The Redbreast(116)

. . .’

The Prince put his hand inside his jacket and

pulled out a pistol.

‘Sit still.’

He walked over to the bed, sat beside Sverre and,

holding the pistol in both hands, pointed it at the

door.

‘This is a Glock, the world’s most reliable

handgun. I was sent it from Germany yesterday.

The manufacture number has been filed off. The

street value is about eight thousand kroner. Look

on it as the first instalment.’

Sverre jumped as it went off with a bang. He

stared with large eyes at the little hole at the top of

the door. The dust danced in the stripe of sunlight

which ran like a laser beam from the hole through

the room.

‘Feel it,’ the Prince said, dropping the gun in his

lap. Then he stood up and went to the door. ‘Hold

it tight. Perfect balance, isn’t it?’

Sverre reluctantly curled his fingers around the

stock of the gun. He could feel he was sweating

inside his T-shirt. There’s a hole in the ceiling.

That was all he could think. And that the bullet had

made a new hole and they still hadn’t got hold of a

builder. Then what he had been expecting

happened. He closed his eyes.

‘Sverre!’

She sounds as if she’s drowning. He gripped the

gun. She always sounds as if she’s drowning.

Then he opened his eyes again and saw the Prince

turn by the door, in slow motion. He swung up his

arms; both hands were held round a shiny black

Smith & Wesson revolver.

‘Sverre!’

A yellow flame spat out of the muzzle of the gun.

He could see her standing at the bottom of the

stairs. Then the bullet hit him, bored through the

top of his forehead, out through the back, taking the

Heil from the Sieg Heil tattoo with it, into and through the wooden studwork in the wall, through

the insulation before stopping behind the Eternit

cladding panel on the outside wall. But by then

Sverre Olsen was already dead.

64

Krokliveien. 2 May 2000.

HARRY HAD SCROUNGED A COFFEE OFF SOMEONE IN

THE Crime Scene Unit with a thermos. He was

standing in front of the ugly little house in

Krokliveien in Bjerke, peering at a young officer

up a ladder who was marking the hole in the roof

where the bullet had exited. Curious onlookers had

already begun to gather and for the sake of security

the police had cordoned off the area around the

house with yellow tape. The man on the ladder

was bathed in the afternoon sunlight, but the house

lay in a hollow in the ground and it was already

cold where Harry stood.

‘So you arrived immediately after it happened?’

Harry heard a voice behind him ask. He turned

round. It was Bjarne Møller. He had become an

increasingly rare sight at crime scenes, but Harry

had heard several people say he had been a good

detective. Some even suggested that he should have

been allowed to continue. Harry offered him the

cup of coffee, but Møller shook his head.

‘Yes, I must have arrived about four to five

minutes afterwards,’ Harry said. ‘Who told you?’

‘Central switchboard. They said you had rung and

asked for reinforcements after Waaler reported the

shooting.’

Harry motioned with his head towards the red

sports car in front of the gateway.

‘When I arrived I saw Waaler’s Jap car. I knew

he was coming here, so that was fine. But when I

got out of my car I heard a terrible howling noise.

At first I thought there was a dog somewhere in the

neighbour-hood. As I walked up the gravel path,

however, I knew it was coming from inside the

house and that it wasn’t a dog. It was human. I

didn’t take any chances and rang for assistance

from Økern police district.’

‘It was the mother?’

Harry nodded. ‘She was completely hysterical. It

took them almost half an hour before they had her

in a calm enough state to say something sensible.

Weber is still talking to her now, in the sitting

room.’

‘Good old sensitive Weber?’

‘Weber’s fine. He’s a bit of an old sourpuss at

work, but he’s pretty good with people in this kind

of situation.’

‘I know. I was just joking. How’s Waaler taking

it?’

Harry shrugged his shoulders. ‘I know,’ Møller

said. ‘He’s a cold fish. Fair enough. Shall we go in

and take a dekko?’

‘I’ve been in.’

‘Well, give me a guided tour then.’

They made their way up to the first floor as

Møller mumbled greetings to colleagues he hadn’t

seen for ages.

The bedroom was full of specialists from the

Crime Scene Unit and cameras were flashing.

Black plastic, on which the outline of a body had