The Redeemer

Aune stood up. 'If you want to talk about your drinking, we can do this as usual in my office. This consultation is over and you're paying for the tea.'

'Wait,' Harry said. 'Look.' He turned round and put the rest of his beer on the empty table behind him. 'This is my magic trick. I control my boozing by ordering half a litre which I take an hour to drink. A little sip every alternate minute. Like a sleeping pill. Then I go home and from the very next day I'm on the wagon. I wanted to talk to you about the attack on Halvorsen.'

Aune hesitated. Then he sat down again. 'Terrible business. I heard the details.'

'And what can you see?'

'Glimpse, Harry. Glimpse, and hardly that.' Aune nodded amiably to the waitress, who brought his tea. 'But, as you know, I glimpse better than the other good-for-nothings in my line of work. What I can see is that there are similarities between this attack and the murder of Ragnhild Gilstrup.'

'Tell me.'

'Deep, heartfelt anger being vented. Violence caused by sexual frustration. As you know, bouts of fury are typical of borderline personalities.'

'Yes, except that this individual seems to be able to control the fury. If not, we would have had more clues at the crime scenes.'

'Good point. It may be a fury-driven assailant – or a "person who commits violence" as the old maids in my profession would have us call them – who on a day to-day basis may seem sedate, almost defensive. There was a recent article in the American Journal of Psychology about such people with what they call slumbering rage. What I call Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. And when Mr Hyde wakes up…' Aune brandished the forefinger of his left hand while taking a sip of tea, '… it's Judgement Day and Armageddon at once. But once the fury has been released they cannot control it.'

'Sounds like a handy personality trait for a professional contract killer.'

'Not at all. What are you referring to?'

'Stankic loses points for style in the murder of Ragnhild Gilstrup and the attack on Halvorsen. There's something… unclinical about it. Quite different from the murders of Robert Karlsen and the others in the reports Europol sent us.'

'An angry, unstable contract killer? Well, I suppose there are unstable airplane pilots and unstable managers of nuclear power stations, too. Not everyone is in a job they ought to be in, you know.'

'I'll drink to that.'

'In fact, I wasn't thinking about you just now. Do you know you have certain narcissistic qualities, Inspector?'

Harry smiled.

'Will you tell me why you're ashamed?' Aune asked. 'Do you think it's your fault Halvorsen was stabbed?'

Harry cleared his throat. 'Well, it was me who gave him the task of looking after Jon Karlsen. And it was me who should have taught him where you keep your gun when on babysitting duties.'

Aune nodded. 'So it's all your fault. As usual.'

Harry looked to the side and across the room. The lights had begun to flash and the few customers left were obediently drinking up and putting on scarves and hats. Harry put a hundred-kroner note on the table and kicked a bag out from under his chair. 'Next time, Stale. I haven't been home since Zagreb and now I need some shuteye.'

Harry followed Aune to the door, but was unable to stop himself glancing at the beer in the glass still standing on the table behind them.

As Harry was unlocking the door to his flat he noticed the smashed glass and swore aloud. It was the second time his flat had been broken into within a year. He noted that the intruder had taken the time to tape the glass so as not to arouse the curiosity of passing residents. Yet had not taken the time to depart with the stereo or the TV. Easy enough to understand since neither was this year's model. Or the previous year's. And there were no other marketable items of value.

Someone had moved the pile of papers on the coffee table. Harry went into the bathroom and saw the mess in the medicine cupboard above the sink, so it was not difficult to work out that a drug addict had been on the loose.

He was puzzled by a plate on the worktop and the empty stew tins in the rubbish bag under the sink. Had the unfortunate intruder been overwhelmed by a need for comfort eating?

Once in bed Harry could sense the threat of imminent pain and hoped he would be able to sleep while still to some extent under the effects of medication. Through the crack between the curtains the moon laid a white stripe along the floor to his bed. He tossed and turned as he waited for the ghosts. He could hear the rustling; it was only a question of time. Even though he was aware it was alcoholic paranoia, he thought he could smell death and bloodshed on the sheets.

27

Sunday, 21 December. The Disciple.

Someone had hung a Christmas wreath outside the meeting room in the red zone.

Behind the closed door the last morning meeting of the investigative team was drawing to an end.

Harry stood sweating in front of the assembled group in a tight-fitting, dark suit.

'As the contract killer, Stankic, and the go-between, Robert Karlsen, are both dead the investigative team, in its present form, will be dissolved as of this meeting,' Harry said. 'And that means most of us can look forward to a Christmas holiday this year. However, I will ask Hagen to make a few of you available for further detection work. Any questions before we round things off? Yes, Toril?'

'You say that the Stankic link in Zagreb confirmed our suspicion that Robert Karlsen contracted the murder of Jon. Who spoke to the link and how?'

'I'm afraid I can't go into any details on that,' Harry said, ignoring Beate's eloquent eyes and feeling the sweat running down his back. Not because of the suit or the question, but because he was sober.

'OK,' he continued. 'The next job is to find out who Robert was working with. In the course of today I will contact the fortunate few who will be allowed to be involved. Hagen is holding a press conference later today and will take care of whatever has to be said.' Harry shooed with his hands. 'Run along to your piles of paperwork, guys.'

'Hey!' shouted Skarre over the scraping of chairs. 'Shouldn't we celebrate?'

The noise died away and the group looked at Harry.

'Well,' Harry said quietly, 'I don't know quite what we should celebrate, Skarre. That three people are dead? That the man behind Robert Karlsen is still free? Or that we still have an officer in a coma?'

Harry watched them and did nothing to ease the painful silence that followed.

When the room was empty, Skarre went over to Harry, who was sorting through the notes he had written at six o'clock that morning.

'Sorry,' Skarre said. 'Rotten suggestion.'

'That's alright,' Harry said. 'You meant well.'

Skarre coughed. 'Rare to see you in a suit.'

'Robert Karlsen's funeral is at twelve,' Harry said without looking up. 'Thought I would see who turned up.'

'Right.' Skarre rocked back on his heels.

Harry stopped flicking through his papers. 'Anything else, Skarre?'

'Well, yes. I was thinking that quite a few people in Crime Squad have got families and are looking forward to Christmas, whereas I'm single…'

'Mm?'

'Well, I'd like to volunteer.'

'Volunteer?'

'I mean I'd like to keep working on the case. If you want me, that is,' Skarre hastened to add.

Harry studied Magnus Skarre.

'I know you don't like me,' Skarre said.

'It's not that,' Harry said. 'I've already decided who will stay. And it's those I consider the best, not the ones I like.'

Skarre shrugged, and his Adam's apple bobbed up and down. 'Fair enough. Happy Christmas then.' He moved towards the door.

'That's why,' Harry said, putting the notes in the briefcase, 'I want you to start checking Robert Karlsen's bank account. See what's gone in and out over the last six months and note any irregularities.'