Jo Nesbo - Nemesis

Sting was sending out an SOS. Speaking of which, he reckoned Beate must have read the e-mail by now. She would have passed on the message and the fox hunt would have been called off. The alcohol had made his eyelids heavy, but every time he closed his eyes he saw two legs and hand-sewn Italian shoes sticking out of the steaming-hot bathwater. He fumbled behind his head for the glass he had placed at the edge of the bath. When he rang Beate from Schrшder's he had only had two large beers, and that was nowhere near the anaesthetisation he required. But where was the damn glass? He wondered if Tom Waaler was hunting him down anyway. Harry knew he was desperate to make this arrest. But Harry was not going to give himself up until he had all the details safely in place. From now on, he couldn't afford to trust anyone. He would sort it out. Just some time out first. Another drink. Borrow the sofa here tonight. A clear head. Tomorrow.

His hand hit the heavy crystal glass and it landed on the tiled floor with a dull crunch.

Harry swore and stood up. He almost fell but caught the wall at the last moment. He tied a thick, plush towel around his waist and went into the living room. The gin bottle was still on the coffee table. He found a glass in the bar cabinet and filled it to the brim. He could hear the coffee machine. And Vigdis's voice from the hall. He went back into the bathroom and carefully placed the glass beside the clothes Vigdis had laid out for him, a complete Bjшrn Borg collection in light blue and black. He cleaned the mirror with the towel and confronted his eyes in the condensation-free strip.

'You idiot,' he whispered.

He sat on the floor. A red rivulet crept down the grout between the tiles to the drain. He followed the rivulet back to his right foot where fresh blood was trickling between his toes. He stood up in the middle of the broken glass; he hadn't even noticed it. Hadn't noticed a thing. He looked in the mirror again and laughed.

Vigdis put down the receiver. She had been forced to improvise, although she hated improvising. It made her feel physically ill when things didn't go according to plan. Right from the time she was small, she had realised that nothing happened of its own accord. Planning was everything. She could still remember the family moving to Slemdal from Skien when she had been in the third class. In front of her new class, she had stood and introduced herself while they sat staring at her, her clothes and the strange plastic bag which had made a couple of the girls giggle and point. In the last lesson she had written a list detailing the girls in the class who would be her best friends, those who would be given the cold shoulder, which boys would fall in love with her and which teachers would choose her as their favourite pupil. She had hung the list over her bed when she came home and didn't take it down until Christmas, by which time there was a tick by every name.

But now it was different. Now she was at the mercy of others for life to slot into place.

She looked at her watch. Twenty to ten. Tom Waaler said they would be there within twelve minutes. He had promised to switch off the sirens well before Slemdal so she didn't need to worry about neighbours. She hadn't even mentioned it.

She sat in the hallway waiting. Hole had gone to sleep in the bath, she hoped. Another look at her watch. Listened to the music. Fortunately the stressful Police songs were finished and now Sting was singing songs off his solo album with his wonderful, soothing voice. About rain…like tears from a star. It was so beautiful she almost wanted to cry.

Then she heard Gregor's hoarse barking. Finally.

She opened the door and went out onto the step as arranged. She saw a figure running across the garden towards the patio and another going around the back of the house. Two masked men in black uniforms carrying small, snub pistols stopped in front of her.

'Still in the bath?' whispered one from behind the black balaclava. 'Left after the stairs?'

'Yes, Tom,' she whispered. 'And thanks for coming so-'

But they were already inside.

She closed her eyes and listened. Feet running up the stairs, Gregor's fierce snarls from the patio, Sting's gentle 'How Fragile We Are', the crash of the bathroom door being kicked in.

She turned and went inside. Up the stairs. Towards the shouting. Needed a drink. She saw Tom at the top of the stairs. He had taken off his balaclava, but his face was so distorted she hardly recognised him. He was pointing to something. On the carpet. She looked down. A trail of blood. Her eyes followed it across the living room to the open patio door. She couldn't hear what the idiot dressed in black was shouting at her. The plan was all she could think. This isn't the plan.

Waltzing Matilda

Harry ran. Gregor's staccato barking was like an angry metronome in the background, otherwise everything around him was still. His naked feet slapped against wet grass. He stretched his arms in front of him as he burst through another hedge hardly feeling the thorns tearing at his palms and the Bjшrn Borg collection. He hadn't found his own clothes and shoes; he guessed she must have taken them downstairs to where she was sitting and waiting. While searching for another pair of shoes he had heard Gregor whining and he had had to make a run for it as he was, in trousers and shirt. The rain fell into his eyes, and houses, apple trees and bushes blurred in front of him. Another garden appeared out of the dark. He took the risk and jumped over the low fence. But lost his balance. Running with alcohol in your blood. A trim lawn rose and hit him in the face. He stayed down, listening.

He thought he could hear a number of dogs barking now. Was Victor there? So quickly? Waaler must have had them on standby. Harry got to his feet and scoured the area. He was at the top of the hill he had headed towards. Deliberately keeping away from the illuminated roads which police cars would soon be patrolling and where he could easily be spotted. Down by Bjшrnetrеkket he could see Albu's property. There were four cars outside the front gate, two of them with rotating blue lights. He looked down the other side of the hill. Wasn't it called Holmen, or Gressbanen? Something like that. A civilian car was parked on the pavement by the crossroads with its lights on. Harry had been quick, but Waaler had been quicker. Only the police parked like that.

He rubbed his face hard. Tried to get rid of the anaesthetisation he had longed for so recently. A blue light flashed between the trees in Stasjonsveien. He was caught in the net and it was already tightening. He wouldn't escape. Waaler was too good. But he didn't quite understand. This couldn't be a solo show. Someone must have authorised the use of these huge resources to arrest one single man. What had happened? Hadn't Beate received the e-mail he had sent her?

He listened. There were more dogs, no question. He cast his eyes around. At the illuminated detached houses scattered across the pitch-black hill. He thought of the snug, warm rooms behind the windows. Norwegians liked light. And they had electricity. They only turned it off when they were away for a fortnight on holiday down south. His gaze moved from house to house.

Tom Waaler stared up at the isolated houses decorating the landscape like Christmas lights. Large, black gardens. Scrumping. He had his feet up on the dashboard in Victor's specially converted van. They had the best communication equipment available, so he had moved control of the operation there. He was in radio contact with all the units closing the circle around the area. He looked at his watch. The dogs were out; it would soon be ten minutes since they had slipped into the darkness with their handlers, moving through gardens.