Jo Nesbo - The Redeemer

'Call me David, like everyone else, Rikard.'

'Alright, David.'

'But not every sentence, please.'

Rikard's eyes jumped from Commander David Eckhoff to his daughter Martine and back again. He ran two fingers across his perspiring top lip. Martine had often wondered how it was that someone could sweat so much in one particular area regardless of weather and wind conditions, but especially when he sat next to her during a church service, or anywhere else, and whispered something that was supposed to be funny and might have been just that, had it not been for the poorly disguised nervousness, the rather too intense nearness – and, well, the sweaty top lip. Now and then, when Rikard was sitting close to her and all was quiet, she heard a rasping sound as he ran his fingers across his mouth. Because, in addition to producing sweat, Rikard Nilsen also produced stubble, an unusual abundance of stubble. He could arrive at Headquarters in the morning with a face like a baby's bottom, but by lunch his white skin would have taken on a blue shimmer, and she had often noticed that when he came to meetings in the evening he had shaved again.

'I'm teasing you, Rikard,' David Eckhoff smiled.

Martine knew there was no bad intention behind them, these games of her father's, but sometimes he seemed unable to see that he was bullying people.

'Oh, right,' Rikard said, forcing a laugh. He stooped. 'Hello, Martine.'

'Hello, Rikard,' Martine said, pretending to be concentrating on the battery gauge.

'I wonder whether you could do me a favour,' the commander said. 'There is so much ice on the roads now and the tyres on my car don't have studs. I should have changed them, but I have to go to the Lighthouse-'

'I know,' Rikard said with zeal. 'You have a lunch meeting with the Minister for Social Affairs. We're hoping for lots of press coverage. I was talking to the head of PR.'

David Eckhoff sent him a patronising smile. 'Good to hear you keep up, Rikard. The point is that my car is here in the garage and I would have liked to see studded tyres mounted by the time I return. You know-'

'Are the tyres in the boot?'

'Yes. But only if you have nothing more pressing on. I was on the point of ringing Jon. He said he could-'

'No, no,' Rikard said, shaking his head with vigour. 'I'll fix them right away. Trust me, er… David.'

'Are you sure?'

Rikard looked at the commander, bewildered. 'That you can trust me?'

'That you haven't got anything more pressing on?'

'Of course, this is a nice job. I like working on cars and… and…'

'Changing tyres?'

Rikard swallowed and nodded as the commander beamed.

As he wound up the window and they turned out of the square, Martine said that she thought it was wrong of him to exploit Rikard's obliging nature.

'Subservience, I suppose you mean,' her father answered. 'Relax, my dear, it's a test, nothing more.'

'A test? Of selflessness or fear of authority?'

'The latter,' the commander said with a chortle. 'I was talking to Rikard's sister, Thea, and she happened to tell me that Rikard is struggling to finish the budget for tomorrow's deadline. If so, he should prioritise that and leave this to Jon.'

'And then? Perhaps Rikard is being kind?'

'Yes, he is kind, and clever. Hard-working and serious. I want to be sure he has the backbone and the courage that an important post in management requires.'

'Everyone says Jon will get the post.'

David Eckhoff looked down at his hands with an imperceptible smile. 'Do they? By the way, I appreciate your standing up for Rikard.'

Martine did not take her eyes off the road, but felt her father's eyes on her as he continued: 'Our families have been friends for many years, you know. They're good people. With a solid foundation in the Army.'

Martine took a deep breath to suppress her irritation.

The job required one bullet.

Nevertheless, he pushed all the cartridges into the magazine. First of all, because the weapon was only in perfect balance when the magazine was full. And because it minimised the chances of a malfunction. Six in the magazine plus one in the chamber.

Then he put on the shoulder holster. He had bought it second-hand, and the leather was soft and smelt salty, acrid, from skin, oil and sweat. The gun lay flat, as it should. He stood in front of the mirror and put on his jacket. It could not be seen. Bigger guns were more accurate, but this was not a case of precision shooting. He put on his raincoat. Then the coat. Shoved the cap in his pocket and groped for the red neckerchief in his inside pocket.

He looked at his watch.

'Backbone,' said Gunnar Hagen. 'And courage. These are the qualities I seek above all else in my inspectors.'

Harry didn't answer. He didn't consider it a question. Instead, he looked around the office where he had sat so often, like now. But apart from the familiar scenario of POB-tells-inspector-what's-what, everything had changed. Gone were Bjarne Moller's piles of paper, the Donald Duck amp; Co. comics squeezed between legal documents and police regulations on the shelf, the big photograph of the family and the even bigger one of a golden retriever the children had been given and long forgotten about, as it had been dead for nine years, but which Bjarne was still grieving over.

What remained was a cleared desk with a monitor and a keyboard, a small silver pedestal with a tiny white bone and Gunnar Hagen's elbows, on which he was leaning at this very moment while eyeballing Harry from under his great thatched eyebrows.

'But there is a third quality I prize even higher, Hole. Can you guess what it is?'

'No,' Harry said in an even monotone.

'Discipline. Di-sci-pline.'

The POB's division of the word into syllables suggested to Harry that he was in for a lecture on its etymology. However, Hagen stood up and began to strut to and fro with his hands behind his back, a sort of marking out of territory which Harry had always found vaguely risible.

'I'm having this face-to-face conversation with everyone in the section to make it clear what my expectations are.'

'Unit.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'We've never been called a section. Even though your rank used to be known as "Section Head", PAS. Just for your information.'

'Thank you for drawing that to my attention, Inspector. Where was I?'

'Di-sci-pline.'

Hagen bored his eyes into Harry, who didn't turn a hair. So the POB resumed his strutting.

'For the last ten years I have been lecturing at the military academy. My area of speciality was the war in Burma. I suppose it may surprise you to hear that it has great relevance for my job here, Hole.'

'Well.' Harry scratched his leg. 'You can read me like an open book, boss.'

Hagen ran his forefinger over the window frame and studied the result with displeasure. 'In 1942, a mere hundred thousand Japanese soldiers conquered Burma. Burma was twice the size of Japan and at that time occupied by British troops who were superior in numbers and firepower.' Hagen raised the grubby forefinger. 'But there was one area where the Japanese were superior and this made it possible for them to beat the British and the Indian mercenaries. Discipline. When the Japanese marched on Rangoon, they walked for forty-five minutes and slept for fifteen. Slept on the road wearing their rucksacks and their feet pointing towards their destination. So that they didn't walk into the ditch or in the wrong direction when they woke up. Direction is important, Hole. Do you understand, Hole?'

Harry had an inkling of what was to come. 'I understand that they made it to Rangoon, boss.'

'They did. All of them. Because they did what they were told. I have just been told that you signed out the keys to Tom Waaler's flat. Is that correct, Hole?'