Jo Nesbo - The Redbreast

'Single room or double?' Betty asked. 'Smoker or non-smoker?' Most started to falter at that point.

'Doesn't make any difference,' the old man said. 'The most important thing is the view. I'd like to see one facing south-west.'

'Yes, you'll be able to see the whole town from there.'

'Quite so. What is the best room you have?'

'The best is obviously the Palace Suite, but wait a moment. Shall I check if we have a standard room available?'

She clattered away on the keyboard and waited to see if he would take the bait. It didn't take long.

'I'd like to see the suite.'

Of course you would, she thought. She cast her eye over the old man. Betty was not an unreasonable woman. If an old man's greatest wish was to see the view from the SAS hotel, she wouldn't stand in his way.

'Let's go and have a look,' she said, flashing her most radiant smile, which was usually reserved for regular guests.

Are you visiting someone here in Oslo?' she asked out of politeness in the lift.

'No,' the old man said. He had white bushy eyebrows like her father. Betty pressed the lift button, the doors slid to and the lift was set in motion. She never got used to it-it was like being sucked up to heaven. The doors slid open and, as always, she half expected she would come out into a new and different world, more or less like the girl in The Wizard of Oz. But it was always the same old world. They walked through the corridors with matching wallpaper and carpets and expensive art on the walls. She put the key card in the lock of the suite, then said, 'After you,' and held the door open for the man, who slipped by with what she interpreted as an air of expectation.

'The Palace Suite measures 105 square metres,' Betty said. 'The suite has two bedrooms, each with their own king-size bed, and two bathrooms, each with Jacuzzi and telephone.'

She went into the room where the old man had taken up a position by the window.

'The furniture was designed by Poul Henriksen, a Danish designer,' she said, stroking her hand over the paper-thin glass top on the coffee table. 'Perhaps you would like to see the bathrooms?'

The old man didn't answer. He had kept his soaking-wet hat on, and in the silence that followed Betty heard a drip land on the cherrywood parquet floor. She stood beside him. From here they could see everything that was worth seeing: the Town Hall, the National Theatre, the Palace, the Norwegian Parliament-the Storting-and Akershus Fortress. Beneath them lay the Palace Gardens, where the trees pointed up towards a leaden grey sky with black splayed witches' fingers.

'You ought to come here on a fine spring day,' Betty said.

The old man turned and sent her an uncomprehending look, and Betty realised what she had just said. She might as well have added: Since you have only come here to take in the view.

She passed it off with a smile as well as she could. 'When the grass is green and the leaves are on the trees in the Palace Gardens. It's absolutely beautiful then.'

He studied her face, but his thoughts appeared to be elsewhere.

'You're right,' he said at last. 'Trees have leaves. I didn't think about that.'

He pointed to the window. 'Does this open?'

'A little,' Betty said, relieved at the change of topic. 'You twist the handle there.'

'Why only a little?'

'In case someone should get any silly ideas.'

'Silly ideas?'

She shot him a quick glance. Was the old man going a bit senile?

'Take a hike,' she said. 'Commit suicide, I mean. There are a lot of unhappy people who…' She made a gesture with her hand which was intended to illustrate what unhappy people do.

'So that's a silly idea, is it?' The old man rubbed his chin. Did she detect the hint of a smile among the wrinkles? 'Even if you're unhappy?'

'Yes,' Betty said resolutely. At least, in this hotel while I'm on duty'

'While I'm on duty.' The old man chuckled. 'That was a good one, Betty Andresen.'

The mention of her name made her jump. Of course, he had read it on her name tag. There was nothing wrong with his eyesight then; the letters forming her name were as small as the letters of receptionist were large. She pretended to take a discreet peek at the clock.

'Yes,' he said. 'You've probably got other more important things to do.'

'I suppose I have,' she said.

'I'll take it,' the old man said.

'I beg your pardon?'

'I'll take the room. Not for tonight, but -'

'You're taking the room?'

'Yes. It is available for booking, isn't it?'

'Mm, yes it is, but… it's terribly expensive.'

'I prefer to pay in advance.'

The old man pulled out a wallet from his inside pocket and removed a wad of notes.

'No, no, I didn't mean it like that, but 7,000 for one night. You wouldn't rather see -?'

'I like this room,' the old man said. 'Please count it, just in case.' Betty stared at the thousand-kroner notes he wafted in front of her.

'We can sort out the payment when you come,' she said. 'Mm, when would you like to…?'

'As you recommended, Betty. One day in the spring.'

'Right. Any particular day?'

'Of course.'

Police HQ. 5 November 1999.

Bjarne Moller sighed and gazed out of the window. His thoughts wandered freely as they had tended to do of late. The rain had held off, although the leaden grey sky still hung low over police HQ in Gronland. A dog trotted over the brown, lifeless lawn outside. There was a Crime Squad post vacant in Bergen. The deadline for applications was next week. He had heard from a colleague over there that it only rained twice every autumn in Bergen: from September to November, and from November to New Year. They always exaggerated, folk from Bergen did. He'd been there and he liked the town. It was a long way from the politicians in Oslo and it was small. He liked small.

'What?' Moller turned and met Harry's resigned expression.

'You were in the process of explaining to me that a move would do me good.'

'Oh?'

'Your words, boss.'

'Oh yes. Yes, that's right. We have to make sure we don't get stuck in a rut, with old habits and routines. We have to move on and develop. We have to get away'

'There's getting away and getting away. POT is only three floors up.'

'Get away from everything, I mean. The head of the Security Service, Meirik, thinks you'll fit superbly into the post he has for you up there.’

‘Don't jobs like that have to be advertised?’

‘Don't worry about it, Harry.'

'No? But can I be allowed to wonder why on earth you want me in surveillance work. Do I look like undercover material?’

‘No, no.’

‘No?'

'I mean yes. Not yes exactly, but well… why not?’

‘Why not?'

Moller scratched the back of his head furiously. His face had turned fiery red.

'For fuck's sake, Harry. We're offering you a job as an inspector, five notches up the pay scale, no more night shifts and a bit more respect from the bloody rookies. That's good going, Harry.'

'I like night shifts.'

'No one likes night shifts.'

'Why don't you give me the vacant inspector's post here?’

‘Harry! Do me a favour and just say yes.'

Harry fidgeted with his paper cup. 'Boss,' he said. 'How long have we known each other?'

Moller raised an admonitory finger. 'Don't try that one on me. Not the we've-been-through-thick-and-thin-together number…'

'Seven years. And for seven years I've interviewed people in this city who are probably the most stupid beings to walk on two legs, and still I haven't met anyone who is a worse liar than you. Perhaps I'm stupid, but I still have a couple of brain cells left doing the best they can, and they're telling me that it can't exactly be my record that's earned me this post. Nor that, to my astonishment, I can suddenly have one of the best scores in the department at the annual shooting test. They're telling me that my plugging a Secret Service agent might have something to do with it. And you don't need to say a thing, boss.'