Jo Nesbo - The Redeemer

'The plasticity or mobility of the face is a very personal thing. To some extent it may be achieved through practice and to some extent, one has to assume, it's genetic. Some people cannot differentiate between the left and right sides of their face; others, with practice, can operate all the muscles independently of each other. Like a concert pianist. And that's called hyperelasticity or visage du pantomime. Known cases would suggest there is a strong genetic element. The ability was learned young or as a child and those who have an extreme degree of hyperelasticity often suffer from personality disorders – or have experienced terrible traumas while growing up.'

'So what you're saying is that we're dealing with a crazy man here?' Gunnar Hagen said.

'My area of expertise is faces, not psychology,' Beate said. 'But at any rate it cannot be excluded. Harry?'

'Thank you, Beate.' Harry got to his feet. 'So now you know what we're up against, guys. Questions? Yes, Li?'

'How do we catch a creature like this?'

Harry and Beate exchanged glances. Hagen coughed.

'I have no idea,' Harry said. 'All I know is that this will not be over until he has done his job. Or we have done ours.'

There was a message from Rakel when Harry returned to his office. He rang her straight away to be spared the brooding.

'How's it going?' she asked.

'Right to the Supreme Court,' Harry said. It was an expression Rakel's father had used. An insider joke among Norwegian soldiers back from the Eastern Front after the war and facing trial. Rakel laughed. The gentle ripple for which he once would have been willing to sacrifice everything to hear every day. It still worked.

'Are you alone?' she asked.

'No. Halvorsen is sitting here listening as always.'

Halvorsen raised his head from the Egertorget witnesses' statements and pulled a grimace.

'Oleg needs someone to talk to,' Rakel said.

'Oh yes?'

'Pssh, that was clumsy. Not someone. He needs to talk to you.'

'Needs?'

'Another correction. He said he wants to talk to you.'

'And asked you to ring?'

'No. No, he would never have done that.'

'No.' Harry smiled at the thought.

'So… Would you have time one evening, do you think?'

'Of course.'

'Great. You could come and eat with us.'

'Us?'

'Oleg and me.'

'Mm.'

'I know you've met Mathias-'

'Yes,' Harry said quickly. 'Seems a nice guy.'

'Yes.'

Harry didn't know how to interpret her intonation.

'Are you still there?'

'I'm here,' Harry said. 'Look, we've got a murder case on our hands and things are hotting up here. Could I have a think and ring you later with a day?'

Pause.

'Rakel?'

'Yes, that would be fine. How are things otherwise?'

The question was so out of place that for a moment Harry wondered whether it was meant as irony.

'The days pass,' Harry said.

'Nothing new happened in your life since we last spoke?' Harry breathed in. 'I have to be off, Rakel. I'll ring you when I've found a day. Say hello to Oleg from me. OK?'

'OK.'

Harry put down the receiver.

'Well?' Halvorsen said. 'A convenient day?'

'It's a meal. Something to do with Oleg. What would Robert be doing in Zagreb?'

Halvorsen was about to say something when there was a soft knock at the door. They both turned. Skarre was standing in the doorway.

'Zagreb police have just rung,' he informed them. 'The credit card was issued on the basis of a false passport.'

'Mmm,' Harry hummed, leaning back in the chair and putting his hands behind his head. 'What would Robert be doing in Zagreb, Skarre?'

'You know what I think.'

'Dope,' Halvorsen said.

'Didn't you mention a girl asking for Robert in the Fretex in Kirkeveien, Skarre? In the shop they thought she was from Yugoslavia, didn't they?'

'Yes. It was the shop manager. She-'

'Call Fretex, Halvorsen.'

The office was quiet as Halvorsen flicked through the Yellow Pages and dialled a number. Harry started to drum his fingers on the table wondering how to phrase it: he was pleased with Skarre. He cleared his throat once. But then Halvorsen passed him the telephone.

Sergeant Major Rue listened, spoke and acted. An efficient woman, Harry was able to confirm two minutes later when he rang off and coughed again.

'That was one of her para 12 boys, a Serbian, who remembered the girl. He thinks her name is Sofia, but is not sure. He was certain she was from Vukovar.'

Harry found Jon in bed in Robert's flat with an open Bible on his stomach. He looked anxious, as if he hadn't slept. Harry lit a cigarette, sat down on the fragile kitchen chair and asked Jon what he thought Robert had been doing in Zagreb.

'No idea. He said nothing to me. Perhaps it was something to do with the secret project I'd lent him money for.'

'OK. Do you know anything about a girlfriend – a young Croatian girl by the name of Sofia?'

'Sofia Miholjec? You're kidding!'

''Fraid not. Does that mean you know who she is?'

'Sofia lives in one of our buildings in Jacob Aalls gate. Her family was among the Croatian refugees in Vukovar the commander brought here. But Sofia… Sofia is fifteen.'

'Maybe she was just in love with Robert? Young girl. Good-looking, grown lad. It's not exactly unusual, you know.'

Jon was about to answer, but stopped himself.

'You said Robert liked young girls,' Harry said.

Jon studied the floor. 'I can give you the address of the family so you can ask her.'

'OK.' Harry glanced at his watch. 'Anything you need?'

Jon looked around. 'I should go round to my flat. Pick up some clothes and toiletries.'

'Fine. I'll take you. Grab your coat and hat. It's got even colder.'

The drive took twenty minutes. They passed the dilapidated old Bislett stadium that was due to be demolished, and Schroder restaurant, outside which stood a man in a thick woollen coat and hat whom Harry recognised. Harry parked illegally in front of the entrance to Goteborggata 4, they entered and waited in front of the lift. Harry saw from the red number over the door that the lift was on the third floor, Jon's. Before they had time to press the button they heard the lift start to move and could see from the numbers that it was on its way down. Harry rubbed his palms against his thighs.

'You don't like lifts,' Jon said.

Harry eyed him in surprise. 'Is it obvious?'

Jon smiled. 'My father doesn't, either. Come on. Let's take the stairs.'

They set off and some way up Harry heard the lift door open beneath them.

They let themselves into the flat and Harry stood by the door while Jon went to the bathroom and fetched a toilet bag.

'Strange,' Jon said with a frown. 'It's as if someone has been here.'

Jon slipped into the bedroom and returned with a bag.

'It smells funny,' he said.

Harry had a look around. There were two glasses on the sink, but no milk or other visible signs of liquid on the rims that would reveal anything. No wet marks left by melted snow on the floor, just a few splinters of light wood in front of the desk which must have come from one of the drawers. One drawer front looked as if it had split.

'Let's get moving,' Harry said.

'Why's my vac there?' Jon asked, pointing. 'Have your people been using it?'

Harry knew SOC procedures and none of them involved using the vacuum cleaner at the scene of the crime.

'Does anyone else have a key to this flat?' Harry asked.

Jon hesitated. 'Thea, my girlfriend. But she would never have used the vac here of her own accord.'

Harry studied the splinters of wood in front of the desk which would have been the first thing a vacuum cleaner would have swallowed. Then he went over to the machine. The attachment had been removed from the plastic shaft attached to the end of the hose. Cold shivers ran down his spine. He lifted the hose and peered down it. Ran a finger around the circular black edge and looked at his fingertip.