The Redbreast (12 page)

‘Why not?’

Møller scratched the back of his head furiously. His face had turned fiery red.

‘For fuck’s sake, Harry. We’re offering you a job as an inspector, five notches up the pay scale, no more night shifts and a bit more respect from the bloody rookies. That’s good going, Harry.’

‘I like night shifts.’

‘No one likes night shifts.’

‘Why don’t you give me the vacant inspector’s post here?’

‘Harry! Do me a favour and just say yes.’

Harry fidgeted with his paper cup. ‘Boss,’ he said. ‘How long have we known each other?’

Møller raised an admonitory finger. ‘Don’t try that one on me. Not the we’ve-been-through-thick-and-thin-together number . . .’

‘Seven years. And for seven years I’ve interviewed people in this city who are probably the most stupid beings to walk on two legs, and still I haven’t met anyone who is a worse liar than you. Perhaps I’m stupid, but I still have a couple of brain cells left doing the best they can, and they’re telling me that it can’t exactly be my record that’s earned me this post. Nor that, to my astonishment, I can suddenly have one of the best scores in the department at the annual shooting test. They’re telling me that my plugging a Secret Service agent might have something to do with it. And you don’t need to say a thing, boss.’

Møller opened his mouth, closed it again and instead demonstratively crossed his arms.

Harry continued: ‘I know you’re not responsible for putting on this show. And even if I can’t see the whole picture, I have some imagination and I can guess the rest. If I’m right, it means that my own wishes regarding other options for my career in the police are of minor importance. So just answer me this. Have I any choice?’

Møller blinked, and kept blinking. He was thinking about Bergen again. Of snow-free winters. Of Sunday outings with his wife and boys on Mount Fløyen. Somewhere decent to grow up. A few good-natured pranks, a bit of hash, no criminal gangs and no fourteen-year-olds taking overdoses. Bergen police station. Yeah, well.

‘No,’ he said.

‘Right,’ Harry said. ‘I didn’t think so.’ He crumpled the paper cup and took aim at the waste-paper basket. ‘Up five pay grades, did you say?’

‘And your own office.’

‘Nicely partitioned off from the others, I would imagine.’ He threw with a slow, deliberate arm movement. ‘Overtime?’

‘Not at that grade.’

‘Then I’ll have to hurry home at four.’ The paper cup landed on the floor half a metre from the bin.

‘I’m sure that’s fine,’ Møller said with a suggestion of a smile.

18
Palace Gardens. 10 November 1999.

I
T WAS A COLD, CLEAR EVENING
. T
HE FIRST THING THAT
struck the old man as he came out of the Metro station was how many people were still in the street. He had imagined that the centre would be almost deserted, but the taxis in Karl Johans gate were shooting back and forth under the neon lights, and crowds of people were drifting up and down the pavements. He stood at a pedestrian crossing with a gang of swarthy youths jabbering away in another language and waited for the green man. He guessed they were Pakistani. Or Arab perhaps. His thoughts were interrupted by the changing lights and he stepped purposefully across the road and up the hill towards the illuminated façade of the Palace. Even here there were people, most of them young, on their way to and from God-only-knew what. On the hill he stopped for a breather, in front of the statue of Karl Johan astride his horse, staring dreamily down towards the Storting and the power he had tried to have moved to the Palace behind him.

It hadn’t rained for over a week and the dried leaves rustled as the old man turned right between the trees in the gardens. He leaned back and studied the bare branches outlined against the starry sky above. A verse from a poem occurred to him:

Elm and poplar, birch and oak,
Deathly pale, blackened cloak.

It would have been better if there hadn’t been a moon this evening
, he thought. On the other hand, it made it easier to find what he was looking for: the huge oak tree he had rested his head against the day he learned his life was approaching its end. He followed the trunk with his eyes up to the crown of the tree. How old could it be? Two hundred years? Three hundred? The tree might already have been fully grown when Karl Johan was proclaimed King of Norway. Nevertheless, all life comes to an end. His own, the tree’s, yes, even kings’ lives. He stood behind the tree so that he could not be seen from the path and eased off his rucksack. Then he crouched down, opened the rucksack and laid out the contents: three bottles of a glyphosate solution, which the sales assistant in a hardware shop in Kirkeveien had called Round-Up, and a horse syringe with a strong steel point, which he bought at a chemist’s. He had said he was going to use the syringe for cooking, to inject fat into meat, but that had been unnecessary because the assistant had just given him a bored look and had probably forgotten him before he was out of the door.

The old man looked quickly around before sticking the long steel point through the cork on one of the bottles and slowly withdrawing the plunger so that the shiny liquid filled the syringe. He probed with his fingers until he found an opening in the bark and stuck the syringe in. Things didn’t go as easily as he had imagined. He had to press hard for the syringe to penetrate the tough wood. It wouldn’t have any effect if he injected the outer layer; he had to reach the cambium, the tree’s inner, life-giving organs. He applied more pressure to the syringe. The needle shook. Damn! He mustn’t break it, he only had the one. The tip slid in, but after a few centimetres it came to a complete stop. Despite the chilly temperature, sweat was pouring off him. He gripped the syringe tight and was about to push again when he heard leaves rustling over by the path. He let go of the syringe. The sound came nearer. He closed his eyes and held his breath. The steps passed close by. When he opened his eyes again he glimpsed two figures disappearing behind the bushes, by the lookout point over Frederiks gate. He breathed out and turned his attention to the syringe again. He resolved to go for broke and pushed with all his might. And just as he was expecting to hear the sound of the needle snapping, it slid into the trunk. The old man mopped his brow. The rest was easy.

After ten minutes he had injected two bottles of the mixture and was well down the third when he heard voices approaching. Two figures came round the bushes at the lookout point and he assumed they were the same people he had seen before.

‘Hello!’ It was a man’s voice.

The old man reacted instinctively. He straightened up and stood in front of the tree so that the tails of his coat obscured the syringe, which was still in the tree trunk. The next moment, he was blinded by light. He placed his hands in front of his face.

‘Take the light away, Tom.’ A woman.

The glare was gone and he saw a cone of light dancing between the trees in the gardens.

The pair came over to him and one, a woman in her early thirties with attractive though unexceptional features, held a card so close to his face that even in the meagre moonlight he could see her photograph, obviously taken when she was a bit younger, wearing a serious expression. Plus a name. Ellen something or other.

‘Police,’ she said. ‘My apologies if we frightened you.’

‘What are you doing here in the middle of the night, grandad?’ the man asked. They were both wearing plain clothes, and under the man’s black woollen hat he saw a good-looking young man with cold blue eyes staring back at him.

‘I was only out walking,’ the old man said, hoping that the tremble in his voice wouldn’t be obvious.

‘Is that so?’ the one called Tom said. ‘Behind a tree in the park, wearing a long coat. Do you know what we call that?’

‘Stop it, Tom! Again, my apologies,’ the woman said, turning to the old man. ‘There was an attack here in the gardens some hours ago. A young boy was beaten up. Have you seen or heard anything?’

‘I’ve only just got here,’ the old man said, concentrating on the woman to avoid meeting the man’s searching eyes. ‘I haven’t seen anything. Only Ursa Major and Ursa Minor.’ He pointed to the sky. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Was he badly hurt?’

‘Quite badly. Please excuse the disturbance,’ she smiled. ‘Have a nice evening.’

They went off and the old man closed his eyes and fell back against the tree trunk. The next moment he was pulled up by his lapels and felt hot breath in his ear. Then the young man’s voice.

‘If I ever catch you at it, I’ll cut it off. Do you hear? I hate people like you.’

The hands let go of his lapels and were gone.

The old man collapsed and felt the cold moisture from the ground soak through his clothes. Inside his head, a voice hummed the same verse again and again.

Elm and poplar, birch and oak,
Deathly pale, blackened cloak.

19
Herbert’s Pizza, Youngstorget. 12 November 1999.

S
VERRE
O
LSEN WALKED IN, NODDED TO THE BOYS AT THE
corner table, bought a beer at the bar and took it over. Not to the corner table, but to his own. It had been his table for more than a year now, ever since he beat up the slit-eye at Dennis Kebab. He was early and for the moment no one else was sitting there, but soon the little pizzeria on the corner of Torggata and Youngstorget would be full. It was benefit day. He cast a glance at the boys in the corner. Three of the hard core were sitting there, but he wasn’t talking to them at the moment. They belonged to the new party –
Nasjonalalliansen
– and there had been ideological differences of opinion between them, one might say. He knew them from his time in the youth section of the
Fedrelandspartiet
; they were patriotic enough, but now they were about to join the ranks of the breakaway group. Roy Kvinset, irreproachably shaven-headed, was, as always, dressed in tight faded jeans, boots and a white T-shirt with the
Nasjonalalliansen
logo in red, white and blue. Halle was new. He had dyed his hair black and used hair oil to get it to lie flat. The moustache, was obviously what provoked people most – a neatly trimmed black toothbrush moustache, an exact copy of the Führer’s. He had stopped sporting the riding breeches and boots; instead he wore green combat fatigues. Gregersen was the only one who looked like a normal youth: bomber jacket, goatee and sunglasses on his head. He was undoubtedly the most intelligent of the three.

Sverre’s gaze panned around the room. A girl and boy were tucking into a pizza. He hadn’t seen them before, but they didn’t look like under-cover police. Nor like journalists. Were they from the anti-fascist newspaper
Monitor
perhaps? He had exposed a
Monitor
bozo last winter, a man with scared eyes who had been in here a couple of times too many, who had acted drunk and started conversations with some of the regulars. Sverre had sniffed treachery in the air and they had taken him outside and torn off his sweater. He’d been wearing a wire. He had confessed that he was from
Monitor
before they even laid a hand on him. Scared stiff. Bunch of twats, these
Monitor
types. Thought this boys’ game, this voluntary surveillance of fascist elements, was extremely important and dangerous, that they were secret agents whose lives were in constant danger. Yeah, well, as far as that was concerned, perhaps they weren’t so different from a few in his own ranks, he had to admit. Anyway, the bozo had been sure they would kill him and was so frightened that he pissed himself. Quite literally. Sverre had spotted the dark stripe meandering down his trouser leg and across the tarmac. That was what he remembered best from that evening. The little stream of urine glittered dimly as it sought the lowest point in the sparsely lit back alley.

Sverre Olsen decided that the couple was just two hungry youngsters who happened to be passing by. The speed they were eating suggested that now they had become aware of the clientele and just wanted to get out as quickly as possible. By the window sat an old man in hat and coat. Perhaps a dipso, although his clothes sent a different message. But then again, they often looked like that for the first few days after the Salvation Army had dressed them – in nice second-hand quality coats and suits which were a little out of fashion. As he observed him, the old man suddenly looked up and met his eye. He wasn’t a dipso. The man had sparkling blue eyes and Sverre automatically looked away. How the old bastard stared!

Sverre concentrated on his mug of beer. It was time to earn a bit of cash. Let his hair grow over the tattoo on his neck, put on a long-sleeved shirt and get out there. There was enough work. Shit work. The blacks had all the nice, well-paid jobs. Poofs, heathens and blacks.

‘May I sit down?’

Sverre raised his eyes. It was the old man; he stood above him. Sverre hadn’t even noticed him walk over.

‘This is my table,’ Sverre rebuffed.

‘I only want a little chat.’ The old man laid a newspaper on the table between them and sat in the chair opposite. Sverre watched him warily.

‘Relax, I’m one of you,’ he said.

‘One of
who
?’

‘One of the people who come here. National Socialists.’

‘Oh yeah?’

Sverre moistened his lips and put the glass to his mouth. The old man sat there, motionless, watching him. Calmly, as if he had all the time in the world. And he probably did have, he looked about seventy. At least. Could he be one of the old extremists from
Zorn 88
? One of the shy financial backers Sverre had heard about but never seen?

‘I need a favour.’ The old man spoke in a low voice. ‘Oh yeah?’ Sverre said. But he had toned down the overtly condescending attitude a notch. You never knew, after all.

‘Gun,’ the old man said.

‘What about a gun?’

‘I need one. Can you help me?’

‘Why should I?’

‘Open the paper. Page twenty-eight.’