Nemesis

'Self-taught,' Beate said.

In the middle of the Vеlerenga tunnel a large, ugly, diesel-vomiting lorry loomed up ahead of them. It lumbered into the right-hand lane; on the back, held in place by two yellow arms, was a green skip bearing the words OSLO WASTE MANAGEMENT.

'Yess!' Harry shouted.

Beate swung in front of the lorry, slowed down and activated the right indicator. Harry rolled down the window, stretched out a hand holding his ID and waved the lorry into the side of the road with the other.

***

The driver had no objection to Harry taking a look inside the skip, but wondered if they shouldn't wait until they were in the Metodica yard, where they could empty the contents onto the ground.

'I don't want the bottle to be smashed!' Harry yelled over the noise of passing traffic from the back of the lorry.

'I was thinking about your nice suit,' the driver said, but by then Harry had already scrambled up into the skip. The next moment, a rumble of thunder could be heard from inside, and the driver and Beate heard Harry roundly cursing. Then quite a bit of rooting around. And finally another 'Yess!' before he reappeared over the top of the skip with a white plastic bag held above his head like a trophy.

'Give the bottle to Weber immediately and tell him it's urgent,' Harry said as Beate started the car. 'Say hello from me.'

'Will that help?'

Harry scratched his head. 'No. Just say it's urgent.'

She laughed. Not very much, nor heartfelt, but Harry noted the laughter.

'Are you always so enthusiastic?' she asked.

'Me? What about you? You were ready to drive us into an early grave for this evidence, weren't you?'

She smiled, but didn't answer. Checked the mirror before returning to the carriageway.

Harry glanced at his watch. 'Damn!'

'Late for a meeting?'

'Do you think you could drive me to Majorstuen church?'

'Of course. Is that why you're wearing the black suit?'

'Yes. A…friend of mine.'

'Then perhaps you'd better try and get rid of the brown stain on your shoulder first.'

Harry craned his head. 'From the skip,' he said, brushing at it. 'Has it gone now?'

Beate passed him a handkerchief. 'Try a little spit. Was it a close friend?'

'No. Or yes…for a while perhaps. But you have to go to funerals, don't you.'

'Do you?'

'Don't you?'

'I've only been to one funeral all my life.'

They drove in silence.

'Your father?'

She nodded.

They passed the intersection at Sinsen. At Muselunden, the large area of grass below Haraldsheimen, a man and two boys had a kite in the air. All three stood looking at the blue sky and Harry saw the man give the string to the taller of the two boys.

'We still haven't caught the man who did it,' she said.

'No, we haven't,' Harry said. 'Not yet.'

***

'God giveth and God taketh away,' the priest said, peering down over the empty rows of benches and at the tall man with cropped hair who had just tiptoed in, looking for a seat at the very back. He waited as the echo of a loud, heart-rending sob died away under the arched ceiling. 'But on occasion it can seem as if He is merely taking.'

The priest stressed 'taking' and the acoustics lifted the word and carried it to the back of the church. The sobbing grew in volume again. Harry watched. He had thought that Anna, who was so extroverted and bubbly, would have had lots of friends, but Harry counted only eight people, six in the front row and two further back. Eight. Yes, well, how many would go to his funeral? Eight people was perhaps not such a bad turnout.

The sobbing came from the front row where Harry could see three heads wrapped in bright scarves and three bare-headed men. The other two were a man sitting to the left and a woman in the middle. He recognised the globe-shaped afro of Astrid Monsen.

The organ pedals creaked, then the music began. A psalm. The grace of God. Harry closed his eyes and felt how tired he was. The notes from the organ rose and sank, the high notes trickled like water from the ceiling. The frail voices sang for forgiveness and mercy. He longed to immerse himself in something which could warm and conceal him. The Lord shall come to judge the quick and the dead. God's vengeance. God as Nemesis. The low organ notes caused the unoccupied wooden benches to vibrate. The sword in one hand and the scales in the other, punishment and justice. Or no punishment and no justice. Harry opened his eyes.

Four men were carrying the coffin. Harry recognised Officer Ola Li behind two swarthy men in Armani suits, white shirts open at the neck. The fourth person was so tall he made the coffin tip. The suit hung loosely on the thin body, but he was the only one of the four who did not seem weighed down by the coffin. Harry's eye was particularly caught by the man's face. Narrow, finely formed with large, pained, brown eyes set in deep hollows in the cranium. The black hair was swept back in a long plait, leaving the high, shiny forehead bared. The sensitive, heart-shaped mouth was enwreathed by a long, well-groomed beard. It was as if Christ had stepped down from the altar behind the priest. And there was something else: there are very few faces you can say this about, but this face was radiant. As the four men approached Harry down the aisle, he tried to see what made it radiant. Was it grief? Not pleasure. Goodness? Evil?

Their eyes met for a brief moment as they passed. Behind them followed Astrid Monsen with eyes downcast, a middle-aged accountant-like man and three women, two older and one younger, dressed in colourful skirts. They sobbed and wailed, rolling their eyes and wringing their hands in silent accompaniment.

Harry stood as the tiny procession left the church.

'Funny, these gypsies, aren't they, Hole?' The words resounded around the church. Harry turned. It was Ivarsson, black suit, tie and smile. 'When I was growing up, we had a gypsy gardener. Ursari, they travelled round with dancing bears, you know. Josef he was called. Music and pranks all the time. But death, you see…These people have an even more strained relationship with death than we have. They are scared stiff of mule-spirits of the dead. They believe they return. Josef used to go to a woman who would chase them away. Only women can do that apparently. Come on.'

Ivarsson touched Harry's arm lightly. Harry had to grit his teeth to resist the impulse to shake it off. They walked down the church steps. The noise of the traffic in Kirkeveien drowned the peeling of the bells. A black Cadillac with the rear door open waited for the funeral procession in Schшnings gate.

'They take the coffin to Vestre crematorium,' Ivarsson said. 'Burning the body, that's a Hindu custom they took with them from India. In England, they burn the deceased's caravan, but they're not allowed to lock the widow in any more.' He laughed. 'They're allowed to take personal effects. Josef told me about the gypsy family of a demolition man in Hungary. They put his dynamite in the coffin and blew the whole of the crematorium sky high.'

Harry took out a pack of Camels.

'I know why you're here, Hole,' Ivarsson said without relaxing the smile. 'You wanted to see if the occasion would throw up a chat with him, didn't you.' Ivarsson motioned with his head to the procession and the tall, thin figure stepping out slowly as the other three tripped along, trying to keep up.

'Is he the one called Raskol?' Harry asked, inserting a cigarette between his lips.

Ivarsson nodded. 'He's her uncle.'

'And the others?'

'Friends, apparently.'

'And the family?'

'They don't acknowledge the deceased person.'

'Oh?'

'That's Raskol's version. Gypsies are notorious liars, but what he says squares with Josef's stories about their thinking.'