The Redbreast(56)

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