Nemesis(149)

He could hear the bell like a grumbling in the terraced house's abdomen. The neighbour's window opened with a bang.





'Trond's not here,' a voice trilled. Her face wore a different brown hue now, a kind of golden brown, which made Harry think of nicotine-stained skin. 'Poor boy,' she added.





'Where is he?' Harry asked.





She rolled her eyes in answer and pointed her thumb over her shoulder.





'The tennis court?'





Beate made to go, but Harry stayed put.





'I've been thinking about what we discussed last time,' Harry said. 'About the footbridge. You said everyone was surprised because he was such a quiet, polite boy.'





'I did?'





'But everyone here in Grenda knew he had done it?'





'We saw him cycling off in the morning.'





'Wearing the red jacket?'





'Yes.'





'Lev?'





'Lev?' She laughed and shook her head. 'I'm not talking about Lev. He did a lot of weird things, but he was never wicked.'





'Who was then?'





'Trond. I was talking about him the whole time. I did say he was completely ashen when he returned. Trond can't stand the sight of blood.'





* * *





The wind was picking up. In the west, black popcorn clouds were beginning to gobble up the blue sky. The gusts gave the puddles on the red clay court goose pimples and erased the reflected image of Trond Grette, who tossed the ball up for another serve.





'Hello,' Trond said, hitting a ball which gently spun through the air. A little cloud of white chalk puffed up at the back of the server's box and was immediately blown away as the ball bounced, high and unreturnable, past the imaginary opponent on the other side of the net.





Trond faced Harry and Beate standing outside the wire fence. He was wearing a white tennis shirt, white tennis shorts, white socks and white shoes.





'Perfect, wasn't it.' He smiled.





'Almost,' said Harry.





Trond beamed even wider, shaded his eyes and scanned the sky. 'Looks like it's clouding over. How can I help you?'





'You can come with us to Police HQ,' Harry said.





'Police HQ?' He eyed them in surprise. That is, he seemed to be trying to appear surprised. His widening eyes were a touch too theatrical and there was something affected about his voice they hadn't heard before when they questioned him. The intonation was too low and gave a little jump at the end: Police H-Q? Harry could feel his hackles rising.





'Right now,' Beate said.





'Right.' Trond nodded as if something had just clicked into place and smiled again. 'Of course.' He made for the bench where a couple of tennis racquets peered out from underneath a grey coat. His shoes shuffled along in the shale.





'He's lost it,' Beate whispered. 'I'll cuff him.'





'Don't…' Harry began and grabbed her arm, but she had already shoved open the door and stepped in. Time expanded, inflated like an airbag and trapped Harry, immobilised him. Through the wire netting he saw Beate go for the handcuffs she had attached to her belt. He heard the sound of Trond's shoes on the shale. Small steps. Like an astronaut. Harry's hand automatically moved towards the gun in his shoulder holster under his jacket.





'Grette, I'm sorry…' was all Beate managed to say before Trond reached the bench and put his hand under the coat. Time had begun to breathe now, it shrank and expanded in one movement. Harry felt his hand close around the butt of his gun, knowing there was an eternity between this second and getting the weapon out, loading, releasing the safety catch and aiming. Beneath Beate's raised arm he caught a flash of reflected sunlight.





'Me, too,' Trond said, lifting the steel-grey and olive-green AG3 to his shoulder. She took a step back.





'My dear,' Trond said softly. 'Stand quite, quite still if you want to stay alive for a few more seconds.'





* * *





'We've made a mistake,' Harry said, turning away from the window and addressing the assembled detectives. 'Stine Grette was not killed by Lev but by her own husband, Trond Grette.'





The conversation between the Chief Superintendent and Ivarsson stopped, Mřller sat up in his chair, Halvorsen forgot to take notes and even Weber's face lost its lethargic expression.





Mřller, it was, who finally broke the silence. 'The accountant guy?'





Harry nodded to the disbelieving faces.





'It's not possible,' Weber said. 'We have the video from the 7-Eleven, and we have the fingerprint on the Coke bottle. There is no doubt that Lev Grette was the killer.'





'We have the handwriting on the suicide letter,' Ivarsson said.





'And unless I'm much mistaken, the robber was identified as Lev Grette by Raskol himself,' the Chief Superintendent said.





'The case looks pretty cut and dried,' Mřller said.