Jo Nesbo - The Redeemer

Harry shook his head.

'You're lying,' the barman said. 'I saw it the minute you walked in.'

'What you saw was someone who was with the police for twelve years, but is not any more. I stopped two years ago.' Harry met the barman's scrutiny. And wondered to himself what the man had been inside for. The size of his muscles and tattoos suggested he had been given a long sentence.

'No one calling themselves a redeemer lives here. And I know everyone.'

The barman was about to turn away when Harry leaned over the counter and grabbed his upper arm. The barman looked down at Harry's hand, and Harry could feel the man's biceps swelling. Harry let go. 'My son was shot by a dealer standing outside his school selling shit. Because he told him he would report him to the head teacher if he continued.'

The barman didn't answer.

'He was eleven when he died,' Harry said.

'I have no idea why you're telling me this, mister.'

'So that you understand why I'm going to sit here and wait until someone comes to help me.'

The barman nodded slowly. The question came lightning fast. 'What was your boy's name?'

'Oleg,' Harry said.

They stood facing each other. The barman screwed up one eye. Harry could feel his mobile phone vibrating in his pocket, but let it ring.

The barman rested his hand on the envelope and pushed it back to Harry. 'This is not necessary. What's your name and where are you staying?'

'I've come straight from the airport.'

'Write your name on this serviette and go to Balkan Hotel by the train station. Over the bridge and straight ahead. Wait in your room. Someone will contact you.'

Harry was about to say something, but the barman had turned back to the TV and resumed his commentary.

When he went outside, Harry saw he had a missed call from Halvorsen.

'Do vraga!' he groaned. Shit!

The snow in Goteborggata looked like red sorbet.

He was confused. Everything had happened so fast. The last bullet which he had fired at the fleeing Jon Karlsen had hit the outside of the flat with a soft thud. Jon Karlsen had fled through the door and was gone. He crouched down and heard the bloodstained glass tear the material of his jacket pocket. The policeman was lying face down in the snow, which was drinking in the blood flowing from the slashes to his neck.

The gun, he thought, and grabbed the man's shoulder and turned him over. He needed a weapon to shoot with. A gust of wind blew the hair away from the unnaturally pale face. In haste, he searched through the coat pockets. The blood flowed and flowed, thick and red. He barely had time to sense the acidic taste of bile before his mouth was full. He turned, and the yellow contents of his stomach splashed over the blue ice. He wiped around his mouth. The trouser pockets. Found a wallet. Trouser waistband. For Christ's sake, cop, you must have a gun if you have to protect someone!

A car swung round the corner and came towards them. He took the wallet, stood up, crossed the road and began to walk. The car stopped. Mustn't run. He began to run.

He slipped on the pavement by the corner shop and landed on his hip, but was up in a second without feeling any pain. Headed for the park, the same way he went last time. This was a nightmare with an unending succession of meaningless events. Had he gone mad or were these things really happening? Cold air and bile stung his throat. He had reached Markveien when he heard the first police sirens. And he knew. He was frightened.

Friday, 19 December. The Miniatures.

The police station was lit up like a Christmas tree in the afternoon gloom. Inside, in Interview Room 2, Jon Karlsen sat with his head in his hands. On the other side of the small round table in the cramped room sat Officer Toril Li. Between them two microphones and the copy of the prime witness's statement. Through the window Jon could see Thea waiting for her turn in the adjacent room.

'So he attacked you, did he?' the policewoman said while reading the statement.

'The man with the blue jacket came running towards us with a gun.'

'And then?'

'It happened so fast. I was so frightened I can only remember fragments. Perhaps I've got concussion.'

'I see,' said Toril Li with an expression that bespoke the opposite. She glanced at the red light that told her the machine was still recording.

'But Halvorsen ran to the car?'

'Yes, his gun was there. I remember he put it in the centre console before we set out from Ostgard.'

'And what did you do?'

'I was confused. At first I thought of hiding in the car, but then I changed my mind and ran to the front door of the nearby building.'

'And the gunman fired a shot at you?'

'I heard a bang, anyway.'

'Go on.'

'I made it inside and when I looked out he had attacked Halvorsen.'

'Who hadn't got into the car?'

'No. He had been complaining the door was stuck because of the cold.'

'And the man attacked Halvorsen with a knife, not a gun?'

'It looked like that from where I was standing. He jumped on Halvorsen from behind and stabbed him several times.'

'How many times?'

'Four or five. I don't know… I…'

'And then?'

'Then I ran down to the basement and called you on the emergency number.'

'But the gunman didn't go after you?'

'I don't know. The door was locked, wasn't it.'

'But he could have smashed the glass. I mean, he had already stabbed a policeman.'

'Yes, you're right. I don't know.'

Toril Li looked down at the statement. 'Vomit was found beside Halvorsen. We assume it belongs to the gunman, but can you confirm that?'

Jon shook his head. 'I stayed on the basement stairs until you came. Perhaps I ought to have helped… but I…'

'Yes?'

'I was scared.'

'You probably did the right thing.' Again the expression said something different from the mouth.

'What do the doctors say?… Will he…?'

'He'll be in a coma until his condition improves. But whether his life can be saved, they don't know yet. Let's move on.'

'It's like a recurring nightmare,' Jon whispered. 'It just keeps happening. Again and again.'

'Please don't make me repeat myself. You have to speak into the microphone,' Toril Li intoned.

Harry stood by the hotel-room window surveying the town in which maimed and mangled TV aerials made strange signs and gestures to the yellow-brown sky. The sound of Swedish from the TV was muted by the thick, dark carpets and curtains. Max von Sydow was playing Knut Hamsun. The minibar door was open. The hotel's brochure lay on the coffee table. On the front page was a picture of the statue of Josip Jelacic in Jelacic Square, and on top of Jelacic were four miniature bottles. Johnnie Walker, Smirnoff, Jagermeister and Gordon's. As well as two bottles of Ozujsko beer. None of the bottles had been opened. Yet. Skarre had phoned an hour ago to tell him what had happened in Goteborggata.

He wanted to be sober when he made this call.

Beate answered on the fourth ring.

'He's alive,' she said before Harry could ask. 'They've put him on a respirator and he's in a coma.'

'What do the doctors say?'

'They don't know, Harry. He could have died on the spot because it looks as though Stankic tried to sever his main artery, but he managed to get his hand in between. He has a deep cut on the back of his hand and bleeding from smaller arteries on both sides of the neck. Then Stankic stabbed him several times in the chest above the heart. The doctors say the knife may have caught the tip.'

Apart from an almost imperceptible tremor in the voice, she could have been talking about any victim at all. Harry knew it was the only way she could talk about this right now; as a part of the job. In the silence Max von Sydow roared with indignation. Harry was searching for words of comfort.