The Redbreast

40

Holmenkollen. 3 March 2000.

In Hollmenkollveien in Besserud, Harry found the house number he was looking for in the dark, on a large black timbered house beneath some very tall fir trees. A gravel drive led to the house, and Harry drove right up to a level area where he swung round. The idea was to park on the slope, but as he changed down into first gear, the car gave an almighty cough and breathed its last. Harry cursed and turned the ignition key, but the starter motor just groaned.

He got out of the car and walked up to the house as a woman came out of the door. She obviously hadn't heard him coming and paused on the steps with an enquiring smile.

'Good morning,' Harry said, nodding towards the car. 'Bit off colour, needs… some medicine.'

'Medicine?' Her voice was warm and deep.

'Yes, I think it's caught a touch of that flu going round at the moment.'

Her smile widened. The woman seemed to be about thirty and was wearing a black coat of the plain, effortlessly elegant kind which Harry knew cost an arm and a leg.

'I was on my way out,' the woman said. 'Are you coming here?'

'I think so. Sindre Fauke?'

'Almost,' she said. 'But you're a few months late. My father has moved into town.'

Harry went closer and could see she was attractive. And there was something about the relaxed way she spoke, the way she looked him straight in the eye, that suggested that she was also self-assured. A professional woman, he guessed. Something requiring a cool, rational mind. Estate agent, head of a department in a bank, politician or something like that. Well-off at any rate, of that he was fairly sure. It wasn't just the coat and the colossal house behind her, but something in the attitude and the high, aristocratic cheekbones. She walked down the steps as if walking along a straight line, made it seem easy. Ballet lessons, Harry thought.

'Is there anything I can help with?'

The consonants were clearly articulated, the intonation with the stress on I so over-distinct that it was almost theatrical.

'I'm from the police.' He started to search through his jacket pockets for his ID card, but she dismissed it with a wave.

'Yes, well, I would have liked to have a chat with your father.'

To his irritation, Harry noticed that his intonation involuntarily became rather more formal than it usually was.

'Why is that?'

'We're looking for someone. And I was hoping your father might be able to help.'

'Who are you looking for?'

'I'm afraid I can't say'

'OK.' She nodded as if it had been a test Harry had just passed.

'But if you're telling me he doesn't live here…' Harry said, shading his eyes. She had slim hands. Piano lessons, Harry thought. And she had laughter wrinkles around her eyes. Perhaps she was over thirty after all?

'He doesn't,' she said. 'He's moved to Majorstuen. Vibes gate 18. You'll find him either there or in the University Library, I imagine.'

University Library. She articulated it so clearly that not a syllable went to waste.

'Vibes gate 18. I see.'

'Good.'

'Yes.'

Harry nodded. And kept nodding. Like a dog. She smiled with compressed lips and raised both eyebrows as if to say that was that, if there were no more questions the meeting was adjourned.

'I see,' Harry repeated.

Her eyebrows were black and uniform. Plucked probably, Harry thought. Not noticeably plucked though.

'I have to go now,' she said. 'My tram…'

'I see,' Harry said for the third time without making a move to go.

'I hope you find him. My father.'

'We will.'

'Bye.' The gravel crunched beneath her heels as she began to walk away.

'Um… I've got a little problem…' Harry said.

'Thanks for your help.'

'Not at all,' she said. 'You're sure it isn't too big a detour for you?'

Absolutely not, I'm going the same way,' Harry said, peeking at the delicate, beyond-any-shadow-of-a-doubt pricey leather gloves which were now a dirty grey from pushing his Escort.

'The question is whether the car will stay the distance,' he said.

'It does seem to have had a colourful past,' she said, pointing to the hole in the dashboard and a protruding tangle of red and yellow wires where the radio should have been.

A break-in,' Harry said. 'That's why the door won't lock. They broke that as well.'

'So it's open season for all and sundry now?'

'Yes, that's what it's like when you're old enough.'

She laughed. 'Is it?'

He threw her a quick glance. Perhaps she was the type whose appearance doesn't change as they age, who looks thirty from the time she's twenty till fifty. He liked her profile, the soft lines. Her skin had a warm, natural glow and not the dry, dull suntan women of her age like to buy in February. She had buttoned up her coat and he could see her long, slim neck. He saw her hands resting lightly in her lap.

'It's red,' she said calmly.

Harry jumped on the brakes.

'Sorry,' he said.

What was he doing? Looking at her hands to find out if she was wearing a wedding ring? My God.

He looked around and suddenly realised where they were. 'Something wrong?' she asked.

'No, no.' The lights changed to green and he accelerated. 'I have bad memories of this place.'

'Me too,' she said. 'I came through here on the train a few years ago, directly after a police car had driven across the rails and right into the wall over there.' She pointed. 'It was harrowing. One policeman was still hanging from the fence pole, like a crucifixion. I didn't sleep for several nights afterwards. It was said the policeman who was driving was drunk.'

'Who said that?'

'Someone I was studying with. From police college.' They passed Froen. Vinderen lay behind them. A long way, Harry decided.

'So you went to police college?' he asked.

'No, are you out of your mind?' She laughed again. Harry liked the sound. 'I studied law at university.'

'Me too,' he said. 'When were you there?' Very crafty, Hole. 'I finished in '92.'

Harry did the maths. At least thirty, then.

And you?'

'In '90,' Harry said.

'Can you remember the gig with the Raga Rockers during the Law Festival in '88?'

'Yes, of course. I was there. In the garden.'

'Me too! Wasn't it fantastic!' She looked at him, her eyes shining.

Where? he thought. Where were you?

'Yes, it was wonderful.' Harry didn't remember much of the concert. But he was suddenly reminded of all the great West End women who used to turn up when Raga played.

'If we studied at the same time, we must have lots of mutual acquaintances,' she said.

'Doubt it. I was a policeman then and didn't really hang out with students.'

They crossed Industrigata in silence.

'You can drop me here,' she said.

'Is this where you want to go?'

'Yes, this is fine.'

He pulled into the kerb and she turned towards him. A stray strand of hair hung in front of her face. Her gaze was both gentle and fearless. Brown eyes. A totally unexpected but instant thought struck him: he wanted to kiss her.

'Thank you,' she said with a smile.

She pulled down the door handle. Nothing happened.

'Sorry,' Harry said, leaning over and breathing in her aroma. 'The lock…' he gave the door a hefty thump and it swung open. He felt as if he was drowning. 'Perhaps we'll see each other again?'

'Perhaps.'

He had an urge to ask her where she was going, where she worked, whether she liked it, what else she liked, whether she had a partner, whether she fancied going to a concert even if it wasn't Raga. Luckily, however, it was too late. She was already taking those ballet steps of hers along the pavement in Sporveisgata.

Harry sighed. He had met her half an hour ago and he didn't even know her name. He must be going through the menopause prematurely.

Then he looked into the mirror and did a highly irregular U-turn. Vibes gate was close by.