The Redbreast

35

Container Port, Bjorvika.

29 February 2000.

Harry parked beside a workmen's hut on top of the only hill he could find in the flat quay area of Bjorvika. A sudden spell of mild weather had started to melt the snow, the snow was shining and it was simply a wonderful day. He walked between the containers piled up like gigantic Lego bricks in the sun, casting jagged shadows on the tarmac. The letters and symbols declared that they came from such distant climes as Taiwan, Buenos Aires and Cape Town. Harry stood on the edge of the quay, closed his eyes and imagined himself there as he sniffed in the mixture of sea water, sun-warmed tar and diesel. When he opened his eyes again, the ferry to Denmark slipped into his field of vision. It looked like a refrigerator. A fridge transporting the same people to and fro in a recreational shuttle service.

He knew it was too late to pick up on any leads from the meeting between Hochner and Uriah. It wasn't even certain that this was the container port where they had met; it could equally as well have been Filipstad. Nevertheless, he had still had hopes that the place would be able to tell him something, give his imagination the necessary prod.

He kicked a tyre that was protruding over the edge of the quay. Perhaps he should buy a boat so that he could take Dad and Sis out to sea in the summer? Dad needed to get out. The man who had once been so sociable had become a loner since Mum died eight years ago. And though Sis didn't get far under her own steam, you could often forget that she had Down's syndrome.

A bird dived with glee between the containers. The blue tit can reach a speed of twenty-eight kilometres an hour. Ellen had told him that. A mallard can reach sixty-two kilometres an hour. They both managed equally well. No, Sis wasn't a problem; he was more concerned about his father.

Harry tried to concentrate. Everything Hochner had said, he had written in his report, word for word, but now he focused on the man's face to try and remember what he hadn't said. What did Uriah look like? Hochner hadn't managed to say a great deal, but when you have to describe someone you usually begin with the most striking features, whatever stands out. And the first thing Hochner had said about Uriah was that he had blue eyes. Unless Hochner thought having blue eyes was particularly unusual, it would suggest that Uriah did not have any visible handicap or walked or talked in a particular way. He spoke both German and English, and had been to somewhere in Germany called Sennheim. Harry followed the Denmark ferry, which was making for Drobak. Well-travelled. Had Uriah been to sea? he wondered. Harry had looked it up in an atlas, even a German one, but he hadn't found anywhere called Sennheim. Hochner might have been making it up. Probably of no significance.

Hochner said that Uriah nurtured a hatred. So perhaps what he had guessed was right-that the person they were looking for had a personal motive. But what did he hate?

The sun disappeared behind the island of Hovedoya and there was an instant bite in the breeze off the Oslo fjord. Harry wrapped his coat tighter round him and walked back to his car. And the half a million? Had Uriah received it from a Mr Big or was this a solo job with his own funds?

He took out his mobile phone. A Nokia, a tiny thing, only two weeks old. He had fought against it for a long time, but in the end Ellen had persuaded him to buy one. He tapped in her number.

'Hi, Ellen. Harry here. Are you alone? OK. I want you to concentrate. Yes, it's a little game. Are you ready?'

They had played often enough before. The 'game' started with him giving her verbal cues. No background information, no clues as to where he was stuck, just scraps of information-of five words maximum -in any order. It had taken them time to work out the method. The most important rule was that there had to be at least five scraps of information, but no more than ten. Harry had got the idea when he bet Ellen a shift that she couldn't remember the order of the cards in a pack after seeing them for two minutes, two seconds per card. He had lost three times before he gave in. Afterwards she had told him the method she used. She didn't think of the cards as cards, but associated a person or action with every card and made up a story as they were turned over. Afterwards he had tried to use her association skills on the job. Sometimes the results were amazing.

'Man, seventy,' Harry said slowly. 'Norwegian. Half a million kroner. Bitter. Blue eyes. Marklin rifle. Speaks German. Able-bodied. Arms smuggling at container port. Shooting practice in Skien. That's it.'

He got into the car.

'Nothing? Thought so. OK. Reckoned it was worth a try. Thanks, anyway. Take care.'

Harry was on the raised intersection-known locally as the traffic machine-in front of the Post House when he suddenly had a thought and called Ellen back.

'Ellen? It's me again. There was one thing I forgot. Still with me? Hasn't held a weapon for more than fifty years. Repeat. Hasn't held a… Yes, I know it's more than five words. Still nothing? Damn, now I've missed my turning! Catch you later, Ellen.'

He put his phone on the passenger seat and concentrated on driving. He had just turned off the roundabout when his mobile bleeped.

'Harry here. What? What on earth made you think of that? Right, right, now don't get angry, Ellen. Now and then I forget that you. don't know what goes on in your own noodle. Brain. In your great big beautiful, bouffant brain, Ellen. And yes, now you say it, it's obvious. Thanks very much.'

He put down the phone and at that moment remembered he owed her three night shifts. Now that he was no longer in Crime Squad, he would have to find something else. He considered what he could do, for approximately three seconds.