Jo Nesbo - Nemesis

There was a knock at the door. It was Simon. 'Tess would like you to tell her a goodnight story tomorrow, too,' he said, stepping inside. Harry had told her how the kangaroo had learned to jump and had been rewarded with a goodnight hug by all the children.

The two men smoked in silence. Harry pointed to the photograph on the wall. 'That's Raskol and his brother, isn't it? Stefan, Anna's father?'

Simon nodded.

'Where's Stefan now?'

Simon shrugged, not really interested, and Harry knew the subject was taboo.

'They look like good friends in the photo,' Harry said.

'They were like Siamese twins, you know. Pals. Raskol did two prison stretches for Stefan.' Simon laughed. 'I can see you're taken aback, my friend. It's the tradition. Can you understand? It's an honour to take a brother's or a father's punishment, you know.'

'The police don't exactly feel the same way.'

'They couldn't tell Raskol and Stefan apart. Gypsy brothers. Not easy for Norwegian police.' He grinned and offered Harry a cigarette. 'Especially when they were wearing masks.'

Harry took a drag on his cigarette and took a shot in the dark. 'What came between them?'

'What do you think?' Simon opened his eyes open wide in a dramatic gesture. 'A woman, of course.'

'Anna?'

Simon didn't answer, but Harry knew he was getting warm. 'Was the reason Stefan didn't want anything to do with Anna because she had met a gadjo?'

Simon stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. 'It wasn't Anna, but Anna had a mother. Goodnight, Spiuni.'

'Mm. Just one last question?'

Simon paused.

'What does spiuni mean?'

Simon chuckled. 'It's an abbreviation of spiuni gjerman-German spy. But relax, my friend, there's no offence meant. It's even used as a boy's name in some places.'

Then he closed the door and was gone.

The wind had dropped and all you could hear now was the drone of traffic in Finnmarkgata. Yet Harry was unable to fall asleep.

Beate lay in bed listening to the cars outside. As a child she had often fallen asleep to his voice. The stories he told were not in any book; they were created as he spoke. They were never quite the same even if they occasionally started in the same way and they involved the same people: two wicked thieves, a clever daddy and his brave daughter. And they always ended well with the thieves behind lock and key.

Beate could never recall seeing her father read. When she grew up, she realised her father suffered from something they called dyslexia. But for that, he would have been a lawyer, her mother had said.

'Just as we want you to be.'

But the stories hadn't been about lawyers, and when Beate told her she had been accepted at Police College, her mother had cried.

Beate awoke with a start. Someone had rung the bell. She groaned and swung her legs out of bed.

'It's me,' the voice in the intercom said.

'I told you I didn't want to see you any more,' Beate said, shivering in her thin dressing gown. 'Go away.'

'I'll go when I've apologised. It wasn't me. I'm not like that. I just…lost control. Please, Beate. Only five minutes.'

She hesitated. Her neck was still stiff and Harry had noticed the bruises.

'I have a present with me,' the voice said.

She sighed. She would have to meet him some time whatever happened. Better to sort things out here than at work. She pressed the button, tightened her dressing gown around her and waited in the doorway listening to his footsteps coming up the stairs.

'Hi,' he said, on seeing her, and smiled. A big, white David Hasselhoff smile.

Fusiform Gyrus

Tom Waaler passed her the present, taking great care not to touch her since she still had the frightened body language of an antelope, which predators can smell. Instead he walked past her into the sitting room, and sat himself on the sofa. She followed and remained standing. He looked around. He found himself in young women's flats at regular intervals and they were all furnished more or less in the same way. Personal but unoriginal, snug but dull.

'Aren't you going to open it?' he asked. She did as he requested.

'A CD,' she said, puzzled.

'Not any CD,' he said. 'Purple Rain. Put it on and you'll understand.'

He studied her as she switched on the pathetic all-in-one radio she and others like her called a stereo. Frшken Lшnn wasn't exactly good-looking. Sweet in her way, though. Body was a bit uninspiring, not many curves to get hold of, but slim and fit. She had liked what he did with her and exhibited a healthy enthusiasm. At least the first few times when he had taken it a bit piano. Yes, in fact, it had lasted more than just the one time. Surprising really because she wasn't his type at all.

Then one evening he had given her the full treatment. And she-in common with most women he met-had not been entirely on the same wavelength. Which only made the whole thing even more appealing to him, but generally it meant that was the last time he heard from them. Which was no skin off his nose. Beate should be happy; it could have been a lot worse. A few evenings before, out of the blue, she had told him where she had seen him for the first time.

'In Grьnerlшkka,' she had said. 'It was evening and you were sitting in a red car. The streets were full of people and your window was rolled down. It was winter time. Last year.'

He had been pretty amazed. Especially since the only evening he could recall being in Grьnerlшkka last winter was the Saturday evening they had expedited Ellen Gjelten into the beyond.

'I remember faces,' she had said with a triumphant smile when she saw his reaction. 'Fusiform gyrus. It's the part of your brain which recognises the shape of faces. Mine is abnormal. I should be doing turns at a fair.'

'I see,' he said. 'What else can you remember?'

'You were talking to someone.'

He had supported himself on his elbows, leaned over her and stroked her larynx with his thumb. Felt the throb of her pulse; she was like a startled leveret. Or was it his own pulse he had felt?

'I suppose you can remember the other face, too, can you?' he had asked, his brain already in overdrive. Did anyone know she was here tonight? Had she kept her mouth shut about their relationship, as he had asked? Did he have any bin bags under the sink?

She had turned to him with a puzzled smile: 'What do you mean?'

'Would you recognise the other person if you saw a photograph?'

She had given him a long look. Kissed him circumspectly.

'Well?' he had said, bringing his other hand up from under the duvet.

'Mm. Mm, no. He had his back to me.'

'But you could remember the clothes he was wearing? If you were asked to identify him, I mean?'

She had shaken her head. 'The fusiform gyrus only recognises faces. The rest of my brain is absolutely normal.'

'But you remember the colour of the car I was in?'

She had laughed and snuggled up to him. 'That must mean I liked what I saw, didn't I?'

He had surreptitiously removed his hand from her neck.

Two evenings later he had let her have the whole show. And she hadn't liked what she had been forced to see. Or hear. Or feel.

The opening lines of 'When Doves Cry' blasted from the speakers.

She turned down the volume.

'What do you want?' she asked, sitting down in the armchair.

'As I said. To apologise.'

'You've done that now. So let's draw a line under that, shall we?' She made a show of yawning. 'I was on my way to bed, Tom.'

He could feel his anger mounting. Not the red mist which distorted and obscured, but the white heat which glowed and brought clarity and energy. 'OK, let's get down to business. Where's Harry Hole?'

Beate laughed. Prince let out a falsetto scream.