Jo Nesbo - The Redeemer

'It might be best if I talk to Sofia on my own,' Beate said.

'She wants me to be present,' fru Miholjec said. 'Coffee?'

'No thanks. I have to get back to Rikshospitalet. This doesn't have to take long.'

'Fine,' fru Miholjec said, emptying the kettle.

Beate sat facing Sofia. Tried to catch eyes which were studying split ends.

'Are you sure we shouldn't do this on our own, Sofia?'

'Why should we?' she said in the contrary tone that irritated teenagers use with amazing efficacy to achieve their purpose: to irritate.

'This is quite a personal thing, Sofia.'

'She's my mother!'

'Fine,' said Beate. 'Did you have an abortion?'

Sofia recoiled. She pulled a grimace, a mixture of anger and pain. 'What are you talking about?' she snapped without quite hiding the surprise in her voice.

'Who was the father?' Beate asked.

Sofia continued to smooth out non-existent knots. Fru Miholjec's jaw had dropped.

'Did you have sex with him of your own free will?' Beate went on. 'Or did he rape you?'

'How dare you say that to my daughter?' the mother exclaimed. 'She's just a child, and you dare to talk to her as if she were a.. . a whore.'

'Your daughter was pregnant, fru Miholjec. I need to know if this has any relevance for the murder case we're working on.'

The mother seemed to have control of her jaw again, and her mouth closed. Beate leaned towards Sofia.

'Was it Robert Karlsen, Sofia? Was it?'

She could see the girl's lower lip quivering.

The mother got up from her chair. 'What is this she's saying, Sofia? Tell me it isn't true.'

Sofia rested her face on the table and covered her head with her arms.

'Sofia!' the mother shouted.

'Yes,' Sofia whispered, stifling a sob. 'It was him. It was Robert Karlsen. I didn't think… I had no idea that… he was like that.'

Beate stood up. Sofia was sobbing and the mother looked as though someone had struck her. All Beate felt was numbness. 'The man who killed Robert was caught last night,' she said. 'Special Forces shot him at the container terminal. He's dead.'

She watched for reactions, but saw none.

'I'll be off now.'

No one heard her and she walked to the door unaccompanied.

He was standing by the window staring across the billowing white countryside. It resembled a sea of milk frozen in mid movement. On the crests of some waves he glimpsed houses and red barns. The sun hung low over the ridge, drained.

'They're not coming back,' he said. 'They've gone. Or perhaps they were never here? Perhaps you were lying?'

'They've been here,' Martine said, taking the casserole out of the oven. 'It was warm when we arrived and you saw the prints in the snow yourself. Something must have happened. Sit down, the food's ready.'

He put the gun beside the plate and ate the stew. He noticed the tins were the same brand as the ones in Harry Hole's flat. There was an old, blue transistor radio on the windowsill playing comprehensible pop music interrupted by incomprehensible Norwegian chat. Right now it was a tune he had once heard in a film, one his mother played now and then on the piano in front of the window which 'was the only one in the house with a view of the Danube', as his father used to joke when he wanted to tease her. And if the teasing nettled her he always used to bring the squabble to an end by asking how such a beautiful, intelligent woman could marry a man like him.

'Is Harry your lover?' he asked.

Martine shook her head.

'Why were you taking him a concert ticket then?'

She didn't answer.

He smiled. 'I think you're in love with him.'

She raised her fork and pointed it at him as though wanting to emphasise something, but then changed her mind.

'What about you? Have you got a girl back home?'

He shook his head while drinking water from a glass.

'Why not? Too busy working?'

He sprayed water all over the tablecloth. Must be the tension, he thought. That was why he burst into hysterical laughter. She laughed with him.

'Or perhaps you're gay?' she said, wiping away a tear. 'Perhaps you've got a boy back home?'

He laughed even louder. And continued to laugh long after she had stopped speaking.

She served both of them more stew.

'As you like him so much you can have this,' he said, throwing a photo onto the table. It was the one on the hall mirror with Harry, the dark-haired woman and the boy. She picked it up and studied it.

'He looks happy,' she said.

'Perhaps he was having a good time. At that moment.'

'Yes.'

A greyish darkness had seeped in through the window and settled over the room.

'Perhaps he'll have good times again,' she said softly.

'Do you think that's possible?'

'To have good times again? Of course.'

He studied the radio behind her. 'Why are you helping me?'

'I told you, didn't I? Harry wouldn't have helped you and-'

'I don't believe you. There must be something else.'

She shrugged.

'Can you tell me what this says?' he said, unfolding the form he had found in the pile of papers on Harry's coffee table and passing it to her.

She read while he examined Harry's photograph on the ID card from his flat. The policeman was staring above the camera lens and he guessed Harry was looking at the photographer instead of the camera. And he thought that said something about the man in the picture.

'It's a requisition form for something called a Smith amp; Wesson. 38,' Martine said. 'He's been asked to show this form, signed, and collect the gun from Stores at Police HQ.'

He nodded slowly. 'And it has been signed?'

'Yes. By… let me see… Chief Inspector Gunnar Hagen.'

'In other words Harry hasn't collected his gun. And that means he is not dangerous. Right now he is defenceless.'

Martine blinked twice in quick succession.

'What is it you have in mind?'

Saturday, 20 December. The Magic Trick.

Thestreet lights went on in Goteborggata.

'OK,' Harry said to Beate. 'So this is where Halvorsen was parked?'

'Yes.'

'They got out. And were attacked by Stankic. Who first shot at Jon fleeing into the flats. And then went for Halvorsen who was moving to get his gun from the car.'

'Yes. Halvorsen was found lying beside the car. We found blood on Halvorsen's coat pockets, trouser pockets and waistband. It isn't his, so we assume it's from Stankic, who must have been searching him. And he took his wallet and mobile phone.'

'Mm,' Harry said, rubbing his chin. 'Why didn't he just shoot Halvorsen? Why use a knife? He didn't need to be quiet; he'd already woken up the neighbourhood when he shot at Jon.'

'We were asking ourselves the same question.'

'And why stab Halvorsen and then flee? The only reason for tackling Halvorsen must be to get him out of the way so that he can grab Jon afterwards. But he doesn't even try.'

'He was disturbed. A car came, didn't it?'

'Yes, but we're talking here about a guy who has stabbed a policeman in broad daylight. Why would he be frightened off by a car coming past? And why use a knife when he already had his gun out?'

'Yes, that's the point.'

Harry closed his eyes. For a long time. Beate stamped her feet on the snow.

'Harry,' she said. 'I want to go. I-'

Harry slowly opened his eyes. 'He'd run out of bullets.'

'What?'

'That was Stankic's last bullet.'

Beate heaved a weary sigh. 'He was a pro, Harry. You don't exactly run out of ammunition, do you?'

'Yes, that's exactly why,' Harry enthused. 'If you have a detailed plan of how you intend to kill a man and you need one or, maximum, two bullets, you don't take a huge ammo supply with you. You have to enter a foreign country, all baggage is X-rayed and you have to hide it somewhere, don't you?'