Jo Nesbo - Nemesis

'Are you hassling me?' the old forensics man growled suspiciously.

'Not at all. I've got oceans of time, Weber.'

'Tomorrow. I'm no computer whizz and the young guys have gone home for the night.'

'And you?'

'I'll just check the prints against a few possibilities in the old way. Sleep tight, Hole. Uncle Plod will keep an eye open.'

Harry put down the telephone, went into the bedroom and switched on his computer. The chirpy Windows jingle drowned the American revenge rhetoric from the sitting room for a second. He clicked his way through to the video of the robbery in Kirkeveien. Ran the jerky clip several times without becoming any the wiser, or more foolish. He clicked on the e-mail icon. The hourglass and You have 1 message came up. The hall telephone rang again. Harry cast a glance at his watch before lifting the receiver and saying hi with the soft voice reserved for Rakel.

'Arne Albu. I apologise for calling you in the evening, but I was given your name by my wife and thought I would clear up this matter at once. Is it convenient?'

'Fine,' Harry said sheepishly in his usual voice.

'Well, I've had a chat with my wife, and neither of us has heard of this woman or knows how she got hold of the photo. But it was developed by a professional, perhaps someone working in the shop took a copy. Also, there is a lot of coming and going in our house and so there could be many, many possible explanations.'

'Mm.' Harry noticed that Arne Albu's voice didn't have the same assured composure it had had earlier in the day. After a few seconds of crackly silence Albu continued: 'If you need to talk about this more, I would appreciate it if you would contact me at the office. I understood from my wife that she gave you my number.'

'And I understood that you didn't want to be disturbed during your working hours.'

'I don't want…my wife to be stressed. A dead woman with a photo in a shoe, my God! I would like you to deal with me.'

'I understand. But the photo is of your wife and the children!'

'She knows nothing about it, I'm telling you!' And then apparently regretting his angry tone, he added: 'I promise I will examine every possibility I can envisage to explain how this might have happened.'

'Thank you for the offer, but I still reserve the right to talk to whoever I think fit.' Harry listened to Albu's breathing before adding: 'I hope you understand.'

'Listen here-'

'I'm afraid this is not a topic for discussion. I'll contact you or your wife if there is something I need to know.'

'Wait a minute! You don't understand. My wife gets…very upset.'

'You're right, I don't understand. Is she ill?'

'Ill?' said Albu with surprise in his voice. 'No, but-'

'Then I suggest we conclude this conversation now.' Harry saw himself in the mirror. 'These are not my working hours. Good evening.'

He put down the telephone and looked in the mirror again. It was gone now, the little smile, the glee that Spite gives. The Small-mindedness. The Self-righteousness. The Sadism. The four 'S's of revenge. There was something else, too, though. Something looked wrong. Something was missing. He studied the reflected image. Perhaps it was just the way the light fell.

Harry sat down in front of the computer while thinking that he would have to tell Aune about the four 'S's. He collected that sort of thing. The e-mail he had received came from an address he had never seen before: furie@bolde. com. He clicked on it.

As he was sitting there, a chill spread through Harry Hole's body that would linger for a good year.

It happened while he was reading from the screen. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and the skin around his body tightened like shrinking clothes.

Shall we play? Let's imagine you've been to dinner with a woman and the next day she's found dead. What do you do?

The telephone chirruped its lament. Harry knew it was Rakel. He let it ring.

Arabia's Tears

Halvorsen was very surprised to see Harry as he entered their office.

'Here already? You are aware it's only-'

'Couldn't sleep,' Harry mumbled, sitting in front of the computer screen with crossed arms. 'These machines are so bloody slow.'

Halvorsen peered over his shoulder. 'It all depends on the data transfer rate when you're on the Net. You're using a standard ISDN line now, but, rejoice, we'll soon be on broadband. Looking for articles in Dagens Nжringsliv?'

'Eh?…Yes.'

'Arne Albu? Did you talk to Vigdis Albu?'

'Yes.'

'What have they actually got to do with the bank robbery?'

Harry didn't look up. He hadn't said it was anything to do with the robbery, but he hadn't said it wasn't either, so it was quite natural for his colleague to make the assumption. Harry was spared answering him as at that moment Arne Albu's face filled the screen. By far the broadest smile Harry had seen today presided over the tightly knotted tie. Halvorsen smacked his lips and read aloud:

'Thirty million for family business. Today Arne Albu can salt away thirty million kroner after the hotel chain Choice bought up all the shares in Albu AS yesterday. Albu says he wants to devote more time to his family, which was the biggest reason for him selling his successful company. "I want to see my children grow up," Albu said when interviewed. "The family is my most important investment." '

Harry pressed PRINT.

'Don't you want the rest of the article?'

'No, I just want the picture,' Harry said.

'Thirty mill in the bank and now he's started holding up banks, too?'

'I'll explain later,' Harry said, rising from his chair. 'In the meantime, I wonder if you could explain to me how you find out who sends an e-mail.'

'The address is in the e-mail.'

'And that's in the telephone book, is it?'

'No, but you can find out which mail server sent it. That's in the address. The server has a list of which clients own which addresses. Very simple. Have you received an interesting e-mail?'

Harry shook his head.

'Give me the address and I'll find it for you in no time,' Halvorsen said.

'OK. Have you heard of a server called bolde. com?'

'No, but I'll check it out. What's the rest of the address?'

Harry hesitated. 'Forgotten,' he said.

Harry requisitioned a car from the garage and drove slowly through Grшnland. A biting wind swirled the leaves which had dried on the pavement in yesterday's sun. People walked with their hands buried in their pockets and their heads drawn in between their shoulders.

In Pilestredet Harry tucked in behind a tram and found the NRK news broadcast on the radio. They didn't say anything about the Stine Grette case. There were fears that hundreds of thousands of refugee children would not survive the tough Afghan winter. An American soldier had been killed. There was an interview with his family. They wanted revenge. Bislett was closed to traffic and there was a diversion.

'Yes?' One syllable on the door intercom was enough to establish that Astrid Monsen had a bad cold.

'Harry Hole. Thank you for your help so far. I wondered if it would be possible to ask a couple more questions. Have you got time?'

She sniffled twice before answering. 'What about?'

'I would prefer not to stand out here and ask.'

Two more sniffs.

'Is this not a convenient time?' Harry asked.

The lock buzzed and Harry shoved open the door.

Astrid Monsen was standing in the corridor with a shawl over her shoulders and her arms crossed as Harry came up the stairs.

'I saw you at the funeral,' Harry said.

'I thought at least one of her neighbours should put in an appearance,' she said. She sounded as if she was talking through a megaphone.

'I wonder if you recognise this person?'