The Redbreast(12)

‘Right. Now it turns out that according to the

certificate of sentence the judge had attended to the

affirmation of the associate judge in his office, just

before the case started. He blames lack of time and

new rules.’

Harry crumpled up the fax and threw it in a wide

arc, missing Ellen’s waste-paper basket by half a

metre.

‘And the result?’ Ellen asked, kicking the fax to

Harry’s half of the office.

‘The conviction will be deemed invalid and

Sverre Olsen will be a free man for at least

eighteen months until the case comes up again. And

the rule of thumb is that the sentence will be a great

deal milder because of the strain which the waiting

period inflicts on the accused blah, blah, blah.

With eight months already served in custody, it’s

more than bloody likely that Sverre Olsen is

already a free man.’

Harry wasn’t speaking to Ellen; she knew all the

ins and outs of the case. He was speaking to his

own reflection in the window, articulating the

words to hear if they made any sense. He drew

both hands across a sweaty skull, where until

recently close-cropped blond hair had bristled.

There was a simple reason for him having had the

rest shaved off: last week he had been recognised

again. A young guy, in a black woollen hat, Nikes

and such large baggy trousers that the crotch hung

between his knees, had come over to him while his

pals sniggered in the background and asked if

Harry was ‘that Bruce Willis type guy in

Australia’. It was three – three! – years ago since

his face had decorated the front pages of

newspapers and he had made a fool of himself on

TV shows talking about the serial killer he had

shot in Sydney. Harry had immediately gone and

shaved off his hair. Ellen had suggested a beard.

‘The worst thing is that I could swear that lawyer

bastard had a draft appeal ready before the

sentence was passed. He could have said

something and the affirmation could have been

taken there and then, but he sat there, rubbing his

hands and waiting.’

Ellen shrugged her shoulders.

‘That sort of thing happens. Good work by the

defence counsel. Something has to be sacrificed on

the altar of law and order. Pull yourself together,

Harry.’

She said it with a mixture of sarcasm and sober

statement of fact.

Harry rested his forehead against the cooling

glass. Another one of those unexpectedly warm

October days. He wondered where Ellen, the

fresh, young policewoman with the pale, doll-like,

sweet face, the little mouth and eyes as round as a

ball, had developed such a tough exterior. She was

a girl from a middle-class home, in her own

words, an only child and spoiled rotten, who had

even gone to a girl’s boarding school in

Switzerland. Who knows? Perhaps that was a

tough enough upbringing.

Harry laid back his head and exhaled. Then he

undid one of his shirt buttons.

‘More, more,’ Ellen whispered as she clapped

encouragement.

‘In neo-Nazi circles they call him Batman.’

‘Got it. Baseball bat.’

‘Not the Nazi – the lawyer.’

‘Right. Interesting. Does that mean he’s good-

looking, rich, barking mad and has a six-pack and a

cool car?’

Harry laughed. ‘You should have your own TV

show, Ellen. It’s because Batman always wins.

Besides, he’s married.’

‘Is that the only minus?’

‘That . . . and him making monkeys of us every

time,’ Harry said, pouring himself a cup of the

home-blended coffee Ellen had brought with her

when she moved into the office two years ago. The

snag was that Harry’s palate could no longer

tolerate the usual slop.

‘Supreme Court judge?’ she asked.

‘Before he’s forty.’

‘Thousand kroner he isn’t.’

‘Done.’

They laughed and toasted with their cardboard

cups.

‘Can I have that MOJO magazine then?’ she

asked.

‘There are pictures of Freddie Mercury’s ten

worst centrefold poses. Bare chest, arms akimbo

and buck teeth sticking out. The full whammy.

There you are.’

‘I like Freddie Mercury, I do. Liked.’

‘I didn’t say I didn’t like him.’

The blue, punctured office chair, which had long

been set at the lowest notch, screamed in protest as

Harry leaned back, lost in thought. He picked up a

yellow Post-it with Ellen’s writing on from the

telephone in front of him.

‘What’s this?’

‘You can read, can’t you? Møller wants you.’

Harry trotted down the corridor, imagining as he

went the pursed mouth and the two deep furrows