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The Redbreast(30)

By:Jo Nesbo


His gaze shifted to the window with its coloured,

uneven glass. Presumably for reasons of

discretion, so that people inside could not be seen

from the outside. The exact opposite of

Kaffebrenneri, Ellen thought.

‘Well? Are you coming?’

‘Well,’ he looked at her with the same glazed

eyes she remembered from the mornings after he

returned from Bangkok, ‘I wouldn’t bet on it.’

‘Come anyway. There are a couple of amusing

surprises waiting for you.’

‘Surprises?’ Harry laughed softly. ‘I wonder

what that could be? Early retirement? Honourable

dismissal? Will the President give me the Purple

Heart?’

He raised his head enough for Ellen to see his

bloodshot eyes. She sighed and turned towards the

window. Behind the rough glass, shapeless cars

slid by, as in a psychedelic film.

‘Why do you do this to yourself, Harry? You

know, I know, everyone knows it wasn’t your

fault! Even the Secret Service admits it was their

fault we weren’t informed. And that we – you –

acted properly.’

Harry spoke in a low voice without looking at

her: ‘Do you think his family will see it like that

when he comes home in a wheelchair?’

‘My God, Harry!’ Ellen had raised her voice and

saw that the woman at the counter was watching

them with increasing interest. She could probably

smell a juicy quarrel brewing.

‘There are always some unlucky ones, some who

don’t make it, Harry. That’s the way it is. It’s no

one’s fault. Did you know that every year 60 per

cent of all hedge sparrows die? 60 per cent! If we

were to down tools and ponder the meaning of it,

before we knew what was going on, we would end

up among the 60 per cent ourselves, Harry.’

Harry didn’t answer. He sat bobbing his head up

and down over the checked tablecloth with black

cigarette burns.

‘I’m going to hate myself for saying this, Harry,

but I would regard it as a personal favour if you

would come tomorrow. Just turn up. I won’t talk to

you and you don’t breathe on me, OK?’

Harry put his little finger through one of the holes

in the cloth. Then he moved his glass so it covered

one of the other holes. Ellen waited.

‘Is that Waaler waiting in the car outside?’ Harry

asked.

Ellen nodded. She knew exactly how badly the

two of them got on. She had an idea, wavered, then

took the risk: ‘He’s got two hundred kroner on you

not making an appearance.’

Harry laughed his soft laugh again. Then he

supported his head on his hands and looked at her.

‘You’re a really bad liar, Ellen. But thank you for

trying.’

‘Fuck you.’

She drew in breath, was going to say something

but changed her mind and observed Harry for a

while. Then she breathed in again.

‘OK, it’s actually Møller who should tell you

this, but now I’ll tell you: they’re going to make

you an inspector in POT.’

Harry’s laughter purred like the engine of a

Cadillac Fleetwood. ‘Alright, with a little

practice, perhaps you won’t be such a bad liar

after all.’

‘It’s true!’

‘It’s impossible.’ His gaze wandered out of the

window again. ‘Why? You’re one of our best

detectives. You’ve just proved you’re a damned

good policeman. You read law. You —’

‘It’s impossible, I’m telling you. Even if someone

has come up with the crazy idea.’

‘But why?’

‘For a very simple reason. Wasn’t it 60 per cent

of those birds, you said?’

He pulled the tablecloth and the glass across the

table.

‘They’re called hedge sparrows.’

‘Right. And what do they die of ?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘They don’t just lie down and die, do they?’

‘Of hunger. Predators. Cold. Exhaustion. Flying

into windows perhaps. Anything and everything.’

‘OK. I bet none of them is shot in the back by a

Norwegian policeman without a firearms permit

because he didn’t pass the shooting test. A

policeman who, as soon as this is discovered, will

be prosecuted and probably sentenced to between

one and three years in prison. A pretty dodgy basis

for promotion to inspector, don’t you think?’

He lifted his glass and slammed it down on the

plastic folder. ‘Which shooting test?’ she asked.

He gave her a sharp look. She met his eyes with

an expression of confidence.

‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, Harry.’