The Redbreast

17

Police HQ. 5 November 1999.

Bjarne Moller sighed and gazed out of the window. His thoughts wandered freely as they had tended to do of late. The rain had held off, although the leaden grey sky still hung low over police HQ in Gronland. A dog trotted over the brown, lifeless lawn outside. There was a Crime Squad post vacant in Bergen. The deadline for applications was next week. He had heard from a colleague over there that it only rained twice every autumn in Bergen: from September to November, and from November to New Year. They always exaggerated, folk from Bergen did. He'd been there and he liked the town. It was a long way from the politicians in Oslo and it was small. He liked small.

'What?' Moller turned and met Harry's resigned expression.

'You were in the process of explaining to me that a move would do me good.'

'Oh?'

'Your words, boss.'

'Oh yes. Yes, that's right. We have to make sure we don't get stuck in a rut, with old habits and routines. We have to move on and develop. We have to get away'

'There's getting away and getting away. POT is only three floors up.'

'Get away from everything, I mean. The head of the Security Service, Meirik, thinks you'll fit superbly into the post he has for you up there.’

‘Don't jobs like that have to be advertised?’

‘Don't worry about it, Harry.'

'No? But can I be allowed to wonder why on earth you want me in surveillance work. Do I look like undercover material?’

‘No, no.’

‘No?'

'I mean yes. Not yes exactly, but well… why not?’

‘Why not?'

Moller scratched the back of his head furiously. His face had turned fiery red.

'For fuck's sake, Harry. We're offering you a job as an inspector, five notches up the pay scale, no more night shifts and a bit more respect from the bloody rookies. That's good going, Harry.'

'I like night shifts.'

'No one likes night shifts.'

'Why don't you give me the vacant inspector's post here?’

‘Harry! Do me a favour and just say yes.'

Harry fidgeted with his paper cup. 'Boss,' he said. 'How long have we known each other?'

Moller raised an admonitory finger. 'Don't try that one on me. Not the we've-been-through-thick-and-thin-together number…'

'Seven years. And for seven years I've interviewed people in this city who are probably the most stupid beings to walk on two legs, and still I haven't met anyone who is a worse liar than you. Perhaps I'm stupid, but I still have a couple of brain cells left doing the best they can, and they're telling me that it can't exactly be my record that's earned me this post. Nor that, to my astonishment, I can suddenly have one of the best scores in the department at the annual shooting test. They're telling me that my plugging a Secret Service agent might have something to do with it. And you don't need to say a thing, boss.'

Moller opened his mouth, closed it again and instead demonstratively crossed his arms.

Harry continued: 'I know you're not responsible for putting on this show. And even if I can't see the whole picture, I have some imagination and I can guess the rest. If I'm right, it means that my own wishes regarding other options for my career in the police are of minor importance. So just answer me this. Have I any choice?'

Moller blinked, and kept blinking. He was thinking about Bergen again. Of snow-free winters. Of Sunday outings with his wife and boys on Mount Floyen. Somewhere decent to grow up. A few good-natured pranks, a bit of hash, no criminal gangs and no fourteen-year-olds taking overdoses. Bergen police station. Yeah, well.

'No,' he said.

'Right,' Harry said. 'I didn't think so.' He crumpled the paper cup and took aim at the waste-paper basket. 'Up five pay grades, did you say?'

'And your own office.'

'Nicely partitioned off from the others, I would imagine.' He threw with a slow, deliberate arm movement. 'Overtime?’

‘Not at that grade.'

'Then I'll have to hurry home at four.' The paper cup landed on the floor half a metre from the bin.

'I'm sure that's fine,' Moller said with a suggestion of a smile.