The Redeemer

  The blood seemed to refuse to enter his brain. He didn't stir, just closed his eyes and held his breath. But his heart was pounding. He had read somewhere that some predators have ears that can pick up the sound of a victim's frightened heart, in fact that was how they found them. Apart from his heartbeat, the silence was total. He shut his eyes tight and thought that if he concentrated he would be able to see through the roof and catch sight of the cold, clear starry sky, see the planet's invisible but comforting plan and logic, see the meaning of everything.

  Then came the inevitable crash.

  Jon felt the air pressure against his face and for a moment believed it was from a gunshot. He opened his eyes with caution. Where the lock had been were now splinters of wood, and the door was hanging at an angle.

  The man before him had opened his coat. Underneath he was wearing a dinner suit and a shirt that was the same dazzling white as the walls behind him. Around his neck was a red neckerchief.

  Dressed for a party, thought Jon.

  He inhaled the smell of urine and freedom as he looked down at the skulking figure before him. An ungainly young man scared out of his wits, sitting and shaking as he waited for death. Under any other circumstances he would have wondered what this man with the turbid blue eyes might have done. But for once he knew. And for the first time since the Christmas dinner in Dalj this would give him personal satisfaction. And he was no longer frightened.

  Without lowering the revolver he glanced at his watch. Thirty-five minutes before the departure of the plane. He had seen the camera outside. Which meant there were probably surveillance cameras in the car park, too. It would have to be done here. Pull him out and into the next cubicle, shoot him, lock the cubicle from the inside and climb out. They wouldn't find Jon Karlsen before the airport was closed for the night.

  'Come out!' he said.

  Karlsen seemed to be in a trance and did not move. He cocked the gun and took aim. Karlsen inched out of the cubicle. Stopped. Opened his mouth.

  'Police. Drop the gun.'

  Harry held the revolver with both hands and pointed it at the man with the red silk neckerchief as the door closed with a metallic click behind him.

  Instead of putting down the gun, the man held it to Jon Karlsen's head and said in accented English that Harry recognised: 'Hello, Harry. Have you got a good line of fire?'

  'Perfect,' Harry said. 'Right through the back of your head. Drop the gun, I said.'

  'How can I know if you're holding a gun, Harry? I've got yours, haven't I.'

  'I've got one that belonged to a colleague.' Harry saw his finger squeezing the trigger. 'Jack Halvorsen's. The one you stabbed in Gøteborggata.'

  Harry saw the man stiffen.

  'Jack Halvorsen,' Stankic repeated. 'What makes you think it was me?'

  'Your DNA in the vomit. Your blood on his coat. And the witness standing in front of you.'

  Stankic nodded slowly. 'I see. I killed your colleague. But if you believe that why haven't you already shot me?'

  'Because there's a difference between you and me,' Harry said. 'I'm not a murderer but a policeman. So if you put that revolver down I'll only take half of your remaining life. About twenty years. Your choice, Stankic.' Harry's arm muscles were already beginning to ache.

  'Tell him!'

  Harry realised Stankic had shouted this to Jon when he saw Jon start.

  'Tell him!'

  Jon's Adam's apple bobbed up and down like a float. Then he shook his head.

  'Jon?' Harry said.

  'I can't . . .'

  'He'll shoot you, Jon. Talk.'

  'I don't know what you want me to—'

  'Listen, Jon,' Harry said without taking his eyes off Stankic. 'None of what you say with a pistol to your head can be used against you in a court of law. Do you understand? Right now you have nothing to lose.'

  The hard, smooth surfaces of the room created an unnaturally clear and loud sound reproduction of metal in motion and the tensing of springs as the man in the dinner suit cocked the revolver.

  'Stop!' Jon held up his arms in front of him. 'I'll tell you everything.'

  Jon met the policeman's eyes over Stankic's shoulder. And saw that he already knew. Perhaps he had known for a long time. The policeman was right: he had nothing to lose. None of what he said could be used against him. And the strange thing was that he wanted to talk. In fact, there was nothing he would rather do.

  'We were standing by the car waiting for Thea,' Jon said. 'The policeman was listening to a message left on his mobile phone. I could hear it was from Mads. And then I knew when the policeman said it was a confession and he was going to ring you. I knew my number would be up. I had Robert's jackknife on me and I reacted out of instinct.'

  In his mind's eye he could see himself struggling to hold the policeman's arms in a lock behind his back, but the policeman had managed to get one hand free and place it between the knife blade and his throat. Jon had slashed and slashed at the hand without getting near the carotid artery. Furious, he had swung the policeman to the left and the right like a rag doll as he kept stabbing, and in the end the knife had sunk into his chest, and a sigh had seemed to run through the policeman's body and his arms went limp. He had picked up the mobile phone from the ground and stuffed it into his pocket. All that remained was to give him the coup de grâce.

  'But Stankic got in the way, did he?' Harry asked.

  Jon had raised the knife to cut the throat of the unconscious policeman when he heard someone shouting in a foreign language, looked up and saw a man in a blue jacket running towards him.

  'He had a pistol so I had to get away,' Jon said, feeling the purging effect of his confession, the lifting of a burden. And he saw Harry nod, saw that the tall blond man understood. And forgave him. And he was so moved that he felt his throat constrict with emotion as he continued. 'He fired a shot at me as I ran inside. Almost hit me as well. He was going to kill me, Harry. He's a crazy murderer. You have to shoot him, Harry. We have to take him out, you and I . . . we . . .'

  He watched Harry lower his revolver and put it in his trouser waistband.

  'What . . . what are you doing, Harry?'

  The tall policeman buttoned up his coat. 'I'm taking my Christmas leave, Jon. Thank you for the confession.'

  'Harry? Wait . . .' The certainty of his imminent fate had absorbed all the moisture in his throat and mouth, and the words had to be forced out by dry mucous membranes. 'We can share the money, Harry. Listen, all three of us can share it. No one will need to know.'

  But Harry had already turned to address Stankic in English. 'I think you'll find there's enough money in the bag for several of you at Hotel International to build a house in Vukovar. And your mother may want to donate some to the apostle in St Stephen's Cathedral, too.'

  'Harry!' Jon's scream was hoarse, like a death rattle. 'Everyone deserves another chance, Harry!'

  With his hand on the door handle, the policeman paused.

  'Look into the depths of your heart, Harry. You must find some forgiveness there!'

  'The problem is . . .' Harry rubbed his chin. 'I'm not in the forgiveness business.'

  'What!' exclaimed Jon, in astonishment.

  'Redemption, Jon. Redemption. That's what I go in for. Me, too.'

  After hearing the door close behind Harry with a metallic click and seeing the dinner-suited man raise the gun, Jon stared into the black eye of the muzzle and the fear had become a physical pain, and he no longer knew whose the screams were: Ragnhild's, his own or those of others. But before the bullet smashed through his forehead Jon Karlsen had time to arrive at one realisation that had hatched after years of doubt, shame and desperate prayer: that no one would hear either his screams or his prayers.

  Part Five

  EPILOGUE

  35

  Guilt

  HARRY EMERGED FROM THE UNDERGROUND IN EGERTORGET. It was the day before Christmas Eve and people were hurrying past him in search of the last presents. Nevert
heless, Yuletide serenity seemed to have settled over the town already. You could see it in people's faces, the smiles of contentment because Christmas preparations were over or the smiles of weary resignation. A man in matching Puffa jacket and trousers waddled past like an astronaut, grinning and blowing frosted breath from round, pink cheeks. Harry saw one desperate face, though. A pale woman dressed in a thin, black leather jacket with holes in the elbows standing by the jeweller's and hopping from one foot to the other.

  The face of the young man behind the counter lit up when he caught sight of Harry; he hurriedly dealt with his customer and darted into the back room. He came back with Harry's grandfather's watch, which he placed on the counter with an expression of pride.

  'It's working,' Harry said, impressed.

  'Everything can be repaired,' the young man said. 'Just make sure you don't overwind it. That wears down the mechanisms. Try and I'll show you.'

  As Harry wound the watch he could feel the rough friction against the metal parts and the resistance of the spring. And he noticed the rapt attention of the young man.

  'Excuse me,' the young man asked, 'but may I ask where you got hold of that watch?'

  'I was given it by my grandfather,' Harry answered, taken aback by the sudden reverence in the watch repairer's voice.

  'Not that one. That one.' The young man pointed to Harry's wrist.

  'I was given it by my former boss when he resigned.'

  'My goodness.' The young watch repairer leaned over Harry's left arm and examined the wristwatch with great care. 'It's genuine, no doubt about it. That was a generous gift.'

  'Oh? Is there anything special about it?'

  The watch repairer looked at Harry in disbelief. 'Don't you know?'

  Harry shook his head.

  'It's a Lange 1 Tourbillon made by A. Lange & Söhne. On the back you'll find a serial number which tells you how many units of this model were made. If my memory serves me well, there were a hundred and fifty. You're wearing one of the most beautiful timepieces that has ever been made. In fact, the question is whether it is wise to wear it. With the market price the way it is now, strictly speaking, it should be in a bank vault.

  'Bank vault?' Harry eyed the anonymous-looking watch that a few days ago he had thrown out of the bedroom window. 'It doesn't seem very exclusive.'

  'But that's what it is. It's only available with the standard black watch strap and the grey face, and there's not a single diamond or ounce of gold in the watch. It does look like standard steel, platinum, it's true. However, its value lies in the fact that this is workmanship which has been elevated to the level of art.'

  'I see. How much would you say this watch is worth?'

  'I don't know. At home I have some catalogues of auction prices for rare watches. I could bring them in some time.'

  'Just give me a round figure,' Harry said.

  'A round figure?'

  'An idea.'

  The young man stuck out his lower lip and moved his head from side to side. Harry waited.

  'Well, I wouldn't sell it for less than four hundred thousand.'

  'Four hundred thousand kroner?' Harry exclaimed.

  'No, no,' said the young man. 'Four hundred thousand dollars.'

  Back outside the jeweller's shop, Harry no longer felt the cold. Nor the heavy drowsiness that remained in his body after twelve hours of sound sleep. Nor did he notice the hollow-eyed woman with the thin leather jacket and the junkie glaze come over to ask him whether he was the policeman she had spoken to a few days before, and whether he knew anything about her son whom no one had seen for four days.

  'Where was he last seen?' Harry asked mechanically.

  'Where do you think?' the woman said. 'In Plata, of course.'

  'What's his name?'

  'Kristoffer. Kristoffer Jørgensen. Hello! Is anyone at home?'

  'What?'

  'You look like you're on a trip, man.'

  'Sorry. You'd better take a photo of him to the main police station, ground floor, and report him missing.'

  'Photo?' She gave a shrill laugh. 'I've got a photo of him from when he was seven. Do you think that will do?'

  'Haven't you got anything more recent?'

  'And who do you think would have taken it?'

  Harry found Martine at the Lighthouse. The café was closed, but the receptionist at the Hostel had let Harry in round the back.

  She was standing with her back to him in the clothes depot emptying the washing machine. He coughed quietly so as not to frighten her.

  Harry was watching her shoulder blades and neck muscles when she turned round and he wondered where she had this suppleness from. And whether she would always have it. She stood up, tilted her head, brushed away a wisp of hair and smiled.

  'Hi, the one they call Harry.'

  She was standing a step away from him with her arms down by her sides. He had a good look at her. At the winter-pale skin that still had this strange glow. The sensitive, flared nostrils, the unusual eyes with pupils that had spilt over, making them resemble partial lunar eclipses. And at the lips that she unconsciously curled inside, moistened and then pressed against each other, soft and wet, as though she had just kissed herself. The drum of the tumble dryer rumbled.

  They were alone. She took a deep breath and leaned back her head a tiny bit. She was a step away.

  'Hi,' Harry said. Without moving.

  She blinked twice in quick succession. Then she sent him a fleeting, somewhat bewildered smile, turned to the worktop and started folding the clothes.

  'I'll have finished soon. Will you wait?'

  'I have reports to finish before the holidays start.'

  'We're putting on a Christmas dinner here tomorrow,' she said, half turning. 'Would you like to come and help?'

  He shook his head.

  'Other plans?'

  Today's Aftenposten lay open on the worktop beside her. They had devoted a whole page to the Salvation Army soldier who had been found dead in the toilet at Gardemoen Airport last night. The newspaper quoted Chief Inspector Gunnar Hagen who said the gunman and the motive were as yet unknown, but they thought the case was connected with the previous week's killing in Egertorget.

  As the two murder victims were brothers and police suspicions were now concentrated on an unidentified Croat, the day's newspapers had already begun to speculate whether the background could be a family feud. Verdens Gang drew attention to the fact that many years ago the Karlsen family had taken their holidays in Croatia and with the Croatian tradition of blood vengeance this explanation seemed a possibility. The leader in Dagbladet warned against prejudices and lumping the Croats with criminal elements among Serbians and Kosovar-Albanians.

  'I've been invited by Rakel and Oleg,' he said. 'I've just been up there with a present for Oleg and they asked then.'

  'They?'

  'She.'

  Martine continued to fold clothes while nodding, as though he had said something that needed to be thought through.

  'Does that mean that you two . . . ?'

  'No,' Harry said. 'It doesn't mean that.'