The Redeemer

Falkeid hesitated for a moment. Then he raised the walkie-talkie to his mouth. 'Flash the light if you're ready, Atle.'

A light next to the container moved up and down.

'Everyone in position,' Falkeid said. 'We're ready to move in.'

Hagen nodded. 'Good. Before we go into action I would just like to have confirmation that you share my view, Falkeid. That it's best to make the arrest now and not to wait for Hole.'

Falkeid shrugged. It would be light in six hours, Stankic would come out and they could arrest him with the dogs on open ground. They said Gunnar Hagen was being groomed for the job of Chief Super when the time came.

'Seems sensible enough, yes.'

'Good. And that's what will be in my report. This was a joint decision. In case anyone should maintain I put the arrest forward to claim the kudos.'

'I don't think anyone will suspect you of that.'

'Good.'

Falkeid pressed the talk button on the walkie-talkie. 'Ready in two minutes.'

Hagen and Falkeid's frosty breath was white and merged into the same cloud before disappearing again.

'Falkeid…' It was the walkie-talkie. Atle. He whispered, 'A man just came out through the door of the container.'

'Stand by, everyone,' Falkeid said. In a firm, calm voice. Expect the unexpected. 'Is he going out?'

'No. He's standing still. He's… it looks like…'

A single shot resounded across the darkness of Oslo fjord. Then it went still again.

'What the hell was that?' Hagen asked.

The unexpected, thought Falkeid.

24

Saturday, 20 December. The Promise.

It was early saturday morning, and he was still asleep. In Harry's flat, in Harry's bed, in Harry's clothes. And he was having Harry's nightmares. About returning ghosts, always about returning ghosts.

There was a tiny sound, a mere scratching outside the front door. But it was more than enough. He woke up, put his hand under the pillow and was on his feet in an instant. The freezing floor burnt his bare feet as he crept into the hall. Through the wavy glass he could see the silhouette of someone. He had switched off all the lights and knew that no one could see him from the outside. The person seemed to be bending down and fidgeting with something Couldn't he get the key in the lock? Was Harry Hole drunk? Perhaps he hadn't been travelling after all. He had been out drinking all night.

He stood close to the door now and stretched out his hand for the cold metal door handle. Held his breath and felt the comforting friction of the gunstock against his other palm. The person outside also seemed to be holding their breath.

He hoped it didn't mean there would be unnecessary trouble; he hoped that Hole would be sensible enough to realise he had no choice: he had to take him to Jon Karlsen, or if that proved to be inappropriate, to bring Karlsen here to the flat.

With his gun raised so that it was immediately visible, he yanked open the door. The person outside gasped and retreated two paces.

There was something stuck to the outside door handle. A bunch of flowers wrapped in paper and cellophane. With a large envelope glued to the paper.

He recognised her at once, despite her horrified expression.

'Come in here,' he growled.

Martine Eckhoff hesitated until he raised the gun again.

He waved her into the sitting room with the barrel and followed. Asked her politely to sit in the wing chair while he sat on the sofa.

She dragged her eyes away from the gun and looked at him.

'Sorry about the clothes,' he said. 'Where's Harry?'

'What do you want?' she asked in English.

He was surprised by her voice. It was calm, almost warm.

'To get hold of Harry Hole,' he said. 'Where is he?'

'I don't know. What do you want from him?'

'Let me ask the questions. If you don't tell me where he is I will have to shoot you. Do you understand?'

'I don't know. So you'll have to shoot me. If you think that will help you.'

He searched for fear in her eyes. Without success. Perhaps it was her pupils; there was something wrong with them.

'What are you doing here?' he said.

'I brought Harry a concert ticket.'

'And flowers?'

'Just a whim.'

He seized the bag that she had set down on the table, rummaged through it until he found a wallet and a bank card. Martine Eckhoff. Born in 1977. Address: Sorgenfrigata, Oslo. 'You're Stankic,' she said. 'You're the man who was on the white bus, aren't you.'

He looked at her again and she held his gaze. Then she nodded slowly.

'You're here because you want Harry to lead you to Jon Karlsen, aren't you. And now you don't know what to do, do you.'

'Shut up,' he said. But he didn't achieve the tone he had intended. Because she was right: everything was falling apart. They sat without speaking in the darkened room as dawn filtered through.

In the end she broke the silence.

'I can take you to Jon Karlsen.'

'What?' he said in amazement.

'I know where he is.'

'Where?'

'On a farm.'

'How do you know?'

'Because the Salvation Army owns the farm and I have the list of those who use it. The police rang me to check they could have sole use of it for the next few days.'

'I see. But why would you take me there?'

'Because Harry won't tell you where it is,' she stated simply. 'And then you'll shoot him.'

He observed her. And he realised she meant what she was saying. He nodded slowly. 'How many of them are there at the farm?'

'Jon, his girlfriend and a policeman.'

One policeman. A plan began to form in his mind.

'How far away is it?'

'Three-quarters of an hour to an hour at peak times, but this is the weekend,' she said. 'My car's outside.'

'Why are you helping me?'

'I told you. I just want it to be over.'

'You're aware I'll shoot you through the head if you're bluffing?'

She nodded.

'Let's get going now,' he said.

At 7.14 Harry knew he was alive. He knew that because the pain could be felt in every nerve fibre. And because the hounds wanted more. He opened one eye and looked around him. Clothes were scattered all over the hotel room. But at least he was alone. His hand aimed at the glass on the bedside table and struck lucky. Empty. He ran a finger around the bottom and licked it. Sweet. All the alcohol had evaporated.

He dragged himself out of bed and took the glass into the bathroom. Avoided the mirror and filled the glass with water. Drank slowly. The hounds protested, but he held firm. Then another glass. The plane. He focused on his wrist. Where the hell was his watch? And what was the time? He had to get out, get home. One drink first… He found his trousers, put them on. Fingers felt numb and swollen. The bag. There. The toilet bag. His shoes. Where was his mobile phone though? Gone. He dialled 9 for reception and heard the printer belching out a bill behind the receptionist, who answered Harry's question four times without him registering.