The Redbreast (Harry Hole)

  He was awoken by his own panting and had to turn over in bed to make sure he was still alone. Afterwards, everything merged in a maelstrom of thunder, sleep and dreams. He awoke in the middle of the night to the sound of beating rain; he went over to the window and stared down at the street where water was streaming over the edges of the pavement and an ownerless hat drifted along with it.

  When Harry was awoken by his early-morning alarm call it was light outside and the streets were dry.

  He looked at his watch on the bedside table. His flight to Oslo left in two hours.

  88

  Thereses Gate. 15 May 2000.

  STÅLE AUNE’S OFFICE WAS YELLOW AND THE WALLS WERE covered with shelves crammed with specialist books and drawings of Kjell Aukrust’s cartoon characters.

  ‘Take a seat, Harry,’ Doctor Aune said. ‘Chair or divan?’

  That was his standard opener, and Harry responded by raising the left-hand corner of his mouth in his standard that’s-funny-but-we’ve-heard-it-before smile. When Harry had rung from Gardemoen Airport, Aune had said Harry could come, but that he didn’t have a lot of time as he had to go to a seminar in Hamar at which he was to give the opening speech.

  ‘It’s entitled “Problems Related to the Diagnosis of Alcoholism”,’ Aune said. ‘You won’t be mentioned by name.’

  ‘Is that why you’re all dressed up?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Clothes are one of the strongest signals we transmit,’ Aune said, running a hand along a lapel. ‘Tweed signals masculinity and confidence.’

  ‘And the bow-tie?’ Harry asked, taking out his notebook and pen.

  ‘Intellectual frivolity and arrogance. Gravity with a touch of self-irony, if you like. More than enough to impress second-rate colleagues, it seems.’

  Aune leaned back, pleased with himself, his hands folded over his bulging stomach.

  ‘Tell me about split personalities,’ Harry said. ‘Or schizophrenia.’

  ‘In five minutes?’ Aune groaned.

  ‘Give me a summary then.’

  ‘First of all, you mention split personalities and schizophrenia in the same breath, and that is one of these misunderstandings that for some reason has caught the public’s imagination. Schizophrenia is a term for a whole group of widely differing mental disorders and has nothing at all to do with split personalities. It’s true schizo is Greek for split, but what Doctor Eugen Bleuler meant was that psychological functions in a schizophrenic’s brain are split. And if . . .’

  Harry pointed to his watch.

  ‘Right,’ Aune said. ‘The personality split you talked about is called an MPD, a multiple personality disorder, defined as the existence of two or more personalities in an individual which take turns in being the dominant partner. As with Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.’

  ‘So, it exists?’

  ‘Oh, yes. But it’s rare, a lot rarer than some Hollywood films would have us believe. In my twenty-five years as a psychologist I’ve never been lucky enough to observe a single instance of an MPD. But I do know something about it all the same.’

  ‘For example?’

  ‘For example, it is almost always connected with a loss of memory. In other words, an MPD sufferer could wake up with a hangover without realising that it is because their other personality is a drinker. Well, in fact, one personality can be an alcoholic and the other a teetotaller.’

  ‘Not literally, I take it?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘But alcoholism is a physical ailment too.’

  ‘Yes, and that’s what makes MPDs so fascinating. I have a report of an MPD case where one of the personalities was a big smoker while the other never touched cigarettes. And when you measured the blood pressure of the smoker it was 20 per cent higher. Women with an MPD have reported that they menstruate several times a month because every personality has its own cycle.’

  ‘So these people can change their own physical nature?’

  ‘To a certain degree, yes. The story about Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde is in fact not so far from the truth as one might think. In one well-known case described by Dr Osherson, one of the personalities was heterosexual while the other was homosexual.’

  ‘Can the personalities have different voices?’

  ‘Yes. Actually the voice is one of the easiest ways to observe the shift between personalities.’

  ‘So different that even someone who knows this person extremely well would not recognise one of these other voices. On the phone, for example?’

  ‘If the individual concerned knew nothing about the other personality, yes. With people who have only a superficial knowledge of the MPD patient, the change in gestures and body language can be enough for them to sit in the same room and not recognise the person.’

  ‘Could someone with an MPD keep it hidden from those closest to them?’

  ‘It’s feasible, yes. How frequently the other personalities appear is an individual matter and patients can to some degree control the changes themselves, too.’

  ‘But then the personalities would have to know about each other?’

  ‘Yes, indeed, but that’s not unusual either. And, just as in the novel about Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, there can be bitter clashes between the personalities because they have different goals, perceptions of morality, sympathies and antipathies with respect to the people around them and so on.’

  ‘What about handwriting? Can they mess around with that too?’

  ‘This is not messing around, Harry. You aren’t the same person all the time, either. When you get home from work a whole load of imperceptible changes take place in you too: your voice, body language and so on. It’s odd that you should mention handwriting because somewhere here I’ve got a book with a picture of a letter written by an MPD patient with seventeen totally different and totally consistent handwriting styles. I’ll see if I can find it one day when I have more time.’

  Harry noted down a few reminders on his pad.

  ‘Different menstrual cycles, different handwriting; it’s just absolutely insane,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Your words, Harry. I hope that helped because I’ve got to run.’

  Aune ordered a taxi and they went out on to the street together. As they stood on the pavement Aune asked Harry if he had any plans for Independence Day on 17 May. ‘Wife and I are going to have a few friends round for a meal. You’re very welcome.’

  ‘Kind of you, but the neo-Nazis are planning to “take” the Muslims who celebrate Eid on the seventeenth and I’ve been instructed to coordinate surveillance round the mosque in Grønland,’ Harry said, both happy and embarrassed at the surprise invitation. ‘They always ask us singles to work on such family celebration days, you know.’

  ‘Couldn’t you just drop in for a while? Most of the people who come have something of their own to go to later on in the day.’

  ‘Thanks. Let’s see what happens and I’ll give you a ring. What are your friends like anyway?’

  Aune checked his bow-tie to make sure it was straight.

  ‘They’re like you,’ he said. ‘But my wife knows a few respectable people.’

  At that moment the taxi pulled into the kerb. Harry held the door open while Aune scrambled in, but as he was about to shut it he suddenly remembered something.

  ‘What are MPDs caused by?’

  Aune bent over in his seat and looked up at Harry. ‘What’s this actually about, Harry?’

  ‘I’m not quite sure, but it might be important.’

  ‘Alright. MPD cases have often been subject to abuse in their childhood. But a disorder could also be caused by extremely traumatic experiences later in life. Another personality is created to flee from problems.’

  ‘What sort of traumatic problems might that be if we’re talking about an adult male?’

  ‘You just have to use your imagination. He might have experienced a natural disaster, lost someone he loved, been a victim of violence or lived in fear for a protracted period of time.’

  ‘Like being
a soldier at war, for example.’

  ‘War could certainly be a trigger, yes.’

  ‘Or guerrilla warfare.’

  Harry said the latter to himself, as the taxi taking Aune was already on its way down Thereses gate.

  ‘Scotsman,’ Halvorsen said.

  ‘You’re going to spend 17 May in the Scotsman pub?’ Harry grimaced, putting his bag behind the hatstand.

  Halvorsen shrugged his shoulders. ‘Any better suggestions?’

  ‘If it has to be a pub, at least find one with a bit more style than the Scotsman. Or better still, relieve one of the fathers here and do one of the watches during the children’s parade. Double pay and zero hangover.’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  Harry slumped down into the chair.

  ‘Aren’t you going to get it fixed soon? It sounds decidedly out of sorts.’

  ‘It can’t be fixed,’ Harry said sulkily.

  ‘Sorry. Did you find anything in Vienna?’

  ‘I’m coming to that. You first.’

  ‘I tried to check Even Juul’s alibis for the time his wife went missing. He claimed he was walking round the city centre, popped into the Kaffebrenneri in Ullevålsveien, but he didn’t meet anyone there who could corroborate his story. The staff working in the Kaffebrenneri say they’re too busy to be able to prove or disprove anything.’

  ‘The Kaffebrenneri is right across the street from Schrøder’s,’ Harry said.

  ‘So?’

  ‘I’m just stating a fact. What did Weber say?’

  ‘They haven’t found anything. Weber said that if Signe Juul had been taken to the fortress in the car the night-watchman saw, they would have found something on her clothes, fibres from the back seat, soil or oil from the boot, something.’

  ‘He’d spread out bin liners in the car,’ Harry said.

  ‘That’s what Weber said too.’

  ‘Did you check the dry hay they found on her coat?’

  ‘Yep. It could be from Mosken’s stable. Plus a million other places.’

  ‘Hay. Not straw.’

  ‘There’s nothing special about the hay, Harry, it’s just . . . hay.’

  ‘Damn.’ Harry looked around him grumpily.

  ‘What about Vienna?’

  ‘More hay. Do you know anything about coffee, Halvorsen?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Ellen used to make decent coffee. She bought it in some shop here in Grønland. Maybe . . .’

  ‘No!’ Halvorsen said. ‘I’m not making you coffee.’

  ‘Promise me you’ll try,’ Harry said, getting up again. ‘I’ll be out for a couple of hours.’

  ‘Was that all you had to say about Vienna? Hay? Not even a straw in the wind?’

  Harry shook his head. ‘Sorry. That was a dead end too.You’ll get used to it.’

  Something had happened. Harry walked up along Grønlandsleiret as he tried to put his finger on what it was. There was something about the people in the streets, something had happened to them while he was in Vienna. He was a long way up Karl Johans gate before he realised what it was. Summer had arrived. For the first time in years Harry was aware of the smell of tarmac, of the people passing him, of the flower shop in Grensen. As he walked through the Palace Gardens the smell of freshly mown grass was so intense that he had to smile. A man and a woman wearing Palace overalls stood looking up at the top of a tree, discussing and shaking their heads. The woman had unbuttoned the top of her overall and tied it around her waist. Harry noticed that when she looked up at the tree and pointed, her colleague was stealing furtive glances at her tight T-shirt instead.

  In Hedgehaugsveien the hip and the not quite so hip fashion boutiques were going through their final paces to dress people up for the Independence Day celebrations. The kiosks were selling ribbons and flags, and in the distance he could hear the echo of a band putting its final touches to the traditional marching tune. Showers were forecast, but it would be warm.

  Harry was sweating when he rang the doorbell at Sindre Fauke’s.

  Fauke was not particularly looking forward to the national holiday.

  ‘Too much fuss. And too many flags. No wonder Hitler felt close to the Norwegians. Norwegians are hugely nationalistic. We just dare not admit it.’

  He poured the coffee.

  ‘Gudbrand Johansen ended up at the military hospital in Vienna,’ Harry said. ‘The night before he was supposed to leave for Norway he killed a doctor. Since then no one has seen him.’

  ‘Well, I never,’ Fauke said, loudly slurping the scalding hot coffee. ‘I knew there was something wrong with that boy.’

  ‘What can you tell me about Even Juul?’

  ‘A lot. If I have to.’

  ‘Well, you have to.’

  Fauke raised a bushy eyebrow.

  ‘Are you sure you’re not barking up the wrong tree now, Hole?’

  ‘I’m not sure of anything at all.’

  Fauke blew at his coffee thoughtfully.

  ‘OK. If it’s absolutely necessary. Juul and I had a relationship which was like Gudbrand Johansen and Daniel Gudeson’s in many ways. I was a surrogate father for Even. It probably has something to do with the fact that he had no parents.’

  Harry’s coffee cup stopped in mid-air on the way to his mouth.

  ‘Not many people knew that because Even used to make things up as he went along. His invented childhood consisted of more people, details, places and dates than most people would remember from their childhood. The official version was that he had grown up with the Juul family on a farm in Grini, but the truth is that he grew up with various foster parents and in various institutions around Norway before finally landing in the childless Juul family as a twelve-year-old.’

  ‘How do you know he lied about it?’

  ‘It is rather a strange story, but one night Even and I were on watch outside the camp we had set up in the forest, north of Harestua, when something strange happened to him. Even and I were not particularly close at that point and I was extremely surprised when he began to tell me about how he had been abused as a child and how nobody had ever wanted him. He told me some extremely intimate details of his life, and some of it was painful listening. Some of the adults he had been placed with ought to have been . . .’ Fauke shuddered.

  ‘Let’s go for a walk,’ he said.‘Rumour has it the weather’s nice outside.’

  They walked up Vibes gate to Stenspark, where the first bikinis were on display and a glue-sniffer had strayed from his shelter at the top of the hill looking as if he had just discovered planet Earth.

  ‘I don’t know what brought it on, but it was as if he became another person that night,’ Fauke said. ‘Very odd, but the strangest thing was that the next day he behaved as if he had forgotten the conversation we had had.’

  ‘You said that you weren’t very close, but you told him about some of your experiences on the Eastern Front?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Not a lot else was happening in the forest. For the most part we were moving around and keeping an eye on the Germans. And there were quite a few long stories while we were waiting.’

  ‘Did you talk much about Daniel Gudeson?’

  Fauke stared at Harry.

  ‘So, you’ve found out that Even Juul is obsessed by Daniel Gudeson?’

  ‘I’m just guessing for the time being,’ Harry said.

  ‘Yes, I talked about Daniel a lot,’ Fauke said. ‘He was like a legend, Daniel Gudeson was. It’s rare to meet such a free, strong and happy spirit as him. And Even was fascinated by the stories. I had to tell them again and again, especially the one about the Russian he went into no man’s land to bury.’

  ‘Did he know that Daniel had been to Sennheim during the war?’

  ‘Of course. Even remembered all the details about Daniel I was beginning to forget and he reminded me. For some reason, he seemed to have totally identified with Daniel, although I can hardly imagine two more different people. Once when Even was drunk he suggeste
d I start to call him Uriah, just as Daniel had done. And if you ask me, it was no coincidence that he only had eyes for young Signe Alsaker at the end of the war.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘When he found out that Daniel Gudeson’s fiancée’s case was due to come up, he went to the courtroom and sat there all day just looking at her. It was as if he had decided in advance that he was going to have her.’

  ‘Because she had been Daniel’s girl?’

  ‘Are you sure this is important?’ Fauke asked, walking up the path towards the hill so quickly that Harry had to walk faster to keep up with him.

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘I’m not sure if I should say this but, personally, I believe Even Juul loved the myth of Daniel Gudeson more than he ever loved Signe Juul. I’m sure that his admiration for Gudeson was a strong contributory factor in his not resuming medical studies after the war, but studying history instead. Naturally enough, he specialised in the history of the Norwegian Occupation and the Norwegian soldiers at the Eastern Front.’

  They had arrived at the top and Harry wiped away his sweat. Fauke was hardly out of breath.

  ‘One of the reasons that Even Juul established himself so quickly as a historian was that as a former Resistance man he was a perfect instrument for writing the history that the authorities felt postwar Norway deserved. By keeping quiet about the widespread collaboration with the Germans and focusing on the little resistance there was. For instance, Juul devotes five pages to the sinking of the Blücher on the night leading to 9 April in his history book, but he quietly ignores the fact that prosecutions against almost 100,000 Norwegians were being considered at the trials. And it worked. The myths of a Norwegian population fighting shoulder to shoulder against Nazism live on today.’

  ‘Is that what your book will be about, herr Fauke?’

  ‘I’m only trying to tell the truth. Even knew that what he was writing was, if not lies, then a distortion of the truth. We talked about it once. He defended himself by saying that it served the purpose of bringing the people together. The only thing he couldn’t bring himself to put in the desired heroic light was the King’s escape to freedom. He wasn’t the only Resistance man who felt deserted in 1940, but I’ve never met anyone so one-sidedly condemnatory as Even, not even among soldiers on the front. Remember that all his life he had been abandoned by people he loved and trusted. I think he hated every single one of them who left for London with the whole of his heart. Really.’