Jo Nesbo - The Redbreast

'Things are, as you know, a little chaotic right now. But at least I went to the pet shop and bought some bird seed. The lady behind the counter suggested Trill, so that's what I took.'

Jens Bjelkes Gate. 16 March 2000.

'Hi, this is Ellen and Helge's answerphone. Please leave a message.'

'I went for a walk to Ryktet today. It's a bit like Schroder's. At least they don't give you a funny look when you order a Pils for breakfast. I sat down at a table with an old man and after a struggle managed to get some sort of conversation off the ground. I asked him what he had against Even Juul. He gave me a long, searching look; it was obvious he didn't recognise me from the previous time I had been there. But after buying him a beer I got the whole story. The old boy had fought at the Eastern Front-I had already guessed that-and he knew Juul's wife, Signe, from when she was a nurse there. She had volunteered because she was engaged to one of the soldiers in the Norge regiment. Juul clapped eyes on her when she was found guilty of treason in 1945. She was given two years, but Juul's father, who had a high position in the Socialist Party, arranged for her to be released after only a few months. When I asked the old boy why that bothered him so much, he mumbled that Juul wasn't the saint he appeared to be. That was precisely the word he used-"saint". He said that Juul was like all the other historians-he wrote myths about Norway during the war in the way the victors wanted them presented. The man couldn't remember the name of her first fiance, only that he had been a kind of hero to the others in the regiment.

'Afterwards I went to work. Kurt Meirik dropped by to see me. He didn't say anything. I called Bjarne Moller, and he informed me that there were thirty-four names on the list I had requested. Are men with no hair more prone to violence, I wonder? Anyway, Moller has put an officer on the case to ring round and check the alibis to get the number down. I can see from the preliminary report that Tom Waaler drove you home and that when he dropped you off at 22.15 you were in a calm frame of mind. He also testified that you had talked about trivialities. Nevertheless, when you left me a message, at 22.16 according to Telenor-in other words as soon as you had got in the door-you were obviously pretty excited that you were on the track of something. I think that's odd. Bjarne Moller didn't think so. Perhaps it's just me.

'Get in touch with me soon, Ellen.'

Jens Bjelkes Gate. 17 March 2000.

'Hi, this is Ellen and Helge's answerphone. Please leave a message.'

'I didn't go to work today. It's minus twelve outside, marginally warmer in the flat. The telephone has been ringing all day and when I finally decided to answer it, it was Doctor Aune. Aune is a good man, for a psychologist; at least he doesn't behave as if he is less confused than the rest of us with respect to what goes on in our heads. Aune's old contention that every alcoholic's nightmare begins where the last drunken spree ended is a great warning, but not necessarily accurate. He was surprised that I was more or less together this time. Everything is relative. Aune also talked about an American psychologist who has discovered that the lives we lead are to a certain extent hereditary. When we step into our parents' roles, our lives begin to resemble theirs. My father became a hermit after my mother died, and now Aune is frightened that I will be the same because of a couple of tough experiences I've had-the shooting accident in Vinderen, you know. And in Sydney. And now this. Right. I've told you about my days, but had to laugh when Doctor Aune told me that Helge, a great tit, was preventing me from letting my life go down the chute. As I said, Aune is a good man, but he should cut out all that psycho-stuff.

'I called Rakel and asked her out. She said she would give it some thought and ring me back. I don't know why I do this to myself.'

Jens Bjelkes Gate. 18 March 2000.

'… is a Telenor announcement. The number you have dialled is no longer available. This is a Telenor announcement. The number…'

Moller's Office. 25 April 2000.

The first spring offensive came late. It wasn't until the end of March that the gutters began to gurgle and flow. By April all the snow had disappeared as far as Sognsvann. But then the spring had to retreat again. The snow came swirling down and lay in huge drifts, even in the centre of town, and weeks passed before the sun melted it again. Dogs' turds and refuse from the previous year lay stinking in the streets; the wind picked up speed across the open stretches in Gronlandsleiret and by Galleri Oslo, swept up the sand and made people go round rubbing their eyes and spitting. The talk of the town was the single mother who would perhaps become Queen one day, the European football championship and the unseasonal weather. At Police HQ, the talk was about what people did over Easter and the miserable increase in pay, and they went on as if everything was as before.

Everything was not as before.

Harry sat in his office with his feet on the table, looking out at the cloudless day, the retired ladies in their ugly hats out for the morning and taking up the whole of the pavement, delivery vans going through the lights on amber, all the small details which lent the town the false veneer of normality. He had been wondering about that for some time now-if he was the only one who was not allowing himself to be duped. It was six weeks since they had buried Ellen, but when he looked out, he saw no change.

There was a knock at the door. Harry didn't answer, but it opened anyway. It was the head of Crime Squad, Bjarne Moller.

'I heard you were back.'

Harry watched one of the red buses glide into a bus stop. The advertisement on the side of the vehicle was for Storebrand Life Insurance.

'Can you tell me, boss,' he asked, 'why they call it life insurance when they obviously mean death insurance?'

Moller sighed and perched on the edge of the desk.

'Why haven't you got an extra chair in here, Harry?'

'If people don't sit down, they get to the point quicker.' He was still staring out of the window.

'We missed you at the funeral, Harry.'

I had changed my clothes,' Harry said, more to himself than Moller. 'I'm sure I was on my way, too. When I looked up and caught sight of the miserable gathering around me, I even thought for a moment that I had arrived. Until I saw Maja standing there in her pinny and waiting for my order.'

'I guessed it was something like that.'

A dog wandered across the brown lawn with its nose along the ground and its tail in the air. At least someone appreciated spring in Oslo.

'What happened then?' Moller asked. 'We haven't seen much of you for a while.'

Harry gave a shrug.

'I was busy. I've got a new lodger-a one-winged great tit. And I sat listening to old messages on my answerphone. It turned out all the messages I've been left over the last two years fit on to one thirty-minute tape. And they were all from Ellen. Sad, isn't it? Well, perhaps not so sad. The only sad thing is that I wasn't at home when she made her last call. Did you know that Ellen had found him?'

For the first time since Moller had come in Harry turned round to face him.

'You do remember Ellen, don't you?' Moller sighed.

'We all remember Ellen, Harry. And I remember the message she left on your answerphone, and you telling Kripos you thought this was a reference to the middleman in the arms deal. Because we haven't managed to catch the killer doesn't mean we've forgotten her, Harry. Kripos and the Crime Squad have been on the go for weeks, we've hardly slept. If you had come to work, perhaps you would have seen how hard we were working.'