The Redbreast(162)

long body. Of course, seven thousand kroner was

way over what he had intended to pay, but the

alternative was to look like something out of a

farce in the old suit, so he had closed his eyes, put

his card in the machine and tried to forget.

They went into the dining room, where a table

was set for two.

‘Oleg is asleep,’ she said before Harry could ask.

There was a silence.

‘I didn’t mean . . .’ she began.

‘Didn’t you?’ Harry said with a smile. He hadn’t

seen her blush before. He pulled her into him,

breathed in the aroma of freshly washed hair and

felt her slight tremble.

‘The food . . .’ she whispered.

He let her go and she disappeared into the

kitchen. The window facing the garden was open

and the white butterflies which had not been there

yesterday fluttered like confetti in the sunset. Inside

it smelled of green soap and damp wooden floors.

Harry closed his eyes. He knew that he would need

many days like this before the image of Even Juul

hanging from the dog lead would completely go

away, but it was fading. Weber and his boys hadn’t

found the Märklin, but they had found Burre, the

dog. In a bin bag in the freezer with its throat cut.

And in the toolbox they had found three knives, all

bloodstained. Harry guessed that some of the blood

was Hallgrim Dale’s.

Rakel called him from the kitchen to help her to

carry in a few things. It was already fading.

93

Holmenkollveien. 17 May 2000.

THE JANIZARY MUSIC CAME AND WENT WITH THE

WIND. Harry opened his eyes. Everything was

white. White sunlight gleaming and flashing like

morse code between the flapping white curtains,

white walls, white ceiling and white bedding, soft

and cool against hot skin. He turned. The pillow

retained the mould of her head, but the bed was

empty. He looked at his wristwatch. Five past

eight. She and Oleg were on their way to Akershus

Fortress parade ground where the children’s

parade was due to start. They had arranged to meet

in front of the guardhouse by the Palace at eleven.

He closed his eyes and replayed the night one

more time. Then he got up and shuffled into the

bathroom. White there too: white tiles, white

porcelain. He showered in freezing cold water and

before he realised it he was singing an old song by

The The.

‘ . . . a perfect day! ’

Rakel had put out a towel for him, white, and he

rubbed his skin with the thick woven cotton to get

his circulation going as he studied his face in the

mirror. He was happy now, wasn’t he? Right now.

He smiled at the face in front of him. It smiled

back. Ekman and Friesen. Smile at the world and

the world . . .

He laughed aloud, tied the towel around his waist

and walked slowly on damp feet across the hall to

the bedroom door. It took a second before he

realised it was the wrong bedroom because

everything was white again: walls, ceiling, a

dressing-table with family photographs on and a

neatly made double bed with an old-fashioned

crocheted bedspread.

He turned, was about to leave and had reached

the door when he suddenly went rigid. He froze, as

if part of his brain was ordering him to keep going

and forget while another part wanted him to go

back and check whether what he had just seen was

what he thought it was. Or, to be more precise,

what he feared it was. Exactly what he feared and

why, he didn’t know. He only knew that when

everything is perfect, it can’t be better and you

don’t want to change a thing, not one single thing.

But it was too late. Of course it was too late.

He breathed in, turned round and went back.

The black and white photograph was in a simple

gold frame. The woman in the photograph had a

narrow face, high, pronounced cheekbones and

calm, smiling eyes, which were focused on

something slightly above the camera, presumably

the photographer. She looked strong. She was

wearing a plain blouse, and over the blouse hung a

silver cross.

They have been painting her on icons for almost

two thousand years.

That wasn’t why there had been something

familiar about her the first time he had seen a

photograph of her.

There was no doubt. It was the same woman he

had seen in the photograph in Beatrice Hoffmann’s

room.

Part Nine

JUDGMENT DAY

94

Oslo. 17 May 2000.

I AM WRITING THIS SO THAT WHOEVER FINDS IT SHALL

KNOW a little about why I have taken the

decisions I have. The decisions in my life have

often been between two or more evils, and I have

to be judged on the basis of that. But I should

also be judged on the fact that I have never run

away from decisions; I have never evaded my

moral obligations. I have risked taking the wrong

decision rather than living like a coward as part