Jo Nesbo - Nemesis

'Death to whom?' Harry asked.

'To all.'

'That's insane,' Beate burst out.

'In fact, that's what I'm saying,' Aune said drily.

They went into the dining room. Aune tested one of the old, upright chairs at the long, narrow oak table. 'They don't make them like this any more.'

Beate groaned. 'But why should she take her own life…just to get even? There must be other ways.'

'Of course,' Aune said. 'But suicide is often an act of revenge in itself. You want to inflict a sense of guilt on those who have failed you. Anna just ratcheted it up a few notches. Besides, there was every reason to suspect that she didn't want to live any longer. She was lonely, rejected by her lovers and her own family. She had failed as an artist and resorted to drugs, but that didn't help. She was, in sum, a deeply disappointed, unhappy person who chose premeditated suicide. And vengeance.'

'Without any moral scruples?' Harry asked.

'The morality angle is interesting, of course.' Aune crossed his arms. 'Our society imposes on us a moral duty to live and, hence, to condemn suicide. However, with her apparent admiration for antiquity, Anna may have found her prop in the Greek philosophers, who thought every person should choose for themselves when they die. Nietzsche also considered that the individual had a full moral right to take his own life. He used the word freitod or voluntary death.' Aune raised a pointed index finger. 'But she had to confront another moral dilemma. Revenge. Insofar as she professed to be a Christian, Christian ethics demand that you should not take revenge. The paradox is, naturally, that Christians worship a God who is the greatest avenger of them all. Defy him and you burn in eternal hell, an act of revenge which is completely out of proportion to the crime, almost a case for Amnesty International, if you ask me. And if-'

'Perhaps she just hated?'

Aune and Harry both turned towards Beate. She looked up at them in fear, as if the words had slipped out by mistake.

'Morality,' she whispered. 'Love of life. Love. And yet hatred is strongest.'

Phosphorescence

Harry stood by the open window listening to the distant ambulance siren slowly fading in the rumble of noise from the urban cauldron. The house Rakel had inherited from her father lay high above everything happening in the carpet of light he could glimpse between the tall pine trees in the garden. He liked to stand looking at the trees, wondering how long they had been there and feeling the thought calm him. And at the lights from the town so reminiscent of marine phosphorescence. He had seen it only once, one night when his grandfather had taken him out in a rowing boat to shine a light on the crabs by Svartholmen. It was only the one night, but he would never forget it. It was one of those things that become brighter and more real with every year that passes. Not everything is like that. How many nights had he spent with Anna? How many times had they set off in the Danish skipper's boat and sailed wherever their whim took them? He couldn't remember. Soon all the rest would be forgotten too. Sad? Yes. Sad and necessary.

Nevertheless, there were two Anna moments he knew would never quite be erased. Two almost identical images, both with her thick hair spread across the pillow like a black fan, eyes wide open and one hand clutching the white, white sheet. The difference was the other hand. In one image, her fingers were interlaced with his; in the other they held a pistol.

'Could you close the window?' Rakel said behind him. She was sitting on the sofa, her legs tucked beneath her, a glass of red wine in hand. Oleg had just gone to bed happy, after smashing Harry at Tetris for the first time, and Harry was frightened an era had just passed irrevocably.

The news had nothing new to say. Old refrains: the military crusade against the East, reprisals against the West. They had switched off the TV and put on the Stone Roses, which to Harry's surprise and joy had been in Rakel's record collection. Youth. That was a time when nothing pleased him more than to see arrogant English kids with guitars and attitude. Now he liked the Kings of Convenience because they sang with precision and sounded only a touch less stupid than Donovan. And the Stone Roses on low volume. Sad but true. Maybe necessary. Things went in circles. He closed the window and promised himself he would take Oleg out to an island and shine a torch on crabs as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

'Down, down, down,' mumbled the Stone Roses from the loudspeakers. Rakel bent forward and took a sip of wine. 'It's a story as old as the hills,' she whispered. 'Two brothers who love the same woman, the very recipe for a tragedy.'

They fell silent, entwined their fingers and listened to each other's breathing.

'Did you love her?' she asked.

Harry considered the question carefully before answering: 'I don't remember. It was a time in my life which was very…muddled.'

She stroked his chin. 'Do you know what I think is such an odd thought? This woman I have never seen or met entered your flat, walked around and saw the photo of the three of us in Frognerseteren on your mirror. Knowing she would spoil everything. And you two perhaps loved each other after all.'

'Mm. She had planned all the details long before she knew about you and Oleg. She got hold of Ali's signature this summer.'

'Imagine the trouble she must have had forging his signature, being left-handed.'

'I hadn't thought about that.' He twisted his head in her lap and looked up at her. 'Shall we talk about something else? What would you say if I rang my father and asked if we could use the house in Еndalsnes next summer? The weather's usually crap, but there's a boat-house and my grandfather's rowing boat.'

Rakel laughed. Harry closed his eyes. He loved her laughter. If he was careful not to put a foot wrong, he thought, perhaps he might be allowed to listen to that laugh for a long time to come.

Harry awoke with a start. Scrambled up into a sitting position and gasped for breath. He had been dreaming, but he couldn't recall what. His heart was beating like a bass drum gone wild. Had he been under water in the swimming pool in Bangkok again? Or facing the killer in the suite at the SAS hotel? His head ached.

'What's the matter?' Rakel mumbled in the dark.

'Nothing,' Harry whispered. 'Go back to sleep.'

He got up, went to the bathroom and drank a glass of water. The drawn, ashen face in the mirror peered back at him. There was a gale blowing outside. The branches of the great oak in the garden scraped against the wall. Poked him in the shoulder. Tickled his neck and made the hairs stand on end. Harry filled his glass again and drank slowly. He remembered now. What he had been dreaming. A boy sitting on the school roof, dangling his legs. Who wouldn't go in to the lesson. Whose little brother wrote his essays. Who showed his brother's new love all the places they had played when they were young. Harry had dreamed a recipe for tragedy.

When he crept back under the duvet, Rakel was asleep. He stared at the ceiling and began to wait for first light.

The clock on the bedside table showed 05.03 when he could stand it no longer, got up, rang directory enquiries and wrote down Jean Hue's private telephone number.

Heinrich Schirmer

Beate awoke when the doorbell rang for the third time.

She rolled over and looked at the clock. A quarter past five. She lay wondering what the wisest move would be-tell him to go to hell or pretend she wasn't at home. Another ring, of a kind which made it clear he wasn't going to give up.

She sighed, got up and wrapped her dressing gown around her. She took the intercom phone.