The Redeemer(121)

'Let's go to Forensics,' Harry said.

Without a word they drove up Toftes gate to Ring 2. Past Ullevål Hospital. They were passing white gardens and English-style brick houses in Sognsveien when Harry broke the silence.

'Pull in.'

'Now? Here?'

'Yes.'

She checked her mirror and did as he said.

'Put the hazard lights on,' Harry said. 'And then concentrate on me. Do you remember the association game I taught you?'

'You mean the one about speaking before you think?'

'Or saying what you think before thinking that you shouldn't think that. Empty your mind.'

Beate closed her eyes. Outside, a family passed them on skis.

'Ready? OK. Who sent Robert Karlsen to Zagreb?'

'Sofia's mother.'

'Mm,' Harry said. 'Where did that come from?'

'No idea,' Beate said, opening her eyes. 'She has no motive as far as we're aware. And she is definitely not the type. Perhaps because she is a Croat like Stankic. My subconscious doesn't have such complicated thoughts.'

'All of that may be correct,' Harry said. 'Apart from the last part about your subconscious. OK. Ask me.'

'Must I ask . . . aloud?'

'Yes.'

'Why?'

'Just do it,' he said, closing his eyes. 'I'm ready.'

'Who sent Robert Karslen to Zagreb?'

'Nilsen.'

'Nilsen? Who's Nilsen?'

Harry opened his eyes again.

He blinked into the lights of the oncoming traffic, a little dazed. 'I suppose it must be Rikard.'

'Funny game,' Beate said.

'Drive,' Harry said.


Darkness had fallen over Østgård. The radio on the windowsill jabbered away.

'Is there really no one who can recognise you?' Martine asked.

'There are some who can,' he said. 'But it takes time to learn my face. Not many have taken the time.'

'So it's not about you. It's the others?'

'Maybe. But I don't want them to recognise me. That's . . . something I do.'

'You flee.'

'No, on the contrary. I infiltrate. I invade. I make myself invisible and sneak into places I want to be.'

'But if no one sees you, what's the point?'

He looked at her in surprise. There was a jingle on the radio and then a woman's voice began to speak with the neutral gravity of a newsreader.

'What is she saying?' he asked.

'It's going to get even colder. Nursery schools closing. Old people warned to stay inside and not to save electricity.'

'But you saw me,' he said. 'You recognised me.'

'I'm a people-watcher,' she said. 'I see them. That's my one talent.'

'Is that why you're helping me?' he asked. 'Is that why you haven't tried to run away even once?'

She studied him. 'No, that's not why,' she said at length.

'Why?'

'Because I want Jon Karlsen to die. I want him to be even deader than you are.'

He gave a start. Was she out of her mind?

'Me, dead?'

'That's what they have been claiming on the news for the past few hours,' she said, nodding towards the radio.

She breathed in and put on the grave, imperious voice of the newsreader. 'The man suspected of the Egertorget murder died last night, shot by police Special Forces during a raid on the container terminal. According to Sivert Falkeid, the Special Forces commander, the suspect refused to surrender and went for his gun. Oslo Crime Squad head, Chief Inspector Gunnar Hagen, has said the case will be put in the hands of SEFO, the independent police investigation authority, as a matter of routine. Chief Inspector Hagen commented that this case is another example of the police having to deal with ever more brutal organised crime and that discussion of whether to arm the police should not only be about effective law enforcement but also the safety of our police officers.'

He blinked twice. Three times. Then it dawned on him. Kristoffer. The blue jacket.

'I'm dead,' he said. 'That's why they left before we arrived. They think it's over.' He placed his hand on Martine's. 'You want Jon Karlsen to die.'

She stared into space. Breathed in as if she were going to speak, then released the air with a groan as though the words she had found were not the correct ones, and tried again. At the third attempt she succeeded. 'Because Jon Karlsen knew. He's known for all these years. And that's why I hate him. And that's why I hate myself.'


Harry eyed the naked corpse on the table. It almost didn't affect him any more to see them like this. Almost.

Room temperature was around fourteen degrees and the smooth cement walls returned a short, harsh echo as the female pathologist answered Harry's question.

'No, we weren't thinking of doing an autopsy on him. The queue's long enough as it is, and the cause is fairly obvious in this case, don't you think?' She motioned towards the face with the big, black hole that had taken with it most of the nose and the top lip, leaving the mouth and the upper set of teeth open.

'Bit of a crater,' Harry said. 'Doesn't look like the work of an MP5. When will I have the report?'

'Ask your boss. He asked for it to go straight to him.'