The Redbreast(129)

skin. You couldn’t tell that she had given birth. But

the fact that she had, the fact that she was

demonstrably fertile and the fact that she had

nourished a child at her breast made her even more

attractive in Bernt Brandhaug’s eyes. She was

perfect.

‘We aren’t in any hurry,’ he said, resting a hand

on her knee. Her face did not betray any emotion,

but he felt her flinch.

‘Do whatever you like,’ she said, shrugging her

shoulders. ‘Would you like to see the letter first?’

He inclined his head in the direction of the brown

envelope embossed with the Russian embassy’s

seal, lying in the middle of the table. Ambassador

Vladimir Aleksandrov’s brief letter to Rakel Fauke

informed her that the Russian authorities requested

her to ignore the previous summons to the custody

hearing on behalf of Oleg FaukeGosev. The whole

matter was to be postponed indefinitely on account

of the backlog of cases at the law courts. It had not

been easy. Brandhaug had been obliged to remind

the Russian ambassador of a couple of favours he

owed him. And, in addition, to offer further

favours. A couple of them were on the very

margins of what was permissible for a Norwegian

Foreign Office head.

‘I trust you,’ she said. ‘Can we get this over

with?’

She hardly blinked as his palm hit her cheek, but

her head danced as if attached to a rag doll.

Brandhaug rubbed his hand while thoughtfully

contemplating her.

‘You’re not stupid, Rakel,’ he said. ‘So I assume

you know that this is only a provisional

arrangement. There are six months to wait before

the case becomes time-barred. A new summons

could come at any moment; all it takes is a phone

call from me.’

She stared at him and finally he registered signs

of life in her dead eyes.

‘I think an apology would not be out of place,’ he

said.

Her bosom heaved, her nostrils quivered. Her

eyes filled slowly with tears.

‘Well?’ he asked.

‘Sorry.’ Her voice was barely audible.

‘You’ll have to speak up.’

‘Sorry.’

Brandhaug beamed.

‘There, there, Rakel.’ He dried a tear from her

cheek. ‘This will be fine. You only have to get to

know me. I want us to be friends. Do you

understand, Rakel?’

She nodded.

‘Sure?’

She sniffled and nodded again.

‘Excellent.’

He stood up and loosened his belt buckle.

It was an unusually cold night and the old man had

slipped into his sleeping-bag. Even though he was

lying on a thick layer of spruce twigs the cold from

the ground penetrated his body. His legs had gone

stiff, and every now and then he had to rock from

side to side to prevent his upper body from losing

feeling too.

The windows in the house were still lit, but it

was now so dark outside that he could no longer

see much through the rifle sights. The situation

wasn’t hopeless yet though. If the man returned

home this evening the outside lamp above the

garage entrance, facing the forest, was lit. The old

man looked through the sights. Even though the

lamp did not give off much light, the colour of the

garage door was bright enough to outline him

clearly against it.

The old man turned over on to his back. It was

quiet here; he would hear the car coming. Provided

he didn’t fall asleep. The bout of stomach pains

had drained him, but he couldn’t sleep. He had

never slept on duty before. Never. He could feel

the hatred and tried to warm himself on it. This

was different, this was not like the other hatred

which burned on a low, steady flame, which had

been there for years, consuming and clearing the

undergrowth of small thoughts, creating a

perspective and allowing him to see things better.

This new hatred burned with such ferocity that he

wasn’t sure whether he was controlling it or it was

controlling him. He knew he must not let himself

be dragged along; he had to stay cool.

He looked at the starry sky between the spruce

trees above him. It was quiet. So still and cold. He

was going to die. They were all going to die. It

was a good thought; he tried to keep it in mind.

Then he closed his eyes.

Brandhaug stared at the chandelier on the ceiling.

A strip of blue light from a Blaupunkt advert

outside was reflected in the prisms. So still. So

cold.

‘You can go now,’ he said.

He didn’t look at her, just heard the sound of the

duvet being folded back and felt the bed rise. Then

he heard the sound of clothes being pulled on. She

hadn’t said a word. Not when he touched her, not

when he had ordered her to touch him. She lay

there with these large, wide-open, black eyes.