The Redbreast

15

Sanksthanshaugen. 4 November 1999.

Over the speakers, Prince was partying like it was 1999.

Ellen looked over at Tom Waaler, who had just that minute shoved a cassette into the machine and turned up the volume so loud that the bass was making the dashboard vibrate. Prince's shrill falsetto pierced her eardrums.

'Groovy or what?' Tom shouted above the music. Ellen didn't really want to offend him, so she simply shook her head. Not that she had any preconceptions that Tom Waaler was easy to offend, but she had decided not to go against the grain for as long as it was possible. She hoped until the pairing of Tom Waaler with Ellen Gjelten came to an end. Bjarne Moller, the head of their section, had definitely said that the pairing was only provisional. Everyone knew that Tom would get the new inspector's post in the spring.

'Black poof,' Tom shouted. 'Too much.'

Ellen didn't answer. It was raining so hard that, even with the wipers on full speed, the water lay like a soft filter on the windscreen and made the buildings in Ullevalsveien look like soft toy houses undulating to and fro. Moller had sent them off this morning to find Harry. They had already rung his flat in Sofies gate and established that he was not at home. Or he didn't want to open up. Or he wasn't capable of opening up. Ellen feared the worst. She watched people hurrying along the pavement. They had distorted, bizarre features too, like in crazy mirrors at the fair.

'Turn left here and pull over outside Schroder's,' she said. 'You can wait in the car and I'll go in.'

'Fine with me,' Waaler said. 'Drunks are the worst.'

She glanced at him from the side, but his expression didn't betray whether he meant Schroder's morning clientele in general or Harry in particular. He pulled into the bus stop outside and as Ellen got out she saw that a Kaffebrenneri had opened on the other side of the street. Or perhaps it had been there for ages and she simply hadn't noticed it. On the bar stools along the windows young people in roll-necked sweaters sat reading foreign newspapers or staring out into the rain, holding large white coffee cups between their hands, presumably wondering if they had chosen the right subject at university, the right designer sofa, the right partner, the right football club or the right European town.

In the doorway to Schroder's she almost bumped into a man wearing an Icelandic sweater. The alcohol had washed nearly all the blue from his irises; his hands were as big as frying pans and black with dirt. Ellen caught the sweet smell of sweat and stale alcohol as he sailed past. Inside, there was a slow morning atmosphere. Only four of the tables were occupied. Ellen had been there before, a long time ago, and as far as she could determine nothing had changed. Large pictures of Oslo in centuries past hung on the walls, and the brown paintwork and the faux glass ceiling in the middle gave it a little of the feel of an English pub. Very little, if you were absolutely honest. The plastic tables and benches made it look more like the smokers' saloon bar on a ferry along the More coast. At the back of the room a waitress wearing an apron was leaning against a counter and smoking while keeping half an eye on Ellen. Harry was sitting right in the corner near the window with his head down over the table. A half-empty beer glass in front of him.

'Hi,' Ellen said, taking a seat opposite him.

Harry looked up and nodded. As if he had been waiting exclusively for her. His head slipped down again.

'We've been trying to get hold of you. We rang your flat.'

'Was I at home?' he said in a flat tone, no smile.

'I don't know. Are you at home, Harry?' She indicated the glass. He shrugged.

'He's going to live,' she said.

'I heard. Moller left a message on my answerphone.' His diction was surprisingly clear. 'He didn't say how badly injured he was. Plenty of nerves and stuff in the back, aren't there?'

He cocked his head, but Ellen didn't answer.

'Perhaps he'll only be paralysed?' Harry said, tapping his now-empty glass. 'Skal.'

'Your sick leave runs out tomorrow,' she said. 'Then we'll be expecting to see you back on the job.'

He raised his head. 'Am I on sick leave?'

Ellen pushed a little plastic folder across the table. The back of a pink piece of paper could be seen inside.

'I've been talking to Moller. And Dr Aune. Take this copy of the sick leave form. Moller said it was normal to have a few days off to recover after a shooting incident in the line of duty. Come in tomorrow.'

His gaze shifted to the window with its coloured, uneven glass. Presumably for reasons of discretion, so that people inside could not be seen from the outside. The exact opposite of Kaffebrenneri, Ellen thought.

'Well? Are you coming?'

'Well,' he looked at her with the same glazed eyes she remembered from the mornings after he returned from Bangkok, 'I wouldn't bet on it.'

'Come anyway. There are a couple of amusing surprises waiting for you.'

'Surprises?' Harry laughed softly. 'I wonder what that could be? Early retirement? Honourable dismissal? Will the President give me the Purple Heart?'

He raised his head enough for Ellen to see his bloodshot eyes. She sighed and turned towards the window. Behind the rough glass, shapeless cars slid by, as in a psychedelic film.

'Why do you do this to yourself, Harry? You know, I know, everyone knows it wasn't your fault! Even the Secret Service admits it was their fault we weren't informed. And that we-you-acted properly.'

Harry spoke in a low voice without looking at her: 'Do you think his family will see it like that when he comes home in a wheelchair?'

'My God, Harry!' Ellen had raised her voice and saw that the woman at the counter was watching them with increasing interest. She could probably smell a juicy quarrel brewing.

'There are always some unlucky ones, some who don't make it, Harry. That's the way it is. It's no one's fault. Did you know that every year 60 per cent of all hedge sparrows die? 60 per cent! If we were to down tools and ponder the meaning of it, before we knew what was going on, we would end up among the 60 per cent ourselves, Harry'

Harry didn't answer. He sat bobbing his head up and down over the checked tablecloth with black cigarette burns.

'I'm going to hate myself for saying this, Harry, but I would regard it as a personal favour if you would come tomorrow. Just turn up. I won't talk to you and you don't breathe on me, OK?'

Harry put his little finger through one of the holes in the cloth. Then he moved his glass so it covered one of the other holes. Ellen waited.

'Is that Waaler waiting in the car outside?' Harry asked.

Ellen nodded. She knew exactly how badly the two of them got on. She had an idea, wavered, then took the risk: 'He's got two hundred kroner on you not making an appearance.'

Harry laughed his soft laugh again. Then he supported his head on his hands and looked at her.

'You're a really bad liar, Ellen. But thank you for trying.'

'Fuck you.'

She drew in breath, was going to say something but changed her mind and observed Harry for a while. Then she breathed in again.

'OK, it's actually Moller who should tell you this, but now I'll tell you: they're going to make you an inspector in POT.'

Harry's laughter purred like the engine of a Cadillac Fleetwood. 'Alright, with a little practice, perhaps you won't be such a bad liar after all.'

'It's true!'

'It's impossible.' His gaze wandered out of the window again.

'Why? You're one of our best detectives. You've just proved you're a damned good policeman. You read law. You -'

'It's impossible, I'm telling you. Even if someone has come up with the crazy idea.'

'But why?'

'For a very simple reason. Wasn't it 60 per cent of those birds, you said?'

He pulled the tablecloth and the glass across the table. 'They're called hedge sparrows.'

'Right. And what do they die of?'

'What do you mean?'

'They don't just lie down and die, do they?'

'Of hunger. Predators. Cold. Exhaustion. Flying into windows perhaps. Anything and everything.'

'OK. I bet none of them is shot in the back by a Norwegian policeman without a firearms permit because he didn't pass the shooting test. A policeman who, as soon as this is discovered, will be prosecuted and probably sentenced to between one and three years in prison. A pretty dodgy basis for promotion to inspector, don't you think?'

He lifted his glass and slammed it down on the plastic folder.

'Which shooting test?' she asked.

He gave her a sharp look. She met his eyes with an expression of confidence.

'What do you mean?' he asked.

'I've no idea what you're talking about, Harry.'

'You know bloody well that -'

As far as I'm aware, you passed the shooting test this year. And Moller is of the same opinion. He even took a walk to the gun-licensing office this morning to check with the shooting instructor. They went through the files and, as far as they could see, you had scored more than enough points to pass. They don't make POT inspectors out of people who shoot at Secret Service agents without proper accreditation, you know.'

She flashed a broad smile to Harry, who now seemed more bewildered than drunk.

'But I haven't got a gun licence!'

'Yes, you have. You just lost it. You'll find it, Harry, you'll find it.'

'Now listen. I…'

He paused and stared down at the plastic folder in front of him on the table. Ellen stood up. 'See you at nine, Inspector.' All Harry could manage was a mute nod.