The Redbreast(115)

‘Who knows? Relax, Olsen. Take a seat.’

The Prince pointed to the bed and sat the wrong

way round on the desk chair.

‘What are you doing here?’ Sverre asked.

‘What do you think?’ He beamed a broad smile at

Sverre, who was sitting on the very edge of the

bed. ‘The day of reckoning.’

‘The day of reckoning?’

Sverre still had not collected himself completely.

How did the Prince know he lived here? And the

police ID card. Looking at him now, it struck

Sverre that the Prince could easily be a policeman

– the well-groomed hair, the cold eyes, the

solarium-brown face and the well-trained upper

body, the short jacket in soft black leather and the

blue jeans. Strange he hadn’t noticed before.

‘Yes,’ the Prince said, still smiling. ‘The day of

reckoning has come.’ He pulled out an envelope

from his inside pocket and passed it to Sverre.

‘About time,’ Sverre said, flashing a fleeting

nervous smile and sticking his fingers into the

envelope. ‘What’s this?’ he asked, pulling out a

folded A4 sheet.

‘It’s a list of the eight people Crime Squad will

soon be visiting, and almost certainly taking blood

from, to send for DNA testing to find a match for

the skin particles they found on your cap at the

scene of the crime.’

‘My cap? You said you’d found it in your car and

burned it?’

Sverre stared in horror as the Prince shook his

head in regret.

‘It seems I went back to the scene of the crime. A

young couple was waiting for the police,

frightened out of their wits. I must have “lost” the

cap in the snow a few metres from the body.’

Sverre ran both hands across his head several

times.

‘You seem baffled, Olsen?’

Sverre nodded and attempted a smile, but the

corners of his mouth didn’t seem to want to obey.

‘Do you want me to explain?’

Sverre nodded again. ‘When a police officer is

murdered the case has top priority until the

murderer is caught, however long it takes. It isn’t

written in any instruction manual, but when the

victim is one of our own, no questions are asked

about resources. That’s the problem with killing

police officers – detectives simply won’t give up

until they have . . .’ he pointed to Sverre,‘. . . found

the guilty party. It’s just a question of time – so I

took the liberty of giving the detectives a helping

hand so the waiting time would not be too long.’

‘But . . .’

‘You might be wondering why I helped the police

to find you when the odds are that you would

report me in order to have your own sentence

commuted?’

Sverre swallowed. He tried to think, but it was

too much and everything was blocked.

‘I can understand that this must be a hard nut to

crack,’ the Prince said, stroking a finger along the

imitation Iron Cross hanging from a nail on the

wall. ‘Of course, I could have shot you right after

the murder. But then the police would have known

that you were in league with someone trying to

cover their tracks and would have continued the

hunt.’

He unhooked the chain from the nail and hung it

round his neck, over his leather jacket.

‘Another alternative was to “solve” the crime on

my own, to shoot you while arresting you and make

it look as if you had resisted arrest. The problem

with that is that it might seem suspiciously clever

for one person to solve a case on their own.

People might start thinking, especially since I was

the last person to see Ellen Gjelten alive.’

He paused and laughed. ‘Don’t look so scared,

Olsen! I’m telling you these are alternatives I

rejected. What I’ve done is to sit on the sidelines,

keep myself informed about progress and watch

them close in on you. The plan has always been to

jump in when they get close, take over the baton

and do the last lap myself. By the way, a piss artist

working in POT tracked you down.’

‘Are you . . . a policeman?’

‘Does it suit me?’ The Prince was pointing to the

Iron Cross. ‘No, to hell with that. I’m a soldier like

you, Olsen. A ship has to have water-tight

bulkheads, otherwise the slightest leak will cause

it to sink. Do you know what it would mean if I

betrayed my identity to you?’

Sverre’s mouth and throat were so dry he could

no longer swallow. He was frightened. Frightened

for his life.

‘It would mean that I couldn’t let you leave this

room alive. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’ Sverre’s voice was hoarse. ‘My m-money