Nemesis

  Central station, Harry realised that all hope was not yet lost. 'Who was the mad bastard who taught you to drive?' he asked,

  holding on tight as they swerved in and out between cars on the

  three-lane motorway leading to Ekeberg tunnel.

  'Self-taught,' Beate said.

  In the middle of the Valerenga tunnel a large, ugly, dieselvomiting lorry loomed up ahead of them. It lumbered into the

  right-hand lane; on the back, held in place by two yellow arms, was a

  green skip bearing the words OSLO WASTE MANAGEMENT. 'Yess!' Harry shouted.

  Beate swung in front of the lorry, slowed down and activated the

  right indicator. Harry rolled down the window, stretched out a hand

  holding his ID and waved the lorry into the side of the road with the

  other.

  The driver had no objection to Harry taking a look inside the skip, but wondered if they shouldn't wait until they were in the Metodica yard, where they could empty the contents onto the ground.

  'I don't want the bottle to be smashed!' Harry yelled over the noise of passing traffic from the back of the lorry.

  'I was thinking about your nice suit,' the driver said, but by then Harry had already scrambled up into the skip. The next moment, a rumble of thunder could be heard from inside, and the driver and Beate heard Harry roundly cursing. Then quite a bit of rooting around. And finally another 'Yess!' before he reappeared over the top of the skip with a white plastic bag held above his head like a trophy.

  'Give the bottle to Weber immediately and tell him it's urgent,' Harry said as Beate started the car. 'Say hello from me.' 'Will that help?'

  Harry scratched his head. 'No. Just say it's urgent.'

  She laughed. Not very much, nor heartfelt, but Harry noted the laughter.

  'Are you always so enthusiastic?' she asked.

  'Me? What about you? You were ready to drive us into an early grave for this evidence, weren't you?'

  She smiled, but didn't answer. Checked the mirror before returning to the carriageway.

  Harry glanced at his watch. 'Damn!'

  'Late for a meeting?'

  'Do you think you could drive me to Majorstuen church?'

  'Of course. Is that why you're wearing the black suit?'

  'Yes. A . . . friend of mine.'

  'Then perhaps you'd better try and get rid of the brown stain on your shoulder first.'

  Harry craned his head. 'From the skip,' he said, brushing at it. 'Has it gone now?'

  Beate passed him a handkerchief. 'Try a little spit. Was it a close friend?'

  'No. Or yes . . . for a while perhaps. But you have to go to funerals, don't you.'

  'Do you?'

  'Don't you?'

  'I've only been to one funeral all my life.'

  They drove in silence.

  'Your father?'

  She nodded.

  They passed the intersection at Sinsen. At Muselunden, the large area of grass below Haraldsheimen, a man and two boys had a kite in the air. All three stood looking at the blue sky and Harry saw the man give the string to the taller of the two boys.

  'We still haven't caught the man who did it,' she said.

  'No, we haven't,' Harry said. 'Not yet.'

  *

  'God giveth and God taketh away,' the priest said, peering down over the empty rows of benches and at the tall man with cropped hair who had just tiptoed in, looking for a seat at the very back. He waited as the echo of a loud, heart-rending sob died away under the arched ceiling. 'But on occasion it can seem as if He is merely taking.'

  The priest stressed 'taking' and the acoustics lifted the word and carried it to the back of the church. The sobbing grew in volume again. Harry watched. He had thought that Anna, who was so extroverted and bubbly, would have had lots of friends, but Harry counted only eight people, six in the front row and two further back. Eight. Yes, well, how many would go to his funeral? Eight people was perhaps not such a bad turnout.

  The sobbing came from the front row where Harry could see three heads wrapped in bright scarves and three bare-headed men. The other two were a man sitting to the left and a woman in the middle. He recognised the globe-shaped afro of Astrid Monsen.

  The organ pedals creaked, then the music began. A psalm. The grace of God. Harry closed his eyes and felt how tired he was. The notes from the organ rose and sank, the high notes trickled like water from the ceiling. The frail voices sang for forgiveness and mercy. He longed to immerse himself in something which could warm and conceal him. The Lord shall come to judge the quick and the dead. God's vengeance. God as Nemesis. The low organ notes caused the unoccupied wooden benches to vibrate. The sword in one hand and the scales in the other, punishment and justice. Or no punishment and no justice. Harry opened his eyes.

  Four men were carrying the coffin. Harry recognised Officer Ola Li behind two swarthy men in Armani suits, white shirts open at the neck. The fourth person was so tall he made the coffin tip. The suit hung loosely on the thin body, but he was the only one of the four who did not seem weighed down by the coffin. Harry's eye was particularly caught by the man's face. Narrow, finely formed with large, pained, brown eyes set in deep hollows in the cranium. The black hair was swept back in a long plait, leaving the high, shiny forehead bared. The sensitive, heart-shaped mouth was enwreathed by a long, well-groomed beard. It was as if Christ had stepped down from the altar behind the priest. And there was something else: there are very few faces you can say this about, but this face was radiant. As the four men approached Harry down the aisle, he tried to see what made it radiant. Was it grief? Not pleasure. Goodness? Evil?

  Their eyes met for a brief moment as they passed. Behind them followed Astrid Monsen with eyes downcast, a middle-aged accountant-like man and three women, two older and one younger, dressed in colourful skirts. They sobbed and wailed, rolling their eyes and wringing their hands in silent accompaniment.

  Harry stood as the tiny procession left the church.

  'Funny, these gypsies, aren't they, Hole?' The words resounded around the church. Harry turned. It was Ivarsson, black suit, tie and smile. 'When I was growing up, we had a gypsy gardener. Ursari, they travelled round with dancing bears, you know. Josef he was called. Music and pranks all the time. But death, you see . . . These people have an even more strained relationship with death than we have. They are scared stiff of mule - spirits of the dead. They believe they return. Josef used to go to a woman who would chase them away. Only women can do that apparently. Come on.'

  Ivarsson touched Harry's arm lightly. Harry had to grit his teeth to resist the impulse to shake it off. They walked down the church steps. The noise of the traffic in Kirkeveien drowned the peeling of the bells. A black Cadillac with the rear door open waited for the funeral procession in Schonings gate.

  'They take the coffin to Vestre crematorium,' Ivarsson said. 'Burning the body, that's a Hindu custom they took with them from India. In England, they burn the deceased's caravan, but they're not allowed to lock the widow in any more.' He laughed. 'They're allowed to take personal effects. Josef told me about the gypsy family of a demolition man in Hungary. They put his dynamite in the coffin and blew the whole of the crematorium sky high.'

  Harry took out a pack of Camels.

  'I know why you're here, Hole,' Ivarsson said without relaxing the smile. 'You wanted to see if the occasion would throw up a chat with him, didn't you.' Ivarsson motioned with his head to the procession and the tall, thin figure stepping out slowly as the other three tripped along, trying to keep up.

  'Is he the one called Raskol?' Harry asked, inserting a cigarette between his lips.

  Ivarsson nodded. 'He's her uncle.'

  'And the others?'

  'Friends, apparently.'

  'And the family?'

  'They don't acknowledge the deceased person.'

  'Oh?'

  'That's Raskol's version. Gypsies are notorious liars, but what he says squares with Josef's
stories about their thinking.'

  'And it is?'

  'Family honour is everything. That's why she was thrown out. According to Raskol, she had been married off to a Greek-speaking gringo-gypsy in Spain when she was fourteen, but before the marriage was consummated she'd hopped it with a gadjo.'

  'Gadjo?'

  'A non-gypsy. A Danish sailor. Worst thing you can do. Brings shame on the whole family.'

  'Mm.' The unlit cigarette jumped up and down in Harry's mouth as he spoke. 'I understand you've got to know this Raskol pretty well?'

  Ivarsson wafted away imaginary smoke. 'We've had the odd chat. Skirmishes. I would call them. Substantial talks will come after our part of the deal has been kept, in other words, when he has attended this funeral.'

  'So, he hasn't said a lot so far?'

  'Nothing of any import to the investigation, no. But the tone has been positive.'

  'So positive that I see the police are helping to carry his kin to her resting place?'

  'The priest asked if Li or I would be one of the bearers to make the numbers up. That's OK, we're here to keep an eye on him anyway. And we will continue. To keep an eye on him, that is.'

  Harry squinted into the piercing autumn sun.

  Ivarsson turned towards him. 'Let me make one thing clear, Hole. No one is allowed to speak to Raskol until we've finished with him. No one. For three years I've tried to make a deal with the man who knows everything. And now I have it. No one will be allowed to screw up. Do you understand what I'm saying?'

  'Tell me, Ivarsson, since we're having a tete-a-tete here,' Harry said, plucking a flake of tobacco from his mouth. 'Has this case turned into a competition between you and me?'

  Ivarsson raised his face to the sun and chuckled. 'Do you know what I would have done if I were you?' he said with closed eyes.

  'What's that?' Harry said when the silence was no longer tolerable.

  'I would have sent my suit to the dry cleaner's. You look as if you've been lying in a rubbish tip.' He put two fingers to his brow. 'Have a good day.'

  Harry stood alone on the steps smoking as he watched the uneven passage of the white coffin along the pavement.

  Halvorsen spun round on his chair when Harry came in. 'Great you're here. I've got some good news. I . . . shit, what a

  smell!'

  Halvorsen held his nose and said with shipping forecast

  intonation: 'What happened to your suit?'

  'Slipped in a rubbish skip. What's the news?'

  'Ooh . . . yes, I thought the photo might have been of a holiday area

  in Sorland, so I e-mailed it to all the police stations in Aust-Agder.

  And, bingo, an officer from Risor rang straight away to say he knew

  the beach well. But do you know what?'

  'Er, no, actually.'

  'It wasn't in Sorland, but in Larkollen!'

  Halvorsen looked at Harry with an expectant grin and added,

  when Harry failed to react: 'In Ostfold. Outside Moss.'

  'I know where Larkollen is, Halvorsen.'

  'Yes, but this officer comes from--'

  'People from Sorland go on holiday, too. Did you ring Larkollen?' Halvorsen rolled his eyes in desperation. 'Yes, of course. I rang the

  camping site and two places where they rent chalets. And the only

  two grocery shops.'

  'Any luck?'

  'Yep.' Halvorsen beamed again. 'I faxed the photo and one of the

  guys running the grocery shop knew who she was. They've got one of

  the most fantastic chalets in the area. He drives deliveries up there

  now and then.'

  'And the lady's name is?'

  'Vigdis Albu?'

  'Albu? Elbow?'

  'Yep. There are just two of them in Norway. One was born in 1909.

  The other is forty-three years old and lives at Bjornetrakket 12 in

  Slemdal with Arne Albu. And hey presto - here's the telephone

  number, boss.'

  'Don't call me that,' Harry said, grabbing the telephone. Halvorsen groaned. 'What's up? Are you in a bad mood or

  something?'

  'Yes, but that's not why. Moller is the boss. I'm not a boss, OK?' Halvorsen was about to say something when Harry imperiously

  held up a hand: 'Fru Albu?'

  Someone had needed a lot of time, money and space to build the Albus' house. And a lot of taste. Or as Harry saw it: a lot of bad taste. It looked as if the architect - if such there were - had tried to fuse Norwegian chalet tradition with Southern US plantation style and a dash of pink suburban bliss. Harry's feet sank in the shingle drive leading past a trim garden of ornamental shrubs and a little bronze hart drinking from a fountain. On the ridge of the garage roof there was an oval copper sign emblazoned with a blue flag containing a yellow triangle on a black triangle.

  The sound of a dog barking furiously came from behind the house. Harry walked up the broad steps between the pillars, rang the bell and half-expected to be met by a black mama in a white apron.

  'Hello,' she twittered at roughly the same time as the door was flung open. Vigdis Albu was the image of one of those women off the fitness adverts Harry occasionally saw on TV when he came home at night. She had the same white smile, bleached Barbie hair and a firm, well-toned, upper-class body packed into running tights and a skimpy top. And she'd had a boob job, but at least she'd had the sense not to exaggerate the size.

  'Harry--'

  'Come in!' She smiled with the merest suggestion of wrinkles around her large, blue, discreetly made-up eyes.

  Harry stepped into a large hallway populated with fat, ugly, carved wooden trolls reaching up to his hips.

  'I'm just washing,' Vigdis Albu explained. She flashed a white smile and carefully wiped away the sweat with a forefinger so as not to streak her mascara.

  'I'd better take off my shoes then,' Harry said and at that moment remembered the hole in his sock over his right big toe.

  'No, God forbid, not the house. We've got people to do that,' she laughed. 'But I like to wash clothes myself. There have to be limits to how far we let strangers into the house, don't you think?'

  'Too true,' Harry mumbled. He had to move briskly to keep up with her up the steps. They passed a classy kitchen and came into the living room. A spacious terrace lay beyond two sliding glass doors. On the main wall there was a huge brick construction, a sort of halfway house between Oslo City Hall and a cenotaph.

  'Designed by Per Hummel for Arne's fortieth birthday,' Vigdis said. 'Per's a friend of ours.'

  'Yes, Per has really designed one . . . a fireplace there.'

  'I'm sure you know Per Hummel, the architect, don't you? The new chapel in Holmenkollen, you know.'

  'I'm afraid not,' Harry said and passed her the photograph. 'Would you mind having a look at this?'

  He studied the surprise spreading across her face.

  'But that's the photo Arne took last year in Larkollen. How did you get hold of this?'

  Harry waited to see if she could maintain her genuinely puzzled expression before he responded. She could.

  'We found it in the shoe of a woman called Anna Bethsen,' he said. Harry witnessed a chain reaction of thoughts, reasoning and emotions reflected in Vigdis Albu's face, like a soap opera in fast forward. First surprise, next wonder and afterwards confusion. Then an intuition, which was at first rejected with a sceptical laugh, but took hold and seemed to grow into a dawning realisation. And finally the closed face with the subtitle: There have to be limits to how far we let strangers into the house, don't you think?

  Harry fidgeted with the packet of cigarettes he had taken out. A large glass ashtray had pride of place in the middle of the coffee table.

  'Do you know Anna Bethsen, fru Albu?'

  'Certainly not. Should I?'

  'I don't know,' Harry said honestly. 'She's dead. I'm left wondering what such a personal photograph is doing in her shoe. Any ideas?'

  Vigdis Albu trie
d to put on a forbearing smile, but her mouth wouldn't obey. She contented herself with an energetic shake of her head.

  Harry waited, without moving, relaxed. As his shoes had sunk into the shingle, he felt his body sinking into the deep, white sofa. Experience had taught him that silence was the most effective of all methods to make people talk. When two strangers sit facing each other, silence functions like a vacuum, sucking words out. They sat like that for ten eternal seconds. Vigdis Albu swallowed: 'Perhaps the cleaner saw it lying somewhere and took it with her. And gave it to this . . . was it Anna she was called?'

  'Mm. Do you mind if I smoke, fru Albu?'

  'This is a smoke-free house. Neither my husband nor I . . .' She lifted a hand quickly to her plait. 'And Alexander, our youngest, has got asthma.'

  'Sorry to hear that. How does your husband spend his time?'

  She gaped at him and her big, blue eyes grew even bigger.

  'What's his job, I mean?' Harry put his cigarettes back in his inside pocket.

  'He's an investor. He sold the company about three years ago.'

  'Which company?'

  'Albu AS. Importing towels and shower mats for hotels and institutions.'

  'Must have been quite a lot of towels. And shower mats.'

  'We had the agency for the whole of Scandinavia.'

  'Congratulations. The flag on the garage, isn't that a consulate flag?'

  Vigdis Albu had regained her composure and took off her hair band. It struck Harry that she had had something done to her face. Something about the proportions didn't tally. That is to say, they tallied too well; her face was almost artificially symmetrical.

  'St Lucia. My husband was the Norwegian consul there for eleven years. We had a factory where they sew shower mats. We have a little house there, too. Have you been to--?'

  'No.'

  'A fantastic, wonderful, sweet island. Some of the older inhabitants still speak French. Incomprehensible French I have to say, but they are so charming you wouldn't believe it.'