The Redeemer

Part Five
EPILOGUE
35 Guilt

Harry emerged from the underground in Egertorget. It was the day before Christmas Eve and people were hurrying past him in search of the last presents. Nevertheless, Yuletide serenity seemed to have settled over the town already. You could see it in people's faces, the smiles of contentment because Christmas preparations were over or the smiles of weary resignation. A man in matching Puffa jacket and trousers waddled past like an astronaut, grinning and blowing frosted breath from round, pink cheeks. Harry saw one desperate face, though. A pale woman dressed in a thin, black leather jacket with holes in the elbows standing by the jeweller's and hopping from one foot to the other.

The face of the young man behind the counter lit up when he caught sight of Harry; he hurriedly dealt with his customer and darted into the back room. He came back with Harry's grandfather's watch, which he placed on the counter with an expression of pride.

'It's working,' Harry said, impressed.

'Everything can be repaired,' the young man said. 'Just make sure you don't overwind it. That wears down the mechanisms. Try and I'll show you.'

As Harry wound the watch he could feel the rough friction against the metal parts and the resistance of the spring. And he noticed the rapt attention of the young man.

'Excuse me,' the young man asked, 'but may I ask where you got hold of that watch?'

'I was given it by my grandfather,' Harry answered, taken aback by the sudden reverence in the watch repairer's voice.

'Not that one. That one.' The young man pointed to Harry's wrist.

'I was given it by my former boss when he resigned.'

'My goodness.' The young watch repairer leaned over Harry's left arm and examined the wristwatch with great care. 'It's genuine, no doubt about it. That was a generous gift.'

'Oh? Is there anything special about it?'

The watch repairer looked at Harry in disbelief. 'Don't you know?'

Harry shook his head.

'It's a Lange 1 Tourbillon made by A. Lange amp; Sohne. On the back you'll find a serial number which tells you how many units of this model were made. If my memory serves me well, there were a hundred and fifty. You're wearing one of the most beautiful timepieces that has ever been made. In fact, the question is whether it is wise to wear it. With the market price the way it is now, strictly speaking, it should be in a bank vault.

'Bank vault?' Harry eyed the anonymous-looking watch that a few days ago he had thrown out of the bedroom window. 'It doesn't seem very exclusive.'

'But that's what it is. It's only available with the standard black watch strap and the grey face, and there's not a single diamond or ounce of gold in the watch. It does look like standard steel, platinum, it's true. However, its value lies in the fact that this is workmanship which has been elevated to the level of art.'

'I see. How much would you say this watch is worth?'

'I don't know. At home I have some catalogues of auction prices for rare watches. I could bring them in some time.'

'Just give me a round figure,' Harry said.

'A round figure?'

'An idea.'

The young man stuck out his lower lip and moved his head from side to side. Harry waited.

'Well, I wouldn't sell it for less than four hundred thousand.'

'Four hundred thousand kroner?' Harry exclaimed.

'No, no,' said the young man. 'Four hundred thousand dollars.'

Back outside the jeweller's shop, Harry no longer felt the cold. Nor the heavy drowsiness that remained in his body after twelve hours of sound sleep. Nor did he notice the hollow-eyed woman with the thin leather jacket and the junkie glaze come over to ask him whether he was the policeman she had spoken to a few days before, and whether he knew anything about her son whom no one had seen for four days.

'Where was he last seen?' Harry asked mechanically.

'Where do you think?' the woman said. 'In Plata, of course.'

'What's his name?'

'Kristoffer. Kristoffer Jorgensen. Hello! Is anyone at home?'

'What?'

'You look like you're on a trip, man.'

'Sorry. You'd better take a photo of him to the main police station, ground floor, and report him missing.'

'Photo?' She gave a shrill laugh. 'I've got a photo of him from when he was seven. Do you think that will do?'

'Haven't you got anything more recent?'

'And who do you think would have taken it?'

Harry found Martine at the Lighthouse. The cafe was closed, but the receptionist at the Hostel had let Harry in round the back.

She was standing with her back to him in the clothes depot emptying the washing machine. He coughed quietly so as not to frighten her.

Harry was watching her shoulder blades and neck muscles when she turned round and he wondered where she had this suppleness from. And whether she would always have it. She stood up, tilted her head, brushed away a wisp of hair and smiled.

'Hi, the one they call Harry.'

She was standing a step away from him with her arms down by her sides. He had a good look at her. At the winter-pale skin that still had this strange glow. The sensitive, flared nostrils, the unusual eyes with pupils that had spilt over, making them resemble partial lunar eclipses. And at the lips that she unconsciously curled inside, moistened and then pressed against each other, soft and wet, as though she had just kissed herself. The drum of the tumble dryer rumbled.

They were alone. She took a deep breath and leaned back her head a tiny bit. She was a step away.

'Hi,' Harry said. Without moving.

She blinked twice in quick succession. Then she sent him a fleeting, somewhat bewildered smile, turned to the worktop and started folding the clothes.

'I'll have finished soon. Will you wait?'

'I have reports to finish before the holidays start.'

'We're putting on a Christmas dinner here tomorrow,' she said, half turning. 'Would you like to come and help?'

He shook his head.

'Other plans?'

Today's Aftenposten lay open on the worktop beside her. They had devoted a whole page to the Salvation Army soldier who had been found dead in the toilet at Gardemoen Airport last night. The newspaper quoted Chief Inspector Gunnar Hagen who said the gunman and the motive were as yet unknown, but they thought the case was connected with the previous week's killing in Egertorget.

As the two murder victims were brothers and police suspicions were now concentrated on an unidentified Croat, the day's newspapers had already begun to speculate whether the background could be a family feud. Verdens Gang drew attention to the fact that many years ago the Karlsen family had taken their holidays in Croatia and with the Croatian tradition of blood vengeance this explanation seemed a possibility. The leader in Dagbladet warned against prejudices and lumping the Croats with criminal elements among Serbians and Kosovar-Albanians.

'I've been invited by Rakel and Oleg,' he said. 'I've just been up there with a present for Oleg and they asked then.'

'They?'

'She.'

Martine continued to fold clothes while nodding, as though he had said something that needed to be thought through.

'Does that mean that you two…?'

'No,' Harry said. 'It doesn't mean that.'

'Is she still with that other guy then? The doctor.'

'As far as I know.'

'Haven't you asked?' He could hear that a wounded anger had crept into her voice.

'That's nothing to do with me. I'm told he's going to celebrate Christmas with his parents. That's all. And you're going to be here?'

She nodded in silence, and went on folding.

'I came to say goodbye,' he said.

She nodded, but didn't turn.

'Goodbye,' he said.

She stopped folding. He could see her shoulders heaving.

'You will understand,' he said. 'You might not think so now, but in time you'll understand that it couldn't have been… any different.'

She turned. Her eyes brimmed with tears. 'I know, Harry. But I wanted it anyway. For a while. Would that have been asking so much?'

'No.' Harry gave a wry smile. 'A while would have been great. But it's better to say goodbye now than to wait until it hurts.'

'It already hurts, though, Harry.' The first tear rolled.

Had Harry not known what he did about Martine Eckhoff he would have considered it impossible for such a young girl to know what it was to hurt. Instead he reflected on what his mother had once said when she was in hospital. There was only one thing emptier than having lived without love, and that was having lived without pain.

'I'm going now, Martine.'

And so he did. He walked to the car parked by the pavement and banged on the side window. It slid down.

'She's a big girl now,' he said. 'So I'm not sure she needs such close attention any more. I know you'll continue whatever, but I wanted to say that. And wish you a happy Christmas and good luck.'

Rikard seemed to be on the point of saying something, but made do with a nod.

Harry started walking towards the Akerselva. He could already feel that the weather was becoming milder.

Halvorsen was buried on 27 December. It was raining; melted snow ran in fast-flowing streams down the streets and the snow in the cemetery was grey and heavy.

Harry was a coffin-bearer. In front of him was Jack's younger brother. Harry recognised the gait.

Afterwards they gathered in Valkyrien, a popular taproom better known as Valka.

'Come here,' Beate said, taking Harry away from the others and over to a table in the corner. 'Everyone was there,' she said.

Harry nodded. Refraining from saying what was on his mind. Bjarne Moller wasn't there. No one had even heard from him.

'There are a couple of things I have to know, Harry. Since this case has not been solved.'

He looked at her. Her face was pale and lined with grief. He knew she wasn't a teetotaller, but she had Farris mineral water in her glass. Why? he wondered. If he could have stood it, he would have anaesthetised himself with anything he could have got his hands on today.

'The case isn't closed, Beate.'

'Harry, don't you think I've got eyes in my head? The case has been passed over to one dipstick and an incompetent Kripos officer who shift piles of papers and scratch heads they haven't got.'

Harry shrugged.

'But you solved the case, didn't you, Harry? You know what happened; you just don't want to tell anyone.'

Harry sipped his coffee.

'Why, Harry? Why is it so important no one knows?'

'I had decided to tell you,' he said. 'When a bit of time had passed. It wasn't Robert who took out the contract in Zagreb. It was Jon.'

'Jon?' Beate gaped at him in amazement.

Harry told her about the coin and Espen Kaspersen.

'But I had to know for sure,' he said. 'So I did a deal with the only person who could identify Jon as the person who had been in Zagreb. I gave Stankic's mother Jon's mobile phone number. She rang him the evening he raped Sofia. She said that Jon spoke Norwegian at first, but when she didn't answer he spoke English and said 'Is that you?' obviously thinking it was the little redeemer. She rang me afterwards and confirmed it was the same voice that she had heard in Zagreb.'

'Was she absolutely certain?'

Harry nodded. 'The expression she used was "quite sure". Jon had an unmistakable accent, she said.'

'And what was your part of the deal?'

'To make sure her son was not shot dead by our guys.'

Beate took a large swig of Farris as though the information needed to be washed down.

'Did you promise that?'

'I did,' Harry said. 'And here's the bit I was going to tell you. It wasn't Stankic who killed Halvorsen. It was Jon Karlsen.'

She stared at him open-mouthed. Then tears filled her eyes and she whispered with bitterness in her voice: 'Is that true, Harry? Or are you saying that to make me feel better? Because you believe I couldn't have lived with the knowledge that the perpetrator had got away?'

'Well, we have the jackknife that was found under the bed in Robert's flat the day after Jon raped Sofia there. If you ask someone on the q. t. to examine the blood to see if it matches Halvorsen's DNA, I think you'll have peace of mind.'

Beate gazed into her glass. 'I know it says in the report that you were in the toilet and that you didn't see anyone there. Do you know what I think? I think you did see Stankic, but you didn't make a move to stop him.'

Harry didn't answer.

'I think the reason you didn't tell anyone you knew that Jon was guilty was because you didn't want anyone to intervene before Stankic had carried out his mission. To kill Jon Karlsen.' Beate's voice quivered with anger. 'But if you think I'm going to thank you for that, you're wrong.'

She slammed the glass down on the table, and a couple of the others peered over in their direction. Harry kept his mouth shut and waited.

'We're police officers, Harry. We maintain law and order, we don't judge. And you're not my personal bloody redeemer, have you got that?'

Her breathing was laboured and she ran the back of her hand across her cheeks where tears were beginning to flow.

'Have you finished?' asked Harry.

'Yes,' she said with a stubborn glare.

'I don't know all the reasons for why I did what I did,' Harry said. 'The brain is a singular piece of machinery. You may be right. I may have set everything up to happen as it did. But, if that was the case, I want you to know that I didn't do it for your redemption, Beate.' Harry drained his coffee in one swig and stood up. 'I did it for mine.'

In the time between Christmas Day and New Year's Eve the streets were washed clean by the rain, the snow disappeared entirely and when the New Year came with a few degrees below zero and feathery snow, the winter seemed to have been given a new and better start. Oleg had received slalom skis for Christmas and Harry took him up to the Wyller downhill slope and started with plough turns. On the way home in the car after the third day on the slope Oleg asked Harry if they couldn't do the gates soon.

Harry saw Lund-Helgesen's car parked in front of the garage so he dropped Oleg at the bottom of the drive, headed home, lay on the sofa staring at the ceiling and listened to records. Old ones.

In the second week of January Beate announced that she was pregnant. She would be giving birth to her and Halvorsen's baby in the summer. Harry thought back and wondered how blind you could be.

Harry had a lot of time to think in January as the part of humanity that lives in Oslo had decided to take a break from killing each other. So he considered whether to let Skarre move in with him in 605, the Clearing House. He considered what he should do with the rest of his life. And he considered whether you ever found out if you had made the right decisions while you were still alive.

It was the end of February before Harry bought a plane ticket to Bergen.

In the town of the seven mountains it was still autumn and snowfree, and on Floien mountain Harry had the impression that the cloud enveloping them was the same as on the previous visit. He found him at a table in Floien Folkerestaurant.

'I was told this is where you sit at the moment,' Harry said.

'I've been waiting,' said Bjarne Moller, drinking up. 'You took your time.'

They went outside and stood by the railing at the lookout point. Moller seemed even paler and thinner than last time. His eyes were clear, but his face was bloated and his hands trembled. Harry guessed it was because of pills rather than alcohol.

'I didn't understand what you meant by straight away,' Harry said. 'When you said I should follow the money.'

'Wasn't I right?'

'Yes,' Harry said. 'You were right. But I thought you were talking about my case. Not about you.'

'I was talking about all cases, Harry.' The wind blew long strands of hair in and out of Moller's face. 'By the way, you didn't tell me if Gunnar Hagen was pleased with the outcome of your case. Or, to be more precise, the lack of outcome.'

Harry shrugged. 'David Eckhoff and the Salvation Army were spared an embarrassing scandal that could have damaged their reputation and their work. Albert Gilstrup lost his only son, a daughter-in-law and had a contract cancelled that might have saved the family fortune. Sofia Miholjec and her family are going back to Vukovar. They have received support from a newly established local benefactor to build a house down there. Martine Eckhoff is going out with a man called Rikard Nilsen. In short, life goes on.'

'What about you? Are you seeing Rakel?'

'Now and then I do.'

'What about the doctor guy?'

'I don't ask. They have their own problems to deal with.'

'Does she want you back, is that it?'

'I think she wishes I was the kind of person who could live the sort of life he does.' Harry turned up his collar and peered down at what it was claimed was the town beneath. 'And for that matter I wish that, too, sometimes.'

They fell silent.

'I took Tom Waaler's watch to a jeweller's and had it checked over by a young man who understands that kind of thing. Do you remember I once told you I was having nightmares about the Rolex watch that kept ticking on Waaler's severed arm?'

Moller nodded.

'Now I have the explanation,' Harry said. 'The world's most expensive watches have a Tourbillon system with a frequency of twenty-eight thousand vibrations an hour. This has the effect of making the second hand look as if it's flying around in one movement. And with a mechanical escapement the ticking sound is more intense than in other watches.'

'Wonderful watches, Rolex.'

'The Rolex brand was added by a watchmaker to disguise what kind of watch it really is. It's a Lange 1 Tourbillon. One of a hundred and fifty specimens. In the same series as the one I got from you. The last time a Lange 1 Tourbillon was sold at an auction the price was a little under three million kroner.'

Moller nodded with a tiny smile playing on his lips.

'Was that how you paid yourselves?' Harry asked. 'With watches costing three million?'

Moller buttoned up his coat and turned up the collar. 'Their value is more stable and they're less conspicuous than cars. Less flamboyant than expensive art, easier to smuggle than cash and they don't need to be laundered.'

'And watches are something you give as a present.'

'That's it.'

'What happened?'

'It's a long story, Harry. And like many tragedies it started with the best intentions. We were a small group of people who wanted to play our part. Put things right that a society governed by law was not able to do unaided.'

Moller put on a pair of black gloves.

'Some say the reason so many criminals go free is that the legal system is a net with a large mesh. But that gives a completely false picture. It's a thin, fine-meshed net which catches the small fry, but tears when the big fish crash into it. We wanted to be the net behind the net, the one that could bring the sharks up short. There weren't only people from the police in the group, but also lawyers, politicians and bureaucrats who could see that the structure of our society, legislation and the legal system were not ready for the international organised crime that invaded our country when the borders went down. The police did not have the authority to play by the same rules as the lawbreakers. Until legislation had caught up. Therefore, we had to operate in a covert fashion.'

Moller, staring into the mist, shook his head.

'But in those places that are closed and secret and cannot be ventilated the rot sets in. A culture of microorganisms grew in the police, who first declared we would have to smuggle in weapons to match those our adversaries had at their disposal. Then we would have to sell them so as to finance our work. It was a bizarre paradox, but those who opposed this soon found out that the microorganisms had taken over. And then came the gifts. Trivialities to start with. Encouragement to spur you on, as they said. Thereby signalling that not accepting a gift would be seen as not showing solidarity. But in fact it was just the next stage in the rotting process, in the corruption that assimilated you almost without your noticing until you were sitting in crap up to your neck. And there was no way out. They had too much on you. The worst thing was that you didn't know who "they" were. We had organised ourselves into small cells which communicated with each other via a contact person who was pledged to secrecy. I didn't know that Tom Waaler was one of us, that he was the one organising the arms smuggling or that a person with the code name Prince even existed. Not until you and Ellen Gjelten discovered it. And then I also knew that we had lost sight of our real goal. That it was a long time since we had had any other goal except lining our own pockets. That I was corrupt. And that I was an accessory in…' Moller took a deep breath: '… the murder of police officers like Ellen Gjelten.'

Wisps and wafers of cloud whirled up past them as though Floien were flying.

'One day I couldn't take it any more. I tried to get out. They gave me alternatives. Which were simple. But I'm not afraid for myself. The only thing I'm afraid of is that they will hurt my family.'

'Is that why you fled?'

Bjarne Moller nodded.

Harry sighed. 'And so you gave me this watch to put an end to it.'

'It had to be you, Harry. It couldn't be anyone else.'

Harry nodded. He felt a lump growing in his throat. He was reminded of something Moller had said the previous time they had stood here at the top of the mountain. It was funny to think that six minutes on the cable car from the centre of the second biggest town in Norway there were people who got lost and died. And to imagine you are at the heart of what you think is justice and then suddenly lose all sense of direction and become the very thing you oppose. He thought of all the mental calculations he had gone through, all the major and minor decisions that had led to the last minutes in Gardemoen Airport.

'And what about if I am not so different from you, boss? What about if I said I could be standing where you are now?'

Moller shrugged. 'It's chance and nuances that separate the hero from the villain. That's how it's always been. Righteousness is the virtue of the lazy and the visionless. Without lawbreakers and disobedience we would still have been living in a feudal society. I lost, Harry; it's as simple as that. I believed in something, but I was blinded, and by the time I regained my sight I had been corrupted. It happens all the time.'

Harry shivered in the wind and searched for words. When he finally found some his voice sounded alien and tormented. 'Sorry, boss. I can't arrest you.'

'That's fine, Harry. I'll sort out the rest myself from here.' Moller's voice sounded calm, almost consoling. 'I just wanted you to see everything. And understand. And perhaps learn. There was no more to it than that.'

Harry stared into the impenetrable mist and tried in vain to do as his boss and friend had asked him to do: 'to see everything'. Harry kept his eyes open until the tears came. When he turned round, Bjarne Moller had gone. He called his name in the mist even though he knew that Moller was right: there was no more to it than that. But he thought someone ought to call his name anyway.