The Redeemer

16

Thursday, 18 December. The Refugee.

The sun warmed him and the slight breeze across the sand dunes made the grass ripple and nod in appreciation. He must have been swimming because the towel beneath him was wet. 'Look,' said his mother, pointing. He shaded his eyes and scanned the gleaming, unbelievably blue Adriatic Sea. And there he saw a man wading towards land with a big smile. It was his father. Behind him, Bobo. And Giorgi. A small dog was swimming beside him with its tiny tail upright like a mast. While he was watching them many more rose from the sea. Some he knew very well. Like Giorgi's father. Others were familiar. A face in a doorway in Paris. The features were distorted beyond recognition, into grotesque masks grimacing at him. The sun disappeared behind a cloud and the temperature plummeted. The masks started shouting.

He woke to a searing pain in his side and opened his eyes. He was in Oslo. On the floor under the stairs in an entrance hall. A figure stood over him, mouth open wide, shouting something. He recognised one word which was almost the same as in his own language. Narkoman.

Then the figure, a man in a short leather jacket, took a step back and lifted his foot. The kick hit him on his sore side and he rolled over in pain. There was another man behind the one wearing the jacket, laughing and holding his nose. The leather jacket pointed to the door.

He eyed the two of them. Put his hand on his jacket pocket and felt it was wet. And that he still had the gun. There were two bullets left in the magazine. But if he threatened them with the gun there was a chance they would alert the police.

The leather jacket yelled and raised his hand.

He held his arm over his head in defence and staggered to his feet. The man holding his nose opened the door with a grin and kicked his backside on the way out.

The door snapped shut behind him and he heard the two men stomping up the stairs. He looked at his watch. Four o'clock in the morning. It was still dark and he was frozen to the marrow. And wet. He could feel with his hand that the back of his jacket was saturated and his trouser legs soaked. He stank of piss. Had he pissed himself? No, he must have been lying in it. A pool. On the floor. Frozen piss that he had thawed with his body heat.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets and began to jog down the road. The cars passing by didn't bother him any more.

The patient mumbled a 'thank you', and Mathias Lund-Helgesen closed the door after him and flopped down into his office chair. Yawned and looked at the clock. Six. An hour to go before the morning shift took over. Before he could go home. A few hours' sleep and then up to Rakel's. She would be lying under the duvet in the large timber-clad house in Holmenkollen at this moment. He still hadn't found the right tone with the boy, but it would come. It usually did for Mathias Lund- Helgesen. It wasn't that Oleg disliked him; it was more that the boy had formed too strong a link with the predecessor. The policeman. Odd how a child could elevate an obviously disturbed alcoholic into a father figure and role model without demur.

He had been thinking of mentioning this to Rakel for a while, but had let the matter drop. It would only make him look like a helpless idiot. Or even make her wonder if he was the right man for them.

And that was what he wanted. To be the right man. He was willing to be whoever he had to be to keep her. And to know who that was, he had to ask of course. So he had done. What it was about that policeman. And she had answered it wasn't anything in particular. Except that she had loved him. And if she hadn't formulated it like that perhaps he wouldn't have mused on why she had never used that word about him.

Mathias Lund-Helgesen dismissed these idle thoughts, checked the name of the next patient on the computer and walked down the central aisle where the nurses first received them. But at this time of night it was deserted, so he went on to the waiting room.

Five people looked at him, eyes begging for it to be their turn. Apart from a man in the far corner, sleeping with his mouth open and his head on the wall. Had to be a drug addict. The blue jacket and the stench of stale urine coming in waves were sure signs. Just as sure as he would complain of pains and ask for pills.

Mathias went over to him and wrinkled his nose. Shook him hard and took a hasty step back. Quite a few addicts, after years of being robbed of drugs and money when they were out of it, had an automatic response if they were woken: thrashing out or stabbing with a knife.

The man blinked and regarded Mathias with surprisingly clear eyes.

'How can I help?' Mathias asked. Standard procedure, of course, was that you only asked a patient this question when you had privacy, but Mathias was exhausted and sick to death of junkies and drunks who took time and resources away from other patients.

The man pulled the jacket around him more tightly and said nothing.

'Hello! I'm afraid you have to tell me why you're here.'

The man shook his head and pointed to one of the others as if explaining it wasn't his turn.

'This is not a lounge,' Mathias said. 'You're not allowed to sleep here. Scram. Now.'

'I don't understand,' the man said.

'Leave,' Mathias said. 'Or I'll call the police.'

To his astonishment, Mathias could feel he had to control himself not to drag this stinking junkie out of the chair. The others had turned to watch.

The man nodded and staggered to his feet. Mathias stood watching him after the glass door had slid to.

'It's good you chuck their kind out,' a voice behind him said.

Mathias gave an absent-minded nod. Perhaps he hadn't told her enough times. That he loved her. Perhaps that was it.

It was half past seven and still dark outside the neurosurgical ward and room 19 where Police Officer Stranden was looking down at the neat yet unoccupied bed where Jon Karlsen had been lying. Soon another patient would be there. That was a strange thought. But now he needed to find a bed to lie in himself. For a long time. He yawned and checked he hadn't left anything on the bedside table, took the newspaper from the chair and turned to leave.

A man was standing in the doorway. It was the inspector. Hole.

'Where is he?'

'Gone,' Stranden said. 'They came for him a quarter of an hour ago. Drove him away.'

'Oh? Who authorised that?'

'The consultant. They didn't want him here any more.'

'I meant who authorised the transport. And where to.'

'That was your new boss in Crime Squad. He rang.'

'Hagen? In person?'

'Yep. And they took Karlsen to his brother's flat.'

Hole shook his head slowly. Then he left.

Dawn was breaking in the east as Harry trudged up the stairs of the reddish-brown brick-built block in Gorbitz gate, a short stretch of tarmac full of potholes between Kirkeveien and Fagerborggata. He stopped on the first floor as instructed via the door intercom. Embossed in white on a pale blue strip of plastic on the door that had been left ajar was a name: ROBERT KARLSEN.

Harry entered and gave the flat a once-over. It was a tiny, messy studio that confirmed the impression one gained of Robert from seeing his office. Although the possibility could not be ruled out that Li and Li might have contributed to the mess while searching for letters and any other paperwork that could help them. A colour print of Jesus dominated one wall, and it struck Harry that if the crown of thorns was exchanged for a beret, you would have Che Guevara.

'So Gunnar Hagen decided you should be brought here?' Harry addressed the back of the person sitting at the desk by the window.

'Yes,' said Jon Karlsen, turning round. 'Since the gunman knows the address of my flat, he said I would be safer here.'

'Mm,' Harrry said, looking around. 'Sleep well?'

'Not particularly.' Jon Karlsen wore an embarrassed smile. 'I lay listening for sounds that weren't there. And when in the end I did fall asleep, Stranden, the guard, came and scared the living daylights out of me.'

Harry moved a pile of comics off a chair and flopped down. 'I can understand you being afraid, Jon. Have you thought any more about who would want to take your life?'

Jon sighed. 'I haven't thought about anything else since last night. But the answer is the same: I really don't have a clue.'

'Have you ever been to Zagreb?' Harry asked. 'Or Croatia?'

Jon shook his head. 'The furthest I've been from Norway is Sweden and Denmark. And then I was just a boy.'

'Do you know any Croats?'

'Only the refugees we give lodging to.'

'Mm. Did the police say why they brought you here of all places?'

Jon shrugged. 'I said I had a key to the flat. And it's empty of course, so…'

Harry ran a hand across his face.

'There used to be a computer here,' Jon said, pointing to the desk.

'We picked it up,' Harry said, standing up again.

'Do you have to go already?'

'I have to catch a flight to Bergen.'

'Oh,' Jon said with a blank stare.

Harry felt an inclination to lay a hand on the ungainly boy's narrow shoulders.

The airport express was late. It was the third time in a row. 'Because of a delay,' came the brief and vague justification. Oystein Eikeland, Harry's taxi-driving and only pal from his boyhood, had explained to Harry that a train's electromotor was one of the simplest things in existence. His little sister could make it work, and if the technical staff of SAS and the Norwegian Railways were to swap places for a day, all the trains would run on time and all the planes would still be on the ground. Harry preferred the situation as it was.

He rang Gunnar Hagen's direct line after they emerged from the tunnel before Lillestrom.

'Hole speaking.'

'I can hear.'

'I've authorised round-the-clock surveillance for Jon Karlsen. And I didn't authorise his removal from Ulleval Hospital.'

'The hospital determines the latter,' Hagen said. 'And I determine the former.'

Harry counted three houses in the white landscape before answering. 'You put me in charge of this investigation, Hagen.'

'Yes, but not of overtime expenses. Which as you ought to know went over-budget ages ago.'

'The boy's scared out of his wits,' Harry said. 'So you put him in the flat belonging to the killer's previous victim, his own brother. To save the few hundred kroner a day a hotel room would have cost.'

The loudspeakers announced the next stop.

'Lillestrom?' Hagen sounded surprised. 'Are you on the airport express?'

Harry mouthed a silent curse. 'Quick trip to Bergen.'

'Is that so?'

Harry gulped. 'I'll be back this afternoon.'

'Are you out of your mind, man? We're under the spotlight here. The media-'

'A tunnel's coming,' Harry said, pressing the red button.

Ragnhild Gilstrup awoke slowly from a dream. It was dark in the room. She knew it was morning, but she didn't know what the sound was. It was like a large, mechanical clock. But they didn't have any clocks like that in the bedroom. She rolled over and recoiled. In the gloom she saw a naked figure standing by the foot of the bed watching her.

'Good morning, darling,' he said.

'Mads! You frightened me.'

'Oh?'

He had just had a shower. Behind him the door to the bathroom was open and the ticking sound came from the soft, resonant drips of water from his body onto the parquet floor.

'Have you been standing like that for long?' she asked, pulling the duvet round her more tightly.

'How do you mean?'

She shrugged, but was taken aback. There was something about the way he said it. Cheery, almost teasing. And the tiny smile. He never used to be like that. She stretched and yawned – a sham, she acknowledged to herself.

'When did you get home last night?' she asked. 'I didn't wake up.'

'You must have been enjoying the sleep of the innocent.' Again that little smile.

She studied him. Over recent months he had indeed changed. He had always been slim, but now he looked stronger and fitter. And there was something about his stance; he seemed to have become more erect. Of course she had wondered if he had a lover, but that had not bothered her overmuch. Or so she thought.

'Where were you?' she asked.

'Meal with Jan Petter Sissener.'

'The stockbroker?'

'Yes. He thinks the market prospects are good. Also for property.'

'Isn't it my job to talk to him?' she asked.

'Just like to keep myself up to date.'

'You don't think I keep you up to date, dear?'

He looked at her. Held her gaze until she felt something that never happened when she was speaking to Mads: blood suffusing her face.

'I'm sure you tell me what I need to know, darling.' He went into the bathroom where she heard him turn on the tap.

'I've been examining a couple of interesting property ideas,' she shouted, mostly to say something, to break the strange silence that had followed the last thing he said.

'Me too,' Mads shouted. 'I went to have a look at an apartment building in Goteborggata yesterday. The one the Salvation Army owns, you know.'

She froze. Jon's flat.

'Fine property. But do you know what? There was police tape over the door to one of the flats. A resident told me there had been a shooting there. Can you imagine?'

'Well I never,' she shouted. 'What was the police tape for?'

'That's what the police do, secure the premises while they turn the flat upside down for fingerprints and DNA to find out who's been there. Anyway, the Salvation Army may be willing to lower the price if there's been a shooting in the building, don't you think?'

'They don't want to sell. I've told you.'

'They didn't want to sell, darling.'

A thought struck her. 'Why would the police search the flat if the shooting came from the corridor outside?'

She heard Mads turn off the tap and looked up. He was standing in the doorway, with a yellow smile in the white shaving foam and a razor in his hand. And soon he would sprinkle on the expensive aftershave she could not bear.

'What are you talking about?' he said. 'I didn't say anything about corridors. And why so pale, darling?'

The day had risen late and there was still a layer of transparent icy mist hanging over Sofienberg Park as Ragnhild hurried up Helgesens gate breathing into her beige Bottega Veneta scarf. Even wool bought in Milan for nine thousand kroner could not keep the cold out, but at least it covered her face.

Fingerprints. DNA. To find out who had been there. That must not happen; the consequences would be disastrous.

She rounded the corner to Goteborggata. There weren't any police cars outside anyway.

The key slid into the lock of the main entrance, and she scuttled in towards the lift. It was a long time since she had been here, and the first time she was arriving unannounced, of course.

Her heart was pounding as the lift was going up and she was thinking of her hair in his shower cabinet, clothing fibres in the carpet, fingerprints everywhere.

The corridor was empty. The orange tape across the door showed that no one was at home, but she knocked anyway and waited. Then she took out the key and tried it. It didn't fit. She tried again, but could only get the tip into the cylinder. Christ, had Jon changed the lock? She took a deep breath, turned the key round and said a silent prayer.

The key slipped in and the lock gave a gentle click as it opened.

She inhaled the smell of the flat that she knew so well and made for the wardrobe where she knew he kept the vacuum cleaner. It was a black Siemens VS08G2040, the same model as they had at home, 2000 watts, the most powerful on the market. Jon liked things to be clean. The vacuum cleaner gave a hoarse roar as she plugged it in at the wall. It was ten o'clock. She should be able to clean all the floors and wipe all the walls and surfaces within an hour. She regarded the closed bedroom door and wondered whether to start there. Where the memories, and the evidence, were strongest. No. She placed the nozzle of the vacuum cleaner against her forearm. It felt like a bite. She pulled it away and saw that blood had already gathered.

She had been cleaning for a few minutes when she remembered. The letters! God, she had almost forgotten they might find the letters she had written. The first ones in which she had written about her innermost dreams and desires, and the last ones, the desperate, naked ones where she had implored him to get in touch. She left the vacuum cleaner on, draped the hose over a chair and ran over to Jon's desk and began to pull out the drawers. The first contained pens, tape and a hole punch. The second telephone directories. The third was locked. Of course.

She grabbed the letter opener from the bureau, forced it in above the lock and leaned with all her strength against the shaft. The old, dry wood creaked. And while she was thinking the letter opener would break, the front of the drawer split along its length. She pulled out the drawer with a jerk, brushed away the wooden splinters and looked down at the envelopes. The piles of them. Her fingers flipped through them. Hafslund Energi. Den norske Bank. Intelligent Finance. The Salvation Army. A blank envelope. She opened it. 'Dear Son,' it said at the top. She continued to flick through the pile. There! The envelope bore the investment fund's name – Gilstrup Invest – in a discreet pale blue, down in the right-hand corner.

Relieved, she took out the letter.

When she had finished reading she laid the letter aside and felt the tears streaming down her cheeks. It was as though her eyes had been opened again, as though she had been blind and now she could see and everything was as it had been. As though everything she had believed in and had once rejected was true again. The letter had been brief, yet, after reading it, everything was changed.

The vacuum cleaner groaned without remorse and drowned everything except the simple, unambiguous sentences on the writing paper, their absurd and at the same time self-evident logic. She didn't hear the traffic from the street, the creaking of the door or the person standing right behind her chair. It wasn't until she caught his aroma that the hairs on her neck stood up.

The SAS plane landed at Flesland Airport buffeted by westerly gales. In the taxi to Bergen the windscreen wipers hissed and the studded winter tyres crunched on wet, black tarmac as they cut their way between cliff faces with comb-overs of wet grassy tufts and bare trees. Winter in western Norway.

When they arrived in Fyllingsdalen, Skarre rang.

'We've found something.'

'Out with it then.'

'We've been through Robert Karlsen's hard drive. The only thing of doubtful character was cookies to a couple of porn sites on the Net.'

'We would have found that on your computer too, Skarre. Get to the point.'

'We didn't find any persons of doubtful character in the papers or letters, either.'

'Skarre…' Harry warned.

'On the other hand, we did find an interesting ticket stub,' he said. 'Guess where to.'

'I'll clobber you.'

'To Zagreb,' Skarre hurried to add. And then when Harry didn't answer: 'In Croatia.'

'Thank you. When was he there?'

'In October. Departure 12 October, returning the same evening.'

'Mm. Just the one October day in Zagreb. Doesn't sound like a holiday.'

'I checked with his boss at Fretex in Kirkeveien, and she says that Robert didn't do any jobs abroad for them.'

Harry rang off wondering why he hadn't told Skarre he was pleased with his work. He could have done that, no problem. Was he becoming mean in his old age? No, he thought, as he took the four kroner change from the taxi driver; he had always been mean.

Harry stepped out into a sad, gonorrhoeal discharge of a Bergen squall which, according to myth, starts one afternoon in September and finishes one afternoon in March. He walked the few paces to the front door of Bors Kafe and stood inside scanning the room and wondering what the imminent smoking law would do to places like this. Harry had been to Bors twice before and it was a place where he instinctively felt at home, yet an outsider at the same time. The waiters bustled around wearing red jackets and expressions that said they were working at a high-class establishment while serving half-litres and bone-dry witticisms to local crabbers, retired fishermen, hardy wartime seamen and others whose lives had capsized. The first time Harry went there a washed-up celeb had been dancing the tango with a fisherman between the tables while an older lady dressed to the nines had sung German ballads to accordion accompaniment and reeled off rhythmic obscenities with heavily rolled 'r's during the instrumental breaks.

Harry's eyes found what they were looking for, and he headed for the table where a tall, thin man towered over one empty and one almost empty beer glass.

'Boss.'

The man's head bobbed up at the sound of Harry's voice. His eyes followed after a slight delay. Behind the mist of intoxication his pupils were contracting.

'Harry.' To his surprise, the voice was clear and distinct.

Harry pulled over a free chair from a neighbouring table.

'Travelling through?' asked Bjarne Moller.

'Yes.'

'How did you find me?'

Harry didn't answer. He had been prepared, but still he could hardly believe what he was seeing.

'So they're gossiping at the station, are they? Well, well.' Moller took another deep draught from the glass. 'Strange change of roles, isn't it. It used to be me who found you like this. Beer?'

Harry leaned over the table. 'What's happened, boss?'

'What's usually happened when a grown man drinks during working hours, Harry?'

'He's either been given the sack or his wife's left him.'

'I haven't been given the boot yet. As far as I know.' Moller laughed. His shoulders shook, but no sound came out.

'Has Kari…?' Harry stopped, not knowing quite how to formulate the words.

'She and the kids didn't come with me. That's OK. That was decided in advance.'

'What?'

'I miss the boys, of course I do. I'm managing though. This is just… what do they call it?… a passing phase… but there's a more elegant word… trans… no.' Bjarne Moller's head had sunk down over his glass.

'Let's go for a walk,' Harry said, waving his hand for the bill.

Twenty-five minutes later Harry and Bjarne Moller were standing in the same rain cloud by a railing on Floien mountain, looking down on what might have been Bergen. A cable car sliced diagonally like a piece of cake and pulled by thick steel wires had transported them up from the town centre.

'Was that why you came here?' Harry asked. 'Because you and Kari were going to split up.'

'It rains here as much as they say,' Moller said.

Harry sighed. 'Drinking doesn't help, boss. Things get worse.'

'That's my line, Harry. How are you getting on with Gunnar Hagen?'

'OK. Good lecturer.'

'Don't make the mistake of underestimating him, Harry. He's more than a lecturer. Gunnar Hagen was in FSK for seven years.'

'Special Forces?' Harry asked in surprise.

'Indeed. I was told that by the Chief Superintendent. Hagen was redeployed in FSK in 1981 when the force was set up to protect our oil rigs in the North Sea. As it's secret service, it's never been on any CV.'

'FSK,' Harry said, conscious that the ice-cold rain was seeping through his jacket onto his shoulders. 'I've heard the loyalty there is uncommonly fierce.'

'It's like a brotherhood,' Moller said. 'Impenetrable.'

'Do you know anyone else who's been in it?'

Moller shook his head. He already looked sober. 'Anything new in the investigation? I've been given some insider information.'

'We don't even have a motive.'

'The motive's money,' Moller said, clearing his throat. 'Greed, the illusion that things will change if you have money. That you can change.'

'Money.' Harry looked at Moller. 'Maybe,' he demurred.

Moller spat with disgust into the grey soup in front of them. 'Find the money. Find the money and follow it. It will always lead you to the answer.'

Harry had never heard him talk like that before, not with this bitter certainty, as though he had an insight he would have preferred not to possess.

Harry breathed in and took the plunge. 'Boss, you know I don't like to beat about the bush, so here it is. You and I are the types of people who don't have many friends. And even though you may not regard me as a friend I am at any rate something of the kind.'

Harry watched Moller, but there was no response.

'I came here to find out whether there was anything I could do. Anything you wanted to talk about or…'

Still no response.

'Well, I'm buggered if I know why I came, boss. But I'm here now anyway.'

Moller leaned his head back to face the sky. 'Did you know that Bergensians call what's behind us mountains? And in fact they are. Real mountains. Six minutes on the cable car from the centre of the second biggest town in Norway there are people who get lost and die. Funny, isn't it.'

Harry shrugged.

Moller sighed. 'The rain's not going to stop. Let's take the tin can back down.'

At the bottom they walked to the taxi rank.

'It'll take twenty minutes to Flesland Airport now, before the rush hour,' Moller said.

Harry nodded and waited before he got in. His jacket was drenched.

'Follow the money,' Moller said, putting a hand on Harry's shoulder. 'Do whatever you have to do.'

'You too, boss.'

Moller raised a hand in the air and began to walk, but turned when Harry got into the taxi and shouted something that was drowned by the traffic. Harry switched on his mobile phone as they roared across Danmarks plass. A text message was waiting from Halvorsen telling him to ring back. Harry dialled the number.

'We've got Stankic's credit card,' Halvorsen said. 'The cash machine in Youngstorget ate it last night around twelve.'

'So that's where he was coming from when we raided the Hostel', Harry said.

'Yes'

'Youngstorget is a good distance from there,' Harry said. 'He must have gone there because he was frightened we would trace the card to somewhere near the Hostel. And it suggests he's in desperate need of money.'

'But it gets better,' Halvorsen said. 'The cash machine's under a surveillance camera of course.'

'Yeah?'

Halvorsen paused for effect.

'Come on,' Harry said. 'He doesn't hide his face, is that it?'

'He smiled straight into the camera like a film star,' Halvorsen said.

'Has Beate got the recording?'

'She's sitting in the House of Pain going through it now.'

Ragnhild Gilstrup thought about Johannes. About how different everything could have been. If only she had followed her heart, which had always been wiser than her head. It was strange that she had never been that unhappy and yet she had never wanted to live as much as right now.

To live a bit longer.

Because she knew everything now.

She stared into a black muzzle and she knew what she saw.

And what would happen.

Her scream was drowned by the roar of a very simple motor of a Siemens VS08G2040. A chair fell to the floor. The muzzle with the powerful suction approached her eye. She tried to squeeze her eyelids shut, but they were held open by strong fingers that wanted her to see. And she saw. And knew, knew what was going to happen.

17 Thursday, 18 December. The Face.

THE WALL CLOCK OVER THE COUNTER IN THE BIG CHEMIST'S shop showed half past nine. People sat around the room coughing, closed sleepy eyes or alternated glances between the red digital figure on the wall and their queue number as though it were their lottery ticket for life and every ping a new draw.

He had not taken a number from the machine; he wanted to sit by the heaters in the shop, but he had a feeling the blue jacket was attracting unwanted attention because the staff were beginning to send him looks. He gazed out of the window. Behind the mist he could make out the contours of a feeble, impotent sun. A police car passed by. They had security cameras in here. He had to move on, but where to? Without any money he would be thrown out of cafes and bars. Now he didn't even have the credit card any more. Last night he had decided he would withdraw money even though he knew there was a risk the card would be traced. He had searched on his evening walk from the Hostel, and in the end found an ATM some distance away. But the machine had just eaten his card without giving him anything, except for confirmation of what he already knew: they were encircling him; he was under siege again.

The semi-deserted Biscuit restaurant was immersed in pan-pipe music. It was the quiet period after lunch and before evening meals, so Tore Bjorgen had positioned himself by the window and was staring dreamily out at Karl Johans gate. Not because the view was so appealing, but because the radiators were under the windows and he couldn't seem to get warm. He was in a bad mood. He had to pick up the plane ticket to Cape Town within the next two days and he had just concluded what he had known for a long time: he didn't have enough money. Even though he had worked hard, it wasn't there. There was the rococo mirror he had bought for the flat in the autumn, of course, but there had been too much champagne, cocaine and other expensive jollities. Not that he had lost his grip on things, but to be honest it was time he escaped from the vicious circle of coke for parties, pills to sleep and coke to give him the energy to do enough overtime to finance his bad habits. And right now he didn't have a bean in his account. For the last five years he had celebrated Christmas and New Year in Cape Town instead of going home to the village of Vegardshei, to religious narrow-mindedness, his parents' silent accusations and his uncles' and his nephews' thinly disguised revulsion. He exchanged three weeks of unbearable freezing temperatures, dismal darkness and tedium for sun, beautiful people and pulsating nightlife. And games. Dangerous games. In December and January Cape Town was invaded by European advertising agencies, film crews and models, female and male. And this was where he found like-minded individuals. The game he liked best was blind date. In a place like Cape Town there was always a certain risk involved, but to meet a man amid the shacks in Cape Flats you were risking your life. And yet that was what he did. He didn't always know why he did these idiotic things; all he knew was that he needed danger to feel he was alive. The game had to have a potential penalty to be interesting.

Tore Bjorgen sniffed. His daydreams had been disturbed by a smell he hoped did not come from the kitchen. He turned.

'Hello again,' the man standing behind him said.

If Bjorgen had been a less professional waiter his face would have assumed a disapproving expression. The man in front of him was not only wearing the unbecoming blue jacket that was in fashion among the drug addicts on Karl Johans gate, he was also unshaven, red-eyed and stank like a urinal.

'Remember me?' the man said. 'In the men's room?'

At first Bjorgen thought he was referring to the nightclub of the same name before realising that the guy meant the toilet. It was only then that he recognised him. That is, he recognised the voice, while thinking that it was incredible what less than twenty-four hours without civilised necessities like a razor, a shower and a full night's sleep could do to a man's appearance.

It might have been the interrupted intense daydream that accounted for Bjorgen's two distinctly different reactions coming in the order they did: first of all the sweet sting of desire. The man's reason for coming back was obvious after the flirtation and the fleeting but intimate physical contact they had had. Then the shock as the image of the man with the soapy gun appeared on his retina. Plus the fact that the policeman who had been here had connected it with the murder of the poor Salvation Army soldier.

'I need somewhere to live,' said the man.

Bjorgen blinked hard twice. He could not believe his ears. Here he was, standing opposite a man who might be a murderer, a man under suspicion of killing someone in cold blood. So why hadn't he already dropped everything and run out screaming for the police? The policeman had even said there was a reward for information leading to the man's arrest. Bjorgen glanced towards the end of the room where the head waiter was standing leafing through the reservations book. Why was it that instead he felt this strange tingle of pleasure in his solar plexus which spread through his body and made him shudder and shiver as he searched for something sensible to say?

'It's just for one night,' the man said.

'I'm working today.'

'I can wait.'

Bjorgen eyed the man. It's insane, he thought, while his brain slowly and inexorably connected his love of risk with a potential solution to a problem. He swallowed and shifted weight from one foot to the other.

Harry jogged from the airport express in Oslo Central Station across Gronland to Police HQ, took the lift up to the Robberies Unit and loped down the corridors to the House of Pain, the video room.

It was dark, warm and stuffy in the cramped windowless room. He heard quick fingers scurrying across the computer keyboard.

'What can you see?' he asked the silhouette outlined against the flickering pictures on the wall screen.

'Something very interesting,' Beate Lonn said without turning, but Harry knew her eyes were red-rimmed. He had seen Beate working before. Seen her staring at the screen for hours while she wound forward, stopped, focused, magnified, saved. Without knowing what she was looking for. Or what she could see. This was her territory.

'And maybe an explanation,' she added.

'I'm all ears.' Harry groped his way forward in the dark, hit his leg and sat down cursing.

'Ready?'

'Shoot.'

'OK. Meet Christo Stankic.'

On the screen a man stepped forward to an ATM.

'Are you sure?' Harry asked.

'Don't you recognise him?'

'I recognise the blue jacket, but…' Harry said, hearing the confusion in his own voice.

'Wait,' Beate said.

The man put a card in the machine and stood waiting. Then he turned his face to the camera and grimaced. A pretend smile, the kind that meant the opposite.

'He's found out he can't withdraw any money,' Beate said.

The man on camera kept pressing buttons and in the end he smacked the keypad with his hand.

'And now he's found out he won't get his card back,' Harry said.

The man stood staring at the display on the machine for a long time.

Then he pulled back his sleeve, checked his wristwatch, turned and was gone.

'What make was the watch?' Harry asked.

'The glass was reflecting,' Beate said. 'But I magnified the negative. It says Seiko SQ50 on the dial.'

'Clever girl. But I didn't see an explanation.'

'This is the explanation.'

Beate typed and two pictures of the man they had just seen appeared on the screen. One while he was taking out his card; the other while he was looking at his watch.

'I've chosen these two pictures because his face is in roughly the same position and this way it's easy to see. They've been taken with an interval of a little over a hundred seconds. Can you see that?'

'No,' Harry said truthfully. 'I can tell I'm no good at this. I can't even see if it's the same person in the two pictures. Or if he's the man I saw in Toyen Park.'

'Good. Then you've seen it.'

'Seen what?'

'Here's the picture of him off the credit card,' Beate said and clicked. A picture of a man with short hair and a tie appeared.

'And here are the ones Dagbladet took of him in Egertorget.'

Two further pictures.

'Can you tell if this is the same person?' Beate asked.

'Well, no.'

'Nor can I.'

'You can't? If you can't it means it's not the same person.'

'No,' Beate said. 'It means here we have a case of what is known as hyperelasticity. Called visage du pantomime by professionals.'

'What on earth are you talking about?'

'A person who can change their appearance without any need for make-up, disguise or plastic surgery.'

Harry was waiting for all the investigative team to sit down in the red zone's meeting room before he spoke. 'We know now that we're after one man and only one man. For the time being let's call him Christo Stankic. Beate?'

Beate switched on the projector and an image of a face with closed eyes and a mask of something like red spaghetti appeared on the screen.

'What you see here is an illustration of our facial musculature,' she began. 'Muscles we use to form expressions and thereby change our appearance. The most important are located in the forehead, around the eyes and around the mouth. For example, this is the musculus frontalis, which, along with the musculus corrugator supercilii, is used to raise and furrow the eyebrows. The orbicularis oculi is used to close the eyelids or create folds in the part of the face around the eyes. And so on.'

Beate pressed the remote control. The image was replaced by one of a clown with large inflated cheeks.

'We have hundreds of muscles like these in our faces and even those whose job it is to pull faces use just a tiny percentage of the options available. Actors and entertainers train facial muscles to achieve maximum movement which we others lose as a rule at a young age. However, even actors and mime artists tend to use the face for imitative movements to express certain emotions. And, important as they are, they are quite universal and few in number. Anger, happiness, being in love, surprise, a chuckle, a roar of laughter and so on. Nature, though, has given us this mask of muscles to make several million, indeed, an almost unlimited number of facial expressions. Concert pianists have trained the link between brain and finger musculature to such an extent that they can perform ten different simultaneous operations, independently of each other. And we don't even have many muscles in our fingers. So what is the face not capable of?'

Beate moved on to the clip of Christo Stankic outside the ATM.

'Well, we are capable of this for example.'

The film advanced in slow motion.

'The changes are almost imperceptible. Tiny muscles are being tensed and slackened. The result of the small muscle movements is a changed expression. Does the face change that much? No, but the part of the brain that recognises faces – the fusiform gyrus – is very, very sensitive to even minor changes, since its function is to distinguish between thousands of physiologically similar faces. Via the facial muscles' gradual adjustments we end up with what seems to be a different person. Viz., this.'

The recording froze as it reached the last frame.

'Hello! This is Earth calling Mars.'

Harry recognised the voice of Magnus Skarre. Someone laughed, and Beate blushed.

'Sorry,' Skarre said, looking round him with a self-satisfied chuckle. 'That's still the Stankic dago. Science fiction is entertaining but guys who tense a bit here and slacken a bit there and become unrecognisable, that's a trifle far-fetched, if you ask me.'

Harry was on the point of breaking in, but changed his mind. Instead he observed Beate with interest. Two years ago a comment like that would have crushed her on the spot and he would have had to sweep up the pieces.

'As far as I know, no one was asking you,' Beate said, her cheeks still bright red. But since you feel that way let me give you an example I am sure you will understand.'

'Whoa,' exclaimed Skarre, holding his hands up in defence. 'That wasn't meant personally, Lonn.'

'When people die something called rigor mortis sets in.' Beate continued undeterred, but Harry could see her nostrils were flared. 'The muscles in the body, and in the face too, stiffen. It's the same as tensing muscles. And what is the typical reaction when the next of kin has to identify the corpse?'

In the ensuing silence all that could be heard was the hum of the projector fan. Harry was already smiling.

'They don't recognise them,' said a loud, clear voice. Harry had not heard Gunnar Hagen enter the room. 'Not an unusual problem in war when soldiers have to be identified. Of course, they're in uniform, but sometimes even comrades in their own unit have to check the dog tags to be sure.'

'Thank you,' Beate said. 'Did that help the grey matter, Skarre?'

Skarre shrugged, and Harry heard someone laugh out loud. Beate switched off the projector.

'The plasticity or mobility of the face is a very personal thing. To some extent it may be achieved through practice and to some extent, one has to assume, it's genetic. Some people cannot differentiate between the left and right sides of their face; others, with practice, can operate all the muscles independently of each other. Like a concert pianist. And that's called hyperelasticity or visage du pantomime. Known cases would suggest there is a strong genetic element. The ability was learned young or as a child and those who have an extreme degree of hyperelasticity often suffer from personality disorders – or have experienced terrible traumas while growing up.'

'So what you're saying is that we're dealing with a crazy man here?' Gunnar Hagen said.

'My area of expertise is faces, not psychology,' Beate said. 'But at any rate it cannot be excluded. Harry?'

'Thank you, Beate.' Harry got to his feet. 'So now you know what we're up against, guys. Questions? Yes, Li?'

'How do we catch a creature like this?'

Harry and Beate exchanged glances. Hagen coughed.

'I have no idea,' Harry said. 'All I know is that this will not be over until he has done his job. Or we have done ours.'

There was a message from Rakel when Harry returned to his office. He rang her straight away to be spared the brooding.

'How's it going?' she asked.

'Right to the Supreme Court,' Harry said. It was an expression Rakel's father had used. An insider joke among Norwegian soldiers back from the Eastern Front after the war and facing trial. Rakel laughed. The gentle ripple for which he once would have been willing to sacrifice everything to hear every day. It still worked.

'Are you alone?' she asked.

'No. Halvorsen is sitting here listening as always.'

Halvorsen raised his head from the Egertorget witnesses' statements and pulled a grimace.

'Oleg needs someone to talk to,' Rakel said.

'Oh yes?'

'Pssh, that was clumsy. Not someone. He needs to talk to you.'

'Needs?'

'Another correction. He said he wants to talk to you.'

'And asked you to ring?'

'No. No, he would never have done that.'

'No.' Harry smiled at the thought.

'So… Would you have time one evening, do you think?'

'Of course.'

'Great. You could come and eat with us.'

'Us?'

'Oleg and me.'

'Mm.'

'I know you've met Mathias-'

'Yes,' Harry said quickly. 'Seems a nice guy.'

'Yes.'

Harry didn't know how to interpret her intonation.

'Are you still there?'

'I'm here,' Harry said. 'Look, we've got a murder case on our hands and things are hotting up here. Could I have a think and ring you later with a day?'

Pause.

'Rakel?'

'Yes, that would be fine. How are things otherwise?'

The question was so out of place that for a moment Harry wondered whether it was meant as irony.

'The days pass,' Harry said.

'Nothing new happened in your life since we last spoke?' Harry breathed in. 'I have to be off, Rakel. I'll ring you when I've found a day. Say hello to Oleg from me. OK?'

'OK.'

Harry put down the receiver.

'Well?' Halvorsen said. 'A convenient day?'

'It's a meal. Something to do with Oleg. What would Robert be doing in Zagreb?'

Halvorsen was about to say something when there was a soft knock at the door. They both turned. Skarre was standing in the doorway.

'Zagreb police have just rung,' he informed them. 'The credit card was issued on the basis of a false passport.'

'Mmm,' Harry hummed, leaning back in the chair and putting his hands behind his head. 'What would Robert be doing in Zagreb, Skarre?'

'You know what I think.'

'Dope,' Halvorsen said.

'Didn't you mention a girl asking for Robert in the Fretex in Kirkeveien, Skarre? In the shop they thought she was from Yugoslavia, didn't they?'

'Yes. It was the shop manager. She-'

'Call Fretex, Halvorsen.'

The office was quiet as Halvorsen flicked through the Yellow Pages and dialled a number. Harry started to drum his fingers on the table wondering how to phrase it: he was pleased with Skarre. He cleared his throat once. But then Halvorsen passed him the telephone.

Sergeant Major Rue listened, spoke and acted. An efficient woman, Harry was able to confirm two minutes later when he rang off and coughed again.

'That was one of her para 12 boys, a Serbian, who remembered the girl. He thinks her name is Sofia, but is not sure. He was certain she was from Vukovar.'

Harry found Jon in bed in Robert's flat with an open Bible on his stomach. He looked anxious, as if he hadn't slept. Harry lit a cigarette, sat down on the fragile kitchen chair and asked Jon what he thought Robert had been doing in Zagreb.

'No idea. He said nothing to me. Perhaps it was something to do with the secret project I'd lent him money for.'

'OK. Do you know anything about a girlfriend – a young Croatian girl by the name of Sofia?'

'Sofia Miholjec? You're kidding!'

''Fraid not. Does that mean you know who she is?'

'Sofia lives in one of our buildings in Jacob Aalls gate. Her family was among the Croatian refugees in Vukovar the commander brought here. But Sofia… Sofia is fifteen.'

'Maybe she was just in love with Robert? Young girl. Good-looking, grown lad. It's not exactly unusual, you know.'

Jon was about to answer, but stopped himself.

'You said Robert liked young girls,' Harry said.

Jon studied the floor. 'I can give you the address of the family so you can ask her.'

'OK.' Harry glanced at his watch. 'Anything you need?'

Jon looked around. 'I should go round to my flat. Pick up some clothes and toiletries.'

'Fine. I'll take you. Grab your coat and hat. It's got even colder.'

The drive took twenty minutes. They passed the dilapidated old Bislett stadium that was due to be demolished, and Schroder restaurant, outside which stood a man in a thick woollen coat and hat whom Harry recognised. Harry parked illegally in front of the entrance to Goteborggata 4, they entered and waited in front of the lift. Harry saw from the red number over the door that the lift was on the third floor, Jon's. Before they had time to press the button they heard the lift start to move and could see from the numbers that it was on its way down. Harry rubbed his palms against his thighs.

'You don't like lifts,' Jon said.

Harry eyed him in surprise. 'Is it obvious?'

Jon smiled. 'My father doesn't, either. Come on. Let's take the stairs.'

They set off and some way up Harry heard the lift door open beneath them.

They let themselves into the flat and Harry stood by the door while Jon went to the bathroom and fetched a toilet bag.

'Strange,' Jon said with a frown. 'It's as if someone has been here.'

Jon slipped into the bedroom and returned with a bag.

'It smells funny,' he said.

Harry had a look around. There were two glasses on the sink, but no milk or other visible signs of liquid on the rims that would reveal anything. No wet marks left by melted snow on the floor, just a few splinters of light wood in front of the desk which must have come from one of the drawers. One drawer front looked as if it had split.

'Let's get moving,' Harry said.

'Why's my vac there?' Jon asked, pointing. 'Have your people been using it?'

Harry knew SOC procedures and none of them involved using the vacuum cleaner at the scene of the crime.

'Does anyone else have a key to this flat?' Harry asked.

Jon hesitated. 'Thea, my girlfriend. But she would never have used the vac here of her own accord.'

Harry studied the splinters of wood in front of the desk which would have been the first thing a vacuum cleaner would have swallowed. Then he went over to the machine. The attachment had been removed from the plastic shaft attached to the end of the hose. Cold shivers ran down his spine. He lifted the hose and peered down it. Ran a finger around the circular black edge and looked at his fingertip.

'What's that?' Jon asked.

'Blood,' Harry said. 'Check the door's locked.'

Harry already knew. He was standing on the threshold to the room he hated and yet still never managed to keep away from. He removed the plastic lid in the middle of the machine. Loosened the yellow dust bag and lifted it out while thinking that this was in fact the house of pain. The place where he was always forced to use his ability to empathise with evil. An ability which more and more often he thought he had overdeveloped.

'What are you doing?' Jon asked.

The bag was so full it bulged. Harry grabbed the soft, thick paper and ripped it open. The bag split and a fine cloud of black dust rose like a spirit from a lamp. It ascended weightlessly towards the ceiling as Jon and Harry examined the contents on the parquet floor.

'Mercy,' Jon whispered.