Jo Nesbo - Nemesis

The radio crackled: 'Stasjonsveien to Victor zero one. We have a car here with one Stig Antonsen going to Revehiven 17. Returning from work, he says. Shall we…?'

'Check ID, address and let him through,' Waaler said. 'The same holds for you others out there, OK? Use your heads.'

Waaler tugged a CD out of his top pocket and put it in the player. Several falsettos. Prince sang 'Thunder.' The man in the driver's seat beside him raised an eyebrow, but Waaler pretended not to notice and turned up the volume. Verse. Refrain. Verse. Refrain. Next song: 'Pop Daddy'. Waaler checked his watch again. Shit, what a long time the dogs were taking. He hit the dashboard. Earning another glance from the driver's seat.

'They have a fresh trail of blood to follow,' Waaler said. 'How difficult can that be?'

'They're dogs, not robots,' the man said. 'Relax, they'll soon have him.'

The artist to be known for ever as Prince was in the middle of 'Diamonds and Pearls' when the report came in: 'Victor zero three to Victor zero one. Think we've got him. We're outside a white house in…er, Erik's trying to find out what the road's called, but there's a number 16 on the wall, anyway.'

Waaler turned down the music. 'OK. Find out and wait for us. What's the ringing sound I can hear?'

'It's coming from the house.'

The radio crackled: 'Stasjonsveien to Victor one. Sorry to interrupt but there's a security vehicle here. They say they're going to Harelabben 16. Their central switchboard registered a burglar alarm going off there. Shall I-?'

'Victor zero one to all units!' Waaler yelled. 'Move in. Harelabben 16.'

Bjarne Mшller was in a dreadful mood. In the middle of his favourite TV programme! He found the white house, number 16, parked outside, went through the gate and up to the open door where a police officer was standing with an Alsatian on a leash.

'Is Waaler here?' asked the PAS. The officer motioned to the door. Mшller noticed that the glass in the hall window was smashed. Waaler stood in the hall inside in furious discussion with another officer.

'What the hell's going on here?' Mшller asked without preamble.

Waaler turned. 'Right. What brings you here, Mшller?'

'A phone call from Beate Lшnn. Who authorised this idiocy?'

'Our police solicitor.'

'I'm not talking about the arrest. I'm asking who gave the go-ahead to World War Three because one of our very own colleagues may-may!-have a couple of things to explain.'

Waaler rocked back on his heels while eyeballing Mшller. 'PAS Ivarsson. We found a couple of things at Harry's place which make him more than just someone we would like to talk to. He is under suspicion of murder. Anything else you were wondering about, Mшller?'

Mшller raised an eyebrow in surprise and concluded Waaler must be very worked up. That was the first time he had ever heard him talk to a superior in such a provocative manner. 'Yes. Where's Harry?'

Waaler pointed to the red footprints on the parquet floor. 'He was here. Broke in, as you can see. Beginning to be quite a lot to explain, isn't there?'

'I asked where he is now.'

Waaler and the other police officer exchanged looks. 'Harry is clearly not that keen to explain. The bird had flown when we arrived.'

'Oh? I was under the impression you had surrounded the whole area.'

'We had,' Waaler said.

'So how did he get away then?'

'Using this.' Waaler pointed to the telephone on the table. The receiver was stained with what looked like blood.

'He got away using a phone?' Mшller felt an irrational-his bad mood and the seriousness of the situation taken into account-urge to smile.

'There is reason to believe,' Waaler said while Mшller watched the powerful musculature of the David Hasselhoff jaw straining, 'that he ordered a taxi.'

Шystein drove down the alley slowly and turned the taxi into the cobbled semicircle in front of Oslo prison. He reversed in between two cars, his rear end facing the empty park and Grшnlandsleiret. He turned the ignition key to kill the engine, but the windscreen wipers kept swishing to and fro. And waited. No one was around, neither in the square nor in the park. He glanced up at Police HQ before pulling the lever under the wheel. There was a click and the boot lid sprang into the air.

'Come out!' he shouted, looking in the mirror.

The car rocked, the boot lid was opened fully and smacked shut. Then the back door opened and a man hopped in. Шystein studied the drenched, shivering passenger in the mirror.

'You look great, Harry.'

'Thanks.'

'Cool threads too.'

'Not my size, but it's Bjшrn Borg. Lend me your shoes, will you.'

'Eh?'

'I could only find felt slippers in the hall. Can't go on a prison visit wearing them. And your jacket.'

Шystein rolled his eyes and struggled out of his short leather jacket.

'Did you have any trouble getting past the roadblocks?' Harry asked.

'Just on the way in. They had to check I had the name and address of the person I was delivering the package to.'

'I found the name on the door.'

'On my way back, they just looked in the car and waved me through. Thirty seconds passed and then there was a hell of a racket on the radio. Calling all units and so on. Heh, heh.'

'I thought I heard something from the back. You do know it's illegal to tune in to police radio, don't you, Шystein?'

'Well, it's not illegal to tune in. It's illegal to use it. And I almost never use it.'

Harry tied the shoelaces and threw the slippers over the seat to Шystein. 'You'll find your reward in heaven. If they took the number of the taxi and you receive a visit, you'll have to tell them what happened. You got a booking via a mobile and the passenger insisted on lying in the boot.'

'Absolutely. And that's the truth.'

'Truest thing I've heard for a long while.'

Harry took a deep breath and pressed the bell. Not much risk in the first phase, but it was difficult to know how quickly the news that he was a wanted man had spread. After all, police officers were in and out of this prison all the time.

'Yes,' a voice said from the intercom.

'Inspector Harry Hole,' Harry over-articulated, looking into the camera over the entrance with what he hoped was an unruffled expression. 'For Raskol Baxhet.'

'You're not on my list.'

'Really?' Harry said. 'I asked Beate Lшnn to ring you and book me in. Last night, nine o'clock. Just ask Raskol.'

'If it's outside visiting hours, you have to be on the list, Inspector. You'll have to ring during office hours tomorrow.'

Harry shifted weight from one foot to the other. 'What's your name?'

'Bшygset. I'm afraid I can't-'

'Listen here, Bшygset. This visit concerns information for an important police case which cannot wait until tomorrow. I imagine you've heard the sirens going off all round Police HQ this evening, haven't you?'

'Yes, but-'

'Right, unless you'd like to answer the papers' questions tomorrow about how you messed up the schedule, I suggest we move on from robot mode and press the common-sense button. That's the one right in front of you, Bшygset.'

Harry stared into the lifeless camera eye. One-thousand-and-one, one-thousand-and-two. The lock buzzed.

Raskol was sitting in a chair in his cell when Harry was let in.

'Thank you for confirming the visit,' Harry said, looking around the four-by-two-metre cell. A bed, a desk, two cupboards, a few books. No radio, no magazines, no personal effects, bare walls.

'This is how I prefer it,' Raskol said in answer to Harry's thoughts. 'It focuses the mind.'

'Then feel how this focuses the mind,' Harry said, perching on the edge of the bed. 'Arne Albu didn't kill Anna after all. You got the wrong man. You have innocent blood on your hands, Raskol.'