Jo Nesbo - Nemesis

Raskol sat with his head bowed, resting on his hands, as Harry talked. He neither moved nor interrupted while Harry described how they had found Lev Grette and how his own mobile phone was the reason they still had no evidence against Anna's murderer. When Harry had finished, Raskol folded his hands and slowly raised his head: 'You've solved your case then, but mine remains unresolved.'

'I don't see them as your case and mine, Raskol. My responsibility-'

'I do, though, Spiuni,' Raskol cut in. 'I run a military organisation.'

'Mm. What exactly do you mean by that?'

Raskol closed his eyes. 'Have I told you about the time King Wu invited Sun Tzu to teach the ladies of the court the arts of war, Spiuni?'

'Well, no.'

Raskol smiled. 'Sun Tzu was an intellectual and he began by precisely and pedagogically explaining marching instructions to the women. When the drums rolled, they didn't march, they just giggled and laughed. 'It's the general's fault if the commands are not understood,' Sun Tzu said and explained once more. But the same happened when he gave the order to march. 'It's the officer's fault if an order is understood but not obeyed,' he said and ordered two of his men to pick out two of the leaders of the courtesans. They were lined up and beheaded in front of the other terrified women. When the king heard that his two favourite concubines had been executed, he fell ill and had to take to his bed for several days. When he got up again, he put Sun Tzu in control of his armed forces.' Raskol opened his eyes again. 'What does this story teach us, Spiuni?'

Harry didn't answer.

'Well, it teaches us that in a military organisation the logic has to be total and absolutely consistent. If you relax your demands, you're left with a court of giggling concubines. When you came to ask for another 40,000 kroner, you got it because I believed the story of the photograph in Anna's shoe. Because Anna is a gypsy. When we gypsies travel, we leave a patrin at forks in the road. A red scarf tied around a branch, a chipped bone, they all have different meanings. A photograph means someone has died. Or will die. You weren't to know, so I trusted what you said.' Raskol placed his hands on the table, palms upwards. 'But the man who took the life of my brother's daughter is free and when I look at you now I see a giggling concubine, Spiuni. Absolute consistency. Give me his name, Spiuni.'

Harry breathed in. Two words. Four syllables. If he revealed Albu's name, what sentence would be passed on Albu? Premeditated murder motivated by jealousy. Nine years, out after six? And the consequences for Harry? The investigation would inevitably uncover the fact that he, a policeman, had concealed the truth to prevent the finger of suspicion pointing at him. Shot himself in the foot. Two words, four syllables. All Harry's problems would be solved. Albu would be the one to face the final consequence.

Harry's answer was one syllable.

Raskol nodded and regarded Harry with sad eyes. 'I was afraid you would say that. You don't give me any choice then, Spiuni. Do you remember what I answered when you asked me why I trusted you?'

Harry nodded.

'Everyone has something they live for. Isn't that true, Spiuni? Something which can be taken from them. Well, does room 316 ring any bells?'

Harry didn't answer.

'Let me tell you then. Three one six is the number of a room in the International Hotel in Moscow. Olga is on watch on that floor. She'll soon be retired and would like a nice, long holiday by the Black Sea. There are three stairways and a lift to the floor. As well as the staff lift. The room has twin beds.'

Harry gulped.

Raskol rested his forehead on his folded hands: 'The little one sleeps nearest the window.'

Harry got up, went to the door and hit it hard. He could hear the echo resounding down the corridor outside. He continued to beat the door until he heard the key in the lock.

Vibrate Mode

'Sorry, but I came as quickly as I could,' Шystein said, driving his taxi off the pavement outside Elmer's Fruit amp;Tobacco shop.

'Welcome back,' Harry said, wondering whether the bus coming from the right had realised that Шystein had no intention of stopping.

'We're going to Slemdal, aren't we?' Шystein ignored the furious hooting from the bus.

'Bjшrnetrеkket. You know you have to give way here?'

'Decided not to.'

Harry looked across at his pal. He could just discern two bloodshot eyes behind the narrow slits.

'Tired?'

'Jet lag.'

'The time difference between here and Egypt is one hour, Шystein.'

'At least.'

Since neither the shock absorbers nor the springs in his seat worked any more, Harry felt every cobbled stone and change of level in the road as they careered through the bends on their way up to Albu's house, but right now nothing interested him less. He borrowed Шystein's mobile phone, rang the International Hotel and room 316. Oleg answered. Harry could hear the pleasure in his voice when Oleg asked him where he was.

'In a car. Where's your mum?'

'Out.'

'I didn't think she had to go to court until tomorrow.'

'All the solicitors are meeting in Kuznetski Most,' he said in an adult voice. 'She'll be back in an hour.'

'Listen, Oleg, can you give your mum a message. Tell her to change hotel. Immediately.'

'Why?'

'Because…I said so. Just tell her, OK? I'll ring again later.'

'Alright.'

'Good boy. I've got to go.'

'You…'

'What?'

'Nothing.'

'OK. Don't forget to tell your mum what I told you.'

Шystein braked and pulled onto the pavement.

'Wait here,' Harry said and jumped out. 'If I'm not back in twenty minutes, ring the ops room, the number I gave you. Tell them-'

'Inspector Hole from Crime Squad wants a patrol car with armed officers here right away. I got it, Harry.'

'Good. If you hear shots, ring immediately.'

'Right. Which film is this again?'

Harry looked up at the house. No barking to be heard. A dark blue BMW drove slowly past them and parked further down the street. Otherwise everything was quiet.

'Most of them,' Harry breathed.

Шystein grinned. 'Cool.' Then a wrinkle of concern appeared between his eyes. 'It is cool, isn't it? Not just insanely dangerous?'

Vigdis Albu opened the door. She was wearing a freshly ironed white blouse and a short skirt, but her blurred eyes seemed to have come straight from bed.

'I rang your husband's workplace,' Harry said. 'They told me he was at home today.'

'Could be,' she said. 'He doesn't live here any more, Inspector. You were the one who dragged up this whole business with…with…' She gesticulated as if she were looking for the right word, but with a smile of distaste she resigned herself to admitting there was no other word for it: '…the whore.'

'May I come in, fru Albu?'

She hunched her shoulders, and shuddered to register her disgust. 'Call me Vigdis or anything, but not that.'

'Vigdis.' Harry stooped. 'May I come in now?'

The thin plucked eyebrows angled. She hesitated. Then she thrust out her hand. 'Why not?'

Harry thought he could detect a faint smell of gin, but it might have been her perfume. Nothing in the house suggested anything out of the ordinary-it was clean, fragrant and tidy. There were fresh flowers in a vase on the sideboard. Harry noticed the sofa cover was a touch whiter than the off-white he had sat on last time. Low classical music was playing from speakers he couldn't see.

'Mahler?' Harry asked.

'Greatest hits,' Vigdis said. 'Arne only bought collections. He always said everything except the best was worthless.'

'Nice that he didn't take the collections with him then. Where is he, by the way?'