The Redeemer

'You know very well that the High Council sets great store by high-ranking officers having a respectable officer as their spouse. It's obvious that the right thing to do from a tactical point of view would be to announce my marriage to Thea Nilsen, the daughter of Frank Nilsen, the commander's right hand. But would it be morally right?'

Thea chewed her bottom lip. 'Why is this job so important to you and Rikard?'

Jon shrugged. 'The Army has paid our way through Officer Training School and four years for an economics degree at a school of management. I suppose Rikard thinks the way I do. You have a duty to apply for Salvation Army jobs seeking your qualifications.'

'Maybe neither of you will get it. Dad says no one under thirty-five has ever been appointed head of admin.'

'I know.' Jon sighed. 'Don't tell anyone but actually I would be relieved if Rikard gets the job.'

'Relieved?' Thea said. 'You? You've had the responsibility for all the rental property in Oslo for over a year now.'

'That's right, but the head of admin has all of Norway, Iceland and the Faeroes. Did you know that the Army's property company owns over 250 plots, with three hundred buildings in Norway alone?' Jon patted himself on the stomach and stared at the ceiling with a familiar concerned expression. 'I saw my reflection in a shop window today and it struck me how small I am.'

Thea did not seem to have heard. 'Someone told Rikard that whoever gets the job will be the next Territorial Commander.'

Jon laughed out loud. 'I definitely do not want that.'

'Don't mess about, Jon.'

'I'm not messing about, Thea. You and I are much more important. I'm saying I'm not interested in the admin job, so let's announce our engagement. I can do other important work. Lots of the corps need economists, too.'

'No, Jon,' Thea said, horrified. 'You're the best we've got. You have to be employed where we need you most. Rikard is my brother, but he doesn't have… your intelligence. We can wait until the decision has been made to tell them about the engagement.'

Jon shrugged.

Thea looked at the clock. 'You'll have to leave before twelve today. In the lift yesterday Emma said she had been worried about me because she had heard my door open and close in the middle of the night.'

Jon swung his legs onto the floor. 'I don't understand why we bother living here.'

She sent Jon a reproving glance. 'At least we can take care of each other here.'

'Right,' he sighed. 'We take care of each other. Goodnight then.'

She wriggled over to him and slipped her hand up his shirt and, to his surprise, he could feel her hand was sweaty, as if she had been clenching it or squeezing something. She pressed herself against him and her breathing began to quicken.

'Thea,' he said. 'We mustn't…'

She went rigid. Then she sighed and took her hand away.

Jon was amazed. So far Thea had not exactly come on to him, more the opposite, she had seemed anxious about physical contact. And he valued that modesty. She had seemed reassured after their first date when he had quoted the statutes and said, 'The Salvation Army considers abstinence before marriage a Christian ideal.' Even though many thought there was a difference between 'ideal' and the word 'command', which the statutes used when referring to tobacco and alcohol, he saw no reason to break a promise to God because of nuances.

He gave her a hug, stood up and went to the toilet. Locked the door behind him and turned on the tap. Let the water run over his hands as he regarded the smooth surface of molten sand reflecting the face of a person who to all outward appearances ought to be happy. He had to ring Ragnhild. Get it over with. Jon took a deep breath. He was happy. It was just that some days were harder than others.

He dried his face and went back to her.

The waiting room of Oslo's emergency services in Storgata 40 was bathed in harsh, white light. There was the usual human menagerie at this time of day. A trembling drug addict stood up and left twenty minutes after Harry arrived. As a rule they couldn't sit still for longer than ten. Harry could understand that. He still had the taste of whisky in his mouth; it had stirred up his old friends who heaved and tugged at the chains below. His leg hurt like hell. And the trip to the harbour had yielded – like 90 per cent of all police work – nothing. He promised himself he would keep the appointment with Bette Davis next time.

'Harry Hole?'

Harry looked up at the man in the white coat in front of him.

'Yes?'

'Could you come with me?'

'Thank you, but I think it's her turn,' Harry said, nodding towards a girl with her head in her hands in the row of chairs opposite.

The man leaned forwards. 'It's the second time she's been here this evening. She'll survive.'

Harry limped down the corridor after the doctor's white coat and into a narrow surgery with a desk and a plain bookshelf. He saw no personal items.

'I thought you police had your own medicine men,' the coat said.

'Fat chance. Usually we don't even get priority in the queue. How do you know I'm a policeman?'

'Sorry. I'm Mathias. I was on my way through the waiting room and spotted you.'

The doctor smiled and reached out his hand. He had regular teeth, Harry saw. So regular you could have suspected him of wearing dentures, if the rest of his face had not been as symmetrical, clean and square. The eyes were blue with tiny laughter lines around them, and the handshake firm and dry. Straight out of a doctor novel, Harry thought. A doctor with warm hands.

'Mathias Lund-Helgesen,' the man enlarged, taking stock of Harry.

'I realise you think I should know who you are,' Harry said.

'We've met before. Last summer. At a garden party at Rakel's place.'

Harry went rigid at the sound of her name on someone else's lips.

'Is that right?'

'That was me,' Mathias Lund-Helgesen gabbled in a low voice.

'Mm.' Harry gave a slow nod. 'I'm bleeding.'

'I understand.' Lund-Helgesen's face wrapped itself in grave, sympathetic folds.

Harry rolled up his trouser leg. 'Here.'

'Aha.' Lund-Helgesen assumed a somewhat bemused smile. 'What is it?'

'A dog bite. Can you fix it?'

'Not a lot to fix. The bleeding will stop. I'll clean the wounds and put something on it.' He bent down. 'Three wounds, I can see, judging by the teeth marks. And you'd better have a tetanus jab.'

'It bit right through to the bone.'

'Yes, it often feels like that.'

'No, I mean, its teeth did go…'

Harry paused and exhaled through his nose. He had just realised that Mathias Lund-Helgesen thought he was drunk. And why shouldn't he? A policeman with a torn coat, a dog bite, a bad reputation and alcohol on his breath. Was that what he would say when he told Rakel that her ex had turned to drink again?

'… right through,' Harry finished.

4

Monday, 15 December. The Departure.

'TRKA!'

He sat up in bed with a start hearing the echo of his voice between the bare white hotel walls. The telephone on his bedside table rang. He snatched at the receiver.

'This is your wake-up call…'

'Hvala,' he thanked, although he knew it was only a recorded voice.

He was in Zagreb. He was going to Oslo today. To the most important job. The final one.

He closed his eyes. He had been dreaming again. Not about Paris, not about any of the other jobs; he never dreamt about them. It was always about Vukovar, always about the autumn, about the siege.

Last night he had dreamt about running. As usual he had been running in the rain and as usual it had been the same evening they sawed off his father's arm in the infants ward. Four hours later his father had died, even though the doctors had pronounced the operation a success. They said his heart had just stopped beating. And then he had run away from his mother, into the dark and the rain, down to the river with his father's gun in his hand, to the Serbian positions, and they had sent up flares and shot at him and he hadn't cared and he'd heard the smack of the bullets into the ground, which had disappeared beneath his feet and he had fallen into the huge bomb crater. The water had swallowed him up, swallowed all sound, and it was quiet and he had kept running under the water, but he got nowhere. As he'd felt his limbs stiffening and sleep numbing him, he had seen something red moving in all the blackness, like a bird beating its wings in slow motion. When he had come to he was wrapped in a woollen blanket and a naked light bulb was swinging to and fro as Serbian artillery pounded them, and small lumps of earth and plaster had fallen into his eyes and mouth. He spat, and someone had stooped down and told him that Bobo, the captain himself, had saved his life in the water-filled crater. And pointed to a bald man standing by the steps of the bunker. He had been wearing a uniform with a red cloth tied around his neck.