Jo Nesbo - Nemesis

The priest stressed 'taking' and the acoustics lifted the word and carried it to the back of the church. The sobbing grew in volume again. Harry watched. He had thought that Anna, who was so extroverted and bubbly, would have had lots of friends, but Harry counted only eight people, six in the front row and two further back. Eight. Yes, well, how many would go to his funeral? Eight people was perhaps not such a bad turnout.

The sobbing came from the front row where Harry could see three heads wrapped in bright scarves and three bare-headed men. The other two were a man sitting to the left and a woman in the middle. He recognised the globe-shaped afro of Astrid Monsen.

The organ pedals creaked, then the music began. A psalm. The grace of God. Harry closed his eyes and felt how tired he was. The notes from the organ rose and sank, the high notes trickled like water from the ceiling. The frail voices sang for forgiveness and mercy. He longed to immerse himself in something which could warm and conceal him. The Lord shall come to judge the quick and the dead. God's vengeance. God as Nemesis. The low organ notes caused the unoccupied wooden benches to vibrate. The sword in one hand and the scales in the other, punishment and justice. Or no punishment and no justice. Harry opened his eyes.

Four men were carrying the coffin. Harry recognised Officer Ola Li behind two swarthy men in Armani suits, white shirts open at the neck. The fourth person was so tall he made the coffin tip. The suit hung loosely on the thin body, but he was the only one of the four who did not seem weighed down by the coffin. Harry's eye was particularly caught by the man's face. Narrow, finely formed with large, pained, brown eyes set in deep hollows in the cranium. The black hair was swept back in a long plait, leaving the high, shiny forehead bared. The sensitive, heart-shaped mouth was enwreathed by a long, well-groomed beard. It was as if Christ had stepped down from the altar behind the priest. And there was something else: there are very few faces you can say this about, but this face was radiant. As the four men approached Harry down the aisle, he tried to see what made it radiant. Was it grief? Not pleasure. Goodness? Evil?

Their eyes met for a brief moment as they passed. Behind them followed Astrid Monsen with eyes downcast, a middle-aged accountant-like man and three women, two older and one younger, dressed in colourful skirts. They sobbed and wailed, rolling their eyes and wringing their hands in silent accompaniment.

Harry stood as the tiny procession left the church.

'Funny, these gypsies, aren't they, Hole?' The words resounded around the church. Harry turned. It was Ivarsson, black suit, tie and smile. 'When I was growing up, we had a gypsy gardener. Ursari, they travelled round with dancing bears, you know. Josef he was called. Music and pranks all the time. But death, you see…These people have an even more strained relationship with death than we have. They are scared stiff of mule-spirits of the dead. They believe they return. Josef used to go to a woman who would chase them away. Only women can do that apparently. Come on.'

Ivarsson touched Harry's arm lightly. Harry had to grit his teeth to resist the impulse to shake it off. They walked down the church steps. The noise of the traffic in Kirkeveien drowned the peeling of the bells. A black Cadillac with the rear door open waited for the funeral procession in Schшnings gate.

'They take the coffin to Vestre crematorium,' Ivarsson said. 'Burning the body, that's a Hindu custom they took with them from India. In England, they burn the deceased's caravan, but they're not allowed to lock the widow in any more.' He laughed. 'They're allowed to take personal effects. Josef told me about the gypsy family of a demolition man in Hungary. They put his dynamite in the coffin and blew the whole of the crematorium sky high.'

Harry took out a pack of Camels.

'I know why you're here, Hole,' Ivarsson said without relaxing the smile. 'You wanted to see if the occasion would throw up a chat with him, didn't you.' Ivarsson motioned with his head to the procession and the tall, thin figure stepping out slowly as the other three tripped along, trying to keep up.

'Is he the one called Raskol?' Harry asked, inserting a cigarette between his lips.

Ivarsson nodded. 'He's her uncle.'

'And the others?'

'Friends, apparently.'

'And the family?'

'They don't acknowledge the deceased person.'

'Oh?'

'That's Raskol's version. Gypsies are notorious liars, but what he says squares with Josef's stories about their thinking.'

'And it is?'

'Family honour is everything. That's why she was thrown out. According to Raskol, she had been married off to a Greek-speaking gringo-gypsy in Spain when she was fourteen, but before the marriage was consummated she'd hopped it with a gadjo.'

'Gadjo?'

'A non-gypsy. A Danish sailor. Worst thing you can do. Brings shame on the whole family.'

'Mm.' The unlit cigarette jumped up and down in Harry's mouth as he spoke. 'I understand you've got to know this Raskol pretty well?'

Ivarsson wafted away imaginary smoke. 'We've had the odd chat. Skirmishes. I would call them. Substantial talks will come after our part of the deal has been kept, in other words, when he has attended this funeral.'

'So, he hasn't said a lot so far?'

'Nothing of any import to the investigation, no. But the tone has been positive.'

'So positive that I see the police are helping to carry his kin to her resting place?'

'The priest asked if Li or I would be one of the bearers to make the numbers up. That's OK, we're here to keep an eye on him anyway. And we will continue. To keep an eye on him, that is.'

Harry squinted into the piercing autumn sun.

Ivarsson turned towards him. 'Let me make one thing clear, Hole. No one is allowed to speak to Raskol until we've finished with him. No one. For three years I've tried to make a deal with the man who knows everything. And now I have it. No one will be allowed to screw up. Do you understand what I'm saying?'

'Tell me, Ivarsson, since we're having a tкte-а-tкte here,' Harry said, plucking a flake of tobacco from his mouth. 'Has this case turned into a competition between you and me?'

Ivarsson raised his face to the sun and chuckled. 'Do you know what I would have done if I were you?' he said with closed eyes.

'What's that?' Harry said when the silence was no longer tolerable.

'I would have sent my suit to the dry cleaner's. You look as if you've been lying in a rubbish tip.' He put two fingers to his brow. 'Have a good day.'

Harry stood alone on the steps smoking as he watched the uneven passage of the white coffin along the pavement.

Halvorsen spun round on his chair when Harry came in.

'Great you're here. I've got some good news. I…shit, what a smell!'

Halvorsen held his nose and said with shipping forecast intonation: 'What happened to your suit?'

'Slipped in a rubbish skip. What's the news?'

'Ooh…yes, I thought the photo might have been of a holiday area in Sшrland, so I e-mailed it to all the police stations in Aust-Agder. And, bingo, an officer from Risшr rang straight away to say he knew the beach well. But do you know what?'

'Er, no, actually.'

'It wasn't in Sшrland, but in Larkollen!'

Halvorsen looked at Harry with an expectant grin and added, when Harry failed to react: 'In Шstfold. Outside Moss.'

'I know where Larkollen is, Halvorsen.'

'Yes, but this officer comes from-'

'People from Sшrland go on holiday, too. Did you ring Larkollen?'

Halvorsen rolled his eyes in desperation. 'Yes, of course. I rang the camping site and two places where they rent chalets. And the only two grocery shops.'