Jo Nesbo - Nemesis

Harry looked up at her in surprise. She seemed quite untouched by the situation.

Grette smiled through his tears. 'Stine and I celebrated our tenth wedding anniversary there. She had some holiday due and went a week before me. That was the longest we had ever been apart.'

'I asked you what you spent the thirty thousand in Brazilian currency on,' Beate said.

Grette turned to the window. 'That's a private matter.'

'And this is a murder case, herr Grette.'

Grette fixed her with a long, hard look. 'You've obviously never been in love with anyone, have you.'

Beate's brow darkened.

'The German jewellers in Sгo Paulo are reckoned to be among the best in the world,' Grette said. 'I bought the diamond ring Stine was wearing when she died.'

Two carers came for Grette. Lunch. Harry and Beate stood by the window watching him while they waited for the carer to show them the way out.

'I'm sorry,' Beate said. 'I made a fool of myself. I…'

'It was fine,' Harry said.

'We always check the finances of suspects in bank cases, but I probably went too far this time…'

'I said it was fine, Beate. Never apologise for the questions you asked; apologise for the ones you didn't ask.'

The carer arrived and unlocked the door.

'How long will he be here?' Harry asked.

'He's being sent home on Wednesday,' the carer said.

In the car on the way to the city centre Harry asked Beate why carers always 'send patients home'. After all, they didn't provide the transport, did they. And the patients decided themselves if they wanted to go home, or anywhere else, didn't they. So why couldn't they say 'were going home'? Or 'were being discharged'?

Beate didn't have a view on this, and Harry focused on the grey weather, thinking he had begun to sound like a grumpy old man. Before, he had only been grumpy.

'He's changed his hair,' Beate said. 'And he's wearing glasses.'

'Who's that?'

'The carer.'

'Oh, I didn't know you knew each other.'

'We don't. I saw him on the beach in Huk once. And in Eldorado. And in Stortingsgata. I think it was Stortingsgata…must be five years ago.'

Harry studied her. 'I didn't realise he was your type.'

'It's not that,' she said.

'Ah,' Harry said. 'I forgot. It's that brain defect of yours.'

She smiled. 'Oslo's a small town.'

'Oh yes? How many times had you seen me before you came to Police HQ?'

'Once. Five years ago.'

'Where was that?'

'On TV. You had solved that case in Sydney.'

'Mm. I guess that must have made an impression.'

'I only remember it irritated me that you came over as a hero even though you had failed.'

'Oh.'

'You never brought the murderer to court, you shot him dead.'

Harry closed his eyes and thought about how good the first drag of his next cigarette would be. He patted his chest to feel if the packet was in his inside pocket and pulled out the folded piece of paper to show to Beate.

'What's that?' Beate asked.

'The page Grette was scribbling on.'

'A Wonderful Day,' she read.

'He's written it thirteen times. A bit like The Shining, isn't it.'

'The Shining?'

'You know, the horror film. Stanley Kubrick.' He shot her a glance from the corner of his eye. 'The one where Jack Nicholson is sitting in a hotel writing the same sentence again and again.'

'I don't like horror films,' she said quietly.

Harry faced her. He was on the point of saying something, but then felt it was best to leave it.

'Where do you live?' she asked.

'Bislett.'

'It's on the way.'

'Hm. What to?'

'Oppsal.'

'Yes? Where in Oppsal?'

'Vetlandsveien. Right by the station. Do you know where Jшrnslшkkveien is?'

'Yes, there's a big yellow timber house on the corner.'

'Exactly. That's where I live. On the first floor. My mother lives on the ground floor. I grew up in that house.'

'I grew up in Oppsal, too,' Harry said. 'Perhaps we know the same people?'

'Perhaps,' Beate said, looking out through the window.

'Have to check that out some time,' Harry said.

Neither of them said another word.

The evening came and the wind picked up. The weather report forecast storms south of Stadt and squalls in the north. Harry coughed. He took out the sweater his mother had knitted for his father and which he had given Harry as a Christmas present some years after her death. A strange thing to do, Harry mused. He heated the pasta and meatballs, and then rang Rakel and told her about the house where he had grown up.

She didn't say much, but he could tell she liked hearing him talk about his bedroom. About his games and the little dressing table. About how he had made up stories from the wallpaper pattern, as if they were fairy tales written in code. And one drawer in the dressing table which his mother and he had agreed was only his, and she would never touch.

'I kept my football cards there,' said Harry. 'Tom Lund's autograph. A letter from Sшlvi, a girl I met one summer holiday in Еndalsnes. Later, my first packet of cigarettes. A packet of condoms. They lay there unopened until they had passed the sell-by date. Then, when my sister and I blew them up, they were so dry they split.'

Rakel laughed. Harry carried on, just to hear her laughing.

After the call he paced up and down restlessly. The news was a reprise of the day before. Squalls building up over Jalalabad.

He went into his bedroom and switched on the computer. As it creaked and hummed he saw that he had received another e-mail. He felt his pulse race when he saw the address. He clicked.

Hi Harry

The game has begun. The post-mortem established you could have been present when she died. Is that why you're keeping it to yourself? Probably very wise. Even if it looks like suicide. There are a couple of things that don't tally, though, aren't there? Your move.

A bang made Harry jump and he realised he had smacked his palm down on the table with all his strength. He looked around the dark room. He was angry and frightened, but the frustrating thing was his instinct that the e-mail writer was so…close at hand. Harry stretched out his arm and placed his still-smarting hand against the screen. The cold glass cooled his skin, but he could feel heat, a kind of body heat, building up inside the machine.

The Shoes on the Wire

Elmer scampered down Grшnlandsleiret with a quick greeting and smile to customers and employees in neighbouring shops. He was annoyed with himself. Once again he had run out of change and been obliged to hang up a BACK SOON sign on the door while he nipped into the bank.

He pulled open the door, strode into the bank, sang out his usual 'Good morning' and hurried over to take a ticket. No one answered, but he was used to that by now-only white Norwegians worked here. There was a man who seemed to be repairing the ATM and the only customers he could see were standing by the window overlooking the street. It was unusually quiet. Was something going on he hadn't quite caught wind of?

'Twenty,' a woman's voice called out. Elmer looked at the number on his ticket. It said 51, but since all the positions were closed, he went to the till where the woman's voice came from.

'Hello, Catherine, my love,' he said, inquisitively peering through the window. 'Five rolls of fives and ones, please.'

'Twenty-one.' He looked at Catherine Schшyen in surprise and only then did he notice the man standing beside her. At first glance, he thought it was a black man, but then he saw it was a man wearing a black balaclava. The barrel of his AG3 swung away from her and stopped at Elmer.

'Twenty-two,' Catherine called out in a tin-can voice.

'Why here?' Halvorsen asked, peering down at Oslo fjord beneath them. The wind tossed his fringe hither and thither. It had taken them less than five minutes to drive up from the exhaust fumes of Grшnland to Ekeberg, which protruded like a green watchtower in the south-east corner of Oslo. They had found a bench under the trees with a view of the beautiful old brick building Harry still called the Seamen's School, even though it currently ran courses for business managers.