The Redbreast

I?'

She had to ring Harry. Quick. 'Why did you turn off my mobile?’

‘What?' Ellen eyed him aghast.

'Keep your eyes on the road, Gjelten. I asked: Why -’

‘No one rang. You must have switched off the phone yourself Unconsciously, her voice had risen. She heard it screech in her own ears.

'OK, Gjelten,' he said. 'Relax, I was just wondering.'

Ellen tried to do as he instructed. Breathing evenly and concentrating on the traffic in front of her. She took a left off the roundabout down Vahls gate. Saturday evening, but the streets in this part of town were practically deserted. The lights were green. To the right along Jens Bjelkes gate. Left, down Toyengata. Into the Police HQ car park. She could feel Tom's eyes studying her the whole way.

Harry hadn't looked at his watch once since meeting Rakel Fauke. He had even joined Linda for a round of introductions to some of his colleagues. The conversation had been stiff. They asked him what his position was, and once he answered the conversation petered out. Probably an unwritten rule in POT that you mustn't ask too much. Or they didn't give a toss. Fair enough, he wasn't particularly interested in them either. He had resumed his position by the speaker. He had seen a glimpse of her red dress a couple of times. As far as he could judge, she was circulating and didn't spend much time with anyone. She hadn't danced, he was fairly sure of that.

My God, I'm behaving like a teenager, he thought.

Then he did look at his watch: 9.30. He could go over to her, say a few words, see what happened. And if nothing happened, he could slink off, get the promised dance with Linda out of the way, and then off home. Nothing happened? What sort of self-delusion was this? Another inspector, as good as married. He could do with a drink. No. He stole one more look at his watch. He shuddered at the thought of the dance he had promised. Back home to his flat. Most of them were good and drunk now. Even in a sober state they would hardly have noticed the new inspector disappearing down the corridor. He could just stroll out the door and take the lift down. Outside his Ford Escort was loyally waiting for him. Linda looked as if she was having fun on the dance floor where she had a tight hold on a young officer who was swinging her round with a sweaty smile on his lips.

'There was a bit more buzz at the Raga gig at the Law Festival, don't you think?'

He felt his heart race as he heard her dark voice beside him.

Tom had positioned himself beside Ellen's chair in her office.

'Sorry if I was a bit rough in the car in town.'

She hadn't heard him coming and gave a start. She was holding the receiver, but hadn't yet dialled the number.

'Don't worry,' she said. 'It's me who is a little, well… you know.'

'Premenstrual?'

She peered up at him and knew it was not a joke. He was actually trying to be understanding.

'Maybe,' she said. Why was he in her office now when he had never come in before?

'Shift's over, Gjelten.' He inclined his head towards the clock on the wall. It said 10.00. 'I've got the car here. Let me drive you home.’

‘Thank you very much, but I have to make a call first. You go on.’

‘Private call?’

‘No, it's just…'

'Then I'll wait here.'

Waaler settled into Harry's old office chair, which screamed in protest. Their eyes met. Damn! Why hadn't she said it was a private call? Now it was too late. Did he know that she had stumbled on to something? She tried to read his expression, but she seemed to have lost the ability since the panic had seized her. Panic? Now she knew why she had never felt comfortable with Tom Waaler. It wasn't because of his coldness, his views on women, blacks, flashers and homosexuals or his tendency to grab every legal opportunity to use violence. Off the top of her head, she could list the names of ten other policemen who would run Tom Waaler close on such matters, but still she had been able to find some positives about them which allowed her to get on with them. With Tom Waaler, though, there was something else and now she knew what it was: she was scared of him.

'Well,' she said. 'It can wait until Monday.'

'Fine.' He stood up again. 'Let's get going.'

Waaler had one of those Japanese sports cars which Ellen thought looked like cheap Ferrari imitations. It had bucket seats which scrunched your shoulders up and loudspeakers that seemed to fill half the car. The engine purred affectionately and the light from the street lamps swept through the compartment as they drove up Trondheims-veien. A falsetto voice she was becoming familiar with sidled out of the loudspeakers.

Prince. The Prince.

'I can get out here,' Ellen said, trying to make her voice sound natural. 'Out of the question,' Waaler said, looking in the mirror. 'Door-to-door service. Where are we going?'

She resisted the impulse to tear open the door and jump out. 'Turn left here,' Ellen said, pointing. Be at home, Harry.

'Jens Bjelkes gate,' Waaler read out the street sign on the wall and turned.

The lighting here was frugal and the pavements deserted. Out of the corner of her eye Ellen saw small squares of light flit across his face.

Did he know she knew? And could he see she was sitting with her hand in her bag? Did he realise she was clutching the black gas spray she had bought in Germany? She had shown it to him in the autumn when he had insisted she was putting herself and her colleagues at risk by refusing to carry a weapon. Hadn't he discreedy intimated that he could get hold of a neat little gun which could be hidden anywhere on the body? It wasn't registered and therefore couldn't be traced back to her, should there be an 'accident'. She hadn't taken his words so seriously at that time; she had thought it was one of those semi-macabre macho jokes and laughed it off.

'Stop next to the red car there.'

'But number 4 is in the next block,' he said.

Had she told him she lived at number 4? Possibly. She might have forgotten. She felt transparent, like a jellyfish, as if he could see her heart thumping away much too fast.

The engine purred in neutral. He had stopped. She hunted feverishly for the door handle. Bloody Japanese nerds! Why couldn't they just design a plain, easy-to-recognise handle for the door?

'See you Monday,' she heard Waaler's voice say behind her as she found the handle, stumbled out and inhaled the toxic March Oslo air as if coming to the surface after a long time under water. When she slammed her heavy front door she could still hear the smooth, well-lubricated sound of Waaler's car idling outside.

She charged up the stairs, her boots stamping down hard on every step, holding the keys in front of her like a divining rod. Then she was in her flat. As she dialled Harry's number she memorised Sverre Olsen's message word for word.

This is Sverre Olsen. I'm still waiting for the ten big ones as commission for the shooter for the old guy. Ring me at home.

Then he rang off.

It had taken her a nanosecond to realise the connection. The fifth clue to the puzzle about who the middleman was in the Marklin deal. A policeman. Tom Waaler. Of course. Ten thousand in commission to a nobody like Olsen-that had to be a big job. The old man. Arms freaks. Sympathies with the extreme right. The Prince who would soon be a chief inspector. It was crystal clear, so self-evident that for a moment she had been shocked that she, with her ability to register sub-tones inaudible to others, had not realised it before. She knew paranoia had had her in its grip for some time, but still she hadn't managed to refrain from thinking the thought through to the end as she waited for him to come out of the restaurant: Tom Waaler had every possibility of climbing higher, of pulling strings from ever-more important positions, sheltering beneath the wings of power. Who knows what alliances he had already struck and with whom at Police HQ. If she put her mind to it, there were of course several people she could never imagine becoming involved. But the only person she could count on too-one hundred-per cent was Harry.

Got through. It wasn't engaged. It was never engaged at his place. Come on, Harry!

She also knew it was only a question of time before Waaler would talk to Olsen and find out what had happened, and she didn't doubt for a second that her life would be in jeopardy from that moment on. She would have to act fast, but she couldn't afford to make a single mistake. A voice interrupted her reasoning.

'This is Hole. Speak to me.'

Bleep.

'Sod you, Harry! This is Ellen. We've got him now. I'll ring you on your mobile.'

She held the receiver between shoulder and chin as she flicked through the index of numbers for H, dropped the book on to the floor with a bang, swore and finally found Harry's mobile number. Fortunately he always had his mobile on him.

Ellen Gjelten lived on the second floor of a recently renovated block of flats together with a tame great tit called Helge. The walls of the flat were half a metre thick and the windows were double-glazed. Nevertheless, she could have sworn that she heard the purring sound of a car in neutral.

Rakel Fauke laughed.

'If you've promised Linda a dance, you won't get away with a quick sweep of the floor.'

'Mm. The alternative is to make a run for it.'

A pause ensued and Harry realised that what he had said was open to misinterpretation. He hurriedly filled the silence with a question.

'How did you start at POT?'

'Via Russian,' she said. 'I joined the Ministry of Defence Russian course and worked for two years as an interpreter in Moscow. Kurt Meirik recruited me then and there. After finishing my law degree I went straight into pay grade thirty-five. I thought I'd caught the goose that laid the golden egg.'

'Hadn't you?'

Are you kidding? Today the students I studied with earn three times more than I'll ever get.'

'You could stop, and do what they do.'

She arched her shoulders forward. 'I like what I do. Not all of them can say the same.’

‘Good point.' Silence.

Good point. Was that really the best he could muster?

'What about you, Harry? Do you like what you do?'

They stood facing the dance floor, but Harry could feel her eyes on him, measuring him up. All sorts of thoughts scurried through his brain. She had small laughter lines next to her eyes. Mosken's chalet was not far from where they had found the empty cartridges from the Marklin rifle. According to Dagbladet, 40 per cent of women living in towns were unfaithful. He should ask Even Juul's wife if she remembered three Norwegian soldiers in the Norge regiment being wounded or killed by a hand-grenade thrown from a plane, and he should have gone for it at the New Year menswear sales Dressman advertised on TV3. But did he like what he did?

'Some days I do,' he said.

'What do you like about it?'

'I don't know. Does that sound stupid?' I don't know.'

'I'm not saying that because I haven't thought about why I'm a policeman. I have. And I don't know. Perhaps I just enjoy catching naughty boys and girls.'

'So what do you do when you're not catching naughty boys and girls?' she asked.

'Watch The Robinson Expedition!

She laughed again. And Harry knew he was prepared to say the silliest things if there was a chance he could make her laugh like that. He pulled himself together and talked relatively seriously about his current situation, but since he took care not to mention the unpleasant aspects of his life, there wasn't a great deal to tell. When she still seemed interested he went on to talk about his father and Sis. Why did he always end up talking about Sis when someone asked him to talk about himself?

'Sounds like a nice girl,' she said.

'The nicest,' Harry said. 'And the bravest. Never afraid of new things. A test pilot of life.'

Harry told her about the time Sis had put in a spontaneous offer for a flat in Jacob Aalls gate-because the wallpaper in the picture she had seen on the property page in Aftenposten reminded her of her childhood room in Oppsal-and had been told the asking price was two million kroner, a record square-metre price for Oslo that summer.

Rakel Fauke laughed so much she spilled tequila on Harry's suit jacket.

'The best thing about her is that after a crash landing she picks herself up, brushes herself down and is immediately ready for the next kamikaze mission.'

She dried the lapels of his jacket with a handkerchief. 'And you, Harry, what do you do when you crash land?’

‘Me? Well. I probably lie still for a second. And then I get up because there's no other option, is there?’

‘Good point.'

He looked up smartly to see if she was making fun of him. Amusement was dancing in her eyes. She radiated strength, but he doubted that she had had much experience of crash landings.

'Your turn to tell something about yourself.'

Rakel had no sister to fall back on, she was an only child. So she talked about her work instead.

'But we rarely catch anyone,' she said. 'Most cases are settled amicably with a telephone call or at a cocktail party at an embassy'

Harry smiled sardonically.

'And how was the matter of the Secret Service agent I shot smoothed over?' he asked. 'Telephone call or cocktail party?'

She studied him pensively while putting her hand in the glass to fish out a lump of ice. She held it up, between two fingers. A drop of melted water ran slowly down her wrist, under a thin gold chain towards the elbow.

'Dance, Harry?'

'As far as I remember, I've just spent at least ten minutes explaining how much I hate dancing.' She angled her head again. 'I mean-would you dance with me?’

‘To this music?'

An almost inert pan pipe version of 'Let it Be' oozed like thick syrup out of the speakers.

'You'll survive. Look on it as a warm-up for the great Linda test.' She placed a hand lightly on his shoulder. Are we flirting now?' Harry asked. 'What did you say, Inspector?'

'Sorry, but I'm so bad at reading hidden signals that I asked if we were flirting.'

'Highly improbable.'

He placed his hand around her waist and took a tentative dance step.

'It feels like losing my virginity, this does,' he said. 'But it's probably inevitable-sooner or later every Norwegian male has to go through something like this.'

'What are you talking about?' she laughed. 'Dancing with a colleague at an office party.’

‘I'm not forcing you.'

He smiled. It could have been anywhere, they could have been playing 'The Birdie Song' backwards on a ukulele-he would have killed for this dance.

'Wait-what have you got there?' she asked.

'Well, it's not a pistol and I am glad to see you, but…'

Harry undipped his mobile from his belt and released his hand from her waist to go over and put the mobile on the speaker. Her arms were raised towards him when he returned.

'Hope we haven't got any thieves here,' he said. It was a hoary old joke at Police HQ, she must have heard it a hundred times before, but she laughed softly into his ear anyway.

Ellen let the phone ring until it stopped before putting down the receiver. Then she tried again. She stood by the window, looking down on to the street. No car. Of course not. She was overwrought. Tom was probably on his way home to bed. Or someone else's bed.

After three attempts she gave up on Harry, and rang Kim instead. He sounded tired.

'I took the taxi back at seven this evening,' he said. 'I've done twenty hours' driving today.'

'I'll just have a shower first,' she said. 'Only wanted to know if you were there.'

'You sound stressed.'

'It's nothing. I'll be there in three quarters of an hour. I'll have to use your phone by the way. And stay the night.'

'Fine. Would you mind nipping into the 7-Eleven in Markveien and buying some cigarettes?'

'Sure. I'll take a cab.'

'Why?'

'Explain to you afterwards.'

'You know it's Saturday night? You'll never get through to Oslo Taxis. And it'll take you four minutes to run up here.' She wavered. 'Kim?' she said. 'Yes?' he said. 'Do you love me?'

She heard his low chuckle and could imagine the half-closed, sleepy eyes and that lean, almost emaciated body of his under the duvet in the miserable flat in Helgesens gate. He had a view of the river Akerselva. He had everything she wanted. And for an instant she almost forgot Tom Waaler. Almost.

'Sverre!'

Sverre Olsen's mother stood at the bottom of the stairs, shouting at the top of her lungs, as she had done for as long as he could remember. 'Sverre! Telephone!'

She shouted as if she needed help, as if she was drowning or something like that.

'I'll take it up here, Mum!'

He swung his legs down from the bed, picked the phone up from the desk and waited for the click that told him his mother had put down the receiver.

'Hello?'

'It's me.' Prince in the background. Always Prince. 'I guessed it had to be,' Sverre said. 'Why's that?'

The question came like greased lightning. So quickly that Sverre was immediately on the defensive, as if it was he who owed money and not the other way around.

'You're probably ringing because you got my message?' Sverre said.

'I'm ringing because I'm looking at a list of calls received on my mobile. I see that you talked to someone at 20.32 this evening. What message were you wittering on about?'

'About the cash. I'm getting short, and you promised -’

‘Who did you talk to?'

'Eh? The lady on your answerphone, I suppose. Pretty neat. Is it a new one of…?'

No answer. Just Prince on low volume. You sexy motherfucker… The music abruptly came to an end.

'Tell me what you said exactly.'

'I just said that -'

'No! Exactly. Word for word.'

Sverre repeated it as exactly as he was able.

'I guessed as much,' the Prince said. 'You've just given away our whole operation to an outsider, Olsen. If we don't plug the leak right away, we've had it. Do you understand?'

Sverre Olsen didn't understand anything.

The Prince was utterly composed as he explained that his mobile phone had fallen into the wrong hands.

'It was no answering machine you heard, Olsen.’

‘Who was it then?’

‘Let's say the enemy.'

'Monitor. Is there someone sniffing around?’

‘The person in question is on her way to the police. It's your job to stop her.'

'Me? I just want my money and -’

‘Shut your mouth, Olsen.' Olsen shut his mouth.

'This is about the Cause. You're a good soldier, aren't you?’

‘Yes, but…'

And a good soldier clears up afterwards, doesn't he?'

'I've just been running messages between you and the old codger. You're the one who -'

'Especially when the soldier has a three-year rap hanging over him, made conditional on a technicality.'

Sverre could hear himself swallow.

'How do you know that?' he started.

'Don't you bother about that. I only want you to realise that you have as much to lose because of this as the rest of the brotherhood.' Sverre didn't answer. He didn't need to.

'Look on the bright side, Olsen. This is war. And there's no place for cowards and traitors. Furthermore, the brotherhood rewards its soldiers. On top of the ten thousand you'll get forty more when the job's done.'

Sverre mulled it over. Mulled over what clothes he should wear.

'Where?' he asked.

'Schous plass in twenty minutes. Bring whatever you need with you.'

'Don't you drink?' Rakel asked.

Harry looked around him. Their last dance had been so tight it might have caused eyebrows to rise. Now they had withdrawn to a table at the back of the canteen.

'I've given it up,' Harry said.

She nodded.

'It's a long story,' he added. 'I've got plenty of time.'

'This evening I only feel like hearing funny stories,' he smiled. 'Let's talk about you instead. Have you had the kind of childhood you can talk about?'

Harry had half expected her to laugh, but he received only a tired smile. 'My mother died when I was fifteen. Apart from that, I can talk about the rest.'

'I'm sorry to hear that.'

'There's nothing to be sorry about. She was an exceptional woman, but funny stories were on the agenda this evening…’

‘Have you any brothers or sisters?’

‘No, there's only me and Father.’

‘So you had to take care of him on your own?' She eyed him with surprise.

'I know what it's like,' he said. 'I've also lost my mother. My dad sat in a chair staring at the wall for years. I had to feed him, literally'

'My father ran a large building-supplies chain he had started from scratch, and I believed it was his whole life. But when Mother died he lost all interest overnight. He sold it before it went to pieces. And he pushed everyone he knew away from him. Including me. He became a bitter, lonely old man.'

She spread out her hand.

'I had my own life to live. I had met a man in Moscow, and father felt betrayed because I wanted to marry a Russian. When I brought Oleg back to Norway, the relationship between me and my father became very problematical.'

Harry stood up and came back with a margarita for her and a Coke for himself.

'Shame we never met on the law course, Harry.'

'I was a muppet at the time,' Harry said. 'I was aggressive towards everyone who didn't like the same records or films as I did. No one liked me. Not even I did.'

'Now I don't believe that.'

'I pinched it from a film. The guy who said it was chatting up Mia Farrow. In the film, that is. I've never tried it out in real life.'

'Well,' she said, cautiously tasting the margarita. 'I think that was a good start. But are you sure you didn't pinch the bit about pinching it too?'

They laughed and discussed good and bad films, good and bad gigs they had been to, and after a while Harry was aware that he would have to amend his first impressions of her. For instance, she had travelled round the world on her own when she was twenty, at an age when all Harry had to show, in terms of adult experiences, was a failed Inter-Railing trip and a growing alcohol problem.

She checked her watch.

'Eleven. I have someone waiting for me.'

Harry felt his heart sink.

'Me too,' he said, getting up.

'Oh?'

'Just a monster I keep under the bed. Let me drive you home.' She smiled. 'That's not necessary.'

'It's practically on the way.’

‘You also live in Holmenkollen?’

‘Close by. Or quite close by. Bislett.' She laughed.

'On the other side of the city then. I know what you're after.' Harry smiled sheepishly. She put a hand on his arm. 'You need someone to push the car, don't you?'

'Looks like he's gone, Helge,' Ellen said.

She stood by the window with her coat on, peeping out between the curtains. The street below was empty; the taxi which had been waiting there had gone off with three high-spirited party girls. Helge didn't answer. The one-winged bird blinked twice and scratched its stomach with a foot.

She tried Harry's mobile once again, but the same woman's voice repeated that the phone was switched off or was in an area with poor coverage.

Then Ellen put the cloth over the cage, said goodnight, turned off the light and let herself out. Jens Bjelkes gate was still deserted as she hurried towards Thorvald Meyers gate, which she knew would be teeming with people at this time on a Saturday night. Outside Fru Hagen restaurant she nodded to a couple of people she must have exchanged a few words with one damp evening here in Grunerlokka's well-lit streets. She suddenly remembered she had promised to buy Kim some cigarettes and turned to go down to the 7-Eleven in Markveien. She saw a new face she vaguely recognised and automatically smiled when she saw him looking at her.

In the 7-Eleven she paused and tried to recall whether Kim smoked Camel or Camel Lights, realising how little time they had spent together. And how much they still had to learn about each other. And that for the first time in her life it didn't frighten her, but it was something she was looking forward to. She was so utterly happy. The thought of him lying naked in bed, three blocks away from where she was standing filled her with dull, delicious cravings. She opted for Camel, waited impatiently to be served. Outside in the street, she opted for the short cut along the Akerselva.

It struck her how little distance there was between a seething mass of people and total desolation in a large city. Suddenly all she could hear was the gurgle of the river and the sound of snow groaning beneath her boots. And it was too late to rue taking the short cut when she became aware that it was not only her own steps she could hear. Now she could hear breathing too, heavy, panting. Frightened and angry, Ellen thought that, no, she knew, at that moment her life was in danger. She didn't turn, she simply started to run. The steps behind her immediately fell into the same tempo. She tried to run calmly, tried not to panic or run with flailing arms and legs. Don't run like an old woman, she thought, and her hand moved for the gas spray in her coat pocket, but the steps behind her were relentless, coming ever closer. She thought that if she could reach the single cone of light on the path, she would be saved. She knew it wasn't true. She was directly under the light when the first blow hit her shoulder and knocked her sideways into the snowdrift. The second blow paralysed her arm and the gas spray slipped out of her unfeeling hand. The third smashed her left kneecap; the pain obstructed the scream muted deep in her throat and caused her veins to bulge out in the winter-pale skin of her neck. She saw him raise the wooden baseball bat in the yellow street light. She recognised him now, the same man she had seen turn round outside Fru Hagen. The policewoman in her noticed that he was wearing a short green jacket, black boots and a black combat cap. The first blow to the head destroyed the optic nerve and now all she saw was the pitch black night.

Forty per cent of hedge sparrows survive, she thought. I'll get through this winter.

Her fingers fumbled in the snow for something to hold on to. The second blow hit her on the back of the head.

There's not long to go now, she thought. I'll survive this winter.

Harry pulled up by the drive to Rakel Fauke's house in Holmenkollveien. The white moonlight lent her skin an unreal, wan sheen and even in the semi-darkness inside the car he could see from her eyes that she was tired.

'So that was that,' Rakel said.

'That was that,' Harry said.

'I would like to invite you up, but…'

Harry laughed. 'I assume Oleg would not appreciate that.'

'Oleg is sleeping sweetly, but I was thinking of his babysitter.'

'Babysitter?'

'Oleg's babysitter is the daughter of someone in POT. Please don't misunderstand me, but I don't want any rumours at work.'

Harry stared at the instruments on the dashboard. The glass over the speedometer had cracked and he suspected that the fuse for the oil lamp had gone.

'Is Oleg your child?'

'Yes, what did you think?'

'Well, I may have thought you were talking about your partner.’

‘What partner?'

The cigarette lighter must have been either thrown out of the window or stolen along with the radio.

'I had Oleg when I was in Moscow,' she said. 'His father and I lived together for two years.'

'What happened?'

She shrugged.

'Nothing happened. We simply fell out of love. And I came back to Oslo.'

'So you are…'

A single mum. What about you?’

‘Single. Only single.'

'Before you began with us, someone mentioned something about you and the girl you shared an office with in Crime Squad.'

'Ellen? No. We just got on well. Get on well. She still helps me out now and then.'

'What with?'

'The case I'm working on.'

'Oh, I see, the case.'

She looked at her watch again.

'Shall I help you to get the door open?' Harry asked.

She smiled, shook her head and gave it a shove with her shoulder. The door squealed on its hinges as it swung open.

The Holmenkollen slopes were quiet, except for a gentle whistling in the fir trees. She placed a foot in the snow outside.

'Goodnight, Harry.'

'Just one thing.'

'Yes?'

'When I came here last time, why didn't you ask me what I wanted from your father?'

'Professional habit. I don't ask about cases I'm not involved in.’

‘Aren't you curious anyway?'

'I'm always curious. I just don't ask. What's it about?'

'I'm looking for an ex-soldier your father may have known at the Eastern Front. This particular man has bought a Marklin rifle. By the way, your father didn't give the impression of being at all bitter when I talked to him.'

'The writing project seems to have excited him. I'm surprised myself 'Perhaps one day you'll get closer again?’

‘Perhaps,' she said.

Their eyes met, hooked on to each other almost and couldn't let go. 'Are we flirting now?' she asked. 'Highly improbable.'

He could see her laughing eyes long after he had parked illegally in Bislett, chased the monster back under the bed and fallen asleep without noticing the little red flashing light on the answerphone.

Sverre Olsen quietly closed the door behind him, took off his shoes and crept up the stairs. He skipped the step he knew would creak, but he knew this was a waste of effort.

'Sverre?'

The shout came from the open bedroom door. 'Yes, Mum?'

'Where have you been?'

'Just out, Mum. I'm going to bed now.'

He closed his ears to her words; he knew more or less what they would be. They fell like slushy sleet and were gone as soon as they hit the ground. Then he closed the door to his room and was alone. He lay down on the bed, stared at the ceiling and went through what had happened. It was like a film. He scrunched up his eyes, tried to shut it out, but the film continued to run.

He had no idea who she was. As arranged, the Prince had met him in Schous plass and they had driven to the street where she lived. They had parked so that they weren't visible from her flat, but they would be able to see her if she left the building. He had said it could take all night, told him to relax, put on that bloody nigger music and lowered the back of his seat. But the front door had opened after just half an hour and the Prince had said, 'That's her.'

Sverre had loped after her, but he didn't catch up until they were in the dark street and there were too many people around them. She had suddenly turned and looked straight at him. For a moment he was sure he had been sussed, that she had seen the baseball bat up his sleeve sticking out over his jacket collar. He had been so frightened that he had not been able to control the twitches in his face, but later when she had run out of 7-Eleven, the terror had turned into anger. He remembered, and yet didn't remember, details from when they were under the light on the path. He knew what had happened, but it was as if fragments had been removed, like in one of those quiz games on TV where you are given pieces of a picture and you have to guess what the picture is.

He opened his eyes again. Stared at the bulging plasterboard on the ceiling. When he had the money, he would get a builder to fix the leak Mum had been nagging him about for so long. He tried to think about roof repairs, but he knew it was because he was attempting to drive the other thoughts away. He knew something was wrong. It had been different this time. Not like with slit-eyes at Dennis Kebab. This girl had been a normal Norwegian woman. Short brown hair, blue eyes. She could have been his sister. He tried to repeat to himself what the Prince had instilled in him: he was a soldier, it was for the Cause.

He looked at the picture he had pinned on the wall under the flag with the swastika on. It was of the Reichsfuhrer-SS und Chef der Deutschen Polizei Heinrich Himmler speaking on the rostrum when he was in Oslo in 1941. He was talking to the Norwegian volunteers taking their oaths for the Waffen SS. Green uniform. The initials SS on the collar. Vidkun Quisling in the background. Himmler. An honourable death, 23 May 1945. Suicide.

'Fuck!'

Sverre placed his feet on the floor, stood up and began to pace restlessly.

He stopped in front of the mirror by the door. Clutched his head. Then he searched through his jacket pockets. Damn, what had happened to his combat cap? For a moment, panic seized him as he wondered if he might have left it beside her in the snow, but then he remembered he had been wearing it when he went back to the Prince's car. He breathed out.

He had got rid of the baseball bat, as the Prince had said. Wiped off the fingerprints and thrown it in the Akerselva. Now it was just a question of lying low and waiting to see what transpired. The Prince had said he would sort everything out, as he had done before. Sverre didn't know where the Prince worked, but it was obvious he had good connections with the police. He undressed in front of the mirror. His tattoos were a grey colour in the moonlight as it shone in between the curtains. He fingered the Iron Cross hanging around his neck.

'You whore,' he mumbled. 'You fucking commie whore.'

When he finally fell asleep, it had already begun to cloud over in the east.