Jo Nesbo - The Redbreast

'That's right,' Halvorsen said. 'One of the boot prints the Crime Scene Unit found on the path was from a combat boot, size 45. They could specify the brand because the print was made by a boot which had hardly been worn.'

'And do you know who wears combat boots?'

'Oh yes, they're NATO certified. Quite a few people order them, especially in Steinkjer. I've seen a number of these English football hooligans wearing them too.'

'Right. Skinheads. Bootboys. Neo-Nazis. Did you find any photos?'

'Four. Two from Aker Community Workshop and two of a demo outside Blitz, the youth centre, in 1992.'

'Is he wearing a cap in any of them?'

'Yes, in the ones taken at Aker.'

'Combat cap?'

'Let me see.'

Harry could hear Halvorsen's breathing crackle against the membrane of the microphone. Harry said a silent prayer. 'Looks like a beret,' Halvorsen said.

Are you sure?' Harry asked, with no attempt to disguise his disappointment.

Halvorsen was fairly sure and Harry swore aloud.

'Perhaps the boots can help?' Halvorsen suggested cautiously.

'The murderer will have thrown away the boots unless he's an idiot. And the fact that he kicked over the prints in the snow imply that he isn't.'

Harry was undecided. Again he had this sensation, this sudden certainty that he knew who the killer was, and he knew it was dangerous. Dangerous because it made you reject the nagging doubts, the small voices whispering the contradictions, telling you that despite everything the picture was not perfect. Doubts are like cold water, and you don't want cold water when you are close to apprehending a murderer. Yes, Harry had been certain before. And had been wrong. Halvorsen spoke.

'Officers in Steinkjer bought combat boots directly from America, so there can't be many places that sell them. And if these boots were almost new… '

Harry immediately followed his line of thought.

'Good, Halvorsen! Find out who stocks them. Start with army surplus places. Afterwards, go round showing the photographs, and ask if anyone remembers recently selling him a pair of boots.'

'Harry… Er…'

'Yeah, I know. I'll clear it with Moller first.'

Harry knew that the chances of finding a salesman who remembered all the customers he sold shoes to was minimal. The chances were, of course, slightly better when customers had Sieg Heil tattooed on their necks, but anyway-Halvorsen might as well learn that 90 per cent of all murder investigations were spent looking in the wrong places. Harry rang off and called Moller. The Crime Squad chief listened to all his arguments and when Harry was finished, cleared his throat.

'Good to hear that you and Waaler finally agree on something,' he said.

'Oh?'

'He called me half an hour ago and said almost exactly the same as you have just said. I gave him permission to bring Sverre Olsen in for questioning.'

'Wow.'

Absolutely'

Harry wasn't sure what to do. So when Moller asked him if he had any more to say, Harry mumbled a 'Bye' and put down the receiver. He stared out of the window. The rush hour was beginning to get into gear in Schweigaards gate. He picked out a man in a grey coat and old-fashioned hat, and watched him slowly walk past until he was out of sight. Harry could feel that his pulse was almost normal again. Klippan. He had almost forgotten, but now it returned like a pounding hangover. He wondered whether to call Rakel's internal number, but rejected that idea right away.

Then something weird happened.

At the margin of his field of vision, outside the window, a movement caught his eye. He couldn't make out what it was at first; he could only see it closing in fast. He opened his mouth, but the word, the shout or whatever it was his brain was trying to formulate, never passed his lips. There was a soft thud, the glass in the window vibrated lightly and he sat staring at a wet patch where a grey feather was stuck, quivering in the spring wind. He didn't move. Then he grabbed his jacket and sprinted for the lift.

Krokliveien, Bjerke. 2 May 2000.

Sverre Olsen turned up the radio. He flicked slowly through his mother's latest women's magazine while listening to the newsreader talk about the threatening letters trade-union leaders had received. The gutter directly above the sitting-room window was still dripping. He laughed. The threats sounded like one of Roy Kvinset's numbers. Hopefully there wouldn't be so many spelling mistakes this time.

He glanced at his watch. This afternoon the tables at Herbert's would be buzzing. He was flat broke, but he had repaired the old Wilfa vacuum cleaner this week, so perhaps Mum wouldn't mind lending him a hundred. Fuck the Prince! It was now two weeks since he last promised that Sverre would get his money 'in a couple of days'. In the meantime, a couple of the guys he owed money to were beginning to use an unpleasantly menacing tone. And worst of all, his table at Herbert's Pizza had been commandeered by someone else. It would soon be a long time since the raid on Dennis Kebab.

The last time he was at Herbert's he had felt an irresistible desire to stand up and yell that he was the one who had killed the police bitch in Grunerlokka. Blood had spurted out like a geyser following his final lunge. She had died screaming. He wouldn't have considered it neces- sary to add that he hadn't known she was a policewoman. Or that the sight of the blood had almost made him throw up.

Fuck the Prince! He had known the whole time she was a cop.

Sverre had earned the money. No one could tell him any different, but what could he do? After what had happened, the Prince had forbidden him to phone. As a precaution, until the worst of the furore had quietened down.

The gate hinges outside screeched. Sverre got to his feet, switched off the radio and hurried into the hall. On the way up the stairs he heard his mother's footsteps on the gravel. Then he was in his own room and he heard her keys jangling in the lock. As she rummaged around downstairs, he stood in the middle of his room and studied himself in the mirror. He ran a hand across his scalp and felt the millimetre high prickles rub against his fingers like a brush. He had made up his mind. Even with the forty grand he would get himself a job. He was pissed off with staying at home and, to tell the truth, he was pissed off with 'the comrades' at Herbert's too. Sick of tagging along with people who were going nowhere. He had taken the Heavy Current course at technical college and he was good at repairing electrical things. Lots of electricians needed apprentices and assistants. In a few weeks his hair would have grown over the Sieg Heil tattoo at the back of his head.

His hair, yes. He suddenly remembered the telephone call he had received during the night, the policeman with the Trondheim accent who had asked him about red hair! When Sverre woke up in the morning he had imagined it was a dream, until his mother had asked him over breakfast what kind of person would ring at four in the morning.

Sverre shifted his focus of attention from the mirror to the walls. The picture of the Fuhrer, the posters of Burzum gigs, the flag with the swastika on, the Iron Cross and the Blood amp; Honour poster which was a copy of Joseph Goebbels' old propaganda poster. For the first time it struck him that his room was like a boy's room. If you replaced the Swedish White Aryan Resistance banner with a Manchester United scarf and the picture of Heinrich Himmler with one of David Beckham you would have thought it was a teenager's room.

'Sverre!' It was Mum.

He closed his eyes.

'Sverre!'

It wouldn't go away. It would never go away.

'Yes!' he screamed out so loud that the scream filled his head.

'There's someone here who wants to talk to you.'