Jo Nesbo - The Redeemer

It was daylight outside when Jon awoke to the sound of a car turning into Ostgard. He lay contemplating the ceiling. It had been a long, cold night and he had not slept much.

'Who's that?' asked Thea, who had been fast asleep a moment ago. He could hear the anxiety in her voice.

'Probably relief for the policeman,' Jon said. The motor died and two car doors were opened and closed. Two people then. But no voices. Silent police. From the sitting room, where the policeman had set himself up, they heard a knock on the front door. Once. Twice.

'Isn't he going to open up?' Thea whispered.

'Shh,' Jon said. 'Perhaps he's outside. Perhaps he went to the outside loo.'

There was a third knock. Loud.

'I'll go,' Jon said.

'Wait!' she said.

'We have to let them in,' Jon said, scrambling over her and putting on his clothes.

He opened the sitting-room door. In the ashtray on the coffee table there was a smoking cigarette and on the sofa a discarded rug. Another knock. Jon peered out of the window, but couldn't see the car. Strange. He stood in front of the door.

'Who is it?' he shouted, no longer so sure of himself.

'Police,' said a voice from outside.

Jon might have been mistaken, but he thought he detected an unusual accent.

He jumped when there was another knock. He stretched out a trembling hand to the door handle. Then he took a deep breath and wrenched open the door.

It was like being hit by a wall of water as an icy wind swept in and the sharp, blinding light of the low morning sun made him squint at the two silhouettes on the steps.

'Are you the relief?' Jon asked.

'No,' said a woman's voice he recognised. 'It's over now.'

'It's over?' Jon asked in surprise, shielding his eyes with his hand. 'Ah, it's you, is it?'

'Yes, you can pack. We'll drive you home,' she said.

'Why?'

She told him why.

'Jon!' Thea shouted from the bedroom.

'Just a moment,' Jon said, leaving the door open while going in to see Thea.

'Who is it?' Thea asked.

'It's the one who questioned me,' Jon said. 'Toril Li. And a guy called Li too, I think. They said Stankic was dead. He was shot last night.'

The policeman who had kept an eye on them last night returned from the toilet, packed his things and left. And ten minutes later Jon swung his bag up onto his shoulder, shut the door and turned the key in the lock. He trod in his own footprints in the deep snow over to the wall of the house, counted five boards and hung the key on the hook inside. Then he ran after the others to the red Golf that stood idling and snorting white exhaust fumes. He forced his way in next to Thea on the back seat. After they set off, he put his arm around her and squeezed, then leaned forward between the seats.

'What did happen down at the container terminal last night?'

Toril Li, the driver, glanced across at her colleague Ola Li beside her.

'They say Stankic went for his weapon,' Ola Li said. 'That is, the marksman from the Special Forces thought he saw that.'

'Didn't Stankic go for his weapon?'

'Depends what you mean by weapon,' Ola said, glancing at Toril Li who was having trouble keeping a straight face. 'When they turned him over his flies were open and his dick was hanging out. Seems like he was standing in the doorway taking a leak.'

Toril Li, suddenly gruff, cleared her throat.

'This is quite off the record,' Ola Li hastened to add. 'But you understand that, don't you?'

'Do you mean you shot him just like that?' Thea exclaimed in disbelief.

'We didn't,' Toril Li said. 'The FSK marksman did.'

'They think Stankic must have heard something and turned his head,' Ola said. 'Because the bullet went in behind his ear and came out where the nose had been. Snip-snap-snout. Snout – ha ha.'

Thea looked at Jon.

'Quite some ammo that must have been,' Ola reflected. 'Well, you'll soon see for yourself, Karlsen. Miracle if you could identify the guy.'

'That wouldn't have been easy anyway,' Jon said.

'Yes, we heard about that,' Ola said with a shake of the head. 'Panto face and all that. Bullshit, if you ask me. But that's off the record, OK?'

They drove in silence for a while.

'How are you so sure it's him?' Thea asked. 'If his face is smashed to pieces, I mean.'

'They recognised the jacket,' Ola said.

'Is that all?'

Ola and Toril exchanged looks.

'No,' Toril said. 'There was dried blood on the inside of the jacket and on the piece of glass they found in the pocket. They're checking that against Halvorsen's blood now.'

'It's over, Thea,' Jon said, pulling her closer. She rested her head on his shoulder, and he inhaled the fragrance of her hair. Soon he would be asleep. For a long time. Through the front seats he saw Toril Li's hand on the top of the steering wheel. She moved over to the right of the narrow country road when they met a small, white electric car. Jon recognised it as the same model as the one the Salvation Army had been given by the royal family.

Saturday, 20 December. Forgiveness.

The charts and numbers on the screen and the regular sonar beep of the ECG bestowed an illusion of control.

Halvorsen was wearing a mask that covered mouth and nose and what looked like a helmet on his head, which, the doctor had explained, registered changes in cerebral activity. His eyelids were dark with a network of fine blood vessels. It struck Harry that he had never seen this before. He had never seen Halvorsen with closed eyes. They were always open. The door creaked behind him. It was Beate.

'At last,' she said.

'I've come straight from the airport,' Harry whispered. 'He looks like a sleeping jet pilot.'

It was only when he saw Beate's strained smile that he understood how ominous the metaphor was. If his brain had not been so numb he might have chosen a different one. Or just kept his mouth shut. The reason he had been able to put up some kind of facade was that the plane between Zagreb and Oslo is in international airspace for a mere one and a half hours and the stewardess with the alcohol had seemed to serve everyone else in the plane before she noticed the lit lamp above Harry's seat.

They went outside and found a sitting area at the end of the corridor.

'Anything new?' Harry asked.

Beate ran a hand across her face. 'The doctor who examined Sofia Miholjec rang me late last night. He was unable to find anything apart from the bruise on her forehead, which could well have been due to a door, he thought, as Sofia had explained. He said his professional oath of silence was a grave matter for him, but his wife had persuaded him to talk as this concerned the investigation of such a serious case. He took a blood sample from Sofia, but it showed nothing abnormal until – he had had a gut instinct – he asked for the sample to be checked for the hormone HCG. The level leaves little doubt, he says.'

Beate bit her lower lip.

'Interesting gut instinct,' Harry said. 'But I have no idea what the hormone HCG is.'

'Sofia has had a recent pregnancy, Harry.'

Harry tried to whistle, but his mouth was too dry. 'You'd better drop by and have a chat.'

'Yes, because we became such great friends last time,' Beate said drily.

'You don't need to be friends. You want to know if she was raped.'

'Raped?'

'Gut instinct.'

She sighed. 'OK, but there's no hurry any longer, is there?'

'What do you mean?'

'After what happened last night.'

'What happened last night?'

Beate gaped at him. 'Don't you know?'

Harry shook his head.

'I left at least four messages on your phone.'

'I lost my phone yesterday. Come on, tell me.'

He saw Beate swallow.

'Oh shit,' he said. 'Don't say it's what I think it is.'