The Redbreast

42

POT. 3 March 2000.

G-u-d-b-r-a-n-d J-o-h-a-n-s-e-n. Harry typed the letters with his index ringers. A country boy. According to Fauke, a nice, somewhat feeble character, whose idol and big-brother surrogate was Daniel Gudeson, who was shot during the night watch. Harry pressed enter and the program started.

He stared in the direction of the wall. At the wall. At a small picture of Sis. She was pulling a face; she always did when she was being photographed. One summer holiday many years ago. The shadow of the photographer was on her white T-shirt. Mum.

A little peep from the PC signalled that the search was over and he focused on the computer screen again.

The national registration office had two Gudbrand Johansens registered, but the birth dates showed they were under sixty. Sindre Fauke had spelled the names for him, so it was unlikely he had got them wrong. That could only mean either Johansen had changed his name, or he lived abroad, or he was dead.

Harry tried the next one. The section leader from Mjondalen. The one with small children back home. E-d-v-a-r-d M-o-s-k-e-n. Disowned by his family because he had gone to the front. Double click on search.

The ceiling lights suddenly came on. Harry turned round.

'You should switch on the lights when you're working late.' Kurt Meirik stood in the doorway with his finger on the switch. He came in and perched on the edge of the table.

'What have you found out?'

'That we're looking for a man well over seventy. Who probably fought at the front.'

I mean about these neo-Nazis and Independence Day.'

'Oh.' There was a new peep from the PC. I haven't had time to look into that yet, Meirik.'

There were two Edvard Moskens on the screen. One was born in 1942, the other in 1921.

'We're having a department party next Saturday,' Meirik said.

'I've got the invitation in my pigeon-hole.' Harry double-clicked on 1921 and the address of the older Mosken came up. He lived in Drammen.

'Personnel said you hadn't responded yet. I just wanted to make sure you were coming.’

‘Why's that?'

Harry tapped Edvard Mosken's ID number into Criminal Records. 'We like people to get to know each other across departmental boundaries. I haven't even seen you in the canteen once yet.’

‘I'm quite happy here in the office.'

No hits. He brought up the Central National Register for everyone who'd had formal dealings with the police for any reason. Not necessarily prosecuted-they might, for instance, have been arrested, reported or themselves been a victim of a criminal act.

'It's good to see you immersed in cases, but don't wall yourself in here. Will I see you at the party, Harry?'

Enter.

'I'll see. I have another arrangement I made a long time ago,' Harry lied.

No hits again. While he was in the Central National Register he might as well put in the third name Fauke had given him. H-a-l-l-g-r-i-m D-a-l-e. An opportunist, in Fauke's view. Relied on Hitler winning the war and rewarding those who had chosen the right side. Had already regretted it by the time he got to Sennheim, but it was too late to turn back. Harry had thought there was something vaguely familiar about the name when Fauke had said it, and now the same feeling resurfaced.

'Let me put it a little stronger,' Meirik said. 'I am instructing you to come.'

Harry looked up. Meirik smiled.

'A joke,' he said. 'But it would be nice to see you there. Have a good evening.'

'Bye,' Harry mumbled, returning to the screen. One Hallgrim Dale. Born 1922. enter.

The screen filled with text. One more page. And then another.

They didn't all do well after the war then, Harry thought. Hallgrim Dale-place of residence: Schweigaards gate, Oslo-was what newspapers loved to describe as 'no stranger to the police'. Harry's eyes ran down the list. Vagrancy, drunkenness, harassment of neighbour, petty larceny, affray. A lot, but nothing of any real consequence. The most impressive thing was that he was still alive, Harry thought, as he noted down that he had been taken in to sober up as recently as last August. He found the Oslo telephone directory, looked up Dale's number and rang. While he was waiting for an answer he searched the register and found the other Edvard Mosken, born in 1942. He had an address in Drammen, too. He took down the ID number and went back to Criminal Records.

'This is a message from Telenor. You have reached a telephone number which is no longer in use. This is a me-'

Harry wasn't surprised. He put down the phone.

Edvard Mosken Junior had been given a prison sentence. A long sentence; he was still inside. What for? Drugs, Harry guessed, and pressed enter. A third of all prisoners had been on a drugs charge. There. Yes indeed. Smuggling hash. Four kilos. Four years, unconditional sentence.

Harry yawned and stretched. Was he getting anywhere or was he just sitting here wasting time because the only other place he felt like going was Schroder's, and he didn't feel like sitting there drinking coffee? What a shit day. He summed up: Gudbrand Johansen doesn't exist, at least not in Norway; Edvard Mosken lives in Drammen and has a son with a drugs conviction; and Hallgrim Dale is a drunk and hardly the type to have half a million kroner to blow. Harry rubbed his eyes.

Should he look up Fauke in the telephone directory to see if there was a number for Homenkollveien? He groaned.

She has a partner. And she has money. And class. In short: everything you don't have.

He put Hallgrim Dale's ID number into the Register, enter. The machine whirred and churned.

Long list. More of the same. Poor old alkie.

You both studied law. And she likes the Raga Rockers, too.

Wait a moment. On the last record, Dale was coded as 'victim'. Had he been beaten up? enter.

Forget her. That's it, now she was forgotten. Should he ring Ellen and ask if she fancied going to the cinema? Let her choose the film. No, he'd better go to Focus. Sweat it out.

It flashed at him from the screen. hallgrim dale. 151199. murder.

Harry took a deep breath. He was surprised, but why wasn't he more surprised? He double-clicked on details. The computer droned and vibrated. But for once the convolutions of his brain were quicker than the computer, and by the time the picture came up he had already managed to place the name.