The Redbreast

65

Schroder's. 2 May 2000.

The old man was reading Aftenposten. He was deeply engrossed, studying the form for the trotting races when his attention was caught by the waitress standing by his table.

'Hello,' she said, putting the large glass in front of him. As usual, he didn't answer, merely observed her as she counted his change. Her age was indefinable, but he guessed somewhere between thirty-five and forty. And she looked as if the years had been as hard to her as to the clientele she served. But she had a nice smile. Could knock back a drink or two. She left and he downed the first swig of his beer as his eyes wandered round the room.

He looked at his watch. Then he got up, went over to the coin-operated phones at the back of the room, deposited three one-krone coins, punched in the number and waited. After three rings the phone was picked up.

'Juul.'

'Signe?'

'Yes.'

He could hear from her voice that she was already frightened, she knew who was ringing. This was the sixth time, so perhaps she had worked out the pattern and knew he would ring today.

'This is Daniel,' he said.

'Who is that? What do you want?' Her breath came in quick, successive pants.

'I just told you, it's Daniel. I only want you to repeat what you said years ago. Do you remember?’

‘Please stop this. Daniel is dead.’

‘Until death us do part, Signe. Until death us do part.’

‘I'll phone the police.'

He put down the receiver. Then he donned his hat and coat and walked slowly out into the sunshine. In Sankthanshaugen Park the first buds had appeared. It wouldn't be long now.