Jo Nesbo - The Redeemer

'Ill, yes.' Rikard's chest was heaving. 'But home in bed, no. And she wasn't at home last night, either.'

'How do you know?'

'Don't…!' Rikard's shout sounded like a scream of pain and his face went into contortions as though he were no longer in charge of his own expressions. But then he caught his breath and with what seemed like a huge exertion pulled himself together. 'Don't try that on me,' he whispered. 'I know. You've duped her. Defiled her. She's in your flat, isn't she. But you won't get…'

Rikard took a step towards Harry who automatically took his hands out of his coat pockets.

'Listen,' Harry said. 'I have no idea where Martine is.'

'You're lying!' Rikard clenched his fists and Harry realised he needed to find the correct words to calm him down in a hurry. He took a punt on these: 'There are a couple of things you ought to reflect on right now, Rikard. I'm not very quick but I weigh ninety-five kilos and I have punched my fist through an oak front door. And paragraph 127 of the Penal Code gives a minimum punishment of six months for violence against a public servant. You're risking a hospital visit. And prison.'

Rikard's eyes smouldered. 'See you, Harry Hole,' he said airily, turned and ran back through the snow between the graves to the chapel.

Imtiaz Rahim was in a bad mood. He had just had a row with his brother about whether to put Christmas decorations on the wall behind the till. Imtiaz thought it was enough to sell Advent calendars, pork and other Christian paraphernalia without desecrating Allah by bowing to this kind of heathen custom. What would their Pakistani customers say? His brother, however, thought that they had to think of the other customers. For example, those from the block of flats on the other side of Goteborggata. It wouldn't hurt to give the grocer's shop a tiny touch of Christianity during the holiday period. Although Imtiaz had won the heated discussion, it gave him no pleasure.

So it was with a heavy sigh that he heard the irascible ring of the bell over the door. A tall, broad-shouldered man in a dark suit entered and came over to the till.

'Harry Hole, police,' the man said, and for one small moment of panic Imtiaz wondered whether there was a law in Norway stipulating that all shops had to display Christmas decorations.

'A few days ago there was a beggar sitting outside this shop,' the policeman said. 'A guy with red hair and a beard like this.' He ran a finger over his top lip and down the side of the mouth.

'Yes,' Imtiaz said. 'I know him. He brings empty bottles here to get the deposit.'

'Do you know his name?'

'The tiger. Or the cheetah.'

'Pardon?'

Imtiaz laughed. He was back in a good mood. 'Tiger, after tigger, your Norwegian word for beggar. And cheetah because he pinches the empties from… we don't know where.'

Harry nodded.

Imtiaz shrugged. 'It's my nephew's joke…'

'Mm. Very good. So…'

'No, I don't know his name. But I do know where you can find him.'

Espen Kaspersen was sitting with a pile of books in front of him, as usual, in the Deichmanske Central Library in Henrik Ibsens gate 1 when he felt a figure loom above him. He looked up.

'Hole, police,' the man said and sat down at the long table in the chair opposite. Espen saw the girl reading at the end of the table look over. New employees in reception did ask to check his bag when he left. And twice he had been asked to leave because he stank so much they couldn't concentrate on their work. This was the first time the police had talked to him, though. Well, except when he was begging in the street, that is.

'What are you reading?' the detective asked.

Kaspersen shrugged. He could see right away it would be a waste of time telling this policeman about his project.

'Soren Kirkegaard?' said the detective, peering at the spine. 'Schopenhauer. Nietzsche. Philosophy. You're a thinker, are you?'

Espen Kaspersen sniffed. 'I'm trying to find the right path. And that implies thinking about what it is to be human.'

'Isn't that being a thinker?'

Kaspersen observed the man. Perhaps he had misjudged him.

'I was talking to the grocer in Goteborggata,' the detective said. 'He says you sit here every day. And when you're not sitting here, you're begging in the street.'

'This is the life I've chosen, yes.'

The detective took out a notepad, and when asked Espen Kaspersen gave his full name and his address at his great-aunt's in Hagegata.

'And profession?'

'Monk.'

Kaspersen watched with satisfaction as the detective took notes without a murmur.

The detective nodded. 'Well, Espen, you're no drug addict so why do you beg?'

'Because it's my mission to be a mirror for mankind so that they can see which actions are great and which small.'

'And which are great?'

Espen sighed in despair as though weary of repeating the obvious. 'Charity. Sharing and helping your neighbour. The Bible deals with nothing else. In fact, you have to search extremely hard to find anything about sex before marriage, abortion, homosexuality and a woman's right to speak in public. But, of course, it is easier for Pharisees to talk aloud about subordinate clauses than to describe and perform the great actions which the Bible leaves us in no doubt about: you have to give half of what you own to someone who has nothing. People are dying in their thousands every day without hearing the words of God because these Christians will not let go of their earthly goods. I'm giving them a chance to reflect.'

The detective nodded.

Kaspersen was puzzled. 'How did you know by the way that I am not a drug addict?'

'Because I saw you a few days ago in Goteborggata. You were begging and I was walking with a young man who gave you a coin. But you picked it up and threw it at him in a rage. A drug addict would never have done that however insignificant the coin.'

'I remember.'

'And then the same thing happened to me in a bar in Zagreb two days ago, and I began to think. That is, something made me think, but I didn't. Until now.'

'That was one reason I threw the coin,' Kaspersen said.

'That was what suddenly struck me,' Harry said, placing an object in a plastic bag on the table. 'Is this the reason?'

Sunday, 21 December. The Kiss.

The press conference was held in the lecture hall on the fourth floor. Gunnar Hagen and the Chief Superintendent were sitting on the podium, their voices reverberating around the large, bare room. Harry had been summoned to attend in case Hagen needed to confer with him over details of the investigation. However, the journalists' questions were mostly about the dramatic shooting incident at the container terminal, and Hagen's answers varied between 'No comment', 'I can't go into that' and 'We'll have to leave SEFO to answer that'.

To the question about whether the police knew if the gunman was in cahoots with anyone, Hagen answered: 'Not for the moment, but this is the subject of intense investigation.'

When the press conference came to an end Hagen called Harry over. As the hall was emptying Hagen went to the edge of the podium and stood looking down at his tall inspector. 'I gave clear instructions that I wanted to see all my inspectors carrying weapons this week. You received a requisition order from me, so where's yours?'

'I've been involved in the investigation and did not prioritise it, boss?'

'Prioritise it.' The words echoed around the hall.

Harry nodded slowly. 'Anything else, boss?'

In his office, Harry sat staring at Halvorsen's empty chair. Then he called the passport office on the first floor and asked them to get him a list of passports issued to the Karlsen family. A nasal female voice asked if he was kidding, there being quite a number of Karlsens in Norway, and he gave her Robert's national identity number. Using the national registration office and a medium-fast computer the search was soon narrowed down to Robert, Jon, Josef and Dorthe.