Jo Nesbo - The Redbreast

'Even more wonderful to get away from the Skien air, I would think.' Folldal took off his cap and straightened his back. Bertelsen smiled: 'Contrary to what people say, the air in Skien is cleaner than in any other Norwegian town.'

Harry cupped his hands round a match and lit his cigarette.

'Is that right? I'll have to remember that. Have you found anything?'

'Over there.'

The other three put on their skis, and with Folldal in the lead they trudged along a track to a clearing in the forest. Folldal pointed with his pole to a black rock protruding twenty centimetres above the snow.

'The boy found the shells in the snow by that rock. I reckon it was a hunter out practising. You can see the ski tracks nearby. It hasn't snowed for over a week, so they could well be his. Looks like he was wearing those broad Telemark skis.'

Harry crouched down. He ran a finger along the rock where it met the broad ski track.

'Or old wooden skis.'

'Oh yes?'

He held up a tiny splinter of wood.

'Well, I never,' Folldal said, looking across at Bertelsen.

Harry turned to the boy. He was wearing a pair of baggy hunting trousers with pockets everywhere and a woollen cap pulled down well over his head.

'Which side of the rock did you find the cartridges?'

The boy pointed. Harry took off his skis, walked round the rock and lay on his back in the snow. The sky was light blue now, as it is on clear winter days just before the sun goes down. Then he rolled on to his side and peered over the rock. He followed the clearing in the forest where they had come in. There were four tree stumps in the clearing.

'Did you find any bullets or signs of shooting?'

Folldal scratched the back of his neck. 'Do you mean, have we examined every tree trunk within a half-kilometre radius?'

Bertelsen discreetly placed a gloved hand over Folldal's mouth. Harry flicked his ash and studied the glowing end of his cigarette.

'No, I mean, did you check the tree stumps over there?'

'And why should we have examined those particular stumps?' Folldal asked.

'Because Marklin make the world's heaviest rifle. A gun weighing fifteen kilos is not an attractive option for a standing shot, so it would be natural to assume that he rested it on this rock to take aim. Marklin rifles eject bullet casings to the right. Since the spent shells were found on the right of the stone, he must have been shooting in the direction we have come from. So it would not be unreasonable to assume that he positioned something on one of the tree stumps to aim at, would it?'

Bertelsen and Folldal looked at each other.

'Well, we'd better check that out.'

'Unless this is a bloody big bark beetle…' Bertelsen said three minutes later,'… then this is a bloody big bullet hole.'

He kneeled down in the snow and poked his finger into one of the tree stumps. 'Shit, the bullet's gone in a long way. I can't feel it.'

'Take a look inside,' Harry said.

'Why?'

'To see if it's gone right through,' Harry answered.

'Right through that enormous spruce?'

'Just take a look and see if you can see daylight.' Harry heard Folldal snort behind him. Bertelsen put his eye to the hole.

'Mother of Jesus…'

'Can you see anything?' Folldal shouted.

'Only half the course of the bloody Siljan river.' Harry turned towards Folldal, who had turned his back to him to spit.

Bertelsen got to his feet. 'A bulletproof vest won't help much if you're shot with one of those bastards, will it,' he groaned.

'Not at all,' Harry said. 'The only thing that would help would be armour-plating.' He stubbed his cigarette against the tree stump and corrected himself: 'Thick armour-plating.'

He stood on his skis, sliding them back and forth in the snow.

'We'll have to have a chat with the people in the neighbouring chalets,' Bertelsen said. 'They may have seen or heard something. Or they may feel like admitting they own this rifle from hell.'

'After we had the arms amnesty last year…' Folldal began, but changed his mind when Bertelsen eyeballed him.

Anything else we can do to help?' Bertelsen asked Harry.

'Well,' Harry said, scowling in the direction of the forest path, 'you couldn't help me bump-start the car, could you?'

Rudolf II Hospital, Vienna. 23 June 1944.

It was like deja vu for Helena. The windows were open and the warm summer morning filled the corridor with the perfume of newly mown grass. For two weeks there had been air raids every night, but she didn't even notice the smell of smoke. She was holding a letter in her hand. A wonderful letter! Even the grumpy matron had to smile when Helena sang out her Guten Morgen.

Dr Brockhard looked up from his papers in surprise when Helena burst into his office.

'Well?' he said.

He took off his glasses and directed his stiff gaze at her. She caught a glimpse of the wet tongue sucking the ends of his glasses. She took a seat.

'Christopher,' she began. She hadn't used his Christian name since they were small. 'I have something to tell you.'

'Good,' he said. 'That's exactly what I have been waiting for.'

She knew what he had been waiting for: an explanation for why she still hadn't complied with his wishes and gone to his flat in the main building despite the fact that he had extended Uriah's medical certificate twice. Helena had blamed the bombing, saying that she didn't dare go out. Then he had offered to visit her in her mother's summer house, which she flatly rejected.

'I'll tell you everything,' she said. 'Everything?' he queried with a little smile. Well, she thought, almost everything. 'The morning Uriah -’

‘His name is not Uriah, Helena.'

'The morning he disappeared and you raised the alarm, do you remember that?'

'Naturally'

Brockhard set down his glasses, parallel with the paper in front of him. 'I considered reporting his disappearance to the military police. However, he miraculously reappeared with some story about wandering in the forest for half the night.'

'He wasn't in the forest. He was on the night train from Salzburg.'

'Really?' Brockhard leaned back in his chair with a fixed expression on his face, indicating that he was not a man who liked to express surprise.

'He caught the night train from Vienna before midnight, got off in Salzburg where he waited for an hour and a half for the night train back again. He arrived at the Hauptbahnhof at nine that morning.'

'Hm.' Brockhard focused on the pen he held between his fingertips. 'And what did he give as his reason for this idiotic excursion?'

'Umm,' Helena said, unaware that she was smiling, 'you may remember that I was also late that morning.'

'Yeess…'

'I was also returning from Salzburg.'

'Is that so?'

'That is so.'

'I think you will have to explain, Helena.'

She explained while staring at Brockhard's fingertips. A drop of blood had formed under the pen nib.

'I see,' said Brockhard when she had finished. 'You thought you would go to Paris. And how long did you think you could hide there?'

'It's probably obvious that we didn't think much at all. Uriah thought we should go to America. To New York.'

Brockhard laughed drily. 'You're a very sensible girl, Helena. I can see that this turncoat must have blinded you with his beguiling lies about America. But do you know what?'

'What?'

'I forgive you.'

On seeing her gawp he continued, 'Yes, I forgive you. Perhaps you ought to be punished, but I know how restless young girls' hearts can be.'

'It's not forgiveness I -'

'How's your mother? It must be hard for her now that you are alone. Was it three years' imprisonment your father was given?'

'Four. Would you please listen, Christopher?'