Jo Nesbo - The Redbreast

'This is Daniel,' he said.

'Who is that? What do you want?' Her breath came in quick, successive pants.

'I just told you, it's Daniel. I only want you to repeat what you said years ago. Do you remember?’

‘Please stop this. Daniel is dead.’

‘Until death us do part, Signe. Until death us do part.’

‘I'll phone the police.'

He put down the receiver. Then he donned his hat and coat and walked slowly out into the sunshine. In Sankthanshaugen Park the first buds had appeared. It wouldn't be long now.

Dinner. 5 May 2000.

Rakel's laughter penetrated the constant buzz of voices, cutlery and busy waiters in the packed restaurant.

'… and I was almost scared when I saw that there was a message on the answerphone,' Harry said. 'You know that small flashing eye. And then your voice of authority.'

He lowered his voice into a deep key.

"This is Rakel. Dinner at eight on Friday. Don't forget, nice suit and wallet. Helge was scared out of his wits. I had to give him two millet cobs before he calmed down.'

I didn't say that!' she protested between bursts of laughter.

'It was similar.'

'No, it wasn't! And it was your fault. It was the message you've got on your answerphone.'

She tried to find the same deep key: "This is Hole. Speak to me. That is just so… so…'

'Harry-like?'

'Exactly.'

It had been a perfect dinner, a perfect evening, and now it was time to ruin it, Harry thought.

'Meirik has given me my orders. I have to go to Sweden on an undercover assignment,' he said, fidgeting with his glass of Farris water. 'Six months. I'm leaving after the weekend.’

‘Oh.'

He was surprised when he didn't see a reaction register on her face.

'I rang Sis and my father and told them earlier today,' he went on. 'My father spoke. He even wished me good luck.'

'That's nice.' She gave him a fleeting smile and busied herself with the dessert menu.

'Oleg will miss you,' she said in a low voice.

He looked at her, but couldn't catch her eye.

'And what about you?' he asked.

A wry smile flitted across her face.

'They've got Banana Split a la Szechuan,' she said.

'Order two.'

'I'll miss you too,' she said and her eyes found the next page of the menu.

'How much?' She shrugged.

He repeated the question. And watched her take a breath. She was poised to speak, but let the air out. Then she started again. In the end it came.

'Sorry, Harry, but right now there's only space for one man in my life. A little man of six.'

It felt like having a bucket of freezing cold water poured over your head.

'Come on,' Harry said. 'I can't be that wrong.' She raised her eyes from the menu with a quizzical expression on her face.

'You and me,' Harry said, leaning across the table. 'Here, this evening. We're flirting. We're having fun. But we want more than that. You want more than that.'

'Perhaps.'

'Not perhaps. Absolutely certain. You want everything.’

‘So what.'

'So what? You have to tell me, that's what, Rakel. I'm off to some dump in southern Sweden in a few days' time. I'm not a spoiled man. I just want to know if I have anything to come back to in the autumn.'

Their eyes met and this time he held her gaze. For a long time. She finally put down the menu.

'I'm sorry. I don't mean to be like this. I know this will sound strange, but… the alternative won't work.'

'What alternative?'

'Doing what I feel like doing. Taking you home and taking off all your clothes and making love to you all night.'

She whispered the last part softly and quickly. As if it were something she had wanted to wait until the very last minute to say, but when it had to be said, it had to be said exactly like that. Blunt and unadorned.

'What about one more night?' Harry said. 'What about several nights? What about tomorrow night and the night after that and next week and…?'

'Stop it!' She had an angry line over the bridge of her nose. 'You have to understand, Harry. It won't work.'

'Right.' Harry flicked out a cigarette and lit it. He allowed her to stroke his chin, his mouth. The gentle touch ran like an electric shock along his nerve fibres, leaving a dull pain.

'It's not you, Harry. For a while I thought I might be able to do it again. I've been through all the arguments. Two adults. No one else involved. Non-committal and simple. And a man I feel more for than anyone since… since Oleg's father. That's why it won't stop with just the once. And that… that is no good.'

She fell silent.

'Is it because Oleg's father is an alcoholic?’

‘Why do you ask about that?'

'I don't know. It could explain why you don't want to get involved with me. Not that you need to have been with another alkie to know that I'm not a good catch, but…'

She rested her hand on his.

'You're a good catch, Harry. It's not that.'

'So what is it then?'

'This is the last time. That's what it is. We won't meet again.'

Her eyes rested on him. And he saw it now. They weren't tears of laughter gleaming in the corners of her eyes.

And the rest of the story?' he asked, trying to force a smile. 'Is that like everything else in POT, on a need-to-know basis?'

She nodded.

The waiter came to their table, but must have sensed his timing was off and went away again.

She opened her mouth to say something. Harry could see that she was on the verge of tears. She bit her lower lip. Then she put the napkin down on the tablecloth, shoved her chair back, stood up without a word and left. Harry remained, sitting and staring at the napkin. She must have been squeezing it in her hand for some time, he mused, because it was crumpled up into a ball. He watched it slowly unfold like a white paper flower.

Halvorsen's Flat. 6 May 2000.

When Halvorsen was woken by the telephone ringing the luminous figures on the digital alarm clock showed 1.30 a.m. 'Hole speaking. Were you asleep?'

'Nope,' Halvorsen said, without the slightest idea why he should lie.

'I had a couple of things on my mind, about Sverre Olsen.'

From the breathing and the traffic in the background it sounded as if Harry was out walking.

'I know what you want to know,' Halvorsen said. 'Sverre Olsen bought a pair of combat boots at Top Secret in Henrik Ibsens gate. They recognised him from the photo and furthermore they could give us the date. You see, Kripos had been there to check his alibi in connection with the Hallgrim Dale case before Christmas. But I faxed all that up to your office earlier today'

'I know. I've just come from there now.'

'Now? I thought you were going out for dinner this evening?'

'Well, we finished early'

'And you went back to work?' Halvorsen asked, in disbelief.

'Yes, I suppose I did. It was your fax which started me thinking. I was wondering if you could check a couple of other things for me tomorrow.'

Halvorsen groaned. First of all, Moller had told him in a way that brooked no misunderstanding: Harry was to have nothing to do with the Ellen Gjelten case. And second: tomorrow was Saturday.

'Are you there, Halvorsen?'

'Yes.'

I can imagine what Moller said. Don't take any bloody notice. Now you've got the chance to learn a little more about detective work.’

‘The problem is, Harry -’

‘Keep quiet and listen, Halvorsen.' Halvorsen cursed to himself. And listened.

Vibes Gate. 8 May 2000.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted into the hall where Harry was hanging his jacket on an overloaded coat stand.

'Thank you for receiving me at such short notice, herr Fauke.'

'Not at all,' Fauke mumbled from the kitchen. 'An old man like me is only too happy to help. If I can help.'