The Redeemer(125)

'Anything else?' Gjendem whispered. 'Anything new on the murders?'

'I understand you've all been told,' Harry said. 'The press have to go through Gunnar Hagen or the spokesperson.'

'They're not saying anything.'

'Sounds like they know their jobs.'

'Come on, Hole, I know something's going on. The officer that was stabbed in Gøteborggata – is there any connection between him and the gunman you shot down last night?'

Harry shook his head in a way that could mean both 'no' and 'no comment'.

The organ music stopped at that moment, the mumbling went silent and the girl with the debut album stepped forward and sang a wellknown psalm with an alluring amount of air, the suggestion of a groan and brought it to an end by taking the final syllable on a roller-coaster ride that Mariah Carey would have envied. For a second Harry experienced an overwhelming yearning for a drink, but at long last she closed her mouth and bowed her head in sorrow to an imaginary storm of camera flashes. Her manager smiled with pleasure. It was obvious he hadn't received a telephone call from Police HQ.

Eckhoff spoke to the congregation about courage and sacrifice.

Harry was unable to concentrate. He looked at the coffin and thought about Halvorsen. And he thought about Stankic's mother. And when he closed his eyes, he thought about Martine.

Afterwards six Salvation Army officers carried out the coffin. Jon and Rikard went first.

Jon slipped on the ice as they turned on the gravel path.


Harry left the others still gathered around the grave. He walked through the deserted part of the cemetery towards Frogner Park where he heard the creak of shoes on the snow behind him.

At first he thought it was a journalist but when he heard the fast, agitated breathing he reacted without thinking and spun round.

It was Rikard. Who came to a sudden halt.

'Where is she?' he wheezed.

'Where is who?'

'Martine.'

'I heard she was ill today.'

'Ill, yes.' Rikard's chest was heaving. 'But home in bed, no. And she wasn't at home last night, either.'

'How do you know?'

'Don't . . . !' Rikard's shout sounded like a scream of pain and his face went into contortions as though he were no longer in charge of his own expressions. But then he caught his breath and with what seemed like a huge exertion pulled himself together. 'Don't try that on me,' he whispered. 'I know. You've duped her. Defiled her. She's in your flat, isn't she. But you won't get . . .'

Rikard took a step towards Harry who automatically took his hands out of his coat pockets.

'Listen,' Harry said. 'I have no idea where Martine is.'

'You're lying!' Rikard clenched his fists and Harry realised he needed to find the correct words to calm him down in a hurry. He took a punt on these: 'There are a couple of things you ought to reflect on right now, Rikard. I'm not very quick but I weigh ninety-five kilos and I have punched my fist through an oak front door. And paragraph 127 of the Penal Code gives a minimum punishment of six months for violence against a public servant. You're risking a hospital visit. And prison.'

Rikard's eyes smouldered. 'See you, Harry Hole,' he said airily, turned and ran back through the snow between the graves to the chapel.


Imtiaz Rahim was in a bad mood. He had just had a row with his brother about whether to put Christmas decorations on the wall behind the till. Imtiaz thought it was enough to sell Advent calendars, pork and other Christian paraphernalia without desecrating Allah by bowing to this kind of heathen custom. What would their Pakistani customers say? His brother, however, thought that they had to think of the other customers. For example, those from the block of flats on the other side of Gøteborggata. It wouldn't hurt to give the grocer's shop a tiny touch of Christianity during the holiday period. Although Imtiaz had won the heated discussion, it gave him no pleasure.

So it was with a heavy sigh that he heard the irascible ring of the bell over the door. A tall, broad-shouldered man in a dark suit entered and came over to the till.

'Harry Hole, police,' the man said, and for one small moment of panic Imtiaz wondered whether there was a law in Norway stipulating that all shops had to display Christmas decorations.

'A few days ago there was a beggar sitting outside this shop,' the policeman said. 'A guy with red hair and a beard like this.' He ran a finger over his top lip and down the side of the mouth.

'Yes,' Imtiaz said. 'I know him. He brings empty bottles here to get the deposit.'

'Do you know his name?'

'The tiger. Or the cheetah.'

'Pardon?'

Imtiaz laughed. He was back in a good mood. 'Tiger, after tigger, your Norwegian word for beggar. And cheetah because he pinches the empties from . . . we don't know where.'

Harry nodded.

Imtiaz shrugged. 'It's my nephew's joke . . .'

'Mm. Very good. So . . .'

'No, I don't know his name. But I do know where you can find him.'