The Redbreast

7

Moller's Office. 9 October 1999.

Inspector Bjarne Moller was lying rather than sitting in the chair, and a pair of long limbs stuck out between the desk legs. He had his hands folded behind his head-a beautiful specimen of what early race researchers called 'long skulls'-and a telephone gripped between ear and shoulder. His hair was cut in a kind of close crop, which Hole had recently compared with Kevin Costner's hairstyle in The Bodyguard. Moller hadn't seen The Bodyguard. He hadn't been to the cinema in fifteen years as fate had furnished him with an oversized sense of responsibility, too few hours, two children and a wife who only partly understood him.

'Let's go for that then,' Moller said, putting down the phone and looking at Harry across a desk weighed down with documents, overflowing ashtrays and paper cups. On the desktop a photograph of two boys dressed as Red Indians marked a kind of logical centre amid the chaos.

'There you are, Harry.'

'Here I am, boss.'

'I've been to a meeting at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in connection with the summit in November here in Oslo. The US President is coming… well, you read papers, don't you. Coffee, Harry?'

Moller had stood up and a couple of seven-league strides had already taken him to a filing cabinet on which, balanced atop a pile of papers, a coffee machine was coughing up a viscous substance.

'Thanks boss, but I -'

It was too late and Harry took the steaming cup.

'I'm especially looking forward to a visit from the Secret Service, with whom I'm sure we will have a cordial relationship as we get to know each other better.'

Moller had never quite learned to handle irony. That was just one of the things Harry appreciated about his boss.

Moller drew in his knees until they supported the bottom of the table. Harry leaned back to get the crumpled pack of Camels from his trouser pocket and raised an enquiring eyebrow at Moller, who quickly took the hint and pushed the brimming ashtray towards him.

'I'll be responsible for security along the roads to and from Gardemoen. As well as the President, there will be Barak -'

'Barak?'

'Ehud Barak. Prime Minister of Israel.'

'Jeez, so there's another fantastic Oslo agreement on the way, then?' Moller stared despondently at the blue column of smoke rising to the ceiling.

'Don't tell me you haven't heard about it, Harry. Or I'll be even more worried about you than I already am. It was on all the front pages last week.'

Harry shrugged.

'Unreliable paper boy. Inflicting serious gaps in my general knowledge. A grave handicap to my social life.' He took another cautious sip of coffee, but then gave up and pushed it away. 'And my love life.'

'Really?' Moller eyed Harry with an expression suggesting he didn't know whether to relish or dread what was coming next.

'Of course. Who would find a man in his mid-thirties, who knows all the details about the lives of the people on The Robinson Expedition but can hardly name any head of state, or the Israeli President, sexy?'

'Prime Minister.'

'There you are. Now you know what I mean.'

Moller stifled a laugh. He had a tendency to laugh too easily. And a soft spot for the somewhat anguished officer with big ears that stuck out from the close-cropped cranium like two colourful butterfly wings. Even though Harry had caused Moller more trouble than was good for him. As a newly promoted PAS he had learned that the first commandment for a civil servant with career plans was to guard your back. When Moller cleared his throat to put the worrying questions he had made up his mind to ask, and dreaded asking, he first of all knitted his eyebrows to show Harry that his concern was of a professional and not an amicable nature.

'I hear you're still spending your time sitting in Schroder's, Harry.'

'Less than ever, boss. There's so much good stuff on TV.'

'But you're still sitting and drinking?'

'They don't like you to stand.'

'Cut it out. Are you drinking again?'

'Minimally.'

'How minimally?'

'They'll throw me out if I drink any less.'

This time Moller couldn't hold back his laughter. I need three liaison officers to secure the road,' he said. 'Each will have ten men at their disposal from various police districts in Akershus, plus a couple of cadets from the final year at police college. I thought Tom Waaler…'

Waaler. Racist bastard and directly in line for the soon-to-be-announced inspector's job. Harry had heard enough about Waaler's professional activities to know that they confirmed all the prejudices the public might have about the police. Apart from one: unfortunately Waaler was not stupid. His successes as a detective were so impressive that even Harry had to concede he deserved the inevitable promotion.

And Weber…'

'The old sourpuss?'

'… and you, Harry.'

'Say that again?'

'You heard me.'

Harry pulled a face.

'Have you any objections?' Moller asked. 'Of course I have.'

'Why? This is an honourable mission, Harry. A feather in your cap.'

'Is it?' Harry stabbed out his cigarette furiously in the ashtray. 'Or is it the next stage in the rehabilitation process?'

'What do you mean?' Bjarne Moller looked wounded.

'I know that you defied good advice and had a run-in with a few people when you took me back into the fold after Bangkok. And I'm eternally grateful to you for that. But what is this? Liaison Officer? Sounds like an attempt to prove to the doubters that you were right, and they were wrong. That Hole is on his way up, that he can be given responsibility and all that.'

'Well?' Bjarne Moller had put his hands behind the long skull again.

'Well?' Harry aped. 'Is that what's behind it? Am I just a pawn again?'

Moller gave a sigh of despair.

'We're all pawns, Harry. There's always a hidden agenda. This is no worse than anything else. Do a good job and it'll be good for both of us. Is that so damned difficult?'

Harry sniffed, started to say something, caught himself, took a fresh run-up, then abandoned the idea. He flicked a new cigarette out of the pack.

'It's just that I feel like a bloody horse people bet on. And I loathe responsibility'

Harry let the cigarette hang loosely from his lips without lighting it.

He owed Moller this favour, but what if he screwed up? Had Moller thought about that? Liaison Officer. He had been on the wagon for a while now, but he still had to be careful, take one day at a time. Hell, wasn't that one of the reasons he became a detective? To avoid having people underneath him, and to have as few as possible above him? Harry bit into the cigarette filter.

They heard voices out in the corridor by the coffee machine. It sounded like Waaler. Then peals of laughter. The new office girl perhaps. He still had the smell of her perfume in his nostrils.

'Fuck,' Harry said. Fu-uck. With two syllables, which made his cigarette jump twice in his mouth.

Moller had closed his eyes during Harry's moment of reflection and now he half-opened them. 'Can I take that as a yes?'

Harry stood up and walked out without saying a word.