Jo Nesbo - Nemesis

Waaler crouched down beside the body. He knew Weber didn't like him. That was fine by him. Weber was an older police officer working in Forensics, who was going nowhere, who could not conceivably affect Waaler's career or life in any way. He was, to cut a long story short, not someone he needed to like him.

'Who identified him?'

'A few of the locals popped by,' Weber answered. 'The owner of the grocery shop recognised him. We got hold of his wife in Oslo and brought her out here. She's confirmed it's Arne Albu.'

'And where is she now?'

'In the chalet.'

'Has anyone questioned her?'

Weber shrugged.

'I like being the first on the scene,' Waaler said, leaning forward and snapping a close-up of the face.

'Moss police district has the case. We've just been called in to assist.'

'We have the experience,' Waaler said. 'Has anyone politely explained that to the country clods?'

'A couple of us have in fact investigated murder before,' a voice behind them said. Waaler peered up at a smiling man in a black leather police jacket. The epaulettes bore one star and gold edges.

'No offence taken,' the inspector laughed. 'I'm Paul Sшrensen. You must be Inspector Waaler.'

Waaler briefly acknowledged him and ignored Sшrensen's moves to shake hands. He didn't like physical contact with men he didn't know. Nor with men he did know, for that matter. It was another matter with women. As long as he was in control, anyway. And he was.

'You haven't investigated anything like this before, Sшrensen,' Waaler said, prising open one of the dead man's eyelids and revealing a blood-red eyeball. 'This isn't a pub stabbing or a drunken misadventure. That's why you called us in, isn't it?'

'This doesn't look like anything local, no,' Sшrensen said.

'I suggest you and the boys stick around here and keep watch while I go and have a word with the corpse's wife.'

Sшrensen laughed as if Waaler had told a good joke, but stopped when he saw Waaler's raised eyebrows over the Police sunglasses. Tom Waaler stood up and began to walk to the police cordon. He counted slowly to three, then he shouted without turning: 'And move that police car. I see you've parked in the turnaround, Sшrensen. Forensics will be looking for tyre tracks from the murderer's car. Thanking you.'

He didn't need to turn to know the smile had been wiped off Sшrensen's jolly face. And that the crime scene had just been taken over by Oslo police district.

'Fru Albu?' Waaler enquired as he entered the living room. He had decided he wanted this over as quickly as possible. He had a lunch date with a promising young girl, and he intended to keep it.

Vigdis Albu looked up from the photo album she was flicking through. 'Yes?'

Waaler liked what he saw. The meticulously maintained body, the confident way she was sitting, the studied TV hostess-style casualness and the third button of her blouse undone. He also liked what he heard. The soft voice simply made for the special words he liked his women to say. And he liked the mouth he already hoped he would hear the words come out of.

'Inspector Tom Waaler,' he said, taking a seat opposite her. 'I understand what a shock this must have been for you. It is, of course, a clichй, and I doubt it has any significance for you at this time, but I would like to extend my sympathy to you. I have also lost someone very close to me.'

He waited. Until she was obliged to look up and he could catch her eyes. They were blurred, and at first Waaler thought tear-blurred. It wasn't until she answered that he realised she was drunk: 'Have you got a cigarette, Constable?'

'Call me Tom. I don't smoke. Sorry.'

'How long do I have to be here, Tom?'

'I'll arrange it so that you can leave as soon as possible. I just need to ask a few questions, OK?'

'OK.'

'Good. Have you any idea who could have wanted to take the life of your husband?'

Vigdis Albu rested her chin on her hand and gazed out of the window. 'Where's the other constable, Tom?'

'Pardon me?'

'Shouldn't he be here?'

'Which constable, fru Albu?'

'Harry. He's got this case, hasn't he?'

The main reason Tom Waaler had advanced through the ranks faster than anyone else from his intake year was that he had worked out that no one, not even defence counsels, would probe how he had obtained evidence of the accused's demonstrable guilt. The next reason was that he had sensitive antennae. Of course, on occasion, they didn't react when they should have. But they never reacted when they shouldn't have. And they were reacting now.

'Are you referring to Harry Hole, fru Albu?'

'You can stop here.'

Tom Waaler still liked the voice. He pulled into the kerb, leaned forward and looked up at the pink house towering over the hill. The morning sun glinted on an animal-like object in the garden.

'That was very nice of you,' Vigdis Albu said. 'To persuade Sшrensen to let me leave, and to drive me home.'

Waaler gave her a warm smile. He knew it was warm. Many people had said he looked like David Hasselhoff of Baywatch fame; he had the same chin, body and smile. He had seen Baywatch and knew what they meant.

'I should thank you,' he said.

It was true. During the drive from Larkollen he had learned several interesting things. Such as that Harry Hole had been trying to find evidence that her husband had murdered Anna Bethsen, who-to the best of his recollection-was the woman who had committed suicide in Sorgenfrigata a while back. The case had been closed. He himself had concluded it was suicide and written the report. So what was that idiot Hole up to? Was he trying to get even for old hostilities? Was Hole trying to prove Anna Bethsen was a victim of a criminal act to compromise him-Tom Waaler? It would be just like that crazy alkie to dig up something like that, but it didn't quite make sense to Waaler that Hole was putting so much energy into a case which, in the very worst scenario, would only demonstrate that Waaler had been a bit too quick to draw conclusions. He flatly rejected the notion that Harry's motive might simply be to clear up the case. Only police officers in films spent their free time doing that sort of thing.

The fact that Harry's suspect was dead now naturally meant that a number of alternative solutions were on the cards. Waaler wasn't sure which, but as his instincts told him Harry Hole was involved, he was interested in finding out. So when Vigdis Albu asked Waaler if he would like to come in for a cup of coffee it wasn't primarily the titillating thought of fresh widow that attracted him. This could be the chance to shake off the man who had been breathing down his neck for-how long was it now? Over a year?

Over a year, yes, indeed. Over a year since Officer Ellen Gjelten-thanks to one of Sverre Olsen's blunders-had discovered that Tom Waaler was the main man behind the organised arms smuggling in Oslo. When he gave Olsen the order to execute her before she passed on what she knew, he had been all too aware that Hole would never give up until he had found who killed her. So he had made sure Olsen's cap was found at the crime scene, so that he could shoot the murder suspect 'in self-defence' while arresting him. There was nothing to incriminate him, yet Waaler had the strangely unpleasant sensation that Hole was closing in. And he could be dangerous.

'The house is so empty when everyone is away,' Vigdis Albu said, unlocking the door.

'How long have you been…er…alone?' Waaler asked, as he followed her up the steps to the living room. He still liked what he saw.

'The children are with my parents in Nordby. The idea was they would stay there until things were back to normal.' She sighed and sank down into one of the deep armchairs. 'I must have a drink. Then I'd better call them.'