The Redbreast(63)
eyes and a thick black moustache which hung down
over the corners of his mouth. Harry immediately
recognised him from Wright’s blurred
photographs.
‘The Norwegian?’ one of the two men mumbled,
inclining his head towards Harry. Isaiah gave a
nod of assent.
‘OK,’ the man said, turning to Harry, but without
letting the man at the table out of his sight. ‘He’s
yours, Norwegian. You got twenty minutes.’
‘The fax said —’
‘Screw the fax, Norwegian. Do you know how
many countries want to interrogate this guy or have
him handed over?’
‘Well, no.’
‘Just be happy you can talk to him at all,’ the man
said.
‘Why has he agreed to talk to me?’
‘How should we know? Ask him yourself.’
Harry tried to breathe from his stomach when he
came into the cramped, airless interview room. On
the wall, where red stripes of rust ran to form a
kind of grille pattern, there was a clock. It showed
10.30. Harry’s mind was on the policemen
following him, Argus-eyed; that was what must
have been making his hands clammy. The figure on
the chair was hunched, his eyes half closed.
‘Andreas Hochner?’
‘Andreas Hochner?’ the man in the chair repeated
in a whisper, raised his eyes and gave the
impression that he had just spotted something he
wanted to crush under his heel. ‘No, he’s at home
banging your mother.’
Warily, Harry took a seat. He thought he could
hear guffaws of laughter from the other side of the
black mirror.
‘I’m Harry Hole from the Norwegian police,’ he
said softly. ‘You agreed to talk to us.’
‘Norway?’ Hochner said with some scepticism.
He leaned forward and inspected the ID card
Harry held up. Then he smiled a little sheepishly.
‘Sorry, Hole. They didn’t tell me it was Norway
today, you see. I’ve been waiting for you.’
‘Where’s your lawyer?’ Harry put the briefcase
on the table, opened it and took out a sheet of
questions and a notepad.’
‘Forget him. I don’t trust the guy. Is the mike on?’
‘I don’t know. Does it matter?’
‘I don’t want the niggers to hear. I’m interested in
making a deal. With you. With Norway.’
Harry looked up from the question sheet. The
clock on the wall over Hochner’s head was
ticking. Three minutes gone. Something told him he
wasn’t going to get his allotted time.
‘What sort of deal?’
‘Is the mike on?’ Hochner whispered between his
teeth. ‘What sort of deal?’
Hochner rolled his eyes. Then he leaned forward
over the table and said in a rapid whisper, ‘In
South Africa it’s the death penalty for the things
they maintain I’ve done. Do you understand what
I’m getting at?’
‘Maybe. Go on.’
‘I can tell you certain things about the man in
Oslo so long as you can guarantee your government
will ask the nigger government for a reprieve.
Because I helped you, right. Your Prime Minister,
she was here, right? Her and Mandela went round
hugging each other. The ANC honchos in charge
now, they like Norway. You support them. You
boycotted us when the nigger commies wanted us
to be boycotted. They’ll listen to you, right?’
‘Why can’t you make the same deal by helping the
police here?’
‘For fuck’s sake!’ Hochner’s fist hit the table so
hard the ashtray jumped and it rained cigarette
butts. ‘Don’t you understand anything, you fucking
oinker! They think I’ve killed nigger kids.’
His hands grabbed the edge of the table and he
glowered at Harry with wide eyes. Then it was as
if his face cracked, it crumpled like a punctured
football. He hid it in his hands.
‘They just want to see me swing, don’t they!’
There was a bitter sob. Harry studied him. He
wondered how many hours the two of them in there
had kept Hochner awake with questions before he
arrived. He took a deep breath. Then he leaned
across the table, grabbed the microphone with one
hand and pulled the lead out with the other.
‘Deal, Hochner. We’ve got ten seconds. Who’s
Uriah?’
Hochner watched him between his fingers.
‘What?’
‘Quick, Hochner. They’ll be here in a moment!’
‘He’s . . . he’s an old guy, over seventy for sure. I
only met him once, at the handover.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Old, as I said.’
‘Description!’
‘He was wearing a coat and hat. It was the