Jo Nesbo - The Redeemer

'Maybe you could get in touch with Beate?'

'Of course.'

Harry stood in front of his office door. He had been dreading this moment. Then he entered.

In Halvorsen's chair sat a person leaning back and bobbing up and down, as if he had been waiting.

'Good morning, Harry,' said Gunnar Hagen.

Harry hung his jacket on the hatstand without replying.

'Sorry,' Hagen said. 'Poor choice of words.'

'What do you want?' Harry sat down.

'To express my regret about what has happened. I'll do the same at the morning meeting, but first I want to do it face to face with you. Jack was your closest colleague, wasn't he?'

'Halvorsen.'

'I beg your pardon.'

Harry rested his head in his hands. 'We called him Halvorsen.'

Hagen nodded. 'Halvorsen. One more thing, Harry-'

'I thought I had the requisition order at home,' Harry said between his fingers. 'But it's gone.'

'Oh that…' Hagen shifted; he seemed uncomfortable in the chair. 'I wasn't thinking about the gun. With regard to travel expense cutbacks, I've asked accounts to present me with all receipts for approval. It turns out you've been to Zagreb. I don't recall having authorised any foreign travel. And if the Norwegian police have carried out any investigations there, it is a flagrant breach of instructions.'

They've finally found it, thought Harry, his face still buried in his hands. The blunder they have been waiting for. The formal reason for kicking the alkie inspector back to where he belongs, among the uncivilised civilians. Harry tried to sound out what he felt. But the only thing he was conscious of was relief.

'You'll have my notice on your desk tomorrow, boss.'

'I have no idea what you're talking about,' Hagen said. 'I assume there has been no investigation in Zagreb. That would have been very embar-rassing for all concerned.'

Harry looked up.

'The way I read it,' Hagen said, 'you've been on a little study trip to Zagreb.'

'Study trip, boss?'

'Yes, an unspecified study trip. And here is my written consent to your oral enquiry about a study trip to Zagreb.' A printed A4 sheet sailed over the desk and landed in front of Harry. 'And so this business should be a thing of the past.' Hagen stood up and went to the wall where the photo of Ellen Gjelten hung. 'Halvorsen is the second partner you've lost, isn't he?'

Harry inclined his head. It went quiet in the cramped, windowless room.

Then Hagen coughed. 'You've seen the little piece of carved bone on my desk, haven't you? I bought it in Nagasaki. It's a copy of the little finger belonging to Yoshito Yasuda, a well-known Japanese battalion commander.' He turned to Harry. 'The Japanese usually cremate their dead, but in Burma they had to bury them because there were so many and it can take up to two hours for a body to burn out. So instead they would cut off a little finger, cremate it and send the ashes home to the family. After a decisive battle by Pegu in the spring of 1943 the Japanese were forced to retreat and hide in the jungle. The battalion commander begged his superior officer to attack that same evening so that they could recover the bones of their dead men. His request was rejected – the victors' numbers were too large – and that evening he stood weeping before his men in the light of the campfire and told them of the CO's decision. On seeing the hopelessness in his men's faces, he dried his tears, drew his bayonet, laid his hand on a tree stump, cut off his little finger and threw it on the fire. The men cheered. It came to the CO's ears and the next day the Japanese attacked in full force.'

Hagen went to Halvorsen's desk and picked up a pencil sharpener, which he studied in minute detail.

'I made a number of mistakes in my first days here as boss. For all I know one of them may have been an indirect cause of Halvorsen's death. What I'm trying to say…' He put down the sharpener and breathed in. 'Is that I wish I could do as Yoshito Yasuda did and enthuse all of you. But I don't know how.'

Harry was nonplussed, so he kept his mouth shut.

'So let me just put it like this, Harry. I want you to find the person or persons behind these murders. That's all.'

The two men avoided each other's eyes. Hagen clapped his hands together to break the silence. 'But you would be doing me a favour if you would carry a weapon, Harry. You know, in front of the others.. . at least until the New Year. Then I'll rescind the instruction.'

'Fine.'

'Thank you. I'll write you a new requisition order.'

Harry nodded, and Hagen moved towards the door.

'How did it turn out?' Harry asked. 'The Japanese counter-attack?'

'Oh, that.' Hagen turned with a lopsided grin. 'It was crushed.'

Kjell Atle Oro had been working in Stores at the bottom of Police HQ for nineteen years, and this morning he was sitting with the pools coupon before him wondering whether he had the nerve to go for an away win for Fulham against Southampton on Boxing Day. He wanted to give the coupon to Oshaug when he went for lunch, so he was in a hurry. That was why he cursed when he heard someone strike the metal bell.

He came to his feet with a groan. In his time Oro had played firstdivision football for Skeid and had had a long and injury-free career; he was therefore eternally bitter that what had seemed an innocent strain in a game for the police team had resulted in him still dragging his right leg ten years later.

A man with a blond crew cut was standing in front of the counter.

Oro took the requisition order he was passed and squinted at the letters he reckoned were getting smaller and smaller. Last week when he had told his wife he would like a bigger TV for Christmas, she had suggested he book an appointment with the optician.

'Harry Hole, Smith amp; Wesson. 38, yes,' Oro groaned, limping back to the armoury where he found a service revolver that looked like the previous owner had been gentle. It struck him that they would soon be receiving the weapon belonging to the officer who had been stabbed to death in Goteborggata. He reached down the holster and the standard three boxes of ammunition and went back to the counter.

'Sign here,' he said, pointing to the order sheet. 'Can I see some ID?'

The man who had already put his ID card on the counter took the pen Oro passed him and signed as instructed. Oro peered at Harry Hole's ID card and the scribbles. He wondered if Southampton could stop Louis Saha.

'And remember to shoot at the bad boys,' Oro said, but received no response.

Hobbling back to the pools coupon, he reflected that the policeman's sulkiness was perhaps not so surprising. The ID card said he was in Crime Squad. Wasn't that where the dead officer had been working?

Harry parked the car by the Henie-Onstad Art Centre in Hovikodden and walked from the beautiful low brick building down the slight slope to the fjord.

On the ice stretching to Snaroya he could see a lone black figure.

He tested a sheet of ice adjacent to the shore with one foot. It broke with a loud crack. Harry shouted David Eckhoff 's name, but the figure on the ice did not stir.

Then he swore, and, realising that the commander could not weigh much less than his own ninety-five kilos, balanced on the stranded ice sheets and gingerly placed his feet on the treacherous snow-camouflaged ice field. It took his weight. He made his way across the ice with short, quick steps. It was further than it had seemed from land, and when at last Harry was so near that he could say with certainty that the figure wearing the wolf pelt, sitting on a folding chair and bent over a hole in the ice with a jig in his mittens, was indeed the Salvation Army commander, he could see why he hadn't heard him.

'Are you sure this ice is safe, Eckhoff?'

David Eckhoff turned and looked down at Harry's boots first.