Jo Nesbo - The Redbreast

Forty per cent of hedge sparrows survive, she thought. I'll get through this winter.

Her fingers fumbled in the snow for something to hold on to. The second blow hit her on the back of the head.

There's not long to go now, she thought. I'll survive this winter.

Harry pulled up by the drive to Rakel Fauke's house in Holmenkollveien. The white moonlight lent her skin an unreal, wan sheen and even in the semi-darkness inside the car he could see from her eyes that she was tired.

'So that was that,' Rakel said.

'That was that,' Harry said.

'I would like to invite you up, but…'

Harry laughed. 'I assume Oleg would not appreciate that.'

'Oleg is sleeping sweetly, but I was thinking of his babysitter.'

'Babysitter?'

'Oleg's babysitter is the daughter of someone in POT. Please don't misunderstand me, but I don't want any rumours at work.'

Harry stared at the instruments on the dashboard. The glass over the speedometer had cracked and he suspected that the fuse for the oil lamp had gone.

'Is Oleg your child?'

'Yes, what did you think?'

'Well, I may have thought you were talking about your partner.’

‘What partner?'

The cigarette lighter must have been either thrown out of the window or stolen along with the radio.

'I had Oleg when I was in Moscow,' she said. 'His father and I lived together for two years.'

'What happened?'

She shrugged.

'Nothing happened. We simply fell out of love. And I came back to Oslo.'

'So you are…'

A single mum. What about you?’

‘Single. Only single.'

'Before you began with us, someone mentioned something about you and the girl you shared an office with in Crime Squad.'

'Ellen? No. We just got on well. Get on well. She still helps me out now and then.'

'What with?'

'The case I'm working on.'

'Oh, I see, the case.'

She looked at her watch again.

'Shall I help you to get the door open?' Harry asked.

She smiled, shook her head and gave it a shove with her shoulder. The door squealed on its hinges as it swung open.

The Holmenkollen slopes were quiet, except for a gentle whistling in the fir trees. She placed a foot in the snow outside.

'Goodnight, Harry.'

'Just one thing.'

'Yes?'

'When I came here last time, why didn't you ask me what I wanted from your father?'

'Professional habit. I don't ask about cases I'm not involved in.’

‘Aren't you curious anyway?'

'I'm always curious. I just don't ask. What's it about?'

'I'm looking for an ex-soldier your father may have known at the Eastern Front. This particular man has bought a Marklin rifle. By the way, your father didn't give the impression of being at all bitter when I talked to him.'

'The writing project seems to have excited him. I'm surprised myself 'Perhaps one day you'll get closer again?’

‘Perhaps,' she said.

Their eyes met, hooked on to each other almost and couldn't let go. 'Are we flirting now?' she asked. 'Highly improbable.'

He could see her laughing eyes long after he had parked illegally in Bislett, chased the monster back under the bed and fallen asleep without noticing the little red flashing light on the answerphone.

Sverre Olsen quietly closed the door behind him, took off his shoes and crept up the stairs. He skipped the step he knew would creak, but he knew this was a waste of effort.

'Sverre?'

The shout came from the open bedroom door. 'Yes, Mum?'

'Where have you been?'

'Just out, Mum. I'm going to bed now.'

He closed his ears to her words; he knew more or less what they would be. They fell like slushy sleet and were gone as soon as they hit the ground. Then he closed the door to his room and was alone. He lay down on the bed, stared at the ceiling and went through what had happened. It was like a film. He scrunched up his eyes, tried to shut it out, but the film continued to run.

He had no idea who she was. As arranged, the Prince had met him in Schous plass and they had driven to the street where she lived. They had parked so that they weren't visible from her flat, but they would be able to see her if she left the building. He had said it could take all night, told him to relax, put on that bloody nigger music and lowered the back of his seat. But the front door had opened after just half an hour and the Prince had said, 'That's her.'

Sverre had loped after her, but he didn't catch up until they were in the dark street and there were too many people around them. She had suddenly turned and looked straight at him. For a moment he was sure he had been sussed, that she had seen the baseball bat up his sleeve sticking out over his jacket collar. He had been so frightened that he had not been able to control the twitches in his face, but later when she had run out of 7-Eleven, the terror had turned into anger. He remembered, and yet didn't remember, details from when they were under the light on the path. He knew what had happened, but it was as if fragments had been removed, like in one of those quiz games on TV where you are given pieces of a picture and you have to guess what the picture is.

He opened his eyes again. Stared at the bulging plasterboard on the ceiling. When he had the money, he would get a builder to fix the leak Mum had been nagging him about for so long. He tried to think about roof repairs, but he knew it was because he was attempting to drive the other thoughts away. He knew something was wrong. It had been different this time. Not like with slit-eyes at Dennis Kebab. This girl had been a normal Norwegian woman. Short brown hair, blue eyes. She could have been his sister. He tried to repeat to himself what the Prince had instilled in him: he was a soldier, it was for the Cause.

He looked at the picture he had pinned on the wall under the flag with the swastika on. It was of the Reichsfuhrer-SS und Chef der Deutschen Polizei Heinrich Himmler speaking on the rostrum when he was in Oslo in 1941. He was talking to the Norwegian volunteers taking their oaths for the Waffen SS. Green uniform. The initials SS on the collar. Vidkun Quisling in the background. Himmler. An honourable death, 23 May 1945. Suicide.

'Fuck!'

Sverre placed his feet on the floor, stood up and began to pace restlessly.

He stopped in front of the mirror by the door. Clutched his head. Then he searched through his jacket pockets. Damn, what had happened to his combat cap? For a moment, panic seized him as he wondered if he might have left it beside her in the snow, but then he remembered he had been wearing it when he went back to the Prince's car. He breathed out.

He had got rid of the baseball bat, as the Prince had said. Wiped off the fingerprints and thrown it in the Akerselva. Now it was just a question of lying low and waiting to see what transpired. The Prince had said he would sort everything out, as he had done before. Sverre didn't know where the Prince worked, but it was obvious he had good connections with the police. He undressed in front of the mirror. His tattoos were a grey colour in the moonlight as it shone in between the curtains. He fingered the Iron Cross hanging around his neck.

'You whore,' he mumbled. 'You fucking commie whore.'

When he finally fell asleep, it had already begun to cloud over in the east.

Hamburg. 30 June 1944.

My dearest beloved Helena,

I love you more than I love myself. You know that now. Even though we had only a short time together, and you have a long and happy life in front of you (I know you will have!), I hope you will never forget me completely. It is evening here. I'm sitting in sleeping quarters by the harbour in Hamburg and the bombs are falling outside. I'm alone. The others are sheltering in bunkers and cellars. There's no electricity, but the raging fires outside give more than enough light to write by.