Jo Nesbo - Nemesis

Harry could find neither a legal place to park nor Arne Albu at the address in Vika Atrium. Just a receptionist who informed him that Albu rented an office with three other investors, and that he was having lunch with 'a firm of brokers'.

On leaving the building, Harry found a parking ticket under the windscreen wiper. He took it and his bad mood with him to SS Louise, which was in fact not a steamship but a restaurant in Aker Brygge. Unlike at Schrшder's, they served edible food to solvent customers with office addresses in what somewhat charitably might be called Oslo's Wall Street. Harry had never felt completely at home in Aker Brygge, but perhaps that was because he was Oslo-bred and not a tourist. He exchanged a few words with a waiter, who pointed to a window table.

'Gentlemen, I'm sorry to disturb,' Harry said.

'Ah, finally,' one of the three at the table exclaimed, flicking his fringe back. 'Would you call this wine room temperature, waiter?'

'I'd call it Norwegian red wine decanted into a Clos des Papes bottle,' Harry said.

Taken aback, the Fringe ran his eye down Harry in his dark suit.

'A joke.' Harry smiled. 'I'm a policeman.'

The surprise segued into alarm.

'Not environmental crime.'

Relief segued into question marks. Harry heard boyish laughter and breathed in. He had decided how he was going to do it, but had no idea how it would turn out. 'Arne Albu?'

'That's me,' answered the one who was laughing. He was slim with short, curly, dark hair and laughter lines around his eyes, which told Harry that he laughed a lot and was older than the thirty-five years he would have guessed initially. 'Apologies for the misunderstanding,' he continued, still with laughter in his voice. 'Can I help you, Constable?'

Harry observed him, quickly trying to form a picture of him before going on. The voice was the sonorous variety. Fixed gaze. Shiny white collar behind a tie that was not too loose and not too tight. The fact that he hadn't left it at 'That's me,' but had added an apology and 'Can I help you, Constable?'-with a slightly ironic stress on 'Constable'-suggested that Arne Albu was either very self-confident or had a lot of practice giving that impression.

Harry concentrated. Not on what he was going to say, but on how Albu would react.

'Yes, you can, Albu. Do you know Anna Bethsen?'

Albu looked at Harry with the same blue eyes as his wife's and after a moment's reflection gave a loud, clear answer: 'No.'

Albu's face revealed no more to Harry than the mouth said. Not that Harry had thought it would. He had long given up believing the myth that people whose professions brought them face to face with lies on a daily basis learn to recognise them. A policeman had once claimed during a court case that from his long experience he knew when the accused was lying. Stеle Aune, once again a tool of the defence, had answered that research showed that no one single professional group was any better than another at spotting lies; a cleaner was just as good as a psychologist or a policeman, that is to say, just as bad. The only group in the comparative study to have acquitted itself with an above-average score was that of the Secret Service agents. Harry was no Secret Service agent, though. He was an Oppsal boy pressed for time, in a bad mood and right now showing poor judgement. To confront a man with potentially compromising circumstances in the presence of others, without any grounds for suspicion, was hardly very effective and not what anyone would call fair play. So Harry knew he shouldn't be doing what he was doing: 'Any idea who could have given her this photo?'

All three men studied the photograph Harry set on the table.

'Haven't a clue,' Albu said. 'My wife? The kids maybe?'

'Mm.' Harry looked for changes in the pupils, signs of an increased pulse such as sweating or blushing.

'I don't know what this is about, Constable, but since you have taken the trouble to find me, I assume it is not a bagatelle. Perhaps we could discuss this in private after my meeting with these gentlemen from Handelsbanken is over. If you would like to wait, I can ask the waiter to give you a table down in the smoking area.'

Harry could not decide whether Albu's smile was mocking or simply obliging. Not even that.

'I haven't time,' Harry said. 'So if we could sit down-'

'I'm afraid I don't have time, either,' Albu interposed in a calm but firm voice. 'This is my working time, so we'll have to talk this afternoon. If you are still of the opinion there is something I can help you with, that is.'

Harry swallowed. He was powerless and he could see Albu knew.

'Let's say that then,' Harry said and could hear how pathetic it sounded.

'Thank you, Constable.' Albu inclined his head with a smile. 'And you're probably right about the wine.' He turned to face Handelsbanken. 'You were saying, Stein, about Opticom?'

Harry picked up the photograph and had to endure the barely concealed smile from the broker with the fringe before leaving.

At the edge of the quay, Harry lit a cigarette, but it didn't have any taste and he threw it away with a growl. The sun glinted off a window in Akershus fortress and the sea was so calm there seemed to be a thin layer of clear ice on top. Why had he done it? Why this kamikaze attempt to humiliate a man he didn't know? Just to be lifted with silk gloves and gently thrown out.

He faced the sun, closed his eyes and wondered if today he ought to do something intelligent for a change. Like dropping the whole case. Nothing seemed to make sense; it was just the usual state of chaos and bafflement. The bells in the City Hall started chiming.

Little did Harry know that Mшller was to be proved right. It was the last warm day of the year.

Namco G-Con 45

Brave Oleg.

'It'll be fine,' he had said on the telephone. Again and again as if he had a secret plan. 'Mummy and I will be back soon.'

Harry stood by the window looking at the sky over the roof of the block facing him, where the evening sun was painting the underside of a thin, creased layer of cloud in orange and red. On his way home the temperature had fallen sharply and inexplicably, as though someone had opened an invisible door and all the heat had been sucked out. In the flat, the cold had begun to creep up through the floorboards. Where had he put his felt slippers? In the cellar or in the attic? Did he have any slippers? He couldn't remember. Fortunately, he had written down the name of the Playstation kit he had promised to buy Oleg if he managed to beat Harry's Tetris record on the Gameboy. Namco G-Con 45.

The news droned on the 14-inch TV behind him. Another gala to collect money for victims. Julia Roberts showing her sympathy and Sylvester Stallone receiving donors' incoming calls. And the hour of vengeance had come. Pictures showing the sides of mountains being carpet-bombed. Black pillars of smoke from the rocks and nothing growing in the desolate landscape. The telephone rang.

It was Weber. At Police HQ the general reputation of Weber was that he was a stubborn old sourpuss and difficult to work with. Harry thought the contrary. You just had to be aware that he would be intractable if you were disrespectful or hassled him.

'I know you're waiting for results,' Weber said. 'We didn't find any DNA on the bottle, but we did find a couple of faint fingerprints.'

'Good. I was afraid they might be destroyed even if they were in a plastic bag.'

'Luckily it was a glass bottle. The grease in the prints on a plastic bottle would have been absorbed after so many days.'

Harry could hear the clicking sound of swabbing in the background. 'Are you still at work, Weber?'

'Yes.'

'When will you have checked the prints against the data bank?'