The Redeemer(57)

Harry dried his sweat. Took two deep breaths. Then went for it again. The wonderful pain returned in seconds.





13

Wednesday, 17 December. The Ticking.



EVERY SO OFTEN MARTINE THOUGHT THAT THE SQUARE IN Plata had to be the basement staircase to hell. Nevertheless, she was terrified by rumours going around that in spring the town hall's welfare committee was going to abandon the scheme for the open trading of drugs. The overt argument put forward by opponents of Plata was that the area attracted young people to drugs. Martine's opinion was that anyone who thought that the life you saw played out in Plata could be attractive either had to be crazy or had never set foot there.

The covert argument was that this terrain, delimited by a white line in the tarmac next to Jernbanetorget, like a border, disfigured the image of the city. And was it not a glaring admission of failure in the world's most successful – or at least richest – social democracy to allow drugs and money to exchange hands openly in the very heart of the capital?

Martine agreed with that. That there had been a failure. The battle for the drug-free society was lost. On the other hand, if you wanted to prevent drugs from gaining further ground it was better for the drug dealing to take place under the ever-watchful eyes of surveillance cameras than under bridges along the Akerselva and in dark backyards along Rådhusgata and the southern side of Akershus Fortress. And Martine knew that most people whose work was in some way connected with Narco-Oslo – the police, social workers, street preachers and prostitutes – all thought the same: that Plata was better than the alternatives. But it was not a pretty sight.

'Langemann!' she shouted to the man standing in the darkness outside their bus. 'Don't you want any soup tonight?'

But Langemann sidled away. He had probably bought his fix and was off to inject the medicine.

She concentrated on ladling soup for a Mediterranean type in a blue jacket when she heard chattering teeth beside her and saw a man dressed in a thin suit jacket awaiting his turn. 'Here you are,' she said, pouring out his soup.

'Hello, sweetie,' came a rasping voice.

'Wenche!'

'Come over and thaw out a poor wretch,' said the ageing prostitute with a hearty laugh, and embraced Martine. The smell of the damp skin and body that undulated against the tight-fitting leopard-pattern dress was overwhelming. But there was another smell, one she recognised, a smell that had been there before Wenche's broadside of fragrances had overpowered everything else.

They sat down at one of the empty tables.

Although some of the foreign working girls who had flooded the area in the last year also used drugs, it was not as widespread as among their home-grown rivals. Wenche was one of the few Norwegians who did not indulge. Furthermore, in her words, she had begun to work more from home with a fixed clientele, so the intervals between meeting Martine had lengthened.

'I'm here to look for a girlfriend's son,' Wenche said. 'Kristoffer. I'm told he's on shit.'

'Kristoffer? Don't know him.'

'Aaah!' She dismissed it. 'Forget it. You've got other things on your mind, I can see.'

'Have I?'

'Don't fib. I can see when a girl's in love. Is it him?'

Wenche nodded towards the man in the Salvation Army uniform with a Bible in one hand who had just sat down next to the man in the thin suit jacket.

Martine puffed out her cheeks. 'Rikard? No, thank you.'

'Sure? His eyes have been trailing you ever since I arrived.'

'Rikard is alright,' she sighed. 'At any rate he volunteered for this shift at short notice. The person who should have been here is dead.'

'Robert Karlsen?'

'Did you know him?'

Wenche answered with a heavy-hearted nod, then brightened up again. 'But forget the dead and tell Mummy who you're in love with. It's not before time, by the way.'

Martine smiled. 'I didn't even know I was in love.'

'Come on.'

'No, this is too silly. I—'

'Martine,' said another voice.

She peered up and saw Rikard's imploring eyes.

'The man sitting there says he has no clothes, no money and nowhere to stay. Do you know if the Hostel has any free places?'

'Call them and ask,' Martine said. 'They do have some winter clothes.'

'Right.' Rikard didn't move, even though Martine was facing Wenche. She didn't need to look up to know that his top lip was sweaty.

Then he mumbled a 'thanks' and went back to the man in the suit jacket.

'Tell me then,' Wenche urged in a whisper.

Outside, the northerly wind had lined up its small-calibre artillery.


Harry walked along with his sports bag over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes against the wind, which was making the sharp, almost invisible snowflakes imbed small pinpricks in the cornea. As he passed Blitz, the squatters' property in Pilestredet, his mobile rang. It was Halvorsen.

'There have been two calls to Zagreb in the last two days from the phones in Jernbanetorget. Same number both times. I rang the number and got through to a hotel receptionist. Hotel International. They couldn't tell me who had rung from Oslo or who this person was trying to contact. Nor had they heard of anyone called Christo Stankic.'