The Redbreast(113)

quarter of an hour later, Harry had the feeling he

had been waiting for hours.

‘That’s right,’ Halvorsen said. ‘One of the boot

prints the Crime Scene Unit found on the path was

from a combat boot, size 45. They could specify

the brand because the print was made by a boot

which had hardly been worn.’

‘And do you know who wears combat boots?’

‘Oh yes, they’re NATO certified. Quite a few

people order them, especially in Steinkjer. I’ve

seen a number of these English football hooligans

wearing them too.’

‘Right. Skinheads. Bootboys. Neo-Nazis. Did you

find any photos?’

‘Four. Two from Aker Community Workshop and

two of a demo outside Blitz, the youth centre, in

1992.’

‘Is he wearing a cap in any of them?’

‘Yes, in the ones taken at Aker.’

‘Combat cap?’

‘Let me see.’

Harry could hear Halvorsen’s breathing crackle





against the membrane of the microphone. Harry

said a silent prayer.

‘Looks like a beret,’ Halvorsen said. ‘Are you

sure?’ Harry asked, with no attempt to disguise his

disappointment.

Halvorsen was fairly sure and Harry swore

aloud.

‘Perhaps the boots can help?’ Halvorsen

suggested cautiously.

‘The murderer will have thrown away the boots

unless he’s an idiot. And the fact that he kicked

over the prints in the snow imply that he isn’t.’

Harry was undecided. Again he had this

sensation, this sudden certainty that he knew who

the killer was, and he knew it was dangerous.

Dangerous because it made you reject the nagging

doubts, the small voices whispering the

contradictions, telling you that despite everything

the picture was not perfect. Doubts are like cold

water, and you don’t want cold water when you

are close to apprehending a murderer. Yes, Harry

had been certain before. And had been wrong.

Halvorsen spoke.

‘Officers in Steinkjer bought combat boots

directly from America, so there can’t be many

places that sell them. And if these boots were

almost new . . .’

Harry immediately followed his line of thought.

‘Good, Halvorsen! Find out who stocks them.

Start with army surplus places. Afterwards, go

round showing the photographs, and ask if anyone

remembers recently selling him a pair of boots.’

‘Harry . . . Er . . .’

‘Yeah, I know. I’ll clear it with Møller first.’

Harry knew that the chances of finding a salesman

who remembered all the customers he sold shoes

to was minimal. The chances were, of course,

slightly better when customers had Sieg Heil

tattooed on their necks, but anyway – Halvorsen

might as well learn that 90 per cent of all murder

investigations were spent looking in the wrong

places. Harry rang off and called Møller. The

Crime Squad chief listened to all his arguments

and when Harry was finished, cleared his throat.

‘Good to hear that you and Waaler finally agree

on something,’ he said.

‘Oh?’

‘He called me half an hour ago and said almost

exactly the same as you have just said. I gave him

permission to bring Sverre Olsen in for

questioning.’

‘Wow.’

‘Absolutely.’

Harry wasn’t sure what to do. So when Møller

asked him if he had any more to say, Harry

mumbled a ‘Bye’ and put down the receiver. He

stared out of the window. The rush hour was

beginning to get into gear in Schweigaards gate. He

picked out a man in a grey coat and old-fashioned

hat, and watched him slowly walk past until he

was out of sight. Harry could feel that his pulse

was almost normal again. Klippan. He had almost

forgotten, but now it returned like a pounding

hangover. He wondered whether to call Rakel’s

internal number, but rejected that idea right away.

Then something weird happened.

At the margin of his field of vision, outside the

window, a movement caught his eye. He couldn’t

make out what it was at first; he could only see it

closing in fast. He opened his mouth, but the word,

the shout or whatever it was his brain was trying to

formulate, never passed his lips. There was a soft

thud, the glass in the window vibrated lightly and

he sat staring at a wet patch where a grey feather

was stuck, quivering in the spring wind. He didn’t

move. Then he grabbed his jacket and sprinted for

the lift.

63

Krokliveien, Bjerke. 2 May 2000.

SVERRE OLSEN TURNED UP THE RADIO. HE FLICKED

SLOWLY through his mother’s latest women’s

magazine while listening to the newsreader talk

about the threatening letters trade-union   leaders