Jo Nesbo - The Redeemer

'They shot Stankic last night. He died on the spot.'

Harry closed his eyes and heard Beate's voice in the distance. 'Stankic made a sudden movement and, according to the report, warnings were shouted.'

Report, Harry thought. Already.

'I'm afraid the only weapon they found was a piece of glass in the jacket pocket. There was blood on it, which the pathologist has promised will have been checked by this morning. He must have hidden the gun until it was required again. It would have been material evidence if he had been caught with it. He didn't have any papers on him, either.'

'Did you find anything else?' Harry's question came as if from a machine because his mind was elsewhere. To be precise, in St Stephen's Cathedral. I swear by the Son of God.

'There was some junkie gear left in one corner. Syringe, spoon and so on. More interesting was the dog hanging from the ceiling. A black Metzner, the harbour watchman told me. Chunks had been cut off it.'

'Glad to hear that,' Harry mumbled.

'What!'

'Nothing.'

'That explains, as you suggested, the bits of meat in the vomit in Goteborggata.'

'Anybody else take part in the action apart from Delta?'

'Not according to the report.'

'Who wrote the report?'

'The officer in charge of the raid, of course. Sivert Falkeid.'

'Of course.'

'It's all over now anyway.'

'No, it isn't!'

'You don't need to shout, Harry.'

'It's not over. Where there's a prince, there's a king.'

'What's up with you?' Beate's cheeks were flushed. 'A contract killer is dead and you behave as if he were… a pal.'

Halvorsen, Harry thought. She was about to say Halvorsen. He closed his eyes and saw the red flickering light inside his eyelids. Like candles, he thought. Like candles in a church. He had been a boy when his mother was buried. In Andalsnes with a view of the mountains, that was what she had asked for on her sickbed. And they had all stood there; his father, Sis and himself listening to the priest talking about a person he had never known. Because his father had not been able to do it. And perhaps Harry had known even then that without her they were no longer a family. Grandfather, from whom Harry had inherited his height, had leaned down with a strong smell of alcohol and said that was how it should be. Parents should die first. Harry gulped.

'I found Stankic's boss,' he said. 'And she confirmed that the murder had been set up by Robert Karlsen.'

Beate gaped at him.

'But it doesn't stop there,' Harry said. 'Robert was only a go-between. There is someone hiding behind him.'

'Who?'

'Don't know. All I know is that someone can afford to pay two hundred thousand dollars for a murder.'

'And Stankic's boss told you all this just like that?'

Harry shook his head. 'We made a deal.'

'What kind of deal?'

'You don't want to know.'

Beate blinked twice in quick succession. Then she nodded. Harry watched an elderly woman stumping along on crutches and wondered whether Stankic's mother and Fred followed Norwegian newspapers on the Net. Whether they already knew Stankic was dead.

'Halvorsen's parents are eating in the canteen. I'm going down to them now. Will you join me? Harry?'

'What? Sorry. I ate on the plane.'

'They would appreciate it. They say he talked about you with affection. Like a big brother.'

Harry shook his head. 'Later maybe.'

When she had gone Harry went back to Halvorsen's room. He sat beside the bed, perched on the edge of the chair and looked down at the pale face on the pillow. In his bag he had an unopened bottle of Jim Beam from duty-free.

'Us against the rest of the world,' he whispered.

Harry snapped his fingers above Halvorsen's forehead. His middle finger hit Halvorsen hard between the eyes, but his eyelids didn't stir.

'Yashin,' Harry whispered, hearing his voice thicken. His jacket banged against the bed. Harry felt inside. There was something in the lining. The missing mobile phone.

He was gone by the time Beate and the parents returned.

Jon was lying on the sofa with his head in Thea's lap. She was watching an old film on TV and as he stared up at the ceiling Jon could hear Bette Davis's distinctive voice cut through his thoughts: he knew this ceiling better than his own. And if he stared hard enough he would, in the end, see something familiar, something different from the smashed face they had shown him in the cold basement at Rikshospitalet. He had shaken his head when they asked whether this was the man he had seen in the doorway of his flat and who later attacked the policeman with a knife.

'But that doesn't mean it isn't him,' Jon had answered, and they had nodded, taken notes and led him out.

'Are you sure the police won't let you sleep in your own flat?' Thea asked. 'There'll be so much gossip if you stay here tonight.'

'It's a murder scene,' Jon said. 'It's sealed until they've finished the investigation.'

'Sealed,' she said. 'It sounds like a letter.'

Bette Davis ran towards the younger woman and the violins upped the volume and the drama.

'What are you thinking about?' Thea asked.

Jon didn't answer. He didn't answer that he was thinking about the moment he had lied to her when he said it was all over. It wouldn't be over until he had done what he had to do. And what he had to do was take the bull by the horns, block the enemy, be a courageous little soldier. Because now he knew. He had been standing so close to Halvorsen when he played back the message from Mads Gilstrup that he had heard the confession.

The doorbell rang. She stood up as though it was a welcome interruption. It was Rikard.

'Am I disturbing?' he asked.

'No,' Jon said. 'I was on my way out.'

Jon put on his outdoor clothing in the threefold silence. After closing the door behind him he stood for a few seconds listening to the voices inside. They were whispering. Why were they whispering? Rikard sounded angry.

He caught the tram to town and took the Holmenkollen line from there. At the weekend with snow on the fields the train would usually have been full of cross-country skiers, but it must have been too cold for most today. He got off at the last station and observed Oslo nestling a long way below.

Mads and Ragnhild's home was situated on a hill. Jon had never been there before. The gate was quite narrow and so was the drive curving round a clump of trees which hid most of the house from the road. The house itself was low and built in such a way that you didn't notice how big it was until you were inside and walking around. At least that was what Ragnhild had said.

Jon rang and after a few seconds he heard a voice from a speaker he could not see. 'Well, I never. Jon Karlsen.'

Jon looked at the camera over the door.

'I'm in the living room.' Mads Gilstrup's voice sounded slurred and he was chuckling. 'I assume you know the way.'

The door opened automatically and Jon Karlsen stepped into a hall the size of his flat.

'Hello?'

He received a short, harsh echo by way of an answer.

He began to walk down a corridor he assumed would culminate in a living room. Unframed canvases covered in vivid oil colours hung on the walls. And there was a particular smell that got stronger the further he advanced. He passed a kitchen with a cooking island and a dining table surrounded by a dozen chairs. The sink was full of plates, glasses and empty bottles of booze. There was a sickly smell of stale food and beer. Jon continued. Clothes lay strewn along the corridor. He peered through the door to a bathroom. There was a stench of vomit.

He rounded a corner and was presented with the kind of panorama of Oslo and the fjord that he had seen when he and his father had gone for walks in Nordmarka.

A screen had been set up in the middle of the room and images from what was evidently an amateur video of a wedding rolled silently across the white canvas. The father led the bride up the aisle as she nodded and smiled to guests on both sides. The gentle hum of the projector fan was all that could be heard. In front of the screen he saw the rear of a black, high-backed armchair and two empty – and one half empty – bottles on the floor beside it.