Nemesis

'I'm a pisshead taxi driver who knows nada about the latest in IT. And everyone who knows me can tell you, I'm unreliable as far as work goes. In short, the only reason you've come to me is that I'm an old pal. Loyalty. I'll keep my mouth shut, won't I.' He took a long swig of a new beer. 'I may enjoy the odd bevvy, but I'm not stupid, Harry.' He pulled hard on his cigarette. 'So-when do we begin?'

***

Night had settled over Slemdal. The door opened and a man and a woman appeared on the steps. They took leave of their hosts amid laughter, walked down the drive, the shingle crunching under shiny black shoes as they commented in low voices on the food, the host and hostess and the other guests. Thus, as they left the gateway into Bjшrnetrеkket, they didn't notice the taxi parked a bit further down the road. Harry stubbed out his cigarette, turned up the car radio and listened to Elvis Costello droning through 'Watching the Detectives'. On P4. He had noticed that when his favourite hot sounds were old enough, they ended up on tepid radio channels. Naturally, he was all too aware that could mean only one thing-he was getting old, too. Yesterday they had played Nick Cave after Cliff Richard.

An ingratiating night-time voice introduced 'Another Day in Paradise' and Harry switched off. He rolled down the window and listened to the muted bass throb coming from Albu's house, which was the only sound to stir the silence. An adult party. Business connections, neighbours and old college friends. Not quite 'The Birdy Song' and not quite a rave, but G and Ts, Abba and the Rolling Stones. People in their late thirties who had been through higher education. In other words, not too late back to the babysitter. Harry looked at his watch. He thought about the new e-mail on his computer when he and Шystein had switched it on:

I am bored. Are you frightened or just stupid?

He had left the computer in Шystein's hands and borrowed his taxi, a clapped-out Mercedes from the seventies, which had shaken like an old sprung mattress over the speed bumps when he came into the residential area, but was still a dream to drive. He had decided to wait when he saw the formally dressed guests leaving Albu's house. There was no reason to make a scene. And, anyway, he needed to spend some time thinking things through before he did anything stupid. Harry had tried to be cold and rational, but this I am bored had got in the way.

'Now you've thought things through,' Harry muttered to himself in the rear-view mirror. 'Now you can do something stupid.'

Vigdis opened the door. She had performed the magic trick only female illusionists master and one men will never get to the bottom of: she had become beautiful. The only specific change Harry could put his finger on was that she was wearing a turquoise evening dress matching her large blue eyes-suddenly wide open with surprise.

'I apologise for disturbing you at such a late hour, fru Albu. I would like to speak to your husband.'

'We're having a party. Can't it wait until tomorrow?' She sent him an imploring smile, and Harry could see how much she burned to slam the door.

'My apologies,' he said. 'Your husband was not telling the truth when he said he didn't know Anna Bethsen. And I don't think you were, either.' Harry didn't know whether it was the evening dress or the confrontation which made him choose a formal tone. Vigdis Albu's mouth was like a mute 'o'.

'I have a witness who saw them together,' Harry said. 'And I know where the photograph is from.'

She blinked twice.

'Why…?' she stammered. 'Why…?'

'Because they were lovers, fru Albu.'

'No, I mean-why are you telling me this? Who gave you the right?'

Harry opened his mouth, ready to answer, to say he thought she had a right to know, that it would come out anyway, and so on. Instead he stood looking at her. She knew why he was telling her, and he hadn't known himself, not until now. He swallowed.

'The right to do what, dearest?'

Harry caught sight of Arne Albu as he came down the stairs. His forehead was glistening with sweat and his bow tie was hanging loose over his shirt front. From the living room up the stairs he could hear David Bowie erroneously insisting 'This Is Not America'.

'Shh, Arne, you'll wake the children,' Vigdis said, without taking her imploring eyes off Harry.

'They wouldn't wake up if an atomic bomb was dropped,' her husband slurred.

'I think that's what herr Hole just did,' she said softly. 'In order to inflict maximum damage, it appears.'

Harry met her eyes.

'Well?' Arne Albu grinned and put an arm around his wife's shoulders. 'Can I join in the game?' The smile was full of amusement, yet open at the same time, almost innocent. Like the irresponsible delight of a boy who has borrowed his father's car without permission.

'My apologies,' Harry said. 'The game is over. We have the proof we need. And right now an IT expert is tracking down the address you have been sending the e-mails from.'

'What is he talking about?' Arne laughed. 'Proof? E-mails?'

Harry studied him. 'The photograph in Anna's shoe. She took it from the photo album when you and she were at the chalet in Larkollen a few weeks ago.'

'Weeks?' Vigdis asked, looking at her husband.

'He knew that when I showed him the photo,' Harry said. 'He was in Larkollen yesterday and stuck a copy in its place.'

Arne Albu frowned, but continued to smile. 'Have you been drinking, Constable?'

'You shouldn't have told her she was going to die,' Harry went on and knew he was about to lose his grip. 'Or at the very least taken your eyes off her afterwards. She sneaked the photo into her shoe. And that was what gave you away, Albu.'

Harry heard a sharp intake of breath from fru Albu.

'A shoe here or there…' Albu said, still stroking his wife's neck. 'Do you know why Norwegian businessmen can't do business abroad? They forget their shoes. They wear shoes bought in Norway with Prada suits costing fifteen thousand kroner. Foreigners regard that with suspicion.' Albu pointed below. 'Look. Hand-sewn, Italian shoes. Eighteen hundred kroner. Cheap at the price if you're buying confidence.'

'What I'm wondering is why you were so keen to let me know you were waiting outside,' Harry said. 'Was it jealousy?'

Arne shook his head with a laugh as fru Albu freed herself from his arm.

'Did you think I was her new lover?' Harry persisted. 'And because you thought I wouldn't dare do anything in case my name might be brought up in the case, you thought you could play with me a little, torment me, drive me insane, was that how it was?'

'Come on, Arne! Christian wants to give a speech!' A man with a glass and cigar in hand stood swaying at the top of the stairs.

'Start without me,' Arne said. 'I'll just remove this nice gentleman first.'

The man furrowed his brow. 'Trouble, eh?'

'Not at all,' Vigdis hastened to say. 'Just join the others, Thomas.'

The man shrugged and left.

'The other thing which amazes me is that, even after I had confronted you with the photo, you were arrogant enough to continue sending me e-mails,' Harry said.

'I regret to have to repeat myself, Constable,' Albu slurred, 'but what are these…these e-mails you keep going on about?'

'Right. A lot of people think you can send an e-mail anonymously by subscribing to a server without giving your real name. That is a fallacy. My hacker friend has just told me that everything-absolutely everything-you do on the Net leaves an electronic trail which can be, and in this case will be, traced back to the machine they are sent from. It's just a question of knowing where to look.' Harry pulled out a packet of cigarettes from his inside pocket.

'I'd prefer it if you didn't…' Vigdis began, but broke off.

'Tell me, herr Albu,' Harry said, lighting a cigarette. 'Where were you on the Tuesday evening of last week between eleven and one o'clock?'