Nemesis

Dear Trond,

I've always wondered how it felt when the footbridge suddenly disappeared beneath him. When the precipice opened and he knew something completely devoid of meaning was about to happen. He was going to die for no purpose. Perhaps he still had things he wanted to do. Perhaps someone was sitting and waiting for him that morning. Perhaps he thought that day would be the start of something new. In a way he was right about that…

I never told you I visited him in hospital. I took a large bunch of flowers with me and told him I had seen the whole thing from the window of my flat; I rang for the ambulance and gave the police a description of the boy and his bike. He lay there in bed, so small and grey, and he thanked me. Then I asked him a silly sports commentator question: 'How did it feel?'

He didn't answer. He just lay there with all the tubes and the drips, and watched me. Then he thanked me again and a nurse said I had to go.

So I never knew what it felt like. Until one day when the precipice opened beneath me too. It didn't happen when I was running up Industrigata after the robbery. Or while I was counting the money afterwards. Or while I was watching the news. It happened the same way it happened to the old man. One morning I was walking along happily, unaware of any danger. The sun was shining, I was safely back in d'Ajuda, I could relax and began to think. I had taken from the person I loved most what they loved most. I had two million kroner to live off, but nothing to live for. That was this morning.

I don't expect you to understand this, Trond. I robbed a bank, I saw she recognised me, I was caught in a game with its own rules, none of this has any place in your world. I don't expect you to understand what I am doing now, but perhaps you can see that it is possible to get tired of this, too. Of living.

Lev

PS It didn't strike me at the time that the old man didn't smile when he thanked me. I thought about it today, though, Trond. Perhaps he didn't have anything or anyone waiting for him after all. Perhaps he just felt relief when the precipice opened and he thought he wouldn't have to do it himself.

Beate was standing on a chair beside Lev's body when Harry came in. She was struggling to bend one of Lev's fingers so she could press it against the inside of a small shiny metal box.

'Blast,' she said. 'The ink pad has been standing in the sun at the hotel and it's dried out.'

'If you can't get a good print, we'll have to use the firemen's method.'

'And that is?'

'People caught in a fire automatically use their hands. Even on charred bodies the skin on the fingertips may be intact and you can use fingerprints to identify bodies. Sometimes, for practical reasons, firemen cut off a finger and take it to Forensics.'

'That's called desecration of a body.'

Harry shrugged. 'If you look at his other hand, you can see he's already missing one finger.'

'I can see,' she said. 'Looks like it's been cut off. What might that mean?'

Harry went closer and shone the torch. 'It means the finger was cut off long after he hanged himself. Someone may have come here and seen he'd already done the job for them.'

'Who?'

'Well, in some countries gypsies punish thieves by cutting their fingers off,' Harry said. 'If they stole from gypsies, that is.'

'I think I've got a good print,' Beate said, wiping the sweat off her brow. 'Shall we cut him down?'

'No,' Harry said. 'As soon as we've had a look around, we'll tidy up after us and clear off. I saw a phone box in the main street. I'll phone the police anonymously from there and report the death. When we get to Oslo, you can phone the Brazilian police and have the medical report sent. I have no doubt he died of asphyxiation, but I want the time of death.'

'What about the door?'

'Not much we can do about that.'

'And your neck? The bandage is all red.'

'Forget it. My arm hurts more. I landed on it when I went through the door.'

'How bad is it?'

Harry gingerly raised his arm and grimaced. 'It's fine so long as I don't move it.'

'Think yourself lucky you haven't got the Setesdal Twitch.'

Two out of three in the room laughed, but their laughter quickly subsided.

***

On the way back to the hotel, Beate asked Harry if it all made sense to him.

'From a technical point of view, yes. Beyond that, I'll never get suicide to make sense.'

He flicked his cigarette away. It described a glowing arc in the almost tangible night. 'But that's me.'

29

Room 316

The window opened with a bang.

'Trond is travelling,' she trilled. Her bleached hair had obviously been given another dose of chemicals since their previous visit and her scalp shone through the devitalised hair. 'Have you been down south?'

Harry raised a tanned face and peered at her.

'In a way. Do you know where he is?'

'He's packing his car,' she said, pointing to the other side of the houses. 'I think he's going to travel, the poor thing.'

'Mm.'

Beate wanted to go, but Harry stayed put. 'You've lived here a long time, have you?' he asked.

'Oh yes. Thirty-two years.'

'You can probably remember Lev and Trond from the time they were small, can you?'

'Of course. They left their mark on Disengrenda.' She smiled and leaned against the frame of the window. 'Especially Lev. A real charmer. We always knew he would be dangerous for the ladies.'

'Dangerous, yes. Maybe you know the story about the man who fell from the footbridge?'

Her face darkened and she whispered in a tragic voice: 'Oh, yes. Dreadful business. I heard he was never able to walk properly again, the poor chap. His knees stiffened up. Can you imagine a child thinking up such a wicked trick?'

'Mm. He must have been a real wild child.'

'Wild child?' She shaded her eyes. 'I wouldn't exactly say that. He was a polite, well-brought-up boy. That was what was so shocking.'

'And everybody round here knew he'd done it?'

'Everybody. I saw him from this window. A red jacket heading off on his bike. I should have known there was something wrong when he came back. The lad's face was completely drained of colour.' She shuddered in the cold gust of wind. Then she pointed across the road.

Trond was walking towards them with his arms hanging down by his sides. He slowed down more and more until, in the end, he was hardly moving.

'It's Lev, isn't it,' he said on finally reaching them.

'Yes,' Harry said.

'Is he dead?'

From the corner of his eye he saw the gaping face in the window. 'Yes, he's dead.'

'Good,' said Trond. Then he bent over and hid his face in his hands.

***

Bjarne Mшller stood staring through the window with a concerned expression on his face when Harry peeked in through the half-open door. Harry tapped.

Mшller turned and brightened up. 'Oh, hi.'

'Here's the report, boss.' Harry tossed a green Manila wallet on his desk.

Mшller fell into his chair, managed after some exertion to heap his excessively long legs under the desk and put on his glasses.

'Aha,' he mumbled as he opened the wallet inscribed LIST OF DOCUMENTS. Inside there was a solitary piece of A4 paper.

'Didn't think you'd want to know all the ins and outs,' Harry said.

'If you say so, I'm sure you're right,' Mшller said, running his eyes over the generously spaced lines.

Harry looked over his boss's shoulder and out of the window. There was nothing to see, just thick damp mist which lay like a used nappy over the town. Mшller put down the piece of paper.