The Redbreast(176)

eyebrows under curly blonde hair resembling a

wig sized him up from top to toe. Harry spotted her

name badge.

‘Betty Andresen, what I’m going to tell you now

is not a joke in poor taste, so listen carefully. I’m a

policeman and you have an assassin in the hotel.’

Betty Andresen contemplated the tall, half-

dressed man with the bloodshot eyes whom she

had, quite understandably, judged to be either

drunk or crazy, or both. She studied the ID card he

held up for her. She scrutinised him again. At

length.

‘Name,’ she said.

‘His name’s Sindre Fauke.’

Her fingers danced across the keyboard. ‘Sorry,

there’s no one here by that name.’

‘Fuck! Try Gudbrand Johansen.’

‘No Gudbrand Johansen either, Inspector Hole.

Wrong hotel perhaps?’

‘No! He’s here, he’s in his room right now.’

‘So you’ve spoken to him, have you?’

‘No. No, I . . . it’ll take too long to explain.’

Harry ran his hand across his face. ‘Let’s see. I

have to think. He must be high up. How many

floors are there here?’

‘Twenty one.’

‘And how many of them have not handed in room

keys yet?’

‘Quite a few, I’m afraid.’

Harry threw both hands into the air and stared at

her. ‘Of course,’ he whispered. ‘This is a Daniel

job.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Please check for Daniel Gudeson.’

What would happen afterwards? The old man

didn’t know. There was nothing afterwards. At

least, there hadn’t been so far. He had put four

bullets on the window-sill. The yellowish-brown

matt metal of the housing reflected the rays of the

sun.

He peered through the rifle sights again. The bird

was still there. He recognised it. They had the

same name. He pointed the sights at the crowds.

Scanned the lines of people at the barriers.

Stopped when he saw something familiar. Could it

really be . . . ? He focused the sights. Yes, no

doubt about it, it was Rakel. What was she doing

in the Palace Square? And there was Oleg too. He

seemed to be running over from the children’s

parade. Rakel lifted him over the barrier with

outstretched arms. She was strong. Strong hands.

Like her mother. Now they were walking up

towards the guardhouse. Rakel looked at her

watch. She seemed to be waiting for someone.

Oleg was wearing the jacket he had given him for

Christmas. Rakel said Oleg called it Grandpa’s

jacket. It seemed to be a little on the small side

already.

The old man chuckled. He would have to buy him

a new one for autumn.

The pains came without warning this time and he

gasped helplessly for air.

The flare was sinking and their stooped shadows

scrambled towards him along the walls of the

trench.

Everything went dark, but just as he felt himself

slipping into the blackness, the pains released their

hold again. The gun had slid on to the floor, and the

sweat made his shirt stick to his body.

He straightened up, put the gun back on the

window ledge. The bird had flown away. He had a

clear line of fire.

The youthful face filled the telescopic sights

again. The Prince had studied. And so should Oleg.

That was the last thing he had said to Rakel. That

was the last thing he said to himself before he shot

Brandhaug. Rakel had not been at home the day he

had dropped into Holmenkollveien to pick up a

couple of books, so he had let himself in and he

happened to see the envelope lying on the desk and

the Russian embassy on the letterhead. He had read

it, put it down and stared through the window at the

garden, at the snowflakes lying there after the

shower, the last throes of winter. Afterwards he

had sifted through the other drawers in the desk

until he found the other letters, the ones with the

Norwegian embassy on the letterhead, and also

those without letterheads, written on serviettes and

sheets torn out of notepads, signed by Bernt

Brandhaug. And he had thought about Christopher

Brockhard.

No Russian arsehole will be able to shoot at our

watch tonight. The old man released the safety

catch. He felt a strange calm. He had just

remembered how easy it had been to cut

Brockhard’s throat. And to shoot Bernt Brandhaug.

Grandpa’s jacket, a new Grandpa’s jacket. He

emptied the air out of his lungs and crooked his

finger around the trigger.

With a key card to all the rooms in his hand,

Harry did a sliding tackle into the lift and got one

foot between the closing doors. They slid open

again. Amazed faces met him as he stood up.

‘Police!’ Harry shouted. ‘Everyone out!’

It was as if the school bell had rung for