The Redbreast(121)
‘I see,’ Fauke said. ‘You think the perpetrators
could be one and the same.’
‘No, I don’t think so. I just think there may be a
connection between the murders and it is no chance
that Sverre Olsen was close by both times.’
‘Why couldn’t he have killed both of them?’
‘He might have done that, of course, but there is a
crucial difference between the kind of violence
Sverre Olsen used and the murder of Hallgrim
Dale. Have you ever seen the physical damage that
a baseball bat can do? The soft wood smashes
bones and causes internal organs like the liver and
kidneys to burst. The skin’s often as not unscathed
and the victim generally dies of internal bleeding.
In the case of Hallgrim Dale the carotid artery was
severed. As a result of this kind of killing, blood gushes out. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, but I don’t see where you’re going.’
‘Sverre Olsen’s mother told one of the officers
that Sverre couldn’t stand the sight of blood.’
Fauke’s cup of coffee stopped on its way to his
mouth. He put it down again.
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘I know what you’re thinking – that he could still
have done it and the fact that he couldn’t stand the
sight of blood may explain why he threw up. But
the point is that the killer wasn’t using a knife for
the first time. According to the pathologist’s
report, it was a perfect surgical cut, which only
someone who knew what he was doing could have
carried out.’
Fauke nodded slowly.
‘I understand what you mean,’ he said.
‘You look pensive,’ Harry said.
‘I think I know why you’re here. You’re
wondering if one of the soldiers from Sennheim
was capable of executing such a killing.’
‘Right. Was there anyone?’
‘Yes, there was.’ Fauke grasped his mug with
both hands and his eyes wandered into the
distance. ‘The one you didn’t find. Gudbrand
Johansen. I told you we called him the redbreast,
didn’t I?’
‘Can you tell me any more about him?’
‘Yes, but we’ll have to have more coffee first.’
69
Irisveien. 8 May 2000.
‘WHO’S THAT?’ CAME A SHOUT FROM INSIDE THE
DOOR. THE voice was small and frightened. Harry
could see her outline through the frosted glass.
‘Harry Hole. We spoke on the phone.’
The door was opened a fraction.
‘Sorry, I . . .’
‘That’s alright.’
Signe Juul opened the door wide and Harry
walked into the hallway.
‘Even’s out,’ she said with an apologetic smile.
‘Yes, you said on the phone,’ Harry said. ‘It was
actually you I wanted to talk to.’
‘Me?’
‘If that’s OK, fru Juul?’
The elderly lady led the way in. Her hair, thick
and steely grey, was twisted into a knot and held in
place with an old-fashioned hairslide. And her
round, swaying body was the kind that made you
think of a soft embrace and good food.
Burre raised his head when they came into the
sitting room.
‘So, your husband has gone for a walk on his
own?’ Harry asked.
‘Yes, he can’t take Burre into the café,’ she said.
‘Please, do sit down.’
‘The café?’
‘Something he’s started doing recently,’ she
smiled. ‘To read the papers. He says he thinks
better when he’s not sitting at home.’
‘There’s probably something in that.’
‘Absolutely. And you can daydream too, I
suppose.’
‘What kind of daydreams, do you think?’
‘Well, I’ve no idea. You can perhaps imagine
you’re young again, drinking coffee at a pavement
café in Paris or Vienna.’ Again that same quick,
apologetic smile. ‘Enough of that. Coffee?’
‘Yes, please.’
Harry studied the walls while Signe Juul went
into the kitchen. Above the fireplace was a portrait
of a young man wearing a black cloak. Harry
hadn’t noticed the picture when he had been here
previously. The cloak-clad man was standing in a
dramatic pose, apparently scanning distant
horizons beyond the painter’s view. Harry walked
over to the picture. A little framed copper plaque
read: Overlege Kornelius Juul, 1885–1969.
Medical consultant.
‘That’s Even’s grandfather,’ Signe Juul said,
arriving with a tray of coffee things.
‘Right. You have a lot of portraits here.’
‘Yes,’ she said, putting down the tray. ‘The
picture beside it is Even’s maternal grandfather,