Jo Nesbo - The Redeemer

There was something stuck to the outside door handle. A bunch of flowers wrapped in paper and cellophane. With a large envelope glued to the paper.

He recognised her at once, despite her horrified expression.

'Come in here,' he growled.

Martine Eckhoff hesitated until he raised the gun again.

He waved her into the sitting room with the barrel and followed. Asked her politely to sit in the wing chair while he sat on the sofa.

She dragged her eyes away from the gun and looked at him.

'Sorry about the clothes,' he said. 'Where's Harry?'

'What do you want?' she asked in English.

He was surprised by her voice. It was calm, almost warm.

'To get hold of Harry Hole,' he said. 'Where is he?'

'I don't know. What do you want from him?'

'Let me ask the questions. If you don't tell me where he is I will have to shoot you. Do you understand?'

'I don't know. So you'll have to shoot me. If you think that will help you.'

He searched for fear in her eyes. Without success. Perhaps it was her pupils; there was something wrong with them.

'What are you doing here?' he said.

'I brought Harry a concert ticket.'

'And flowers?'

'Just a whim.'

He seized the bag that she had set down on the table, rummaged through it until he found a wallet and a bank card. Martine Eckhoff. Born in 1977. Address: Sorgenfrigata, Oslo. 'You're Stankic,' she said. 'You're the man who was on the white bus, aren't you.'

He looked at her again and she held his gaze. Then she nodded slowly.

'You're here because you want Harry to lead you to Jon Karlsen, aren't you. And now you don't know what to do, do you.'

'Shut up,' he said. But he didn't achieve the tone he had intended. Because she was right: everything was falling apart. They sat without speaking in the darkened room as dawn filtered through.

In the end she broke the silence.

'I can take you to Jon Karlsen.'

'What?' he said in amazement.

'I know where he is.'

'Where?'

'On a farm.'

'How do you know?'

'Because the Salvation Army owns the farm and I have the list of those who use it. The police rang me to check they could have sole use of it for the next few days.'

'I see. But why would you take me there?'

'Because Harry won't tell you where it is,' she stated simply. 'And then you'll shoot him.'

He observed her. And he realised she meant what she was saying. He nodded slowly. 'How many of them are there at the farm?'

'Jon, his girlfriend and a policeman.'

One policeman. A plan began to form in his mind.

'How far away is it?'

'Three-quarters of an hour to an hour at peak times, but this is the weekend,' she said. 'My car's outside.'

'Why are you helping me?'

'I told you. I just want it to be over.'

'You're aware I'll shoot you through the head if you're bluffing?'

She nodded.

'Let's get going now,' he said.

At 7.14 Harry knew he was alive. He knew that because the pain could be felt in every nerve fibre. And because the hounds wanted more. He opened one eye and looked around him. Clothes were scattered all over the hotel room. But at least he was alone. His hand aimed at the glass on the bedside table and struck lucky. Empty. He ran a finger around the bottom and licked it. Sweet. All the alcohol had evaporated.

He dragged himself out of bed and took the glass into the bathroom. Avoided the mirror and filled the glass with water. Drank slowly. The hounds protested, but he held firm. Then another glass. The plane. He focused on his wrist. Where the hell was his watch? And what was the time? He had to get out, get home. One drink first… He found his trousers, put them on. Fingers felt numb and swollen. The bag. There. The toilet bag. His shoes. Where was his mobile phone though? Gone. He dialled 9 for reception and heard the printer belching out a bill behind the receptionist, who answered Harry's question four times without him registering.

Harry stammered something in English he struggled to understand himself.

'Sorry, sir,' the receptionist replied. 'The bar doesn't open until three o'clock. Do you want to check out now?'

Harry nodded and searched for the plane ticket in the jacket at the foot of the bed.

'Sir?'

'Yes,' Harry said, putting down the phone. He leaned back in bed to continue his search through his trouser pockets, but found only a Norwegian twenty-kroner coin. And then remembered what had happened to his watch. When the bar was closing and it was time to settle up, he had been short of a few kune and had put a Norwegian twenty-kroner coin on top of the notes and left. But before he had got as far as the door he'd heard an angry shout and felt a stinging pain at the back of his head; he had looked down as the coin bounced around the floor and spun between his feet with a ringing noise. So he had gone back to the bar and the barman, with a grunt, had accepted the wristwatch as final payment.

Harry knew the inside pockets of his jacket were torn; he fumbled and located the ticket inside the lining, coaxed it out and found the departure time. At that moment there was a knock at the door. One knock at first and then another, harder.

Harry could not remember much of what had happened after the bar closed, so if the knock was anything to do with that, there was little reason to believe there was anything pleasant in store for him. On the other hand, someone may have found his mobile phone. He staggered to the door and opened it a fraction.

'Good morning,' said the woman outside. 'Or perhaps not?'

Harry essayed a smile and leaned against the door frame. 'What do you want?'

She looked even more like an English teacher now with her hair up.

'To strike a deal,' she said.

'Oh? Why now and not yesterday?'

'Because I wanted to know what you would do after our meeting. Whether you would meet anyone from the Croatian police, for example.'

'And you know that I didn't?'

'You were drinking in the bar until it closed. Then you tottered up to your room.'

'Have you got spies, too?'

'Come on, Hole. You've got a plane to catch.'

There was a car outside waiting for them. Behind the wheel sat the barman with the prison tattoos.

'To St Stephen's, Fred,' the woman said. 'Step on it. His flight goes in an hour and a half.'

'You know a lot about me,' Harry said. 'And I know nothing about you.'

'You can call me Maria,' she said.

The tower of the mighty St Stephen's Cathedral vanished in the morning mist sweeping over Zagreb.

Maria led Harry in through the large, almost deserted, central nave. They passed confessionals and a selection of saints with appurtenant prayer benches. Recorded mantra-like choral singing issued from hidden speakers, low and heavy with reverberations, presumably to stimulate contemplation, but for Harry all it did was remind him of muzak in some kind of Catholic supermarket. She took him into a side aisle and through a door to a small room with double prayer benches. The morning light, red and blue, streamed in through the stained-glass windows. Two candles burned on either side of Jesus Christ on the cross. In front, a waxen figure knelt with upturned face and outstretched arms in desperate supplication.

'St Thomas the Apostle, the patron saint of builders,' she explained, bowing her head and making the sign of the cross. 'Who wanted to die with Jesus.'

Doubting Thomas, Harry thought, as she stooped over her bag, took out a small wax candle displaying a picture of a saint, lit it and placed it in front of the apostle.

'Kneel,' she said.

'Why?'

'Just do as I say.'

With reluctance, Harry knelt down on the tatty, red velvet prayer bench and placed his elbows on the slanting wooden arm rail, black with sweat, grease and tears. It was an oddly comfortable position.