The Redbreast(11)

of brown eyes looked at him from under a black

fringe.

‘My name’s Ali,’ the boy said.

A Pakistani boy? He had a strange, turned-up

nose.

‘Ali means God,’ the boy said. ‘What does your

name mean?’

‘My name’s Daniel,’ the old man said with a

smile. ‘It’s a name from the Bible. It means “God

is my judge”.’

The boy looked at him.

‘So, you’re Daniel?’

‘Yes,’ the man said.

The boy didn’t take his eyes off him and the old

man felt disconcerted. Perhaps the young boy

thought he was homeless as he was lying there

fully clothed, using his woollen coat as a rug in the

hot sun.

‘Where’s your mother?’ he asked, to avoid the

boy’s probing stare.

‘Over there.’ The boy turned and pointed.

Two robust, dark-skinned women were sitting on

the grass some distance away. Four children were

frolicking around them, laughing.

‘Then I’m the judge of you, I am,’ the boy said.

‘What?’

‘Ali is God, isn’t he? And God is the judge of

Daniel. And my name’s Ali and you’re —’

The old man had stuck out his hand and tweaked

Ali’s nose. The boy squealed with delight. He saw

the heads of the two women turn; one was getting

to her feet so he let go.

‘Your mother, Ali,’ he said, motioning with his

head in the direction of the approaching woman.

‘Mummy!’ the boy shouted. ‘Look, I’m the judge

of that man.’

The woman shouted to the boy in Urdu. The old

man smiled, but the woman shunned him and

looked sternly at her son, who finally obeyed and

padded over to her. When they turned, her gaze

swept across and past him as if he were invisible.

He wanted to explain to her that he was not a bum,

to tell her he’d had a hand in shaping society. He

had invested in it, in spades, given everything he

had until there was no more to give, apart from

giving way, giving in, giving up. But he was unable

to do that, he was tired and simply wanted to go

home. Rest, then he would see. It was time some

others paid.

He didn’t hear the little boy shouting after him as

he was leaving.

6

Police HQ, Grønland. 9 October 1999.

ELLEN GJELTEN LOOKED UP AT THE MAN WHO BURST

through the door.

‘Good morning, Harry.’

‘Fuck!’

Harry kicked the waste-paper basket beside his

desk and it smashed into the wall next to Ellen’s

chair and rolled across the linoleum floor,

spreading its contents everywhere: discarded

attempts at reports (the Ekeberg killing); an empty

pack of twenty cigarettes (Camel, tax free sticker);

a green Go’morn yoghurt pot; Dagsavisen; a used cinema ticket ( Filmteateret: Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas); a used pools coupon; a music

magazine ( MOJO, no. 69, February 1999, with a

picture of Queen on the cover); a bottle of Coke

(plastic, half-litre); and a yellow Post-it with a

phone number he had considered ringing for a

while.

Ellen looked up from her PC and studied the

contents of the bin on the floor.

‘Are you chucking the MOJO out, Harry?’ she

asked.

‘Fuck!’ Harry repeated. He wrestled off his tight

suit jacket and threw it across the twenty metre

square office he and Ellen Gjelten shared. The

jacket hit the coat stand, but slid down to the floor.

‘What’s up?’ Ellen asked, reaching out a hand to

stop the swaying coat stand from falling.

‘I found this in my pigeon-hole.’

Harry waved a document in the air.

‘Looks like a court sentence.’

‘Yep.’

‘Dennis Kebab case?’

‘Right.’

‘And?’

‘They gave Sverre Olsen the full whack. Three

and a half years.’

‘Jesus. You ought to be in a stupendous mood.’

‘I was, for about a minute. Until I read this.’

Harry held up a fax.

‘Well?’

‘When Krohn got his copy of the sentence this

morning, he responded by sending us a warning

that he was going to pursue a claim of procedural

error.’

Ellen made a face as if she had something nasty in

her mouth.

‘Ugh.’

‘He wants the whole sentence quashed. You

won’t fucking believe it, but that slippery Krohn

guy has screwed us on the oath.’ Harry stood in

front of the window. ‘The associate judges only

have to take the oath the first time they act as

judges, but it must take place in the courtroom

before the case begins. Krohn noticed that one

associate judge was new. And that she didn’t take

her oath in the courtroom.’

‘It’s called affirmation.’