Jo Nesbo - The Redbreast

Harry was considering what Ellen had said about the murder of Hallgrim Dale as he walked to the canteen to buy a yoghurt. He would ring Kripos to find out more about the case, although he had a strong feeling that Ellen had already told him everything worth knowing. Nevertheless. The statistical probability of being murdered in Norway was about one in ten thousand. When a person you're looking for turns up dead in a four-month-old murder case, it is difficult to believe that it is a coincidence. Could the murder be linked in any way with the purchase of the Marklin rifle? It was barely 9 a.m. and Harry already had a headache. He hoped Ellen would be able to come up with something on the Prince. Anything at all. If nothing else, it would be a place to begin.

Sogn. 6 March 2000.

After work Harry drove up to the sheltered housing in Sogn. Sis was waiting for him. She had put on a bit of weight in the last year, but her boyfriend Henrik, who lived further down the corridor, liked her like that, she claimed. 'But then Henrik is a mongo.'

She usually said that when she had to explain Henrik's minor idiosyncrasies. She, for her part, was not a mongo. There was obviously an almost invisible though sharp distinction somewhere. And Sis liked to explain to Harry which of the residents were mongos, and those who were only almost.

She told Harry about the usual things: what Henrik had said last week (which could on occasion be quite remarkable), what they had seen on TV, what they had eaten and where they planned to go on holiday. They were always planning holidays. This time it was Hawaii and Harry could only smile at the thought of Sis and Henrik in Hawaiian shirts at the airport in Honolulu.

He asked if she had talked to Dad, and she said he had visited her two days ago.

'That's good,' Harry said.

I think he's forgotten Mum now,' Sis said. 'That's good.'

Harry stayed in his chair for a moment, thinking about what she had said. Then Henrik knocked on the door and said Hotel Caesar, a soap opera, was beginning on TV2 in three minutes, so Harry put on his coat and promised to phone soon.

The traffic by the lights at Ulleval Stadium was as sluggish as usual, and he realised too late that he would have to turn right at the ring road because of roadworks. He thought about what Constance Hochner had told him. Uriah had used a middleman, probably a Norwegian. It meant there was someone out there who knew who Uriah was. He had already asked Linda to go through the secret archives to find someone with the nickname 'the Prince', but he was fairly sure she wouldn't find anyone. He had a definite feeling that this man was smarter than the average criminal. If it was true what Andreas Hochner said-that the Prince was a regular customer-it meant that he had managed to build up his own clientele without POT or anyone else finding out. Something like that takes time and requires care, cunning and discipline-none of which were characteristics of the gangsters Harry knew. Of course, he might have had more than his share of good fortune, since he hadn't been arrested. Or he might have a position which protected him. Constance Hochner had said that he spoke good English. He could be a diplomat, for example-someone who could travel in and out of the country without being stopped at customs.

Harry came off the ring road at Slemdalsveien and drove up towards Holmenkollen.

Should he ask Meirik if he could have Ellen provisionally transferred to POT? Meirik seemed more intent on him counting neo-Nazis and going to social events than chasing wartime ghosts.

Harry had driven right up to her house before he realised where he was. He stopped the car and stared between the trees. It was fifty or so metres to the house from the main road. There was light in the windows on the ground floor.

'Idiot,' he said aloud and started at the sound of his own voice. He was about to drive off when he saw the front door open and light fall on the steps. The thought that she might see and recognise his car put him in a state of panic. He slotted the car into reverse so that he could back quietly and discreetly up the hill and out of sight, but he didn't have his foot hard enough on the accelerator and the engine died. He heard voices. A tall man in a long, dark coat had come out on to the steps. He was talking, but the person he was talking to was hidden by the door. Then he leaned in towards the door opening and Harry could no longer see them.

They're kissing, he thought. I've driven up to Holmenkollen to spy on a woman I've talked to for fifteen minutes kissing her boyfriend.

Then the door closed, and the man got into an Audi and drove past him down to the main road.

On his way home Harry wondered how he should punish himself. It had to be something severe, something that would have a deterrent effect for the future. An aerobics class at Focus.

Drammen. 7 March 2000.

Harry had never understood exactly why Drammen came in for so much criticism. The town wasn't a beauty, but was it so much uglier than most of the other overgrown villages in Norway? He considered stopping for a cup of coffee at Borsen, but a quick check of his watch revealed that he didn't have enough time.

Edvard Mosken lived in a red wooden house with a view of the trotting track. An oldish Mercedes estate was parked outside the garage. Mosken himself was standing at the front door. He examined Harry's ID carefully before saying anything.

'Born in 1965? You look older than that, Inspector Hole.'

'Bad genes.'

'Bad luck for you.'

'Well, they let me into eighteen-certificate films when I was fourteen.'

It was impossible to discern whether Edvard Mosken appreciated the joke or not. He motioned for Harry to go in.

'You live alone?' Harry asked as Mosken led the way to the sitting room. The flat was clean and well-kept; few personal ornaments and just as exaggeratedly neat as some men like to be when they are allowed to choose for themselves. It reminded Harry of his own flat.

'Yes. My wife left me after the war.’

‘Left?'

'Upped sticks. Cleared off. Went on her way.’

‘I see. Children?’

‘I had a son.’

‘Had?'

Edvard Mosken stopped and turned round. 'Am I not expressing myself clearly, Inspector Hole?' One white eyebrow was raised, forming a sharp angle on the high, open forehead.

'No, it's me,' Harry said. 'I have to be spoonfed.’

‘OK. I have a son.'

'Thank you. What did you do before you retired?’

‘I owned a few lorries. Mosken Transport. Sold the business seven years ago.'

'Did it go well?'

'Well enough. The buyers kept the name.'

They sat down, each on their own side of the coffee table. Harry knew that there would be no question of coffee. Edvard sat on the sofa, leaning forward with his arms crossed as if to say: Let's get this over with.

'Where were you on the night of 21 December?'

Harry had decided on the way over to open with this question. By playing the only card he had before Mosken had a chance to sound out the terrain and deduce that they didn't have anything, Harry could at least hope to flush out a reaction, which might tell him something. If Mosken had anything to hide, that was.

'Am I under suspicion for anything?' Mosken asked. His face betrayed no more than mild surprise.

'It would be good if you could just answer the question, Mosken.'

'As you wish. I was here.'

'That was quick.'

'What do you mean?'

'You didn't exactly have to think about it.'

Mosken grimaced. It was the kind of grimace where the mouth makes a parody of a smile while the eyes look at you in despair.

'When you get to be as old as I am, it's the evenings when you didn't sit on your own that you remember.'