The Redbreast(106)

PLEASE leave a message.’

‘I didn’t go to work today. It’s minus twelve

outside, marginally warmer in the flat. The

telephone has been ringing all day and when I

finally decided to answer it, it was Doctor Aune.

Aune is a good man, for a psychologist; at least he

doesn’t behave as if he is less confused than the

rest of us with respect to what goes on in our

heads. Aune’s old contention that every alcoholic’s

nightmare begins where the last drunken spree

ended is a great warning, but not necessarily

accurate. He was surprised that I was more or less

together this time. Everything is relative. Aune also

talked about an American psychologist who has

discovered that the lives we lead are to a certain

extent hereditary. When we step into our parents’

roles, our lives begin to resemble theirs. My father

became a hermit after my mother died, and now

Aune is frightened that I will be the same because

of a couple of tough experiences I’ve had – the

shooting accident in Vinderen, you know. And in

Sydney. And now this. Right. I’ve told you about

my days, but had to laugh when Doctor Aune told

me that Helge, a great tit, was preventing me from

letting my life go down the chute. As I said, Aune

is a good man, but he should cut out all that

psycho-stuff.

‘I called Rakel and asked her out. She said she

would give it some thought and ring me back. I

don’t know why I do this to myself.’

58

Jens Bjelkes Gate. 18 March 2000.

‘. . . IS A TELENOR ANNOUNCEMENT. THE NUMBER YOU

HAVE dialled is no longer available. This is a

Telenor announcement. The number . . .’

Part Six

BATHSHEBA

59

Møller’s Office. 25 April 2000.

THE FIRST SPRING OFFENSIVE CAME LATE. IT WASN’T

UNTIL the end of March that the gutters began to

gurgle and flow. By April all the snow had

disappeared as far as Sognsvann. But then the

spring had to retreat again. The snow came

swirling down and lay in huge drifts, even in the

centre of town, and weeks passed before the sun

melted it again. Dogs’ turds and refuse from the

previous year lay stinking in the streets; the wind

picked up speed across the open stretches in

Grønlandsleiret and by Galleri Oslo, swept up the

sand and made people go round rubbing their eyes

and spitting. The talk of the town was the single

mother who would perhaps become Queen one

day, the European football championship and the

unseasonal weather. At Police HQ, the talk was

about what people did over Easter and the

miserable increase in pay, and they went on as if

everything was as before.

Everything was not as before.

Harry sat in his office with his feet on the table,

looking out at the cloudless day, the retired ladies

in their ugly hats out for the morning and taking up

the whole of the pavement, delivery vans going

through the lights on amber, all the small details

which lent the town the false veneer of normality.

He had been wondering about that for some time

now – if he was the only one who was not

allowing himself to be duped. It was six weeks

since they had buried Ellen, but when he looked

out, he saw no change.

There was a knock at the door. Harry didn’t

answer, but it opened anyway. It was the head of

Crime Squad, Bjarne Møller.

‘I heard you were back.’

Harry watched one of the red buses glide into a

bus stop. The advertisement on the side of the

vehicle was for Storebrand Life Insurance.

‘Can you tell me, boss,’ he asked, ‘why they call

it life insurance when they obviously mean death

insurance?’

Møller sighed and perched on the edge of the

desk. ‘Why haven’t you got an extra chair in here,

Harry?’

‘If people don’t sit down, they get to the point

quicker.’ He was still staring out of the window.

‘We missed you at the funeral, Harry.’

‘I had changed my clothes,’ Harry said, more to

himself than Møller. ‘I’m sure I was on my way,

too. When I looked up and caught sight of the

miserable gathering around me, I even thought for a

moment that I had arrived. Until I saw Maja

standing there in her pinny and waiting for my

order.’

‘I guessed it was something like that.’

A dog wandered across the brown lawn with its

nose along the ground and its tail in the air. At

least someone appreciated spring in Oslo.

‘What happened then?’ Møller asked. ‘We

haven’t seen much of you for a while.’

Harry gave a shrug.

‘I was busy. I’ve got a new lodger – a one-

winged great tit. And I sat listening to old

messages on my answerphone. It turned out all the