Nemesis(117)

* * *





Řystein drove down the alley slowly and turned the taxi into the cobbled semicircle in front of Oslo prison. He reversed in between two cars, his rear end facing the empty park and Grřnlandsleiret. He turned the ignition key to kill the engine, but the windscreen wipers kept swishing to and fro. And waited. No one was around, neither in the square nor in the park. He glanced up at Police HQ before pulling the lever under the wheel. There was a click and the boot lid sprang into the air.





'Come out!' he shouted, looking in the mirror.





The car rocked, the boot lid was opened fully and smacked shut. Then the back door opened and a man hopped in. Řystein studied the drenched, shivering passenger in the mirror.





'You look great, Harry.'





'Thanks.'





'Cool threads too.'





'Not my size, but it's Bjřrn Borg. Lend me your shoes, will you.'





'Eh?'





'I could only find felt slippers in the hall. Can't go on a prison visit wearing them. And your jacket.'





Řystein rolled his eyes and struggled out of his short leather jacket.





'Did you have any trouble getting past the roadblocks?' Harry asked.





'Just on the way in. They had to check I had the name and address of the person I was delivering the package to.'





'I found the name on the door.'





'On my way back, they just looked in the car and waved me through. Thirty seconds passed and then there was a hell of a racket on the radio. Calling all units and so on. Heh, heh.'





'I thought I heard something from the back. You do know it's illegal to tune in to police radio, don't you, Řystein?'





'Well, it's not illegal to tune in. It's illegal to use it. And I almost never use it.'





Harry tied the shoelaces and threw the slippers over the seat to Řystein. 'You'll find your reward in heaven. If they took the number of the taxi and you receive a visit, you'll have to tell them what happened. You got a booking via a mobile and the passenger insisted on lying in the boot.'





'Absolutely. And that's the truth.'





'Truest thing I've heard for a long while.'





* * *





Harry took a deep breath and pressed the bell. Not much risk in the first phase, but it was difficult to know how quickly the news that he was a wanted man had spread. After all, police officers were in and out of this prison all the time.





'Yes,' a voice said from the intercom.





'Inspector Harry Hole,' Harry over-articulated, looking into the camera over the entrance with what he hoped was an unruffled expression. 'For Raskol Baxhet.'





'You're not on my list.'





'Really?' Harry said. 'I asked Beate Lřnn to ring you and book me in. Last night, nine o'clock. Just ask Raskol.'





'If it's outside visiting hours, you have to be on the list, Inspector. You'll have to ring during office hours tomorrow.'





Harry shifted weight from one foot to the other. 'What's your name?'





'Břygset. I'm afraid I can't—'





'Listen here, Břygset. This visit concerns information for an important police case which cannot wait until tomorrow. I imagine you've heard the sirens going off all round Police HQ this evening, haven't you?'





'Yes, but—'





'Right, unless you'd like to answer the papers' questions tomorrow about how you messed up the schedule, I suggest we move on from robot mode and press the common-sense button. That's the one right in front of you, Břygset.'





Harry stared into the lifeless camera eye. One-thousand-and-one, one-thousand-and-two. The lock buzzed.





* * *





Raskol was sitting in a chair in his cell when Harry was let in.





'Thank you for confirming the visit,' Harry said, looking around the four-by-two-metre cell. A bed, a desk, two cupboards, a few books. No radio, no magazines, no personal effects, bare walls.





'This is how I prefer it,' Raskol said in answer to Harry's thoughts. 'It focuses the mind.'





'Then feel how this focuses the mind,' Harry said, perching on the edge of the bed. 'Arne Albu didn't kill Anna after all. You got the wrong man. You have innocent blood on your hands, Raskol.'





Harry was not sure, but he seemed to detect the minutest of twitches in the gypsy's gentle, though cold, martyr's mask. Raskol lowered his head and placed his palms against his temples.





'I received an e-mail from the murderer,' Harry said. 'Turns out he was manipulating me from day one.' He ran a hand up and down the criss-cross pattern of the duvet as he summarised what the e-mail said. And followed up with a précis of the day's events.





Raskol sat motionless, listening until Harry had finished. Afterwards he raised his head. 'That means there is innocent blood on your hands, too, Spiuni.'





Harry nodded.