baggy hunting trousers with pockets everywhere
and a woollen cap pulled down well over his
head.
‘Which side of the rock did you find the
cartridges?’
The boy pointed. Harry took off his skis, walked
round the rock and lay on his back in the snow. The
sky was light blue now, as it is on clear winter
days just before the sun goes down. Then he rolled
on to his side and peered over the rock. He
followed the clearing in the forest where they had
come in. There were four tree stumps in the
clearing.
‘Did you find any bullets or signs of shooting?’
Folldal scratched the back of his neck. ‘Do you
mean, have we examined every tree trunk within a
half-kilometre radius?’
Bertelsen discreetly placed a gloved hand over
Folldal’s mouth. Harry flicked his ash and studied
the glowing end of his cigarette.
‘No, I mean, did you check the tree stumps over
there?’
‘And why should we have examined those
particular stumps?’ Folldal asked.
‘Because Märklin make the world’s heaviest
rifle. A gun weighing fifteen kilos is not an
attractive option for a standing shot, so it would be
natural to assume that he rested it on this rock to
take aim. Märklin rifles eject bullet casings to the
right. Since the spent shells were found on the right
of the stone, he must have been shooting in the
direction we have come from. So it would not be
unreasonable to assume that he positioned
something on one of the tree stumps to aim at,
would it?’
Bertelsen and Folldal looked at each other.
‘Well, we’d better check that out.’
‘Unless this is a bloody big bark beetle . . .’
Bertelsen said three minutes later, ‘. . . then this is
a bloody big bullet hole.’
He kneeled down in the snow and poked his
finger into one of the tree stumps. ‘Shit, the bullet’s
gone in a long way. I can’t feel it.’
‘Take a look inside,’ Harry said. ‘Why?’
‘To see if it’s gone right through,’ Harry
answered.
‘Right through that enormous spruce?’
‘Just take a look and see if you can see daylight.’
Harry heard Folldal snort behind him. Bertelsen
put his eye to the hole.
‘Mother of Jesus . . .’
‘Can you see anything?’ Folldal shouted.
‘Only half the course of the bloody Siljan river.’
Harry turned towards Folldal, who had turned his
back to him to spit.
Bertelsen got to his feet. ‘A bulletproof vest
won’t help much if you’re shot with one of those
bastards, will it,’ he groaned.
‘Not at all,’ Harry said. ‘The only thing that
would help would be armour-plating.’ He stubbed
his cigarette against the tree stump and corrected
himself: ‘ Thick armour-plating.’
He stood on his skis, sliding them back and forth
in the snow.
‘We’ll have to have a chat with the people in the
neighbouring chalets,’ Bertelsen said. ‘They may
have seen or heard something. Or they may feel
like admitting they own this rifle from hell.’
‘After we had the arms amnesty last year . . .’
Folldal began, but changed his mind when
Bertelsen eyeballed him.
‘Anything else we can do to help?’ Bertelsen
asked Harry. ‘Well,’ Harry said, scowling in the
direction of the forest path, ‘you couldn’t help me
bump-start the car, could you?’
29
Rudolf II Hospital, Vienna. 23 June
1944.
IT WAS LIKE DÉJÀ VU FOR HELENA. THE WINDOWS
WERE open and the warm summer morning filled
the corridor with the perfume of newly mown
grass. For two weeks there had been air raids
every night, but she didn’t even notice the smell of
smoke. She was holding a letter in her hand. A
wonderful letter! Even the grumpy matron had to
smile when Helena sang out her Guten Morgen.
Dr Brockhard looked up from his papers in
surprise when Helena burst into his office.
‘Well?’ he said.
He took off his glasses and directed his stiff gaze
at her. She caught a glimpse of the wet tongue
sucking the ends of his glasses. She took a seat.
‘Christopher,’ she began. She hadn’t used his
Christian name since they were small. ‘I have
something to tell you.’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘That’s exactly what I have been
waiting for.’
She knew what he had been waiting for: an
explanation for why she still hadn’t complied with
his wishes and gone to his flat in the main building
despite the fact that he had extended Uriah’s
medical certificate twice. Helena had blamed the
bombing, saying that she didn’t dare go out. Then