Jo Nesbo - The Redeemer

Martine swivelled round and looked in alarm at Harry.

'You have the duty roster,' Harry said. 'When I first went to see you, I noticed the roster hanging from the board in reception. Where everyone could see who was on duty that night in Egertorget. It was Jon Karlsen.'

'How…?'

'I popped in after going to the hospital and checked. Jon's name was there. But Robert and Jon swapped shifts after the list was typed up, didn't they.'

Rikard turned up Stensberggata towards Bislett.

Martine chewed her lower lip. 'Shifts are changed all the time, and if people arrange switches I don't always find out.'

Rikard drove down Sofies gate. Martine's eyes widened.

'Ah, now I remember! Robert rang to tell me they had swapped, so I didn't need to do anything. That must be why I didn't think of it. But

… but that means that…'

'Jon and Robert are very similar,' Harry said. 'And in uniform.. .'

'And it was dark and snowing…' Martine said in a hushed voice, as though to herself.

'What I wanted to know is if anyone had rung you to ask about the roster. And about that evening in particular.'

'Not as far as I can remember,' Martine said.

'Can you have a think? I'll call you tomorrow.'

'OK,' said Martine.

Harry held her eyes and in the light from the street lamp again he noticed the irregularities in her pupils.

Rikard pulled into the kerb.

'How did you know?' Harry asked.

'Know what?' Martine asked with alacrity.

'I was asking the driver,' Harry said. 'How did you know I live here?'

'You said,' Rikard answered. 'I know my way around. As Martine said, I live in Bislett too.'

Harry stood on the pavement watching the car drive away.

It was obvious the boy was besotted. He had driven here first so that he could be alone with Martine for a few minutes. To talk to her. To have the requisite peace and quiet when you have something to say, to make it clear who you are, to unburden your soul, to find out about yourself and all the stuff that is part of being young, and with which, he was happy to say, he had finished. All for a kind word, a hug and the hope of a kiss before she went. To beg for love the way that infatuated idiots do. Of all ages.

Harry ambled towards the front door as his hand instinctively searched for the keys in his trouser pocket, and his mind searched for something that was repelled every time he came close. And his eyes sought something he struggled to hear. It was a tiny sound, but at this late hour Sofies gate was quiet. Harry looked down at the piles of snow left by the ploughs today. It sounded like a cracking noise. Melting. Impossible; it was eighteen degrees below.

Harry put the key in the lock.

And he could hear it was not a melting sound. It was ticking.

He turned slowly and scrutinised the snowdrifts. A glint. Glass.

Harry walked back, bent down and picked up the watch. The glass on Moller's present was as shiny as the surface of water. Not a scratch. And the time was accurate to the second. Two minutes ahead of his watch. What was it Moller had said? So that he would be in time for what he thought he would miss.

The Night of Wednesday, 17 December. The Darkness.

The electric radiator in the recreation room of the Hostel banged as though someone were throwing pebbles at it. The hot air quivered above the brown burn marks on the burlap wallpaper which sweated nicotine, glue and the greasy smell of those who had lived here and moved on. The sofa material scratched him through his trousers.

Despite the dry, crackling heat from the radiator, he was trembling as he watched the news on the TV set attached to the wall bracket. He recognised the pictures of the square, but understood nothing of what they were saying. In the other corner an old man was sitting in an armchair smoking thin roll-ups. When there was so little left that they were burning his black fingertips he quickly produced two matchsticks from a box, trapped the cigarette end between them and inhaled until he burned his lips. A decorated lopped-off top end of a spruce tree stood on a table in the corner, attempting to glitter.

He thought about the Christmas dinner in Dalj.

It was two years after the end of the war and the Serbs had withdrawn from what once had been Vukovar. The Croatian authorities had packed them into Hotel International in Zagreb. He had asked lots of people if they knew where Giorgi's family had ended up, and one day he had met another refugee who knew that Giorgi's mother had died during the siege and that he and his father had moved to Dalj, a small border town not far from Vukovar. On 26 December he caught the train to Osijek and then from there to Dalj. He talked to the conductor who confirmed that the train would go on to Borovo, the terminal, and would be back in Dalj by half past six. It was two o'clock when he alighted in Dalj. He asked for directions to the address, which was a low block of flats as grey as the town. He went into the hallway, found the door and before ringing said a silent prayer that they would be at home. His heart was pounding fast as he heard light footsteps inside.

Giorgi opened. He hadn't changed much. Paler, but the same blond curls, blue eyes and heart-shaped mouth that had always made him think of a young god. The smile in his eyes was gone, however, like a broken light bulb.

'Don't you recognise me, Giorgi?' he asked after a while. 'We lived in the same town; we went to the same school.'

Giorgi furrowed his brow. 'Did we? Wait. The voice. You must be Serg Dolac. Of course, you were the fast runner. Jesus, how you've changed. But it's great to see people we knew in Vukovar. They've all gone.'

'Not me.'

'No, not you, Serg.'

Giorgi embraced him and held him for such a long time that he could feel the heat beginning to tremble through his frozen body. Then he led him into the flat.

It was dark in the sparsely furnished sitting room as they sat talking about all the things that had happened, and all the people they had known in Vukovar and where they were now. When he asked whether Giorgi remembered Tinto the dog, Giorgi put on a rather perplexed smile.

Giorgi said his father would be home soon. Did Serg want to stay and eat?

He looked at his watch. The train would be at the station in three hours.

The father was very surprised to meet a visitor from Vukovar.

'This is Serg,' Giorgi said. 'Serg Dolac.'

'Serg Dolac?' the father asked, scrutinising him. 'Yes, there's something familiar about you. Hm. Didn't I know your father? No?'

Darkness fell and after taking their places at the table, the father gave them large, white serviettes and loosened his red neckerchief and tied the serviette round his neck. The father said grace, made the sign of the cross and inclined his head to the only picture in the room, a framed photo of a woman.

As Giorgi and his father took their cutlery, he bowed and intoned: 'Who is this that comes from Edom, coming from Bozrah, his garments stained crimson? Who is this, in glorious apparel, marching in the greatness of his strength? "It is I, who announce that right has won the day, it is I," says the Lord, "for I am mighty to save."'

The father eyed him in astonishment. Then he passed him the dish with the large, pale pieces of meat.

The meal continued in silence. The wind made the thin windows groan.

After the meat, there was dessert. Palacinka, thin pancakes filled with jam and chocolate spread over the top. He hadn't tasted palacinka since he was a child in Vukovar.

'Take another, dear Serg,' the father said. 'It's Christmas.'

He checked his watch. The train would leave in half an hour. It was time. He cleared his throat, put down the serviette and stood up: 'Giorgi and I have been talking about all the people we remember from Vukovar, but there is one person we haven't spoken about yet.'