Jo Nesbo - The Redbreast

'What about you, Harry? Do you like what you do?'

They stood facing the dance floor, but Harry could feel her eyes on him, measuring him up. All sorts of thoughts scurried through his brain. She had small laughter lines next to her eyes. Mosken's chalet was not far from where they had found the empty cartridges from the Marklin rifle. According to Dagbladet, 40 per cent of women living in towns were unfaithful. He should ask Even Juul's wife if she remembered three Norwegian soldiers in the Norge regiment being wounded or killed by a hand-grenade thrown from a plane, and he should have gone for it at the New Year menswear sales Dressman advertised on TV3. But did he like what he did?

'Some days I do,' he said.

'What do you like about it?'

'I don't know. Does that sound stupid?' I don't know.'

'I'm not saying that because I haven't thought about why I'm a policeman. I have. And I don't know. Perhaps I just enjoy catching naughty boys and girls.'

'So what do you do when you're not catching naughty boys and girls?' she asked.

'Watch The Robinson Expedition!

She laughed again. And Harry knew he was prepared to say the silliest things if there was a chance he could make her laugh like that. He pulled himself together and talked relatively seriously about his current situation, but since he took care not to mention the unpleasant aspects of his life, there wasn't a great deal to tell. When she still seemed interested he went on to talk about his father and Sis. Why did he always end up talking about Sis when someone asked him to talk about himself?

'Sounds like a nice girl,' she said.

'The nicest,' Harry said. 'And the bravest. Never afraid of new things. A test pilot of life.'

Harry told her about the time Sis had put in a spontaneous offer for a flat in Jacob Aalls gate-because the wallpaper in the picture she had seen on the property page in Aftenposten reminded her of her childhood room in Oppsal-and had been told the asking price was two million kroner, a record square-metre price for Oslo that summer.

Rakel Fauke laughed so much she spilled tequila on Harry's suit jacket.

'The best thing about her is that after a crash landing she picks herself up, brushes herself down and is immediately ready for the next kamikaze mission.'

She dried the lapels of his jacket with a handkerchief. 'And you, Harry, what do you do when you crash land?’

‘Me? Well. I probably lie still for a second. And then I get up because there's no other option, is there?’

‘Good point.'

He looked up smartly to see if she was making fun of him. Amusement was dancing in her eyes. She radiated strength, but he doubted that she had had much experience of crash landings.

'Your turn to tell something about yourself.'

Rakel had no sister to fall back on, she was an only child. So she talked about her work instead.

'But we rarely catch anyone,' she said. 'Most cases are settled amicably with a telephone call or at a cocktail party at an embassy'

Harry smiled sardonically.

'And how was the matter of the Secret Service agent I shot smoothed over?' he asked. 'Telephone call or cocktail party?'

She studied him pensively while putting her hand in the glass to fish out a lump of ice. She held it up, between two fingers. A drop of melted water ran slowly down her wrist, under a thin gold chain towards the elbow.

'Dance, Harry?'

'As far as I remember, I've just spent at least ten minutes explaining how much I hate dancing.' She angled her head again. 'I mean-would you dance with me?’

‘To this music?'

An almost inert pan pipe version of 'Let it Be' oozed like thick syrup out of the speakers.

'You'll survive. Look on it as a warm-up for the great Linda test.' She placed a hand lightly on his shoulder. Are we flirting now?' Harry asked. 'What did you say, Inspector?'

'Sorry, but I'm so bad at reading hidden signals that I asked if we were flirting.'

'Highly improbable.'

He placed his hand around her waist and took a tentative dance step.

'It feels like losing my virginity, this does,' he said. 'But it's probably inevitable-sooner or later every Norwegian male has to go through something like this.'

'What are you talking about?' she laughed. 'Dancing with a colleague at an office party.’

‘I'm not forcing you.'

He smiled. It could have been anywhere, they could have been playing 'The Birdie Song' backwards on a ukulele-he would have killed for this dance.

'Wait-what have you got there?' she asked.

'Well, it's not a pistol and I am glad to see you, but…'

Harry undipped his mobile from his belt and released his hand from her waist to go over and put the mobile on the speaker. Her arms were raised towards him when he returned.

'Hope we haven't got any thieves here,' he said. It was a hoary old joke at Police HQ, she must have heard it a hundred times before, but she laughed softly into his ear anyway.

Ellen let the phone ring until it stopped before putting down the receiver. Then she tried again. She stood by the window, looking down on to the street. No car. Of course not. She was overwrought. Tom was probably on his way home to bed. Or someone else's bed.

After three attempts she gave up on Harry, and rang Kim instead. He sounded tired.

'I took the taxi back at seven this evening,' he said. 'I've done twenty hours' driving today.'

'I'll just have a shower first,' she said. 'Only wanted to know if you were there.'

'You sound stressed.'

'It's nothing. I'll be there in three quarters of an hour. I'll have to use your phone by the way. And stay the night.'

'Fine. Would you mind nipping into the 7-Eleven in Markveien and buying some cigarettes?'

'Sure. I'll take a cab.'

'Why?'

'Explain to you afterwards.'

'You know it's Saturday night? You'll never get through to Oslo Taxis. And it'll take you four minutes to run up here.' She wavered. 'Kim?' she said. 'Yes?' he said. 'Do you love me?'

She heard his low chuckle and could imagine the half-closed, sleepy eyes and that lean, almost emaciated body of his under the duvet in the miserable flat in Helgesens gate. He had a view of the river Akerselva. He had everything she wanted. And for an instant she almost forgot Tom Waaler. Almost.

'Sverre!'

Sverre Olsen's mother stood at the bottom of the stairs, shouting at the top of her lungs, as she had done for as long as he could remember. 'Sverre! Telephone!'

She shouted as if she needed help, as if she was drowning or something like that.

'I'll take it up here, Mum!'

He swung his legs down from the bed, picked the phone up from the desk and waited for the click that told him his mother had put down the receiver.

'Hello?'

'It's me.' Prince in the background. Always Prince. 'I guessed it had to be,' Sverre said. 'Why's that?'

The question came like greased lightning. So quickly that Sverre was immediately on the defensive, as if it was he who owed money and not the other way around.

'You're probably ringing because you got my message?' Sverre said.

'I'm ringing because I'm looking at a list of calls received on my mobile. I see that you talked to someone at 20.32 this evening. What message were you wittering on about?'

'About the cash. I'm getting short, and you promised -’

‘Who did you talk to?'

'Eh? The lady on your answerphone, I suppose. Pretty neat. Is it a new one of…?'

No answer. Just Prince on low volume. You sexy motherfucker… The music abruptly came to an end.

'Tell me what you said exactly.'

'I just said that -'

'No! Exactly. Word for word.'

Sverre repeated it as exactly as he was able.

'I guessed as much,' the Prince said. 'You've just given away our whole operation to an outsider, Olsen. If we don't plug the leak right away, we've had it. Do you understand?'