‘Lo, you have come to the place of healing. The invisible spirit of Jesus Christ is here and will receive your confession.’

He had tried to find a lighter, more modern tunic in Welhavens gate, but they didn’t have any for Russian Orthodox priests, they said. The prayer over, he placed the book beside the cross on the table between them. The man standing in front of him would soon clear his throat. They always cleared their throats before confessing, as if their sins were encapsulated in mucus and saliva. Nikolai had a vague sensation that he had seen the man before, but he could not remember where. And the name meant nothing to him. The man had seemed a little taken aback when he realised that the confession would be face to face and that he would even have to give his name. To tell the truth, Nikolai had had a feeling that the man had not given his real name, either. He may have come from a different congregation. Occasionally they came here with their secrets because this was a small anonymous church where they didn’t know anyone. Nikolai had often pardoned the sins of members of the established Church of Norway. If they asked for it, they got it; the mercy of the Lord was infinite.

The man cleared his throat. Nikolai closed his eyes and promised himself that he would cleanse his body with a bath and his ears with Tchaikovsky as soon as he arrived home.

‘It is said that lust – exactly like water – will find the lowest level, Father. If there is an opening, a crack or a flaw in your character, lust will find it.’

‘We are all sinners, my son. Have you any sins to confess?’

‘Yes. I have been unfaithful to the woman I love. I have been together with a wanton woman. Even though I do not love her, I have not been able to resist going back to her.’

Nikolai suppressed a yawn. ‘Continue.’

‘I… she became an obsession.’

‘Became, you say. Does that mean that you have stopped meeting her?’

‘They died.’

It was not just what he said; there was also something in his voice that startled Nikolai.

‘They?’

‘She was pregnant. I believe.’

‘I am sorry to hear of your loss, my son. Does your wife know this?’

‘No-one knows anything.’

‘What did she die of?’

‘A bullet through the head, Father.’

The sweat on Nikolai Loeb’s skin suddenly went ice cold. He swallowed.

‘Are there any other sins you would like to confess, my son.’

‘Yes. There is a person. A policeman. I have seen the woman I love go to him. I have thoughts about…’

‘Yes?’

‘Sinning. That is all, Father. Can you read the prayer of absolution now?’

A silence fell over the church.

‘I…’ Nikolai began.

‘I have to go now, Father. Would you be so kind?’

Nikolai closed his eyes again. Then he began to read and did not open his eyes until he came to ‘I absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost’.

He crossed himself over the man’s bowed head.

‘Thank you,’ the man whispered. He turned and scurried out of the church.

Nikolai did not move from the spot and listened to the echo of the words still hanging between the walls. He thought he could remember where he had seen him now. In Gamle Aker assembly house. He had brought a new Star of Bethlehem to replace the ruined one.