The Redbreast

28

Siljan, Telemark. 22 February 2000.

Harry checked his watch again and cautiously pressed his foot on the accelerator. The appointment was for four o'clock. If he arrived after dusk, the whole trip would be a waste of time. What was left of the winter tyre tread keyed into the ice with a scrunch. Even though he had only driven forty kilometres on the winding, icy forest path, it seemed several hours since he had turned off the main road. The cheap sunglasses he had bought at the petrol station hadn't helped much, and his eyes smarted from the bright light reflecting off the snow.

At long last, he caught sight of the police car with the Skien registration number at the edge of the road. He braked warily, pulled over and took the skis off his roof rack. They came from a Trondheim ski manufacturer who had gone bankrupt fifteen years ago. That must have been roughly the same time as he put on the wax, which was now a tough grey mass underneath the skis. He found the track from the path up to the chalet as it had been described. The skis stayed on the track as if glued; he couldn't have moved sideways if he had wanted to. The sun hung low over the spruce trees when he reached his destination. On the steps of a black log chalet sat two men in anoraks and a boy Harry, who didn't know any teenagers, guessed to be somewhere between twelve and sixteen.

'Ove Bertelsen?' Harry enquired, resting on his ski poles. He was out of breath.

'That's me,' one of the men said, standing up to shake hands. 'And this is Officer Folldal.'

The second man gave a measured nod.

Harry supposed it must have been the boy who found the cartridge shells.

'Wonderful to get away from the Oslo air, I imagine,' Bertelsen said. Harry pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

'Even more wonderful to get away from the Skien air, I would think.' Folldal took off his cap and straightened his back. Bertelsen smiled: 'Contrary to what people say, the air in Skien is cleaner than in any other Norwegian town.'

Harry cupped his hands round a match and lit his cigarette.

'Is that right? I'll have to remember that. Have you found anything?'

'Over there.'

The other three put on their skis, and with Folldal in the lead they trudged along a track to a clearing in the forest. Folldal pointed with his pole to a black rock protruding twenty centimetres above the snow.

'The boy found the shells in the snow by that rock. I reckon it was a hunter out practising. You can see the ski tracks nearby. It hasn't snowed for over a week, so they could well be his. Looks like he was wearing those broad Telemark skis.'

Harry crouched down. He ran a finger along the rock where it met the broad ski track.

'Or old wooden skis.'

'Oh yes?'

He held up a tiny splinter of wood.

'Well, I never,' Folldal said, looking across at Bertelsen.

Harry turned to the boy. He was wearing a pair of baggy hunting trousers with pockets everywhere and a woollen cap pulled down well over his head.

'Which side of the rock did you find the cartridges?'

The boy pointed. Harry took off his skis, walked round the rock and lay on his back in the snow. The sky was light blue now, as it is on clear winter days just before the sun goes down. Then he rolled on to his side and peered over the rock. He followed the clearing in the forest where they had come in. There were four tree stumps in the clearing.

'Did you find any bullets or signs of shooting?'

Folldal scratched the back of his neck. 'Do you mean, have we examined every tree trunk within a half-kilometre radius?'

Bertelsen discreetly placed a gloved hand over Folldal's mouth. Harry flicked his ash and studied the glowing end of his cigarette.

'No, I mean, did you check the tree stumps over there?'

'And why should we have examined those particular stumps?' Folldal asked.

'Because Marklin make the world's heaviest rifle. A gun weighing fifteen kilos is not an attractive option for a standing shot, so it would be natural to assume that he rested it on this rock to take aim. Marklin rifles eject bullet casings to the right. Since the spent shells were found on the right of the stone, he must have been shooting in the direction we have come from. So it would not be unreasonable to assume that he positioned something on one of the tree stumps to aim at, would it?'

Bertelsen and Folldal looked at each other.

'Well, we'd better check that out.'

'Unless this is a bloody big bark beetle…' Bertelsen said three minutes later,'… then this is a bloody big bullet hole.'

He kneeled down in the snow and poked his finger into one of the tree stumps. 'Shit, the bullet's gone in a long way. I can't feel it.'

'Take a look inside,' Harry said.

'Why?'

'To see if it's gone right through,' Harry answered.

'Right through that enormous spruce?'

'Just take a look and see if you can see daylight.' Harry heard Folldal snort behind him. Bertelsen put his eye to the hole.

'Mother of Jesus…'

'Can you see anything?' Folldal shouted.

'Only half the course of the bloody Siljan river.' Harry turned towards Folldal, who had turned his back to him to spit.

Bertelsen got to his feet. 'A bulletproof vest won't help much if you're shot with one of those bastards, will it,' he groaned.

'Not at all,' Harry said. 'The only thing that would help would be armour-plating.' He stubbed his cigarette against the tree stump and corrected himself: 'Thick armour-plating.'

He stood on his skis, sliding them back and forth in the snow.

'We'll have to have a chat with the people in the neighbouring chalets,' Bertelsen said. 'They may have seen or heard something. Or they may feel like admitting they own this rifle from hell.'

'After we had the arms amnesty last year…' Folldal began, but changed his mind when Bertelsen eyeballed him.

Anything else we can do to help?' Bertelsen asked Harry.

'Well,' Harry said, scowling in the direction of the forest path, 'you couldn't help me bump-start the car, could you?'