The Redbreast(144)

pizza. ‘When I’ve finished my pizza.’

‘I’ll have a chat with our young friends in the

meantime,’ Harry said, getting up.

In a work context, Harry had always taken pains

not to use his size to gain a psychological

advantage. Yet even though Hitlermoustache

stretched his neck to peer up at Harry, Harry knew

that the cold stare concealed the same fear that he

had witnessed with Krohn. Only this guy had had

more training in disguising it. Harry snatched the

chair Hitlermoustache was resting his boots on and

his legs clattered on to the floor before he had a

chance to react.

‘Sorry,’ Harry said. ‘I thought this chair was

free.’

‘It’s the fucking filth,’ Hitlermoustache said. The

shaven skull sticking out of the combat jacket

swivelled round.

‘Right,’ Harry said. ‘Or the fuzz. Or the pigs.

Uncle Nabs. No, that’s a bit too cosy perhaps.

What about les flics? Is that international enough?’

‘Are we bothering you or what?’ the coat asked.

‘Yes, you’re bothering me,’ Harry said. ‘You’ve

been bothering me for a long time. Say hello to the

Prince and tell him Harry Hole is going to bother

him back. From Hole to the Prince. Did you get

that?’

The combat jacket blinked and stared open-

mouthed. Then the coat opened a mouth with teeth

splayed out in all directions and laughed until the

saliva ran.

‘Are you talking about HRH Haakon Magnus?’ he

asked, and when the combat jacket finally got the

joke he laughed along with him.

‘Well,’ Harry said. ‘If you’re just the

footsloggers, of course, you won’t know who the

Prince is. So you’ll have to pass the message on to

your next-in-line. Enjoy the pizzas, boys.’

He walked back to Halvorsen and could feel their

eyes on his back.

‘Eat up,’ Harry said to Halvorsen, who was busy

with an enormous piece of pizza stretching halfway

round his face. ‘We have to get out before I get

more shit on my record.’

82

Holmenkollen. 11 May 2000.

IT WAS THE WARMEST SPRING EVENING SO FAR.

HARRY WAS driving with the car window open and

the gentle breeze caressed his face and hair. From

the top of Holmenkollen he could see Oslo fjord

and the islands strewn around like greenish brown

shells, and the first white sails of the new season

were making their way towards land for the

evening. A couple of red-capped school-leavers

stood urinating at the edge of the road, beside a red

bus with loudspeakers mounted on the roof. The

music was booming out: Won’t – you – be my

lover . . .

An elderly lady wearing hiking breeches, and

with an anorak tied around her waist and a tired

but beatific expression on her face, was ambling

down the road.

Harry parked down from the house. He didn’t

want to go all the way up the drive, he didn’t quite

know why – perhaps because he thought it would

seem less invasive to park at the bottom.

Ridiculous, of course, since his visit had been

unannounced and uninvited.

He was halfway up the drive when his mobile

phone bleeped. It was Halvorsen ringing from the

Traitors’ Archive.

‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘If Daniel Gudeson really is

alive, he certainly wasn’t convicted after the war.’

‘And Signe Juul?’

‘She was sentenced to one year.’

‘But never went to prison. Anything else of

interest?’

‘Zilch. And now they’re getting ready to chuck me

out and close up.’

‘Go home and sleep – perhaps we’ll come up

with something tomorrow.’

Harry had arrived at the foot of the steps and was

going to take them in one jump when the door

opened. He stood still. Rakel was wearing a

woollen jumper and blue jeans; her hair was untidy

and her face paler than usual. He searched her eyes

for any indication that she was happy to see him

again, but found none. But nor was there the neutral

courtesy he had dreaded most. Her eyes expressed

nothing, whatever that meant.

‘I heard someone talking outside,’ she said.

‘Come in.’

Oleg was in the sitting room, watching TV in his

pyjamas.

‘Hi loser,’ Harry said. ‘Shouldn’t you be

practising Tetris?’

Oleg snorted without taking his eyes off the TV.

‘I always forget that children don’t understand

irony,’ Harry said to Rakel.

‘Where have you been?’ Oleg asked.

‘Been?’ Harry was a little baffled by Oleg’s

accusatory expression. ‘What do you mean?’

Oleg rolled his shoulders.

‘Coffee?’ Rakel asked. Harry nodded. Oleg and