Jo Nesbo - Nemesis

'Patience, dear Politiavdelingssjef. The fascinating thing about this technology is that it is extremely simple. So simple that I could make a dye cartridge myself, put it wherever I liked and make it explode at a certain distance from the receiver. All the equipment required would fit into a lunch box.'

Weber had stopped taking notes.

'But the principle of the cartridge is not the technology, PAS Ivarsson. The principle is incrimination.' Raskol's face lit up into a huge smile. 'The ink also attaches itself to the clothes and skin of the robber. And the ink is so strong that once it is on your hands you will never be able to wash it off. Pontius Pilate and Judas, right? Blood on his hands. Blood money. The agony of the arbiter. The punishment of the informer.'

Raskol dropped the ink cartridge on the floor behind the table and while he bent to pick it up, Ivarsson signalled to Weber that he wanted the notebook.

'I would like you to write the name of the person in the photos,' Ivarsson said and put the pad on the table. 'As I said, we are not here to play games.'

'Not to play games, no,' Raskol said, slowly screwing the pen together. 'I promised I would give you the name of the man who took the money, didn't I?'

'That was the agreement, yes.' Ivarsson said. He leaned over as Raskol started to write.

'We Xoraxans know what an agreement is,' he said. 'I'm not just writing his name, but also the prostitute he uses regularly and the man he contacted to shatter the knee of a young man who recently broke his daughter's heart. The person in question refused the job by the way.'

'Ah…excellent.' Ivarsson turned quickly to Weber and gave an excited grin.

'Here.' Raskol handed the pad and pen to Ivarsson, who hurriedly read the note.

The elated smile died. 'But…' he stammered. 'Helge Klementsen. He's the branch manager.' A light of illumination revealed itself to him. 'Is he involved?'

'Very much so,' Raskol said. 'He took the money, didn't he?'

'And put it in the robber's holdall,' came Weber's deep growl from the door.

Ivarsson's expression slowly changed from questioning to furious. 'What is this twaddle? You promised to help me.'

Raskol studied the long, pointed nail of the little finger on his right hand. Then he nodded gravely, leaned over the table and waved Ivarsson closer. 'You're right,' he whispered. 'Here's a tip. Learn what life is about. Sit down and observe your child. It isn't easy to find the things you've lost, but it is possible.' He patted the PAS on the back and motioned towards the chessboard. 'Your turn, Politiavdelingssjef.'

Ivarsson was fuming with anger as he and Weber traipsed through the Culvert, a three-hundred-metre-long underground tunnel connecting Botsen prison with Police HQ.

'I trusted one of the race who discovered lying!' hissed Ivarsson. 'I trusted a bloody gypsy!' The echo ricocheted along the brick walls. Weber was racing along; he wanted to get out of the cold, damp tunnel. The Culvert was used to transport prisoners to and from questioning at Police HQ, and many were the rumours circulating about what had happened down here.

Ivarsson pulled his suit jacket tighter around him and stepped out. 'Promise me one thing, Weber: you won't breathe a word of this to anyone. Alright?' He turned towards Weber with a raised eyebrow: 'Well?'

The answer to Ivarsson's question was a qualified 'yes' inasmuch as they had just reached the point in the Culvert where the walls are painted orange and Weber heard a little 'pooff' sound. Ivarsson let out a terrified scream and fell to his knees in a pool of water, holding his chest.

Weber spun round and looked up and down the tunnel. No one. Then he turned back to the PAS, who was staring at his red-stained hand.

'I'm bleeding,' he groaned. 'I'm dying.'

Weber could see Ivarsson's eyes growing in his head.

'What is it?' Ivarsson asked, his voice tremulous with fear as he looked into Weber's open-mouthed stare.

'You'll have to go to the dry cleaner's,' Weber said.

Ivarsson cast his eyes downwards. The red dye had spread across the whole of his shirt front and parts of the lime-green jacket.

'Red ink,' Weber said.

Ivarsson pulled out the remains of the Den norske Bank pen. The micro-explosion had sheered it down the middle. He stayed on his knees with his eyes closed until his breathing was normal again. Then he fixed his eyes on Weber.

'Do you know what Hitler's greatest sin was?' he asked, stretching out his clean hand. Weber grabbed it and pulled Ivarsson to his feet. Ivarsson squinted down the tunnel the way they had come. 'Not doing a more thorough job on the gypsies.'

'Not a word to anyone about this,' Weber mimicked, with a chuckle. 'Ivarsson went straight to the garage and drove home. The ink will stain his skin for at least three days.'

Harry shook his head in disbelief. 'And what did you do to this Raskol?'

Weber shrugged. 'Ivarsson said he would have him put in solitary. Not that that would help in the slightest, I reckon. The man is…different. Talking about different, how are you and Beate getting on? Have you got any more than this fingerprint?'

Harry shook his head.

'That girl is special,' Weber said. 'I can recognise her father in her. She could be good.'

'She could. Did you know her father?'

Weber nodded. 'Good man. Loyal. Shame it all ended as it did.'

'Strange that such an experienced policeman would slip up like that.'

'I don't think it was a slip-up,' Weber said, rinsing a coffee cup in the sink.

'Oh?'

Weber mumbled.

'What did you say, Weber?'

'Nothing,' he growled. 'He must have had a reason. That's all I'm saying.'

'Bolde. com will be a server,' Halvorsen said. 'All I'm saying is that it isn't registered anywhere. It might be in a cellar in Kiev for example and have anonymous clients who send specialised porn to each other. What do I know? We mere mortals won't find people who don't want to be found in that jungle. You'll have to get hold of a bloodhound, a real specialist.'

The knock at the door was so feather-light Harry didn't hear it, but Halvorsen shouted: 'Come in.'

The door opened cautiously.

'Hi,' Halvorsen said with a smile. 'Beate, isn't it?'

She nodded and looked hastily across at Harry. 'I was trying to get hold of you. That mobile number of yours on the list…'

'He's lost his mobile,' Halvorsen said, getting up. 'Take a seat and I'll make you a Halvorsen espresso.'

She hesitated. 'Thank you, but there's something I have to show you in the House of Pain, Harry. Have you got time?'

'All the time in the world,' Harry said, leaning back in his chair. 'Weber had only bad news. No matching fingerprints. And Raskol tricked Ivarsson good and proper today.'

'Is that bad news?' It slipped out before Beate could stop herself. She covered her mouth in alarm. Harry and Halvorsen laughed.

'Nice to see you again, Beate,' Halvorsen said before she and Harry left. He didn't get an answer, just a searching look from Harry, and was left standing a little embarrassed in the middle of the floor.

Harry noticed a blanket rumpled up on the two-seater IKEA sofa in the House of Pain. 'Did you sleep here last night?'

'Just a nap,' she said and started the video player. 'Watch the Expeditor and Stine in this picture.'

She pointed to the screen where she had freeze-framed the robber with Stine leaning towards him. Harry could feel the hairs on his neck standing up.

'There's something about this, isn't there?' she said.

Harry scrutinised the robber. Then Stine. And he knew it was this still which had made him watch the video over and over again, searching all the time for something which was there but kept eluding him.