The Redeemer

'I don't understand,' the man said.

'Leave,' Mathias said. 'Or I'll call the police.'

To his astonishment, Mathias could feel he had to control himself not to drag this stinking junkie out of the chair. The others had turned to watch.

The man nodded and staggered to his feet. Mathias stood watching him after the glass door had slid to.

'It's good you chuck their kind out,' a voice behind him said.

Mathias gave an absent-minded nod. Perhaps he hadn't told her enough times. That he loved her. Perhaps that was it.

It was half past seven and still dark outside the neurosurgical ward and room 19 where Police Officer Stranden was looking down at the neat yet unoccupied bed where Jon Karlsen had been lying. Soon another patient would be there. That was a strange thought. But now he needed to find a bed to lie in himself. For a long time. He yawned and checked he hadn't left anything on the bedside table, took the newspaper from the chair and turned to leave.

A man was standing in the doorway. It was the inspector. Hole.

'Where is he?'

'Gone,' Stranden said. 'They came for him a quarter of an hour ago. Drove him away.'

'Oh? Who authorised that?'

'The consultant. They didn't want him here any more.'

'I meant who authorised the transport. And where to.'

'That was your new boss in Crime Squad. He rang.'

'Hagen? In person?'

'Yep. And they took Karlsen to his brother's flat.'

Hole shook his head slowly. Then he left.

Dawn was breaking in the east as Harry trudged up the stairs of the reddish-brown brick-built block in Gorbitz gate, a short stretch of tarmac full of potholes between Kirkeveien and Fagerborggata. He stopped on the first floor as instructed via the door intercom. Embossed in white on a pale blue strip of plastic on the door that had been left ajar was a name: ROBERT KARLSEN.

Harry entered and gave the flat a once-over. It was a tiny, messy studio that confirmed the impression one gained of Robert from seeing his office. Although the possibility could not be ruled out that Li and Li might have contributed to the mess while searching for letters and any other paperwork that could help them. A colour print of Jesus dominated one wall, and it struck Harry that if the crown of thorns was exchanged for a beret, you would have Che Guevara.

'So Gunnar Hagen decided you should be brought here?' Harry addressed the back of the person sitting at the desk by the window.

'Yes,' said Jon Karlsen, turning round. 'Since the gunman knows the address of my flat, he said I would be safer here.'

'Mm,' Harrry said, looking around. 'Sleep well?'

'Not particularly.' Jon Karlsen wore an embarrassed smile. 'I lay listening for sounds that weren't there. And when in the end I did fall asleep, Stranden, the guard, came and scared the living daylights out of me.'

Harry moved a pile of comics off a chair and flopped down. 'I can understand you being afraid, Jon. Have you thought any more about who would want to take your life?'

Jon sighed. 'I haven't thought about anything else since last night. But the answer is the same: I really don't have a clue.'

'Have you ever been to Zagreb?' Harry asked. 'Or Croatia?'

Jon shook his head. 'The furthest I've been from Norway is Sweden and Denmark. And then I was just a boy.'

'Do you know any Croats?'

'Only the refugees we give lodging to.'

'Mm. Did the police say why they brought you here of all places?'

Jon shrugged. 'I said I had a key to the flat. And it's empty of course, so…'

Harry ran a hand across his face.

'There used to be a computer here,' Jon said, pointing to the desk.

'We picked it up,' Harry said, standing up again.

'Do you have to go already?'

'I have to catch a flight to Bergen.'

'Oh,' Jon said with a blank stare.

Harry felt an inclination to lay a hand on the ungainly boy's narrow shoulders.

The airport express was late. It was the third time in a row. 'Because of a delay,' came the brief and vague justification. Oystein Eikeland, Harry's taxi-driving and only pal from his boyhood, had explained to Harry that a train's electromotor was one of the simplest things in existence. His little sister could make it work, and if the technical staff of SAS and the Norwegian Railways were to swap places for a day, all the trains would run on time and all the planes would still be on the ground. Harry preferred the situation as it was.

He rang Gunnar Hagen's direct line after they emerged from the tunnel before Lillestrom.

'Hole speaking.'

'I can hear.'

'I've authorised round-the-clock surveillance for Jon Karlsen. And I didn't authorise his removal from Ulleval Hospital.'

'The hospital determines the latter,' Hagen said. 'And I determine the former.'

Harry counted three houses in the white landscape before answering. 'You put me in charge of this investigation, Hagen.'

'Yes, but not of overtime expenses. Which as you ought to know went over-budget ages ago.'

'The boy's scared out of his wits,' Harry said. 'So you put him in the flat belonging to the killer's previous victim, his own brother. To save the few hundred kroner a day a hotel room would have cost.'

The loudspeakers announced the next stop.

'Lillestrom?' Hagen sounded surprised. 'Are you on the airport express?'

Harry mouthed a silent curse. 'Quick trip to Bergen.'

'Is that so?'

Harry gulped. 'I'll be back this afternoon.'

'Are you out of your mind, man? We're under the spotlight here. The media-'

'A tunnel's coming,' Harry said, pressing the red button.

Ragnhild Gilstrup awoke slowly from a dream. It was dark in the room. She knew it was morning, but she didn't know what the sound was. It was like a large, mechanical clock. But they didn't have any clocks like that in the bedroom. She rolled over and recoiled. In the gloom she saw a naked figure standing by the foot of the bed watching her.

'Good morning, darling,' he said.

'Mads! You frightened me.'

'Oh?'

He had just had a shower. Behind him the door to the bathroom was open and the ticking sound came from the soft, resonant drips of water from his body onto the parquet floor.

'Have you been standing like that for long?' she asked, pulling the duvet round her more tightly.

'How do you mean?'

She shrugged, but was taken aback. There was something about the way he said it. Cheery, almost teasing. And the tiny smile. He never used to be like that. She stretched and yawned – a sham, she acknowledged to herself.

'When did you get home last night?' she asked. 'I didn't wake up.'

'You must have been enjoying the sleep of the innocent.' Again that little smile.

She studied him. Over recent months he had indeed changed. He had always been slim, but now he looked stronger and fitter. And there was something about his stance; he seemed to have become more erect. Of course she had wondered if he had a lover, but that had not bothered her overmuch. Or so she thought.

'Where were you?' she asked.

'Meal with Jan Petter Sissener.'

'The stockbroker?'

'Yes. He thinks the market prospects are good. Also for property.'

'Isn't it my job to talk to him?' she asked.

'Just like to keep myself up to date.'

'You don't think I keep you up to date, dear?'

He looked at her. Held her gaze until she felt something that never happened when she was speaking to Mads: blood suffusing her face.

'I'm sure you tell me what I need to know, darling.' He went into the bathroom where she heard him turn on the tap.

'I've been examining a couple of interesting property ideas,' she shouted, mostly to say something, to break the strange silence that had followed the last thing he said.

'Me too,' Mads shouted. 'I went to have a look at an apartment building in Goteborggata yesterday. The one the Salvation Army owns, you know.'