Jo Nesbo - The Redbreast

‘Thank you,' Harry said.

A southerly wind brought in warm weather and, as Harry left the police HQ after the meeting with Meirik and the Chief Constable, he instinctively knew that something had finished. A new season was on its way.

The Chief Constable and Meirik had both known Brandhaug. Only professionally, they both found it necessary to stress. It was clear that the two had discussed the matter in private. Meirik opened the meeting by definitively drawing a line under the undercover job in Klippan. He almost seemed relieved, Harry noted. The Chief Constable then put forward her proposal, and Harry realised that his dashing exploits in Sydney and Bangkok had even left a mark on the upper echelons of the police force.

'Typical sweeper,' the Chief Constable had called Harry. And then she explained the role they were now going to play him in.

A new season. The warm Fohn wind made Harry feel light-headed and he permitted himself a taxi since he was still dragging around a heavy bag. The first thing he did on walking into his flat in Sofies gate was to check the answerphone. The red eye was lit. No blinking. No messages.

He had asked Linda to copy the case file and he spent the rest of the evening going through everything they had on the murders of Hallgrim Dale and Ellen Gjelten. Not that he was expecting to find anything new, but it might stimulate his imagination. He glanced over from time to time at the telephone, wondering how long he would manage to wait before he called her. The Brandhaug case was the main item on the TV news. At midnight he went to bed. At one o'clock he got up, pulled out the telephone jack and put the phone in the fridge. At three o'clock he fell asleep.

Moller's Office. 11 May 2000.

'Well?' Moller said, after Harry and Halvorsen had taken their first sip of coffee and Harry, with a grimace, had told him what he thought of it.

'I think the connection between the newspaper article and the killing is a dead duck.'

'Why?' Moller stretched back in his chair.

'In Weber's opinion, the killer had been hiding in the forest since early in the day, so at most a few hours after Dagbladet had hit the stands. This was not a spontaneous action; it was a well-planned attack. The killer had known he was going to shoot Brandhaug for some days. He had been out to recce the area; he knew about Brandhaug's comings and goings; he had found the best place to fire from, with the least risk of being seen; he knew how he was going to get in and out, hundreds of tiny details.'

'So you think this is the murder he bought the Marklin rifle for?’

‘Maybe. Maybe not.'

'Thanks. That got us a long way,' Moller said acidly.

I only mean that it is a possibility. On the other hand, it's all completely out of proportion. It seems slightly over the top to smuggle in the world's most expensive assassination rifle to kill a high-ranking though relatively nondescript bureaucrat without a bodyguard or any security staff. Any hitman could literally ring the doorbell and shoot him with a handgun at close range. This is a little like… like…'

Harry made circle movements with his hands.

'Shooting sparrows with a cannon,' Halvorsen said.

'Exactly,' Harry said.

'Hm.' Moller closed his eyes. And what kind of role do you see for yourself in the continuing investigation, Harry?'

'As a kind of sweeper,' Harry smiled. 'I'm the guy from POT who does his own thing, but can request assistance from all other departments whenever necessary. Who reports to Meirik, but has access to all the documents in the case. Who asks questions, but can't be questioned. That sort of thing.'

'What about a licence to kill as well?' Moller said. 'And a very fast car?'

'In fact, this is not my idea,' Harry said. 'Meirik has just been talking to the Chief Constable.'

'The Chief Constable?'

'Yup. I suppose you'll get an email about it during the course of the day. The Brandhaug case has top priority from this minute and the Chief Constable does not want to leave any stone unturned. This is one of those FBI deals where investigation teams have to some degree overlapping duties in order to avoid the standardisation of ideas you get on big cases. You must have read about it.'

'No.'

'The point is that even if you have to duplicate a few of the jobs, and even if the same investigative work is carried out several times by different teams, this is more than outweighed by the advantages of different approaches and different lines of investigation.’

'Thank you,' Moller said. 'What has this got to do with me? Why are you sitting here now?'

'Because, as I said, I can request assistance from all other -’

‘… departments if necessary. I heard that. Spit it out, Harry' Harry angled his head towards Halvorsen, who was smiling somewhat sheepishly at Moller. Moller groaned.

'Please, Harry! You know we're down to the bare bones in Crime Squad.'

I promise you'll get him back in good condition.' I said no!'

Harry said nothing. He waited, entwining his fingers and studying the cheap reproduction of Kittelsen's Soria Maria Castle hanging on the wall over the book shelves.

'When will I get him back?' Moller asked.

'As soon as the case is over.'

'As soon… That's how a section head answers an inspector, Harry. Not the other way around.' Harry shrugged. 'Sorry, boss.'

Irisveien. 11 May 2000.

Her heart was already beating like a sewing machine gone wild when she picked up the receiver.

'Hi, Signe,' the voice said. 'It's me.'

She felt the tears coming immediately.

'Stop this,' she whispered. 'Please.'

'Until death us do part. That's what you said, Signe.'

'I'm getting my husband.'

The voice gave a chuckle.

'But he's not there, is he.'

She was squeezing the telephone so tight that her hand hurt. How could he know that Even wasn't at home? And how come he only called when Even was out?

The next thought made her throat constrict; she couldn't breathe and she began to feel faint. Was he calling from a place where he could see the house, where he could see when Even went out? No, no, no. With an effort of will, she pulled herself together and concentrated on breathing. Not too quickly, deep breaths. Calm, she told herself, as she had told the injured soldiers who were brought in to them from the trenches; crying, panic-stricken and hyperventilating. She had her terror under control. And she could hear from the sounds in the background that he was calling from somewhere with a lot of people. Her house was in a residential area.

'You were so beautiful in your nurse's uniform, Signe,' the voice said. 'So shining white and pure. White, exactly like Olaf Lindvig in his white leather tunic. Do you remember him? You were so pure that I thought you could never betray us, that you didn't have it in your heart. I thought you were like Olaf Lindvig. I saw you touch him, his hair, Signe. One moonlit night. You and he, you looked like angels, as if you were sent from heaven. But I was mistaken. There are, by the way, angels which are not heaven-sent, Signe. Did you know that?'

She didn't answer. Her thoughts churned around her head in a maelstrom. Something he said had set them in motion. The voice. She could hear it now. He was distorting his voice.

'No,' she forced herself to answer.

'No? You should do. I am such an angel.'

'Daniel's dead,' she said.

The other end went quiet. Only his breath wheezing against the membrane. Then the voice again.

'I have come to pass judgment. On the living and the dead.' Then he rang off.

Signe closed her eyes. She got up and went into the bedroom. She stood behind the drawn blinds and saw herself reflected in the window. She was shaking as if she had a high temperature.