The Redeemer

'It's locked up during the day. And anyway, a Metzner's teeth are narrow. The wound heals fast. I've been thinking about buying a Kentucky terrier. Jagged teeth. Bite chunks out of you. You were lucky, Inspector.'

'Well,' Harry said, 'you'd better warn Fido that a lady is on her way and she'll give him something else to bite.'

'What?' Halvorsen asked, carefully manoeuvring the car past a snowplough.

'Something soft,' Harry said. 'Kind of clay. Afterwards Beate and her team will put the clay in plaster, let it set and, bingo, you've got a model of a dog's jaw.'

'Right. And that's supposed to prove that Per Holmen was murdered?'

'No.'

'I thought you said-'

'I said that's what I need to prove that it was murder. The missing link in the chain of evidence.'

'I see. And what are the other links?'

'The usual. Motive, murder weapon and opportunity. Turn right here.'

'I don't know. You said your suspicions were based on Holmen using wire cutters to break into the container terminal?'

'I said that was what made me wonder. To be precise, I wondered how a heroin addict so out of his skull that he has to look for refuge in a container would be alert enough to make sure he had wire cutters to get through the gate. Then I had a closer look at the case. You can park here.'

'What I don't understand is how you can claim that you know who the guilty party is.'

'Work it out, Halvorsen. It's not difficult, and you have all the facts.'

'I hate it when you do this.'

'I only want you to be good.'

Halvorsen cast a glance at his older colleague to see if he was joking. They got out of the car.

'Aren't you going to lock up?' Harry asked.

'The lock froze last night. The key broke in it this morning. How long have you known who the guilty person is?'

'A while.'

They crossed the street.

'Knowing who is in most cases the easy bit. It's the obvious candidate. The husband. The best friend. The guy with a record. And never the butler. That's not the problem; the problem is proving what your head and your gut have been telling you for ages.' Harry pressed the bell beside 'Holmen'. 'And that's what we're going to do now. Find the little piece that changes apparently unconnected information into a perfect chain of evidence.'

A voice crackled 'Ja' over the speaker.

'Police here, Harry Hole. Can we…?'

The lock buzzed.

'It's all a question of moving fast,' Harry said. 'Most murder cases are solved in the first twenty-four hours or not at all.'

'Thanks. I've heard that one before,' Halvorsen said.

Birger Holmen stood waiting for them at the top of the stairs.

'Come in,' he said and led them into the living room. A bare Christmas tree stood by the door to the French balcony, waiting to be decorated.

'My wife is sleeping,' he said before Harry could ask.

'We'll whisper,' Harry said.

Birger Holmen gave a sad smile. 'She won't wake up.'

Halvorsen sent Harry a quick glance.

'Mm,' the inspector said. 'Taken a tranquilliser perhaps?'

Birger Holmen nodded. 'The funeral's tomorrow.'

'Yes, of course, that's a strain. Well, thank you for lending me this.' Harry put a photograph on the table. It was of Per Holmen sitting with his mother and father standing on either side. Protected. Or, depending on how you saw it, surrounded. A silence ensued as no one said a word. Birger Holmen scratched his forearm through his shirt. Halvorsen wriggled forward in his chair, then moved back.

'Do you know much about drug addiction, herr Holmen?' Harry asked without looking up.

Birger Holmen frowned. 'My wife has taken one sleeping pill. That doesn't mean-'

'I'm not talking about your wife. You may be able to save her. I'm talking about your son.'

'Depends what you mean by know. He was hooked on heroin. It made him unhappy.' He was going to say something else, but paused. He examined the picture on the table. 'It made us all unhappy.'

'I don't doubt that. But if you had known anything about drug addiction, you would have known that it takes precedence over everything else.'

Birger Holmen's voice at once trembled with indignation. 'Are you saying I don't know that, Inspector? Are you saying… my wife was

… he…' But tears had crept into his voice. '… his own mother…'

'I know,' Harry whispered. 'But drugs come before mothers. Before fathers. Before life.' Harry breathed in. 'And before death.'

'I'm exhausted, Inspector. What do you want?'

'Tests show there were no drugs in his blood when he died. So he was in a bad state. And when heroin addicts are like this, the need for redemption is so strong that you can threaten your own mother with a gun to get it. And redemption is not a shot in the head, but in the arm, the neck, the groin or any other place you can still find a fresh vein. Your son was found with his kit and a bag of heroin in his pocket, herr Holmen. He can't have shot himself. Drugs take precedence, as I said, over everything. Also-'

'Death.' Birger Holmen still had his head in his hands, but his voice was quite distinct. 'So you think my son was killed? Why?'

'I was hoping you could tell us.'

Birger Holmen did not answer.

'Was it because he threatened her?' Harry asked. 'Was it to give your wife peace of mind?'

Holmen raised his head. 'What are you talking about?'

'My guess is you hung around Plata waiting. And when he turned up, you followed him after he had bought his fix. You took him down to the container terminal, as he sometimes went there when he had nowhere else.'

'How am I supposed to know that?! This is outrageous. I-'

'Of course you knew. I showed this photo to the watchman, who recognised the person I was asking about.'

'Per?'

'No, you. You were there this summer asking if you could search the containers for your son.'

Holmen stared at Harry, who went on:

'You had it all planned. Wire cutters to get in and an empty container, which was an appropriate place for a drug addict to end his life, where no one could hear or see you shoot him. With the gun you knew Per's mother could testify was his.'

Halvorsen studied Birger Holmen and held himself in readiness, but Holmen showed no signs of making any kind of move. He breathed heavily through his nose and scratched his forearm while staring into space.

'You can't prove any of this.' He said this in a resigned tone, as if it were a fact he regretted.

Harry made a conciliatory gesture. In the ensuing silence they could hear loud barking from down in the street.

'It won't stop itching, will it,' Harry said.

Holmen stopped scratching at once.

'Can we see what itches so much?'

'It's nothing.'

'We can do it here or down at the station. Your choice, herr Holmen.'

The barking increased in intensity. A dog sled, here, in the middle of the city? Halvorsen had a feeling there was going to be an explosion.

'Fine,' Holmen whispered, unbuttoning the cuff and pushing up his sleeve.

There were two small sores with scabs on. The skin around them was red and inflamed.

'Turn your arm round,' Harry ordered.

Holmen had a matching sore underneath.

'They itch like hell, dog bites, don't they,' Harry said. 'Especially after ten to fourteen days when they begin to heal. A doctor down at A amp;E told me that I had to try and stop scratching. You should have done that too, herr Holmen.'

Holmen gazed at his sores without seeing them. 'Should I?'

'The skin is punctured in three places. We can prove that a particular dog down at the container terminal bit you – we have a model of its jaw. Hope you managed to defend yourself.'

Holmen shook his head. 'I didn't want… I just wanted her to feel free.'