The Redeemer(56)

'They said you were here.' Gunnar Hagen mounted the ergometer bike beside him. The tight yellow T-shirt and the cycling shorts emphasised rather than covered the muscles in the POB's lean, almost ravaged body. 'What program are you on?'

'Number nine,' Harry panted.

Hagen regulated the height of the saddle while standing on the pedals and then punched in the necessary settings on the cycle computer. 'I gather you've had quite a dramatic day today.'

Harry nodded.

'I'll understand if you want to apply for sick leave,' Hagen said. 'After all, this is peacetime.'

'Thank you, but I'm feeling pretty fresh, boss.'

'Good. I've just spoken to Torleif.'

'The Chief Super?'

'We need to know how the case is going. There have been phone calls. The Salvation Army is popular, and influential people in town would like to know whether we'll clear the case up before Christmas. Peace and Yuletide goodwill and all that stuff.'

'The politicians coped fine with six fatal OD cases in their Yuletide last year.'

'I was asking for an update on the case, Hole.'

Harry could feel the sweat stinging his nipples.

'Well, no witnesses have come forward despite the photos in Dagbladet today. And Beate Lønn says that the photos suggest we are not dealing with one killer, but at least two. And I share her opinion. The man at Jon Karlsen's flat was wearing a camel-hair coat and a neckerchief, and the clothes match those of the man in Egertorget the evening before the murder.'

'Only the clothes?'

'I couldn't see his face very well. And Jon Karlsen can't remember a great deal. One of the residents has admitted she let an Englishman in to leave a Christmas present outside Jon Karlsen's door.'

'Right,' said Hagen. 'But we'll keep the theory about several killers to ourselves. Go on.'

'There's not much more to say.'

'Nothing?'

Harry checked the speedometer as with calm determination he stepped up the pace to thirty-five kilometres an hour.

'Well, we have a false passport belonging to a Croat, a Christo Stankic, who was not on the Zagreb plane today and should have been. We found out he had been staying at Scandia Hotel. Lønn examined his room for DNA. They don't have so many guests staying so we hoped the receptionist would recognise the man from our photos.'

'And?'

'Afraid not.'

'What is our basis for thinking this is our man then?'

'The false passport,' Harry said, stealing a glimpse at Hagen's speedometer. Forty kilometres an hour.

'And how will you find him?'

'Well, names leave traces in the information age and we have alerted all our standard contacts. If anyone bearing the name of Christo Stankic sets foot in a hotel, buys a plane ticket or uses a credit card, we will know at once. According to the receptionist he had enquired after a telephone booth, and she directed him to Jernbanetorget. Telenor is going to send us a list of outgoing calls over the last two days from the public phones there.'

'So all you have is a Croat with a false passport who didn't turn up for his flight,' Hagen said. 'You're stuck, aren't you.'

Harry didn't answer.

'Try thinking laterally,' Hagen said.

'Right, boss,' Harry drawled.

'There are always alternatives,' Hagen said. 'Have I told you about the Japanese platoon and the cholera outbreak?'

'Don't think I've had the pleasure, boss.'

'They were in the jungle north of Rangoon and kept bringing up everything they ate and drank. They were dehydrating, but the leader refused to lie down and die, so he ordered them to empty their morphine syringes and use them to inject themselves with the water from their canteens.'

Hagen increased his tempo and Harry listened in vain for any signs of breathlessness.

'It worked. But after a few days the only water they had left was a barrel teeming with mosquito larvae. Then the second in command suggested sticking the syringes in the flesh of the fruit growing around them and injecting it into the bloodstream. In theory, fruit juice is 90 per cent water anyway, and what did they have to lose? It saved the platoon, Hole. Imagination and courage.'

'Imagination and courage,' wheezed Hole. 'Thanks, boss.'

He pedalled for all he was worth and could hear the crackle of his own breathing, like fire through an open stove door. The speedometer showed 42. He glanced over at the POB's. 47. Breathing? Even.

Harry was reminded of a sentence from a thousand-year-old book he had been given by a bank robber, The Art of War. 'Choose your battles.' And he knew this was one battle he should withdraw from. Because he would lose, whatever he did.

Harry slowed down. The speedometer showed 35. To his surprise, he didn't feel frustration, just weary resignation. Perhaps he was growing up, perhaps he was finished with being the idiot who lowered his horns and attacked anyone waving a red rag? Harry snatched a sidelong glance. Hagen's legs were going like pistons now, and the smooth layer of sweat on his face glistened in the white light from the lamp.