Jo Nesbo - Nemesis

'I'll get back to you, Waaler. I'll ring the police solicitors and see what I can do.' He cleared his throat and added in a voice loud enough for his wife to hear: 'After we've eaten.'

Harry woke up to hear banging on the door. His brain automatically concluded that the person had been banging for a while and was sure Harry was at home. He looked at his watch. 5.55. He had been dreaming about Rakel. He stretched and rose from the chair.

More banging. Hard.

'Alright, alright,' Harry shouted, walking to the door. He could see the outline of a figure through the wavy glass in the door. It must be one of the neighbours, Harry thought, since they hadn't used the intercom.

He had just put his hand on the door handle when he felt himself pause. A prickling at the back of his neck. Spots in front of his eyes. Pulse rushing. Rubbish. He opened the door.

It was Ali. Deeply furrowed brow.

'You promised you would clean out your storeroom in the cellar by today,' he said.

Harry slapped his forehead with his hand.

'Shit! Sorry, Ali. I'm a good-for-nothing scatterbrain.'

'That's alright, Harry. I can help you if you've got time this evening.'

Harry eyed him with surprise. 'Help me? I can remove what I have in ten seconds. To be honest, I can't remember a single thing I've got down there, but fine.'

'They're valuable items, Harry.' Ali shook his head. 'You're crazy to keep stuff like that down in the cellar.'

'I don't know about that. I'm off to Schrшder's for a bite to eat. I'll pop by afterwards, Ali.'

Harry closed the door, sank back in the chair and pressed the remote control. The news in sign language. Harry had been on a case when several deaf people had been brought in for questioning and he had learned a couple of the signs. He tried to match the reporter's gesticulations with the lines that came up. All quiet on the Middle Eastern front. An American was to be court-martialled for fighting for the Taliban. Harry gave up. Schrшder's menu of the day, a coffee, a smoke, he mused. Down to the cellar and then straight to bed. He took the remote and was about to switch off when he saw the signer point outstretched fingers and raise a thumb at him. That was a sign he remembered. Someone had been shot. Harry automatically thought of Arne Albu, but he had been suffocated. His eyes moved down to the subtitles. He froze in his chair. And frantically started pressing the remote. This was bad-perhaps very bad news. Teletext didn't say a lot more than the subtitles:

Bank clerk shot in raid. Raider shot a cashier at the Grensen branch of DnB in Oslo this afternoon. Bank clerk's condition is critical.

Harry went into his bedroom and switched on the computer. The bank robbery was the headline on his home page. He double-clicked:

The branch was closing for the day when a masked raider came in brandishing a gun and ordered the female branch manager to empty the ATM. As this didn't happen in the time specified, he shot a 34-year-old bank clerk. The state of the wounded woman is said to be critical. PAS Rune Ivarsson says the police have no leads at present and would not comment on suggestions that the raid followed a similar pattern to raids carried out by the man dubbed the Expeditor. Police informed us this week he had been found dead in d'Ajuda, Brazil.

Could be a coincidence. Of course it could. But it wasn't. No chance. Harry ran his hand across his face. This was what he had been fearing the whole time. Lev Grette had only held up one bank. The following hold-up had been done by someone else. Someone who was well into their stride now. So well that he prided himself on copying the original Expeditor down to the last gory detail.

Harry tried to derail his train of thought. He didn't want to brood over any more bank raids now. Or bank staff being shot. Or the consequences of there turning out to be two Expeditors. The risk that he might have to work under Ivarsson and postpone the Ellen case again.

Stop. No more thinking today. Tomorrow.

But his legs still carried him out into the hall where his fingers dialled Weber's number all on their own. 'Harry here. Had any luck?'

'We certainly have.' Weber sounded surprisingly cheerful. 'Good boys and girls are always lucky in the end.'

'News to me,' Harry said. 'Let's have it then.'

'Beate Lшnn rang me from the House of Pain while we were in the bank. She had just started looking at the tapes of the robbery when she saw something interesting. The man was standing close to the Plexiglas over the counter when he was talking. She suggested we check for spit. It was only half an hour after the raid and so there was still a realistic chance of finding something.'

'And?' Harry asked impatiently.

'No spit on the glass.'

Harry groaned.

'But a micro-drop of condensed breath.'

'Really?'

'Yes, indeed.'

'Someone must have been saying their evening prayers recently. Congratulations, Weber.'

'I reckon we'll have the DNA profile in three days. Then we can start comparing. My guess is we'll have him before the week's out.'

'I hope you're right.'

'I am.'

'Well, thanks for rescuing my appetite.'

Harry switched off and put on his jacket. He was about to leave when he remembered he hadn't turned off the computer and went back to the bedroom. As he went to press the SHUT DOWN button, he saw it. His heart slowed and the blood in his veins thickened. He had an e-mail. Of course he could have shut down the computer anyway. Should have done, there was no urgency. It could be from anyone. There was only one person it could not be from. Harry would have loved to be on his way to Schrшder's right now. Padding down Dovregata, wondering about the old pair of shoes floating between heaven and earth, enjoying the images from his dream about Rakel. That sort of thing. It was too late now, though; his fingers had taken over again. The machine innards whirred. Then the e-mail appeared. It was a long one.

Hi Harry,

Why such a long face? Perhaps you thought you wouldn't be hearing from me again. Well, life is full of surprises, Harry. Something Arne Albu will have discovered by the time you read this. You and I, we made life unbearable for him, didn't we? If I'm not much mistaken, I bet his wife has taken the kids and left him. Brutal, isn't it? Taking a man's family away from him, especially when you know it's the most important thing in a person's life. But he only has himself to blame. Infidelity cannot be punished severely enough, don't you agree, Harry? Anyway, my little vendetta stops here.

But since you have been dragged into this as an innocent party, perhaps I owe you an explanation. The explanation is relatively simple. I loved Anna. I really did. What she was and what she gave me.

Unfortunately she didn't love what I gave her. The Big H. The Big Sleep. Did you know she was a pedigree junkie? Life is, as I said, full of surprises. I introduced her to drugs after one of her-let's not mince words-failed art exhibitions. And the two of them were made for each other; it was love at first stab. Anna was my client and secret lover for four years. It was impossible to separate the two roles, so to speak.

Confused, Harry? Because you didn't see any syringe marks when you stripped her, eh? Yes, well, 'love at first stab' was just a way of speaking. Anna couldn't stand syringes, you see. We smoked our heroin out of the silver paper off Cuban chocolate. It's more expensive than injecting it. On the other hand, Anna got it at wholesale price as long as she was with me. We were-what's the word?-inseparable. I still have tears in my eyes when I think about those times. She did everything a woman can do for a man: she fucked, fed, watered, amused and consoled me. And begged me. Basically, the only thing she didn't do was love me. How can that be so bloody difficult, Harry? After all, she loved you and you didn't do shit for her.