Jo Nesbo - Nemesis

Raskol knocked back his head and drained the glass. Then he beamed.

Harry recollected the seconds afterwards as a video on fast forward. When they were over, he was lying on the floor, held in a neck lock by Raskol, with alcohol in his eyes, the smell of Calvados in his nose and the jagged edge of the broken bottle against his neck.

'There's only one thing more dangerous than excessively high blood pressure, Spiuni,' Raskol whispered. 'And that's excessively low blood pressure. So keep still.'

Harry swallowed and tried to speak, but Raskol squeezed harder and it turned into a groan.

'Sun Tzu is absolutely clear on love and hatred, Spiuni. Both love and hatred win in wars. They're inseparable like Siamese twins. Rage and compassion are the losers.'

'Then we're both about to lose,' Harry groaned.

Raskol tightened his grip again. 'My Anna would never have chosen death.' His voice quivered. 'She loved life.'

Harry wheezed the words: 'Like-you-love-freedom?'

Raskol loosened his grip and with a whine Harry drank air down into his aching lungs. His heart hammered in his head, but the traffic noise outside returned.

'You made your choice,' Harry wheezed. 'You gave yourself up in order to do penance. Incomprehensible to others, but it was your decision. Anna did the same.'

Raskol pressed the bottle against Harry's neck as he tried to move. 'I had my reasons.'

'I know,' Harry said. 'Doing penance is almost as strong an instinct as taking revenge.'

Raskol didn't answer.

'Did you know Beate Lшnn also made a decision? She realised nothing would bring her father back. There is no rage left. She asked me to pay her respects and tell you she forgives you.' A spike of glass scraped against his skin. It sounded like a fountain-pen nib writing on rough paper. Hesitantly writing the last word. Only the full stop was missing. Harry swallowed. 'Now it's your turn to choose, Raskol.'

'Choose between what, Spiuni? Whether you live or die?'

Harry breathed in, trying to keep his panic at a distance. 'Whether you want to set Beate Lшnn free or not. Whether you will tell her what happened on the day you shot her father. Whether you will set yourself free.'

'Me?' Raskol laughed his soft laughter.

'I've found him,' Harry said. 'That is, Beate Lшnn found him.'

'Found whom?'

'He lives in Gothenburg.'

Raskol's laughter stopped abruptly.

'He's lived there for nineteen years,' Harry went on. 'Ever since he discovered you were Anna's real father.'

'You're lying,' Raskol yelled and raised the bottle over his head. Harry felt his mouth go dry and closed his eyes. On opening them again, he saw Raskol's glassy eyes. They breathed in unison; their chests rose and fell together.

Raskol whispered. 'And…Maria?'

Harry had to try twice before he got a sound from his vocal cords. 'No one has heard from her. Someone told Stefan they'd seen her with an itinerant group in Normandy several years ago.'

'Stefan? Have you spoken to him?'

Harry nodded.

'Why did he want to speak to a Spiuni like you?'

Harry tried to shrug, but was unable to move. 'Ask him yourself…'

'Ask…' Raskol stared at Harry in disbelief.

'Simon went to fetch him yesterday. He's sitting in the caravan next door. The police have a couple of issues outstanding, but the officers have been warned not to touch him. He wants to talk to you. The rest is up to you.'

Harry put his hand between the bottle and his neck. Raskol made no attempt to stop him as he stood up. He only asked: 'Why have you done this, Spiuni?'

Harry shrugged. 'You made sure the judges in Moscow allowed Rakel to keep Oleg. I'm giving you a chance to hold onto the only person you have left.' He took the handcuffs out of his jacket pocket and put them on the table. 'Whatever you decide, I consider we're quits now.'

'Quits?'

'You saw to it that mine returned. I have done the same for you.'

'I hear what you say, Harry, but what does it mean?'

'It means I'm going to tell everything I know about Arne Albu's murder. And we'll be after you with everything we possess.'

Raskol raised an eyebrow. 'It would be easier for you if you let it drop, Spiuni. You know you won't get anything on me, so why try?'

'Because we're the police,' Harry said. 'And not giggling concubines.'

Raskol's eyes didn't let go. Then he made a brief bow.

Harry turned in the doorway. The thin man sat bent over the plastic table with the shadows hiding his face.

'You've got until midnight, Raskol. Then the officers will take you back.'

An ambulance siren cut through the traffic noise in Finnmarkgata, rose and sank as if seeking a pure tone.

Medea

Harry carefully pushed open the bedroom door. He thought he could still smell her perfume, but the fragrance was so diffuse he wasn't sure if it came from the room or his memory. The large bed in the middle of the room imposed like a Roman galley. He sat on the mattress, placed his fingers on the cold, white bedsheet, closed his eyes and felt it pitch and roll. A slow, heavy ground swell. Was it here-like this-Anna had waited for him that evening? An angry buzz. Harry looked at his watch. Seven sharp. It was Beate. Aune rang a few minutes later and his double chins were flushed as he came up the stairs. He said a breathless 'Hello' to Beate and all three of them went into the sitting room.

'So you can say who these three portraits represent?' Aune said.

'Arne Albu,' Beate said, pointing to the picture on the left. 'Harry in the middle and Alf Gunnerud on the right.'

'Impressive,' Aune said.

'Well,' Beate said. 'An ant can distinguish between millions of other ant faces in an anthill. Proportionate to body weight, it has a much larger fusiform gyrus than I have.'

'I'm afraid then my own is extremely under-developed,' Aune said. 'Can you see anything, Harry?'

'I can certainly see a little more than when Anna first showed me. Now I know it's these three who have been indicted, by her.' Harry motioned towards the female figure holding the three lamps. 'Nemesis, the goddess of justice and vengeance.'

'Which the Romans pinched off the Greeks,' Aune said. 'They kept the scales, changed the whip for a sword, bound her eyes and called her Justitia.' He went to the lamp. 'When, in 600 BC, they began to think the system of blood revenge didn't work and decided to exact revenge from the individual and make it a public affair, it was precisely this woman who became the symbol of the modern constitutional state.' He stroked the cold, bronze woman. 'Blind justice. Cold-blooded vengeance. Our civilisation rests in her hands. Isn't she beautiful?'

'As beautiful as an electric chair,' Harry said. 'Anna's revenge wasn't exactly cold-blooded.'

'It was both cold-blooded and hot-blooded,' Aune said. 'Premeditated and impassioned at the same time. She must have been very sensitive. Psychologically damaged of course, but then we all are. Basically, it is just a question of the degree of damage.'

'And how was Anna damaged?'

'I never met her, so it will have to be a pure guess.'

'Go on then,' Harry said.

'On the subject of ancient gods, I assume you have heard of Narkissos, the Greek god who became so enamoured of his own reflection that he couldn't tear himself away? Freud introduced the concept of a narcissist to psychology, a person with an exaggerated sense of uniqueness, obsessed by the dream of boundless success. For the narcissist the need for revenge against those who have affronted him or her is often greater than all other needs. It is called the "narcissist's rage". The American psychoanalyst Heinz Kohut has described how such a person would seek to avenge the affront-which may seem a mere bagatelle to us-with whatever means they have at their disposal. For instance, what would seem on the surface to be a standard rejection might result in the narcissist working tirelessly, with a compulsive determination, to redress the balance, causing death if necessary.'