Nemesis

  Hi Harry, The Godfather

  Why such a long face? Perhaps you thought you wouldn't be hearing from me again. Well, life is full of surprises, Harry. Something Arne Albu will have discovered by the time you read this. You and I, we made life unbearable for him, didn't we? If I'm not much mistaken, I bet his wife has taken the kids and left him. Brutal, isn't it? Taking a man's family away from him, especially when you know it's the most important thing in a person's life. But he only has himself to blame. Infidelity cannot be punished severely enough, don't you agree, Harry? Anyway, my little vendetta stops here.

  But since you have been dragged into this as an innocent party, perhaps I owe you an explanation. The explanation is relatively simple. I loved Anna. I really did. What she was and what she gave me.

  Unfortunately she didn't love what I gave her. The Big H. The Big Sleep. Did you know she was a pedigree junkie? Life is, as I said, full of surprises. I introduced her to drugs after one of her - let's not mince words - failed art exhibitions. And the two of them were made for each other; it was love at first stab. Anna was my client and secret lover for four years. It was impossible to separate the two roles, so to speak.

  Confused, Harry? Because you didn't see any syringe marks when you stripped her, eh? Yes, well, 'love at first stab' was just a way of speaking. Anna couldn't stand syringes, you see. We smoked our heroin out of the silver paper off Cuban chocolate. It's more expensive than injecting it. On the other hand, Anna got it at wholesale price as long as she was with me. We were - what's the word? - inseparable. I still have tears in my eyes when I think about those times. She did everything a woman can do for a man: she fucked, fed, watered, amused and consoled me. And begged me. Basically, the only thing she didn't do was love me. How can that be so bloody difficult, Harry? After all, she loved you and you didn't do shit for her.

  She even managed to love Arne Albu. And there was me thinking he was just a tosser she was milking to pay for junk at market prices, and to get away from me for a while.

  But then one May evening I rang her. I'd just done three months for petty offences, and Anna and I hadn't spoken for a long time. I said we should celebrate. I had taken delivery of the purest stuff in the world from the factory in Chang Rai. I could immediately tell from her voice that something wasn't right. She said it was over. I asked whether she was referring to H or me, and she replied both. You see, she had started on this work of art which she would be remembered for, she said, and it needed a clear mind. As you know, Anna was an obstinate devil when she set her mind on something, so I would bet you never found any junk in her blood. Right?

  Then she told me about this guy, Arne Albu. They had been seeing each other and planned to move in together. First, he had to sort things out with his wife. Heard that one before, Harry? Well, me, too.

  Isn't it strange how your mind can focus when the world is crashing around you? I knew what was required before I put down the phone. Revenge. Primitive? Not at all. Revenge is the thinking man's reflex, a complex blend of action and consistency no other animal species has so far succeeded in evolving. Evolutionally speaking, the practice of taking revenge has shown itself to be so effective that only the most vengeful of us have survived. Vengeance or death. It sounds like the title of a western, right, but remember it was the logic of retaliation that created the constitutional state. The enshrined promise of an eye for an eye, the sinner burning in hell or at least dangling from the gallows. Revenge is basically the foundation of civilisation, Harry.

  So I sat down that same evening and worked out a plan.

  I made it simple.

  I ordered a key for Anna's flat from Trioving. I won't tell you how. After you left her flat, I went in. Anna had already gone to bed. She, a Beretta M92 and I had a long, enlightening chat. I asked her to find something she had been given by Arne Albu - a card, a letter, a business card, anything. The plan was to leave it on her body to help you connect the murder with him, but all she had was a photograph of his family at their chalet, which she had taken from his album. I guessed that might be a touch too cryptic and you might need a little more help. So I had an idea. Signor Beretta persuaded her to tell me how to get into Albu's chalet. The key was in the outside lamp.

  After shooting her - I won't go into detail as it was a disappointing anticlimax (no sign of fear or regret) - I put the picture in her shoe and immediately left for Larkollen. I planted - as I am sure you have realised by now - Anna's spare key in the chalet. I thought about glueing it to the inside of the cistern in the toilet, that's my favourite place, where Michael hid the gun in . But you probably wouldn't have had the imagination to search there and there was no point anyway. So I put it in the bedside-table drawer. Easy, wasn't it?

  The stage was thus set, and you and the other marionettes could make your entrances. Hope, by the way, you weren't offended by the little nudges I gave you on the way. The intellectual level of you policemen is not exactly unnerving. Unnervingly high, that is.

  I take my leave here. Thank you for the company and the help. It has been a pleasure working with you, Harry.

  S2MN

  34

  Pluvianus Aegyptius

  A police car was parked by the door to Harry's apartment building and another blocked the Dovregata entrance to Sofies gate.

  Tom Waaler had given instructions not to use sirens or blue lights. Over the walkie-talkie, he checked everyone was in position and received quick-fire, crackly confirmation by return. The word from Ivarsson was that the blue sheet - the arrest document and search warrant - from the police solicitor had arrived exactly forty minutes ago. Waaler had said quite clearly he didn't want the Delta group, he would lead the party himself and already had the people he needed on standby. Ivarsson had not made any fuss.

  Tom Waaler rubbed his hands. Partly because of the icy-cold wind sweeping down the street from Bislett stadium, but mostly out of glee. Making arrests was the best part of the job. He had already realised that when he was small, and he and Joakim had lain in wait in their parents' orchard on autumn evenings for the riff-raff from the housing co-op on an apple-scrumping raid. And they came. Usually eight to ten of them in the gang. It made no difference how many there were, however, because it was total mayhem when he and Joakim shone their torches and yelled through their home-made megaphones. They followed the same principles as wolves hunting reindeer: they picked out the smallest and weakest. But it was the arrest - the cornering of the prey - which fascinated Tom, the punishment which appealed to Joakim, whose creativity in this area had advanced so far that Tom occasionally had to stop him. Not because Tom felt any sympathy for the thieves, but because, unlike Joakim, he could keep a clear head and assess the consequences. Tom often thought it was not chance that brought him and Joakim together as it had. He was now a deputy judge on the Oslo Law Court circuit with a glittering career beckoning.

  When Tom applied to join the police force, what had attracted him was the thought of

  arrests. Tom's father had wanted him to study medicine, or theology as he had done. Tom achieved the best grades in his school, so why a policeman? It was important for your selfesteem to have a decent education, his father had said, and told him about his elder brother who worked in an ironmonger's selling screws and hating everyone because he felt he wasn't as good as they were.

  Tom had listened to the admonitions with the wry smile he knew his father loathed. What his father worried about wasn't Tom's selfesteem, it was what the neighbours and relatives thought about his only son becoming a 'mere' policeman. His father had never understood that you could hate people even though you were better than they were.

  Because you were better.

  He checked his watch. Thirteen minutes past six. He pressed one of the bells on the ground floor.

  'Potato dumpling,' Maja said, taking his plate and giving Harry a reproachful look. 'You haven't touched it.'

  'Hello,' said a woman's voice.

  'It's the police,' Waaler said. 'Could you o
pen up for us?'

  'How do I know you're the police?'

  A Paki, Waaler thought, and asked her to take a peep out of the window at the police cars. The lock buzzed.

  'And stay indoors,' he said to the intercom.

  Waaler placed one man at the back of the house by the fire escape. After looking at the drawings of the apartment block on the Intranet, he had memorised where Harry's flat was and discovered there was no back staircase to worry about.

  Each armed with an MP5 across their shoulders, Waaler and two men crept up the worn, wooden stairs. On the second floor, Waaler stopped and pointed to the door that didn't have - and had hardly ever needed - a nameplate. He eyed the two others. Their chests heaved under their uniforms. And not because of the stairs.

  They put on balaclavas. The keywords were speed, efficiency and resolve. The latter actually meant the resolve to be brutal, and if necessary, to kill. That was seldom necessary. On the whole, even hardened criminals were totally paralysed when masked, armed men entered without warning. In short, they used the same tactics as bank robbers.

  Waaler steadied himself and nodded to one of the others, who gently touched the door with two knuckles. That was in order to be able to write in the report that they had knocked first. Waaler smashed the glass panel with the barrel of his machine gun, reached a hand through and opened the door in one movement. He yelled as they stormed the apartment. A vowel or the first letter of a word, he wasn't sure. He just knew it was the same thing he used to yell when he and Joakim switched on their torches. That was the best bit.

  'Sorry,' Harry said. 'No appetite. Pay my respects to the chef and tell him it wasn't his fault. This time.'

  Maja laughed out loud and headed for the kitchen.

  'Maja . . .'

  She turned round slowly. There was something in Harry's voice, in his intonation which presaged what was coming.

  'Bring me a beer, would you?'

  She continued towards the kitchen. It's none of my business, she thought. I just serve customers. Nothing to do with me.

  'What's up, Maja?' the cook asked as she emptied the plate into the bin.

  'It's not my life,' she said. 'It's his. The fool.'

  The telephone in Beate's office gave a reedy squeak and she took the receiver. She heard the sound of voices, laughter and the clink of glasses. Then came the voice.

  'Am I disturbing?'

  For a second she was uncertain. His voice sounded alien. But it couldn't be anyone else. 'Harry?'

  'What are you up to?'

  'I . . . I'm checking the Net for clues. Harry--'

  'So you've put the video of the Grensen bank job on the Net?'

  'Yes, but you--'

  'There are a couple of things I have to tell you, Beate. Arne Albu--'

  'Fine, but listen to me now.'

  'You sound a bit stressed, Beate.'

  'I am!' Her shout crackled over the telephone. Then - calmer: 'They're after you, Harry. I tried to ring and warn you after they had left, but no one was at home.'

  'What are you talking about?'

  'Tom Waaler. He's got a warrant out on you.'

  'Eh? Am I going to be arrested?'

  Now Beate knew what was different about Harry's voice. He had been drinking. She gulped. 'Tell me where you are, Harry, and I'll come and get you. Then we can say you gave yourself up. I don't know what this is all about yet, but I'll help you, Harry. I promise. Harry? Don't do anything stupid, OK? Hello?'

  She sat listening to voices, laughter and clinking glasses, then footsteps and a woman's hoarse voice: 'This is Maja at Schroder's.'

  'Where . . . ?'

  'He's gone.'

  35

  SOS

  Vigdis Albu woke up to Gregor barking outside. The rain was drumming on the roof. She looked at her watch. Half past seven. She must have dropped off. The glass in front of her was empty, the house was empty, everything was empty. That wasn't how she had planned things.

  She got up, went over to the patio door and watched Gregor. He was facing the gate with his ears and tail pointing directly upwards. What should she do? Give him away? Have him put to sleep? Not even the children had any strong feelings for this over-active, nervous creature. The plan, yes. She glanced at the half-empty gin bottle on the glass table. It was time to devise a new one.

  Gregor's barking rent the air.

  Woof, woof! Arne had said he found the irritating noise reassuring; it gave you a vague sense that someone was alert. He said dogs could smell enemies because ill-wishers gave off a different scent from friends. She decided she would ring a vet tomorrow; she was sick of paying upkeep for a dog which barked every time she came into the room.

  She inched open the patio door and listened. Through the baying of the dog and the rain she could hear the gravel crunching. She just managed to throw a brush through her hair and wipe away a streak of mascara under her left eye before the doorbell rang its three notes from Handel's

  Messiah, a house-warming present from her in-laws. She had an inkling who it might be. She was right. Almost.

  'Constable?' she said, genuinely astonished. 'This is a nice surprise.'

  The man on the step was soaked. Drops of water were hanging from his eyebrows. He leaned one arm against the door frame and looked at her without answering. Vigdis Albu opened the door completely and half-closed her eyes again: 'Won't you come in?'

  She led the way and heard his shoes squelch behind her. She knew he liked what he saw. He sat down in an armchair without taking off his coat. She noticed the material darken as the water soaked in.

  'Gin, Constable?'

  'Got any Jim Beam?'

  'No.'

  'Gin's fine.'

  She fetched the crystal glasses - a wedding present from the in-laws - and poured them both a drink. 'My condolences,' the policeman said, eyeing her with shiny, red eyes which told her this wasn't his first drink today.

  'Thank you,' she said. 'Skal.'

  When she set down her glass she saw he had drunk half the contents of his. He sat fidgeting with it and suddenly said: 'I killed him.'

  Vigdis instinctively put her hand to the necklace around her neck. The morning gift.

  'I didn't want it to end like that,' he said. 'But I was stupid and careless. I led the murderers right to him.'

  Vigdis pressed the glass to her mouth so he wouldn't see she was about to burst into laughter.

  'So now you know,' he said.

  'Now I know, Harry,' she whispered. She thought she saw a hint of surprise in his eyes.

  'You've been talking to Tom Waaler.' It sounded more like a statement than a question.

  'You mean the detective who thinks he's God's gift to . . . hm. I talked to him. Told him everything I knew, of course. Shouldn't I have done, Harry?'

  He shrugged.

  'Have I put you in a tight spot, Harry?' She had tucked her legs beneath her on the sofa and regarded him with a concerned expression from behind her glass.

  He didn't answer.

  'Another drink?'

  He nodded. 'At least, I have one piece of good news for you.' He followed her hand carefully as she filled his glass. 'I received an e-mail this evening from someone confessing to the murder of Anna Bethsen. The person in question lured me into thinking it was Arne.'

  'That's great,' she said. She spluttered gin onto the table. 'Oh dear, must be a bit too strong.'

  'You don't seem exactly surprised.'

  'Nothing surprises me any longer. To be honest, I didn't think Arne had the guts to kill anyone.'

  Harry rubbed the back of his neck. 'Nevertheless. Now I have proof Anna Bethsen was murdered. I sent the confession to a colleague of mine before leaving home this evening. As well as all the other e-mails I've received. That means I've laid all my cards on the table as far as my own role is concerned. Anna was an ex-girlfriend of mine. My problem is that I was with her the evening she was killed. I should have turned down her invitation right away, but I was stupid and car
eless and thought I could solve the case on my own and at the same time make sure I wasn't dragged into it. I was . . .'

  'Stupid and careless. You've said that.' She observed him pensively as he stroked the sofa cushion beside him. 'Of course, that explains a great deal. However, I still can't see why it should be a crime to spend time with a woman you would like to . . . spend time with. You had better explain yourself, Harry.'

  'Well.' He gulped down the shiny liquor. 'I woke up the next day and couldn't remember a thing.'

  'I see.' She rose from the sofa, went over to him and stood opposite him. 'Do you know who he is?'

  He rested his head against the back of the sofa and looked up at her. 'Who said it's a "he"?' His words were slightly slurred.

  She stretched out a slim hand. He shot her a quizzical look.

  'The coat,' she said. 'Then go straight into the bathroom and take a hot bath. I'll make coffee and find some dry clothes for you in the meantime. I don't think he would have objected. He was a reasonable man in many ways.'

  'I . . .'

  'Come on. Now.'

  The hot embrace sent shivers of pleasure running through him. The caresses continued up over his thighs to his hips and covered him in gooseflesh. He groaned. Then he lowered the rest of his body into the boiling water and leaned back.

  He could hear the rain outside and listened to catch Vigdis Albu's movements, but she had put a record on. Police. Greatest Hits, to cap it all. He closed his eyes.

  Sting was sending out an SOS. Speaking of which, he reckoned Beate must have read the e-mail by now. She would have passed on the message and the fox hunt would have been called off. The alcohol had made his eyelids heavy, but every time he closed his eyes he saw two legs and hand-sewn Italian shoes sticking out of the steaming-hot bathwater. He fumbled behind his head for the glass he had placed at the edge of the bath. When he rang Beate from Schroder's he had only had two large beers, and that was nowhere near the anaesthetisation he required. But where was the damn glass? He wondered if Tom Waaler was hunting him down anyway. Harry knew he was desperate to make this arrest. But Harry was not going to give himself up until he had all the details safely in place. From now on, he couldn't afford to trust anyone. He would sort it out. Just some time out first. Another drink. Borrow the sofa here tonight. A clear head. Tomorrow.