Jo Nesbo - The Redbreast

'- we need a hero,' the Chief Constable added.

'Excuse me,' Moller said. 'Am I the only person here who doesn't get the nub of this?' He made a relatively unsuccessful attempt to add a brief chuckle.

'The officer showed presence of mind in what was a potentially threatening situation for the President,' Brandhaug said. 'If the person in the booth had been an assassin, which he was obliged to assume, in line with instructions laid down for this particular scenario, he would have saved the President's life. The fact that the individual turned out not to be an assassin doesn't change anything.'

'That's right,' Anne Storksen said. 'In such situations instructions take precedence over personal assessment.'

Meirik didn't say anything, but nodded in assent.

'Good,' Brandhaug said. 'The "nub", as you call it, Bjarne, is to convince the press, our superiors and everyone who has had any dealings with this case that we have had not a second's doubt that our liaison officer acted correctly. The "nub" is that we must behave as if to all practical intents and purposes he performed an heroic deed.'

Brandhaug could see Moller's consternation.

'Were we not to reward the officer, we would already have half-admitted that he made an error of judgment in shooting the agent, and, accordingly, that the security arrangements during the President's visit were wanting.'

Nods of assent around the table.

'Ergo…' Brandhaug said. He loved the word. It was a word clothed in armour, almost invincible because it called upon the authority of logic. From this it follows that.

'Ergo, we give him a medal?' It was Rakel again.

Brandhaug felt a twinge of irritation. The way she said 'medal'. As if they were writing the manuscript of a comedy in which all sorts of amusing suggestions were pounced on with enthusiasm. That his presentation was a comedy.

'No,' he said slowly, with emphasis. 'Not a medal. Medals and distinctions do not have the gravitas. Nor do they give us the credibility we are after.' He leaned back in the chair, his hands behind his head. 'Let's promote the guy. Let's make him an inspector.'

A long silence ensued.

'Inspector?' Bjarne Moller stared at Brandhaug in disbelief. 'For shooting a Secret Service agent?'

'It may sound a little macabre, but give it some thought.'

'It's…' Moller blinked and seemed to be on the point of saying a great deal, but he chose to keep his mouth shut.

'He does not have to perform the same duties that usually pertain to the rank of inspector,' Brandhaug heard the Chief Constable say. The words came with some hesitation. As if threading cotton through the eye of a needle.

'We have given this a little thought too, Anne,' he answered with gentle emphasis on her name. It was the first time he had used her Christian name. One of her eyebrows gave a slight jerk, but otherwise he didn't see anything to suggest that she objected. He continued: 'The problem is that if all the colleagues of this trigger-happy liaison officer of yours consider the promotion conspicuous and start to think of the tide as window-dressing, then we haven't got very far. That is, we haven't got anywhere at all. If they suspect a cover-up, rumours will immediately begin to fly, and we will give the impression that we have consciously tried to hide the fact that we, you, this policeman, committed a blunder. In other words, we have to give him a post where it seems reasonable that no one can keep too close an eye on what he is actually doing. Put another way, a promotion combined with a move to a screened operation.'

'A screened operation. A free hand.' Rakel gave a wry smile. 'Sounds like you're thinking of sending him over to us.'

'What do you think, Kurt?' Brandhaug said.

Kurt Meirik scratched behind his ear while chuckling quietly.

'Yes,' he said. 'We can always find a home for an inspector, I reckon.'

Brandhaug bowed. 'That would be a great help.'

'Yes, we have to help each other when we can.'

'Terrific,' Brandhaug said with a broad smile and a glance at the clock on the wall to indicate that the meeting was over. Chairs scraped.

Sanksthanshaugen. 4 November 1999.

Over the speakers, Prince was partying like it was 1999.

Ellen looked over at Tom Waaler, who had just that minute shoved a cassette into the machine and turned up the volume so loud that the bass was making the dashboard vibrate. Prince's shrill falsetto pierced her eardrums.

'Groovy or what?' Tom shouted above the music. Ellen didn't really want to offend him, so she simply shook her head. Not that she had any preconceptions that Tom Waaler was easy to offend, but she had decided not to go against the grain for as long as it was possible. She hoped until the pairing of Tom Waaler with Ellen Gjelten came to an end. Bjarne Moller, the head of their section, had definitely said that the pairing was only provisional. Everyone knew that Tom would get the new inspector's post in the spring.

'Black poof,' Tom shouted. 'Too much.'

Ellen didn't answer. It was raining so hard that, even with the wipers on full speed, the water lay like a soft filter on the windscreen and made the buildings in Ullevalsveien look like soft toy houses undulating to and fro. Moller had sent them off this morning to find Harry. They had already rung his flat in Sofies gate and established that he was not at home. Or he didn't want to open up. Or he wasn't capable of opening up. Ellen feared the worst. She watched people hurrying along the pavement. They had distorted, bizarre features too, like in crazy mirrors at the fair.

'Turn left here and pull over outside Schroder's,' she said. 'You can wait in the car and I'll go in.'

'Fine with me,' Waaler said. 'Drunks are the worst.'

She glanced at him from the side, but his expression didn't betray whether he meant Schroder's morning clientele in general or Harry in particular. He pulled into the bus stop outside and as Ellen got out she saw that a Kaffebrenneri had opened on the other side of the street. Or perhaps it had been there for ages and she simply hadn't noticed it. On the bar stools along the windows young people in roll-necked sweaters sat reading foreign newspapers or staring out into the rain, holding large white coffee cups between their hands, presumably wondering if they had chosen the right subject at university, the right designer sofa, the right partner, the right football club or the right European town.

In the doorway to Schroder's she almost bumped into a man wearing an Icelandic sweater. The alcohol had washed nearly all the blue from his irises; his hands were as big as frying pans and black with dirt. Ellen caught the sweet smell of sweat and stale alcohol as he sailed past. Inside, there was a slow morning atmosphere. Only four of the tables were occupied. Ellen had been there before, a long time ago, and as far as she could determine nothing had changed. Large pictures of Oslo in centuries past hung on the walls, and the brown paintwork and the faux glass ceiling in the middle gave it a little of the feel of an English pub. Very little, if you were absolutely honest. The plastic tables and benches made it look more like the smokers' saloon bar on a ferry along the More coast. At the back of the room a waitress wearing an apron was leaning against a counter and smoking while keeping half an eye on Ellen. Harry was sitting right in the corner near the window with his head down over the table. A half-empty beer glass in front of him.

'Hi,' Ellen said, taking a seat opposite him.

Harry looked up and nodded. As if he had been waiting exclusively for her. His head slipped down again.

'We've been trying to get hold of you. We rang your flat.'

'Was I at home?' he said in a flat tone, no smile.

'I don't know. Are you at home, Harry?' She indicated the glass. He shrugged.