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Nemesis(116)







He listened. There were more dogs, no question. He cast his eyes around. At the illuminated detached houses scattered across the pitch-black hill. He thought of the snug, warm rooms behind the windows. Norwegians liked light. And they had electricity. They only turned it off when they were away for a fortnight on holiday down south. His gaze moved from house to house.





* * *





Tom Waaler stared up at the isolated houses decorating the landscape like Christmas lights. Large, black gardens. Scrumping. He had his feet up on the dashboard in Victor's specially converted van. They had the best communication equipment available, so he had moved control of the operation there. He was in radio contact with all the units closing the circle around the area. He looked at his watch. The dogs were out; it would soon be ten minutes since they had slipped into the darkness with their handlers, moving through gardens.





The radio crackled: 'Stasjonsveien to Victor zero one. We have a car here with one Stig Antonsen going to Revehiven 17. Returning from work, he says. Shall we…?'





'Check ID, address and let him through,' Waaler said. 'The same holds for you others out there, OK? Use your heads.'





Waaler tugged a CD out of his top pocket and put it in the player. Several falsettos. Prince sang 'Thunder.' The man in the driver's seat beside him raised an eyebrow, but Waaler pretended not to notice and turned up the volume. Verse. Refrain. Verse. Refrain. Next song: 'Pop Daddy'. Waaler checked his watch again. Shit, what a long time the dogs were taking. He hit the dashboard. Earning another glance from the driver's seat.





'They have a fresh trail of blood to follow,' Waaler said. 'How difficult can that be?'





'They're dogs, not robots,' the man said. 'Relax, they'll soon have him.'





The artist to be known for ever as Prince was in the middle of 'Diamonds and Pearls' when the report came in: 'Victor zero three to Victor zero one. Think we've got him. We're outside a white house in…er, Erik's trying to find out what the road's called, but there's a number 16 on the wall, anyway.'





Waaler turned down the music. 'OK. Find out and wait for us. What's the ringing sound I can hear?'





'It's coming from the house.'





The radio crackled: 'Stasjonsveien to Victor one. Sorry to interrupt but there's a security vehicle here. They say they're going to Harelabben 16. Their central switchboard registered a burglar alarm going off there. Shall I—?'





'Victor zero one to all units!' Waaler yelled. 'Move in. Harelabben 16.'





* * *





Bjarne Mřller was in a dreadful mood. In the middle of his favourite TV programme! He found the white house, number 16, parked outside, went through the gate and up to the open door where a police officer was standing with an Alsatian on a leash.





'Is Waaler here?' asked the PAS. The officer motioned to the door. Mřller noticed that the glass in the hall window was smashed. Waaler stood in the hall inside in furious discussion with another officer.





'What the hell's going on here?' Mřller asked without preamble.





Waaler turned. 'Right. What brings you here, Mřller?'





'A phone call from Beate Lřnn. Who authorised this idiocy?'





'Our police solicitor.'





'I'm not talking about the arrest. I'm asking who gave the go-ahead to World War Three because one of our very own colleagues may–may!–have a couple of things to explain.'





Waaler rocked back on his heels while eyeballing Mřller. 'PAS Ivarsson. We found a couple of things at Harry's place which make him more than just someone we would like to talk to. He is under suspicion of murder. Anything else you were wondering about, Mřller?'





Mřller raised an eyebrow in surprise and concluded Waaler must be very worked up. That was the first time he had ever heard him talk to a superior in such a provocative manner. 'Yes. Where's Harry?'





Waaler pointed to the red footprints on the parquet floor. 'He was here. Broke in, as you can see. Beginning to be quite a lot to explain, isn't there?'





'I asked where he is now.'





Waaler and the other police officer exchanged looks. 'Harry is clearly not that keen to explain. The bird had flown when we arrived.'





'Oh? I was under the impression you had surrounded the whole area.'





'We had,' Waaler said.





'So how did he get away then?'





'Using this.' Waaler pointed to the telephone on the table. The receiver was stained with what looked like blood.





'He got away using a phone?' Mřller felt an irrational–his bad mood and the seriousness of the situation taken into account–urge to smile.





'There is reason to believe,' Waaler said while Mřller watched the powerful musculature of the David Hasselhoff jaw straining, 'that he ordered a taxi.'