Jo Nesbo - The Redbreast

Mosken held Harry's gaze for a long while. Then he opened the front door and peered out.

'Almost down to zero now,' he said. 'You'll have to drive carefully.'

Harry nodded. Mosken straightened up, shaded his eyes and squinted in the direction of the empty trotting stadium where the grey, oval, gravel track stood out against the dirty snow.

'I was in places that once had names,' Mosken said, 'but were so transformed that no one could recognise them. Our maps only showed paths, water and minefields, no names. If I tell you I was in Parnu in Estonia, that might be true. I don't know and nor does anyone else. During the spring and summer of '441 was lying on a stretcher, listening to machine-gun fire and thinking about death. Not about where I was.'

Harry drove slowly alongside the river and stopped at the red lights in front of the town bridge. The other bridge, which crossed the E18 motorway, ran like a dental brace through the countryside and obstructed a view of Drammen fjord. Well, OK, perhaps not everything had been a success in Drammen. Harry had actually decided he would stop for a coffee in Borsen on the way back, but he changed his mind. He remembered they served beer too.

The lights changed to green. Harry accelerated.

Edvard Mosken had reacted furiously to the question about his son. Harry made up his mind to find out more about who the judge in the Mosken trial had been. Then he took a last look at Drammen in the mirror. Of course there were worse towns.

Ellen's Office. 7 March 2000.

Ellen hadn't managed to come up with anything.

Harry had wandered down to her office and sat in her creaky old office chair. They had recruited a new man, a young policeman from the station in Steinkjer, and he would be here in a month's time.

'I'm not clairvoyant,' she said on seeing Harry's disappointed face. 'And I checked with the others at the morning meeting today, but no one had heard of the Prince.'

'What about the Firearms Registry? They ought to have some idea about arms smugglers.'

'Harry!'

'Yes?'

'I don't work for you any longer.’

‘For me?'

'With you, then. It's just that it felt like I was working for you. Bully' Harry shoved himself off with his foot and span round on the swivel chair. Four complete turns. He had never managed more. Ellen rolled her eyes.

'OK, so I rang the Firearms Registry too,' she said. 'They hadn't heard of the Prince, either. Why don't they give you an assistant up in POT?’

‘The case doesn't have high priority. Meirik lets me get on with it, but actually he wants me to discover what the neo-Nazis are planning to do on Eid.'

'One of the cues was "arms freaks". I can hardly imagine bigger arms freaks than the neo-Nazis. Why not start there and kill two birds with one stone?'

'I wondered about that myself.'

Cafe Ryktet, Grensen. 7 March 2000.

Even Juul was standing on the steps as Harry pulled up in front of his house.

Burre stood beside him, pulling at his lead.

'That was quick,' Juul said.

'I got into the car as soon as I put down the phone,' Harry said. 'Is Burre coming too?'

'I was just taking him for a little walk while I waited. Go inside, Burre.'

The dog looked up at Juul with pleading eyes.

'Now!'

Burre jumped backwards and scurried in. Harry also recoiled at the sudden command. 'Let's go,' Juul said.

Harry caught a glimpse of a face behind the kitchen curtains as they drove away.

'It's getting lighter,' Harry said. 'Is it?'

'The days are, I mean. They're longer now.' Juul nodded without answering.

'There's one thing I've been wondering about a bit,' Harry said. 'Sindre Fauke's family, how did they die?'

'I've told you already. He killed them.’

‘Yes, but how?'

Even Juul stared at Harry before answering. 'They were shot. Through the head.’

‘All four?’

‘Yes.'

Eventually they found a car park in Grensen and from there they walked to the place Juul had insisted on showing Harry when they had talked on the telephone.

'So, this is Ryktet then,' Harry said on entering the poorly lit, almost empty cafe with only a few people sitting round well-worn plastic tables. Harry and Juul got themselves a coffee and sat at one of the window tables. Two elderly men further back in the room stopped speaking and scowled at them.

'Reminds me of a cafe I go to sometimes,' Harry said, inclining his head towards the two old men.

'The old incorrigibles,' Juul said. 'Old Nazis and Eastern Front types who still think they were right. Here they sit pouring out their bitterness against the great betrayal, the Nygaardsvold government and the general state of things in the world. Those of them who still have breath in their bodies, at least. The ranks are thinning, I can see.'

'Still politically committed?'

'Oh, yes, they're still angry. At Third World aid, cuts in the defence budget, women priests, marriages for homosexuals, our new countrymen, all the things you would guess would upset these old boys. In their hearts they're still fascists.'

'And you think Uriah might frequent this place?'

'If Uriah is on some kind of crusade of vengeance against society, he would certainly find like-minded people here. Naturally, there are other meeting places for the ex-Eastern Front comrades, yearly gatherings here in Oslo, for example, for comrades-in-arms and others from all over the country. But those meetings are of a completely different order from the ones at this watering hole-they are purely social events to commemorate the dead, and there is a ban on talking politics. No, if I were hunting for an Eastern Front man with revenge on his mind, this is the place I would start.'

'Has your wife been to any of these, what did you call them… gatherings of comrades-in-arms?'

Juul stared at Harry in surprise. Then he slowly shook his head.

'Just an idea,' Harry said. "Wondered if she might have anything to tell me?'

'She hasn't,' Juul said curtly.

'Fine. Is there any connection between those you call the "old incor-rigibles" and the neo-Nazis?’

‘Why do you ask?'

'I've had a tip-off which suggests that Uriah used a middleman to get hold of the Marklin rifle, someone who moves in arms circles.' Juul shook his head.

'Most ex-Eastern Front men would be annoyed to hear you put them in the same category. Even though neo-Nazis generally hold them in very high regard. For them, fighting at the front is the ultimate dream-protecting their country and race with a firearm in their hand.'

'So if one of these old soldiers wanted to acquire a weapon he could reckon on support from the neo-Nazis?'

'He would probably meet with goodwill, yes. But he would have to know who to approach. Not just anyone would be able to provide him with such an advanced weapon as the one you are after. It's fairly indicative that the police in Honefoss, during a raid on a neo-Nazi garage, found a rusty old Datsun full of home-made clubs, wooden spears and a couple of blunt axes. The majority of these people are literally Stone Age types.'

'So where do I begin to look for a person in this milieu who has contacts with international arms dealers?'

'The problem is not that the milieu is particularly large. In fact, Fritt Ord, the nationalists' newspaper, claims that there are approximately fifteen hundred national socialists and national democrats in Norway, but if you call the Monitor, the voluntary organisation which keeps an eye on fascist nests, they'll tell you that there are fifty active members at most. No, the problem is that the wealthy backers who really hold the reins are invisible. They don't wear boots or have swastikas tattooed on their upper arms, let's put it like that. They may have a position in society they can exploit to serve the cause, but to do that they have to keep a low profile.'