Jo Nesbo - The Redbreast

Harry told him about the telephone call and her disappearance.

'We don't know any more than that. I was hoping that you knew her and could give me a lead.'

'Sorry, but…' Fauke stopped to take a sip from his cup of coffee. He seemed to be thinking about something. 'What did you say was written on the mirror?'

'"God is my judge",' Harry said.

'Hm.'

'What are you thinking about?'

'To be frank, I'm not sure myself,' Fauke said, rubbing his unshaven chin.

'Come on, say it.'

'You said that he might want to explain himself, to be understood.’

‘Yes?'

Fauke walked over to the bookcase, pulled out a thick book and began to leaf through.

'Exactly,' he said. 'Just what I thought.'

He passed the book to Harry. It was a Bible dictionary.

'Look under Daniel.'

Harry's eyes ran down the page until he found the name. '"Daniel. Hebrew. God (El) is my judge".'

He looked up at Fauke, who had lifted the pot to pour coffee. 'You're looking for a ghost, Inspector Hole.'

Parkveien, Uranienborg. 11 May 2000.

Johan Krohn received Harry in his office. The book shelves behind him were crammed with volumes of legal publications, bound in brown leather. They contrasted oddly with the lawyer's childlike face.

'We meet again,' Krohn said, motioning Harry to take a seat. 'You have a good memory,' Harry said.

'There's nothing wrong with my memory. Sverre Olsen. You had a strong case there. Shame the court didn't manage to keep to the rule book.'

'That's not why I've come,' Harry said. 'I've got a favour to ask.'

'Asking costs nothing,' Krohn said, pressing the tips of his fingers together. He reminded Harry of a child actor playing an adult.

'I'm looking for a weapon which was imported illegally and I have reason to believe that Sverre Olsen might have been involved in some capacity or other. As your client is dead you are no longer prevented by client confidentiality from providing us with information. It may help us to clear up the murder of Bernt Brandhaug, whom we are fairly positive was shot with precisely this weapon.'

Krohn gave a sour smile.

'I would rather you let me decide the boundaries of client confidentiality, officer. There is no automatic assumption that it ceases upon death. And you clearly have not considered the fact that I may regard your coming here to ask for information as somewhat brazen, bearing in mind that the police shot my client?'

'I'm trying to forget emotions and behave professionally,' Harry said.

'Then try a little harder, officer!' Krohn's voice merely became even squeakier when he raised it. 'This is not very professional. In the same way as killing a man in his own home was not very professional.'

'That was self defence,' Harry said.

A technicality,' Krohn said. 'He is an experienced policeman. He should have known that Olsen was unstable and he should not have burst in as he did. The policeman should obviously have been prosecuted.'

Harry couldn't let that go. • 'I agree with you that it's always sad when a criminal goes free on account of a technicality'

Krohn blinked twice before he realised what Harry meant.

'Legal technicalities are a different kettle of fish, officer,' he said. 'Taking an oath in court may seem to be a detail, but without legal safeguards -'

'My rank is inspector.'

Harry concentrated on speaking softly and slowly:

'The legal safeguard you're talking about cost my colleague her life. Ellen Gjelten. Tell that to that memory you're so damn proud of. Ellen Gjelten. Twenty-eight years old. The best investigative talent in the Oslo police force. A smashed skull. A very bloody death.'

Harry stood up and leaned across Krohn's desk, all one metre ninety of him. He could see the Adam's apple in Krohn's scrawny vulture neck bobbing up and down, and for two long seconds Harry allowed himself the luxury of relishing the fear in the young lawyer's eyes. Then Harry dropped his business card on the desk.

'Ring me when you've decided the extent of your client confidentiality,' he said.

Harry was half out of the door when Krohn's voice brought him to a halt.

'He called me just before he died.' Harry turned. Krohn sighed.

'He was terrified of someone. Sverre Olsen was always frightened. Lonely and very frightened.'

'Who isn't?' Harry mumbled. Then, 'Did he say who he was frightened of?'

'The Prince. That was what he called him. The Prince.’

‘Did Olsen say why he was frightened?'

'No, he just said that this Prince was a kind of superior and had ordered him to commit a crime. So he wanted to know how far following orders was a punishable offence. Poor idiot.'

'What kind of orders?'

'He didn't say'

'Did he say anything else?'

Krohn shook his head.

'Ring me any time at all if you think of anything else.'

'And one more thing, Inspector. If you believe that I will lose any sleep over having the man who killed your colleague acquitted, you are mistaken.'

But Harry had already left.

Herbert's Pizza. 11 May 2000.

Harry rang Halvorsen and asked him to go to Herbert's. They had the place almost to themselves and chose a table by the window. Right in the corner there was a man dressed in a long trench coat, with a moustache that went out of fashion with Adolf Hitler and two booted legs resting on a chair seat. He looked as if he was trying to set a new world record in being bored.

Halvorsen had caught up with Edvard Mosken, but not in Drammen.

'He didn't answer when I tried him at home, so I got hold of his mobile phone number through directory enquiries. It turned out he was in Oslo. He has a flat in Tromsogata in Roddelokka where he stays when he's at Bjerke.'

'Bjerke?'

'The racetrack. He must be there every Friday and Saturday. Places a few bets and has a bit of fun, he said. And he owns a quarter of a horse. I met him in the stables behind the track.'

'What else did he say?'

'He occasionally pops into Schroder's in the morning when he's in Oslo. He has no idea who Bernt Brandhaug is and he has definitely never phoned his house. He knew who Signe Juul was-he remembered her from the Eastern Front.'

"What about his alibi?'

Halvorsen ordered a Hawaiian Tropic with pepperoni and pineapple.

'Mosken has been alone in his flat in Tromsogata all week, apart from trips up to Bjerke, he said. He was there the morning Brandhaug was killed too. And this morning.'

'Right. How do you think he answered your questions?'

'What do you mean?'

'Did you believe him when you were with him?’

‘Yes, no; well, believe, hm…'

'Go with your gut instinct, Halvorsen, don't be worried. And then say what you feel. I won't use it against you.'

Halvorsen looked down at the table and fidgeted with the menu.

'If Mosken is lying, then he's definitely a pretty cold fish. That much I can say.'

Harry sighed.

'Will you see to it that we put a tag on Mosken? I want two men outside his flat day and night.'

Halvorsen nodded and rang a number on his mobile phone. Harry could hear the sound of Moller's voice as he stole a glance at the neo-Nazi in the corner. Or whatever they called themselves. National Socialists. National Democrats. He had just been sent a copy of a sociology dissertation from the university which concluded that there were fifty-seven neo-Nazis in Norway.

The pizza arrived and Halvorsen sent Harry an enquiring look.

'Go ahead,' Harry said. 'Pizzas aren't my thing.'

The trench coat in the corner had been joined by a short, green combat jacket. They stuck their heads together and looked across at the two policemen.

'One more thing,' Harry said. 'Linda in POT told me that there was an SS archive in Cologne, partly destroyed by fire in the seventies, but some information had been picked up there about Norwegians fighting with the Germans. Commands, military awards, ranks, that kind of thing. I want you to ring them and see if you can find out anything about Daniel Gudeson. And Gudbrand Johansen.'