Jo Nesbo - The Redbreast

Sverre Olsen didn't understand anything.

The Prince was utterly composed as he explained that his mobile phone had fallen into the wrong hands.

'It was no answering machine you heard, Olsen.’

‘Who was it then?’

‘Let's say the enemy.'

'Monitor. Is there someone sniffing around?’

‘The person in question is on her way to the police. It's your job to stop her.'

'Me? I just want my money and -’

‘Shut your mouth, Olsen.' Olsen shut his mouth.

'This is about the Cause. You're a good soldier, aren't you?’

‘Yes, but…'

And a good soldier clears up afterwards, doesn't he?'

'I've just been running messages between you and the old codger. You're the one who -'

'Especially when the soldier has a three-year rap hanging over him, made conditional on a technicality.'

Sverre could hear himself swallow.

'How do you know that?' he started.

'Don't you bother about that. I only want you to realise that you have as much to lose because of this as the rest of the brotherhood.' Sverre didn't answer. He didn't need to.

'Look on the bright side, Olsen. This is war. And there's no place for cowards and traitors. Furthermore, the brotherhood rewards its soldiers. On top of the ten thousand you'll get forty more when the job's done.'

Sverre mulled it over. Mulled over what clothes he should wear.

'Where?' he asked.

'Schous plass in twenty minutes. Bring whatever you need with you.'

'Don't you drink?' Rakel asked.

Harry looked around him. Their last dance had been so tight it might have caused eyebrows to rise. Now they had withdrawn to a table at the back of the canteen.

'I've given it up,' Harry said.

She nodded.

'It's a long story,' he added. 'I've got plenty of time.'

'This evening I only feel like hearing funny stories,' he smiled. 'Let's talk about you instead. Have you had the kind of childhood you can talk about?'

Harry had half expected her to laugh, but he received only a tired smile. 'My mother died when I was fifteen. Apart from that, I can talk about the rest.'

'I'm sorry to hear that.'

'There's nothing to be sorry about. She was an exceptional woman, but funny stories were on the agenda this evening…’

‘Have you any brothers or sisters?’

‘No, there's only me and Father.’

‘So you had to take care of him on your own?' She eyed him with surprise.

'I know what it's like,' he said. 'I've also lost my mother. My dad sat in a chair staring at the wall for years. I had to feed him, literally'

'My father ran a large building-supplies chain he had started from scratch, and I believed it was his whole life. But when Mother died he lost all interest overnight. He sold it before it went to pieces. And he pushed everyone he knew away from him. Including me. He became a bitter, lonely old man.'

She spread out her hand.

'I had my own life to live. I had met a man in Moscow, and father felt betrayed because I wanted to marry a Russian. When I brought Oleg back to Norway, the relationship between me and my father became very problematical.'

Harry stood up and came back with a margarita for her and a Coke for himself.

'Shame we never met on the law course, Harry.'

'I was a muppet at the time,' Harry said. 'I was aggressive towards everyone who didn't like the same records or films as I did. No one liked me. Not even I did.'

'Now I don't believe that.'

'I pinched it from a film. The guy who said it was chatting up Mia Farrow. In the film, that is. I've never tried it out in real life.'

'Well,' she said, cautiously tasting the margarita. 'I think that was a good start. But are you sure you didn't pinch the bit about pinching it too?'

They laughed and discussed good and bad films, good and bad gigs they had been to, and after a while Harry was aware that he would have to amend his first impressions of her. For instance, she had travelled round the world on her own when she was twenty, at an age when all Harry had to show, in terms of adult experiences, was a failed Inter-Railing trip and a growing alcohol problem.

She checked her watch.

'Eleven. I have someone waiting for me.'

Harry felt his heart sink.

'Me too,' he said, getting up.

'Oh?'

'Just a monster I keep under the bed. Let me drive you home.' She smiled. 'That's not necessary.'

'It's practically on the way.’

‘You also live in Holmenkollen?’

‘Close by. Or quite close by. Bislett.' She laughed.

'On the other side of the city then. I know what you're after.' Harry smiled sheepishly. She put a hand on his arm. 'You need someone to push the car, don't you?'

'Looks like he's gone, Helge,' Ellen said.

She stood by the window with her coat on, peeping out between the curtains. The street below was empty; the taxi which had been waiting there had gone off with three high-spirited party girls. Helge didn't answer. The one-winged bird blinked twice and scratched its stomach with a foot.

She tried Harry's mobile once again, but the same woman's voice repeated that the phone was switched off or was in an area with poor coverage.

Then Ellen put the cloth over the cage, said goodnight, turned off the light and let herself out. Jens Bjelkes gate was still deserted as she hurried towards Thorvald Meyers gate, which she knew would be teeming with people at this time on a Saturday night. Outside Fru Hagen restaurant she nodded to a couple of people she must have exchanged a few words with one damp evening here in Grunerlokka's well-lit streets. She suddenly remembered she had promised to buy Kim some cigarettes and turned to go down to the 7-Eleven in Markveien. She saw a new face she vaguely recognised and automatically smiled when she saw him looking at her.

In the 7-Eleven she paused and tried to recall whether Kim smoked Camel or Camel Lights, realising how little time they had spent together. And how much they still had to learn about each other. And that for the first time in her life it didn't frighten her, but it was something she was looking forward to. She was so utterly happy. The thought of him lying naked in bed, three blocks away from where she was standing filled her with dull, delicious cravings. She opted for Camel, waited impatiently to be served. Outside in the street, she opted for the short cut along the Akerselva.

It struck her how little distance there was between a seething mass of people and total desolation in a large city. Suddenly all she could hear was the gurgle of the river and the sound of snow groaning beneath her boots. And it was too late to rue taking the short cut when she became aware that it was not only her own steps she could hear. Now she could hear breathing too, heavy, panting. Frightened and angry, Ellen thought that, no, she knew, at that moment her life was in danger. She didn't turn, she simply started to run. The steps behind her immediately fell into the same tempo. She tried to run calmly, tried not to panic or run with flailing arms and legs. Don't run like an old woman, she thought, and her hand moved for the gas spray in her coat pocket, but the steps behind her were relentless, coming ever closer. She thought that if she could reach the single cone of light on the path, she would be saved. She knew it wasn't true. She was directly under the light when the first blow hit her shoulder and knocked her sideways into the snowdrift. The second blow paralysed her arm and the gas spray slipped out of her unfeeling hand. The third smashed her left kneecap; the pain obstructed the scream muted deep in her throat and caused her veins to bulge out in the winter-pale skin of her neck. She saw him raise the wooden baseball bat in the yellow street light. She recognised him now, the same man she had seen turn round outside Fru Hagen. The policewoman in her noticed that he was wearing a short green jacket, black boots and a black combat cap. The first blow to the head destroyed the optic nerve and now all she saw was the pitch black night.