Jo Nesbo - The Redeemer

'But Stankic got in the way, did he?' Harry asked.

Jon had raised the knife to cut the throat of the unconscious policeman when he heard someone shouting in a foreign language, looked up and saw a man in a blue jacket running towards him.

'He had a pistol so I had to get away,' Jon said, feeling the purging effect of his confession, the lifting of a burden. And he saw Harry nod, saw that the tall blond man understood. And forgave him. And he was so moved that he felt his throat constrict with emotion as he continued. 'He fired a shot at me as I ran inside. Almost hit me as well. He was going to kill me, Harry. He's a crazy murderer. You have to shoot him, Harry. We have to take him out, you and I… we.. .'

He watched Harry lower his revolver and put it in his trouser waistband.

'What… what are you doing, Harry?'

The tall policeman buttoned up his coat. 'I'm taking my Christmas leave, Jon. Thank you for the confession.'

'Harry? Wait…' The certainty of his imminent fate had absorbed all the moisture in his throat and mouth, and the words had to be forced out by dry mucous membranes. 'We can share the money, Harry. Listen, all three of us can share it. No one will need to know.'

But Harry had already turned to address Stankic in English. 'I think you'll find there's enough money in the bag for several of you at Hotel International to build a house in Vukovar. And your mother may want to donate some to the apostle in St Stephen's Cathedral, too.'

'Harry!' Jon's scream was hoarse, like a death rattle. 'Everyone deserves another chance, Harry!'

With his hand on the door handle, the policeman paused.

'Look into the depths of your heart, Harry. You must find some forgiveness there!'

'The problem is…' Harry rubbed his chin. 'I'm not in the forgiveness business.'

'What!' exclaimed Jon, in astonishment.

'Redemption, Jon. Redemption. That's what I go in for. Me, too.'

After hearing the door close behind Harry with a metallic click and seeing the dinner-suited man raise the gun, Jon stared into the black eye of the muzzle and the fear had become a physical pain, and he no longer knew whose the screams were: Ragnhild's, his own or those of others. But before the bullet smashed through his forehead Jon Karlsen had time to arrive at one realisation that had hatched after years of doubt, shame and desperate prayer: that no one would hear either his screams or his prayers.

Harry emerged from the underground in Egertorget. It was the day before Christmas Eve and people were hurrying past him in search of the last presents. Nevertheless, Yuletide serenity seemed to have settled over the town already. You could see it in people's faces, the smiles of contentment because Christmas preparations were over or the smiles of weary resignation. A man in matching Puffa jacket and trousers waddled past like an astronaut, grinning and blowing frosted breath from round, pink cheeks. Harry saw one desperate face, though. A pale woman dressed in a thin, black leather jacket with holes in the elbows standing by the jeweller's and hopping from one foot to the other.

The face of the young man behind the counter lit up when he caught sight of Harry; he hurriedly dealt with his customer and darted into the back room. He came back with Harry's grandfather's watch, which he placed on the counter with an expression of pride.

'It's working,' Harry said, impressed.

'Everything can be repaired,' the young man said. 'Just make sure you don't overwind it. That wears down the mechanisms. Try and I'll show you.'

As Harry wound the watch he could feel the rough friction against the metal parts and the resistance of the spring. And he noticed the rapt attention of the young man.

'Excuse me,' the young man asked, 'but may I ask where you got hold of that watch?'

'I was given it by my grandfather,' Harry answered, taken aback by the sudden reverence in the watch repairer's voice.

'Not that one. That one.' The young man pointed to Harry's wrist.

'I was given it by my former boss when he resigned.'

'My goodness.' The young watch repairer leaned over Harry's left arm and examined the wristwatch with great care. 'It's genuine, no doubt about it. That was a generous gift.'

'Oh? Is there anything special about it?'

The watch repairer looked at Harry in disbelief. 'Don't you know?'

Harry shook his head.

'It's a Lange 1 Tourbillon made by A. Lange amp; Sohne. On the back you'll find a serial number which tells you how many units of this model were made. If my memory serves me well, there were a hundred and fifty. You're wearing one of the most beautiful timepieces that has ever been made. In fact, the question is whether it is wise to wear it. With the market price the way it is now, strictly speaking, it should be in a bank vault.

'Bank vault?' Harry eyed the anonymous-looking watch that a few days ago he had thrown out of the bedroom window. 'It doesn't seem very exclusive.'

'But that's what it is. It's only available with the standard black watch strap and the grey face, and there's not a single diamond or ounce of gold in the watch. It does look like standard steel, platinum, it's true. However, its value lies in the fact that this is workmanship which has been elevated to the level of art.'

'I see. How much would you say this watch is worth?'

'I don't know. At home I have some catalogues of auction prices for rare watches. I could bring them in some time.'

'Just give me a round figure,' Harry said.

'A round figure?'

'An idea.'

The young man stuck out his lower lip and moved his head from side to side. Harry waited.

'Well, I wouldn't sell it for less than four hundred thousand.'

'Four hundred thousand kroner?' Harry exclaimed.

'No, no,' said the young man. 'Four hundred thousand dollars.'

Back outside the jeweller's shop, Harry no longer felt the cold. Nor the heavy drowsiness that remained in his body after twelve hours of sound sleep. Nor did he notice the hollow-eyed woman with the thin leather jacket and the junkie glaze come over to ask him whether he was the policeman she had spoken to a few days before, and whether he knew anything about her son whom no one had seen for four days.

'Where was he last seen?' Harry asked mechanically.

'Where do you think?' the woman said. 'In Plata, of course.'

'What's his name?'

'Kristoffer. Kristoffer Jorgensen. Hello! Is anyone at home?'

'What?'

'You look like you're on a trip, man.'

'Sorry. You'd better take a photo of him to the main police station, ground floor, and report him missing.'

'Photo?' She gave a shrill laugh. 'I've got a photo of him from when he was seven. Do you think that will do?'

'Haven't you got anything more recent?'

'And who do you think would have taken it?'

Harry found Martine at the Lighthouse. The cafe was closed, but the receptionist at the Hostel had let Harry in round the back.

She was standing with her back to him in the clothes depot emptying the washing machine. He coughed quietly so as not to frighten her.

Harry was watching her shoulder blades and neck muscles when she turned round and he wondered where she had this suppleness from. And whether she would always have it. She stood up, tilted her head, brushed away a wisp of hair and smiled.

'Hi, the one they call Harry.'

She was standing a step away from him with her arms down by her sides. He had a good look at her. At the winter-pale skin that still had this strange glow. The sensitive, flared nostrils, the unusual eyes with pupils that had spilt over, making them resemble partial lunar eclipses. And at the lips that she unconsciously curled inside, moistened and then pressed against each other, soft and wet, as though she had just kissed herself. The drum of the tumble dryer rumbled.