Jo Nesbo - The Redbreast

The next morning Brandhaug called the Russian ambassador, explaining that the Norwegian Foreign Ministry had had an internal discussion about Oleg Fauke-Gosev's custody case. Would he send him an update on the Russian authorities' wishes in the matter? The ambassador had never heard of the case, but promised to accede to the Foreign Office head's request and also to send the letter in the form of an urgent summons. The letter in which the Russians requested Rakel and Oleg to appear before a Russian court arrived a week later. Brandhaug immediately sent a copy to the head of the legal department and one to Rakel Fauke. This time her phone call came one day later. After listening to her Brandhaug said that it would be contrary to his diplomatic code of behaviour to try to influence the matter, and in any case it was injudicious of them to discuss this on the telephone.

'As you know, I don't have any children myself,' he said. 'But from the way you describe Oleg he sounds like a wonderful boy.'

'If you had met him, you would -' she began.

'That shouldn't be a problem. By chance I saw in the correspondence that you live in Holmenkollveien, and that is only a stone's throw from Nordberg.'

He noticed the hesitation at the quiet end of the telephone line, but he felt the momentum was with him.

'Shall we say nine o'clock tomorrow evening?' A long pause ensued before she answered. 'No six-year-old is up at nine o'clock.'

So they agreed on six o'clock instead. Oleg had brown eyes like his mother and was a well-behaved boy. However, it annoyed Brandhaug that the mother would not drop the topic of the court summons or send Oleg to bed. Yes, one might almost suspect that she was keeping the boy there on the sofa as a hostage. And he did not like the boy staring at him either. Brandhaug knew, ultimately, that Rome was not going to be built in a day, but he still tried as he stood on the step to go. He looked deep into her eyes and said, 'You are not only a beautiful woman, Rakel, you are also a very brave person. I would just like you to know that I hold you in great esteem.'

He wasn't sure how he was to interpret her expression, but he took the risk anyway and leaned forward to plant a kiss on her cheek. Her reaction was ambivalent. The mouth smiled and she thanked him for the compliment, but her eyes were cold as she added, 'I apologise for keeping you so long, herr Brandhaug. Your wife must be waiting.'

His invitation had been so unambiguous that he decided to give her a few days to reflect, but no telephone call came from Rakel Fauke. On the other hand, unexpectedly, a letter from the Russian embassy did come, requesting an answer, and Brandhaug realised that his enquiry had breathed new life into the Oleg Fauke-Gosev case. Regrettable, but now it had happened he saw no reason not to exploit the opportunity. He immediately rang Rakel in POT and acquainted her with the latest developments in the case.

Some weeks later he found himself once more in the timbered house in Holmenkollveien, which was larger and even darker than his own. Their own. This time after bedtime. She seemed a lot more relaxed in his company than before. Furthermore, he had manoeuvred the conversation on to a more personal track, which meant that it did not appear altogether too obtrusive when he mentioned how platonic the relationship between him and his wife had become and how important it was to forget the brain occasionally and listen to your body and your heart. Then the doorbell rang, providing an unwelcome interruption. Rakel went out to answer it and returned with a tall man with a close-shaven head and bloodshot eyes. She introduced him as a colleague from POT. Brandhaug had definitely heard the name before, he just couldn't remember when and in what context. He took an immediate dislike to everything about him. He disliked the interruption, the fact that the man was drunk and that he sat down on the sofa and stared at him, like Oleg, without uttering a word. But what he disliked most was the change in Rakel, who brightened up, ran to make coffee and laughed with abandon at this man's cryptic monosyllable answers as if they contained brilliant flashes of wit. And there was genuine concern in her voice when she refused to allow him to drive his own car home. The only redeeming feature Brandhaug could discern in the man was that he suddenly went on his way and immediately afterwards they heard his car starting up, which might of course mean that he would have the decency to kill himself. The damage he had done to the atmosphere was irreparable, however, and not long afterwards Brandhaug was sitting in his own car on his way home. It was then that his old hypothesis came back to him-there are four possible causes for men deciding that they have to possess a woman. And the most crucial one is that you know she desires someone else.

When he rang Kurt Meirik the following day to ask who the tall, fair-haired policeman was, he was initially very surprised, then he started to laugh. Because it was the very person he had promoted and deployed in POT. An irony of fate, naturally, but fate is also on occasion subject to the counsel of the Royal Norwegian Ministry for Foreign Affairs. When Brandhaug put down the receiver, he was already in better spirits. He strode through the corridors to the next meeting, whistling on his way, and reached the conference room in under seventy seconds.

Police HQ. 27 April 2000.

Harry stood in the doorway of his old office, looking at a blond-haired young man sitting in Ellen's chair. He was concentrating so hard on the computer screen he didn't notice Harry until he coughed.

'So you're Halvorsen then, are you?'

'Yes,' the young man said with an inquisitive expression on his face.

'From the police station in Steinkjer?'

'Correct.'

'Harry Hole. I used to sit where you're sitting now, but in the other chair.'

'It's knackered.'

Harry smiled. 'It's always been knackered. Bjarne Moller asked you to check a couple of details with regard to the Ellen Gjelten case?'

'A couple of details?' Halvorsen exclaimed in protest. 'I've been working non-stop for three days.'

Harry sat down on his old chair, which had been shifted to Ellen's table. It was the first time he had seen what the office looked like from her position.

'What have you found out, Halvorsen?'

Halvorsen frowned.

'Don't worry,' Harry said. I was the one who asked for this information. Check it out with Moller, if you like.' Halvorsen's face suddenly lit up.

'Of course! You're Hole from POT! Sorry, I was a bit slow on the uptake.' A big smile spread across his boyish face. 'I remember the case in Australia. How long ago is that now?'

'A while. As I said…'

'Oh yes, the list!' He tapped a pile of computer print-outs with his knuckles. 'These are all the guys who have been brought in, charged with or convicted of GBH over the last ten years. There are over a thousand names. That part was easy; the problem is finding out which ones are skinheads. The info says nothing about that. This could take weeks…'

Harry leaned back in his chair.

'I know. But criminal records have codes for the weapons used. Run searches for the codes for firearms and see how many you're left with.'

'In fact, I was going to suggest that to Moller when I saw how many names there were. Most of them used knives, guns or fists. I should have a new list ready in a few hours.'

Harry stood up.

'Fine,' he said. 'I don't remember my internal number, but you'll find it on the telephone list. And next time you have a good suggestion, don't hesitate to make it. We aren't that smart down here in Oslo.'

Halvorsen, a little unsure of himself, sniggered.

POT. 2 May 2000.

The rain had been lashing down all morning before the sun made an unanticipated, brash appearance, and in the blinking of an eye it burned off all the clouds in the sky. Harry was sitting with his feet on the desk and his hands behind his head, kidding himself that he was thinking about the Marklin rifle. But his thoughts had wandered outside the window, along the newly washed streets which smelled warm now, along the wet tarmac and the tramlines up to the top of Holmenkollen, to the grey smudges of snow still lying in the shadow of the spruce forest, where Rakel, Oleg and he had hopped around on the muddy paths to avoid the deepest puddles. Harry had vague memories of going on Sunday walks like that even when he was Oleg's age. If they were long walks, and he and Sis were lagging behind, his father had put pieces of chocolate on the lowest branches. Sis was still convinced that Kvikklunsj bars grew on trees.