The Redbreast(101)

was empty; the taxi which had been waiting there

had gone off with three high-spirited party girls.

Helge didn’t answer. The one-winged bird blinked

twice and scratched its stomach with a foot.

She tried Harry’s mobile once again, but the same

woman’s voice repeated that the phone was

switched off or was in an area with poor coverage.

Then Ellen put the cloth over the cage, said

goodnight, turned off the light and let herself out.

Jens Bjelkes gate was still deserted as she hurried

towards Thorvald Meyers gate, which she knew

would be teeming with people at this time on a

Saturday night. Outside Fru Hagen restaurant she

nodded to a couple of people she must have

exchanged a few words with one damp evening

here in Grünerløkka’s well-lit streets. She

suddenly remembered she had promised to buy

Kim some cigarettes and turned to go down to the

7-Eleven in Markveien. She saw a new face she

vaguely recognised and automatically smiled when

she saw him looking at her.

In the 7-Eleven she paused and tried to recall

whether Kim smoked Camel or Camel Lights,

realising how little time they had spent together.

And how much they still had to learn about each

other. And that for the first time in her life it didn’t

frighten her, but it was something she was looking

forward to. She was so utterly happy. The thought

of him lying naked in bed, three blocks away from

where she was standing filled her with dull,

delicious cravings. She opted for Camel, waited

impatiently to be served. Outside in the street, she

opted for the short cut along the Akerselva.

It struck her how little distance there was

between a seething mass of people and total

desolation in a large city. Suddenly all she could

hear was the gurgle of the river and the sound of

snow groaning beneath her boots. And it was too

late to rue taking the short cut when she became

aware that it was not only her own steps she could

hear. Now she could hear breathing too, heavy,

panting. Frightened and angry, Ellen thought that,

no, she knew, at that moment her life was in

danger. She didn’t turn, she simply started to run.

The steps behind her immediately fell into the

same tempo. She tried to run calmly, tried not to

panic or run with flailing arms and legs. Don’t run

like an old woman, she thought, and her hand

moved for the gas spray in her coat pocket, but the

steps behind her were relentless, coming ever

closer. She thought that if she could reach the

single cone of light on the path, she would be

saved. She knew it wasn’t true. She was directly

under the light when the first blow hit her shoulder

and knocked her sideways into the snow-drift. The

second blow paralysed her arm and the gas spray

slipped out of her unfeeling hand. The third

smashed her left kneecap; the pain obstructed the

scream muted deep in her throat and caused her

veins to bulge out in the winter-pale skin of her

neck. She saw him raise the wooden baseball bat

in the yellow street light. She recognised him now,

the same man she had seen turn round outside Fru

Hagen. The police-woman in her noticed that he

was wearing a short green jacket, black boots and

a black combat cap. The first blow to the head

destroyed the optic nerve and now all she saw was

the pitch black night.

Forty per cent of hedge sparrows survive, she

thought. I’ll get through this winter.

Her fingers fumbled in the snow for something to

hold on to. The second blow hit her on the back of

the head.

There’s not long to go now, she thought. I’ll

survive this winter.

Harry pulled up by the drive to Rakel Fauke’s

house in Holmenkollveien. The white moonlight

lent her skin an unreal, wan sheen and even in the

semi-darkness inside the car he could see from her

eyes that she was tired.

‘So that was that,’ Rakel said.

‘That was that,’ Harry said.

‘I would like to invite you up, but . . .’

Harry laughed. ‘I assume Oleg would not

appreciate that.’

‘Oleg is sleeping sweetly, but I was thinking of

his babysitter.’

‘Babysitter?’

‘Oleg’s babysitter is the daughter of someone in

POT. Please don’t misunderstand me, but I don’t

want any rumours at work.’

Harry stared at the instruments on the dashboard.

The glass over the speedometer had cracked and

he suspected that the fuse for the oil lamp had

gone.

‘Is Oleg your child?’

‘Yes, what did you think?’

‘Well, I may have thought you were talking about

your partner.’

‘What partner?’

The cigarette lighter must have been either thrown

out of the window or stolen along with the radio.