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The Redbreast(82)

By:Jo Nesbo


‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Fauke said. ‘But I

was a soldier who had been given orders to kill. If

I hadn’t been given the orders, I wouldn’t have

done it. But this I do know: my family were among

the ranks of those who cheated our country.’

Fauke looked straight at Harry. His hands round

the coffee mug were no longer shaking.

‘You’re wondering why I killed them all when

my orders were to kill only one,’ he said. ‘The

problem was they didn’t say which one. They left

it to me to be the judge of life or death. And I

couldn’t do it. So I killed them all. There was a

guy at the front we called the redbreast. Like the

bird, the robin redbreast. He had taught me that

killing with the bayonet was the most humane

method. The carotid artery runs from the heart to

the brain and when you sever the link, the brain

receives no oxygen and the victim is instantly

brain-dead. The heart pumps three, maybe four

times, but then it stops beating. The problem is that

it is difficult. Gudbrand – that was his name – was

a master of his art, but I struggled with my mother

for what seemed an age and only managed to cause

her flesh wounds. In the end I had to shoot her.’

Harry’s mouth was dry. ‘I see,’ he said.

The meaningless words hung in the air. Harry

shoved the coffee mug across the table and pulled

out a notebook from his leather jacket.

‘Perhaps we could talk about the men you were

with in Sennheim?’

Sindre Fauke stood up immediately.

‘I apologise, Inspector. I hadn’t intended to

present it so coldly and brutally. Let me just

explain to you before we go on: I am not a brutal

man. This is only my way of dealing with things. I

needn’t have told you about it, but I did so because

I cannot afford to duck the issue. That is also why

I’m writing this book. I have to go through it every

time the topic is brought up, explicitly or

implicitly. To be absolutely sure that I am not

hiding from it. The day I hide, fear will have won

its first battle. I don’t know why it’s like this. A

psychologist could probably explain it.’

He sighed.

‘But now I’ve said all I’m going to say on the

matter. Which is probably already too much. More

coffee?’

‘No, thank you,’ Harry said.

Fauke sat down again. He supported his chin on

clenched fists.

‘OK. Sennheim. The hard kernel of the

Norwegians. In fact, a mere five people, including

me. And one of them, Daniel Gudeson, died the

same night I deserted. So, four then: Edvard

Mosken, Hallgrim Dale, Gudbrand Johansen and

me. The only one I’ve seen since the war is Edvard

Mosken, our section leader. That was the summer

of 1945. He was given three years for treason. I

don’t even know if the others survived. But let me

tell you what I know about them.’

Harry turned over a fresh page in his notebook.

42

POT. 3 March 2000.

G-U-D-B-R-A-N-D J-O-H-A-N-S-E-N. HARRY TYPED THE

letters with his index fingers. A country boy.

According to Fauke, a nice, somewhat feeble

character, whose idol and big-brother surrogate

was Daniel Gudeson, who was shot during the

night watch. Harry pressed ENTER and the program

started.

He stared in the direction of the wall. At the wall.

At a small picture of Sis. She was pulling a face;

she always did when she was being photographed.

One summer holiday many years ago. The shadow

of the photographer was on her white T-shirt.

Mum.

A little peep from the PC signalled that the search

was over and he focused on the computer screen

again.

The national registration office had two

Gudbrand Johansens registered, but the birth dates

showed they were under sixty. Sindre Fauke had

spelled the names for him, so it was unlikely he

had got them wrong. That could only mean either

Johansen had changed his name, or he lived

abroad, or he was dead.

Harry tried the next one. The section leader from

Mjøndalen. The one with small children back

home. E-d-v-a-r-d M-o-s-k-e-n. Disowned by his

family because he had gone to the front. Double

click on search.

The ceiling lights suddenly came on. Harry turned

round.

‘You should switch on the lights when you’re

working late.’ Kurt Meirik stood in the doorway

with his finger on the switch. He came in and

perched on the edge of the table.

‘What have you found out?’

‘That we’re looking for a man well over seventy.

Who probably fought at the front.’

‘I mean about these neo-Nazis and Independence

Day.’

‘Oh.’ There was a new peep from the PC. ‘I

haven’t had time to look into that yet, Meirik.’