to the white ventilation gap in the wall and tried to push the gun in there, but there was a grid inside.
He stepped back down. He was breathing hard now, and getting hot inside his shirt. Eight minutes to the train. He could take a later one, of course; that wasn't critical. What was critical was that five minutes had passed and he still hadn't got rid of the weapon, and she always said that anything over four minutes was an unacceptable risk.
Naturally, he could leave the gun on the floor, but they always worked to the principle that the gun should not be found before he was safe.
He left the cubicle and went to the sink. Washed his hands while his eyes scrutinised the deserted room. Upomoc! And stopped at the soap container over the sink.
Jon and Thea left the restaurant in Torggata with arms entwined.
Thea let out a scream as she slipped on the ice under the treacherous new snow in the pedestrian zone. She almost dragged Jon down with her, but he saved them at the last minute. Her bright laughter pealed in his ears.
'You said yes!' he shouted to the sky and felt the snowflakes melting on his face. 'You said yes!'
A siren rang out in the night. Several sirens. The sounds came from the direction of Karl Johans gate.
'Shall we go and see what the fuss is?' Jon asked, taking her hand.
'No, Jon,' said Thea, with a frown.
'Yes, come on, let's!'
Thea dug her feet into the ground, but the slippery soles couldn't find any purchase. 'No, Jon.'
But Jon just laughed and pulled her after him like a sledge.
'No, I said!'
The sound of her voice was enough to make Jon let go at once. He looked at her in surprise.
She sighed. 'I don't want to see a fire right now. I want to go to bed. With you.'
Jon studied her face. 'I am so happy, Thea. You have made me so happy.'
He couldn't hear what she replied. Her face was buried in his jacket.
Part Two
THE REDEEMER
9
Tuesday, 16 December. The Snow.
The snow falling on Egertorget was stained yellow by the floodlights of the Crime Scene Unit.
Harry and Halvorsen stood outside the bar 3 Brodre watching the spectators and the media pushing against the police barriers. Harry took the cigarette out of his mouth and gave a cough, throaty and moist. 'Lots of press,' he said.
'They were here in no time,' Halvorsen said. 'Only a stone's throw from their offices, of course.'
'Juicy number. Murder in the midst of the Christmas scramble in Norway's most famous street. A victim everyone has seen; the guy standing by the Salvation Army pot. While a well-known band is performing. What more can they ask for?'
'An interview with celebrity investigator Harry Hole?'
'We'll stay here for the moment,' Harry said. 'Have you got the time of the murder?'
'A bit after seven.'
Harry looked at his watch. 'That's almost an hour ago. Why didn't anyone ring me before?'
'Dunno. I got a call from the POB a little before half seven. I thought you would be here when I arrived…'
'So you rang me on your own initiative?'
'Well, you're, like, the inspector after all.'
'Like,' Harry mumbled, flicking the cigarette to the ground. It melted its way through the light covering of snow and vanished.
'All the evidence will soon be under half a metre of snow,' Halvorsen said. 'Typical.'
'There won't be any evidence,' Harry said.
Beate was walking towards them with snow in her blonde hair. Holding a small plastic bag between her fingers with an empty casing inside.
'Wrong,' Halvorsen said to Harry with a triumphant smile.
'Nine millimetre,' Beate said, grimacing. 'Most common ammo around. And that's all we've got.'
'Forget what you have or haven't got,' Harry said. 'What was your first impression? Don't think, speak.'
Beate smiled. She knew Harry now. First, intuition, then the facts. Because intuition provides facts too; it's all the information the crime scene gives you, but which the brain cannot articulate straight off.
'Not a great deal. Egertorget is the busiest square in Oslo. Hence we had an extremely contaminated scene even though we arrived twenty minutes after the man was killed. But it seems professional. The doctor is looking at the victim now – it looks like he was hit by one bullet. Right in the forehead. Pro. Yes, that's my instinct.'
'Working by instinct, are we, Inspector?'
All three turned round to the voice behind them. It was Gunnar Hagen. He was wearing a green military jacket and a black woollen cap. The smile was visible only at the corners of his mouth.
'We try anything that works, boss,' Harry said. 'What brings you here?'
'Isn't this where it happens?'
'In a way.'
'Bjarne Moller preferred the office, I gather. For myself, I am of the persuasion that a leader should be in the field. Was more than one shot fired? Halvorsen?'
Halvorsen flinched. 'Not according to the witnesses we've spoken to.'
Hagen stretched the fingers of his gloves. 'Description?'
'A man.' Halvorsen's eyes flitted between the POB and Harry. 'That's all we know so far. People were watching the band and the whole thing happened very quickly.'
Hagen sniffed. 'In a crowd like this someone must have got a good look at the gunman.'
'You would think so,' Halvorsen said. 'But we don't know for certain where the man was standing.'
'I see.' Again the tiny smile.
'He was standing in front of the victim,' Harry said. 'Distance of two metres, maximum.'
'Oh?' Hagen and the other two turned to Harry.
'Our gunman knew that if you want to kill someone with a smallcalibre weapon, you shoot him in the head,' Harry said. 'Since he fired only one shot, he was sure of the result. Ergo, he must have been standing so close that he could see the hole in the forehead so he knew he couldn't have failed. If you examine his clothes, you should be able to find a fine gunshot residue which will prove what I am saying. Maximum two metres.'
'One and a half,' Beate said. 'Most guns eject the shell casing to the right, but not very far. This was found trampled into the snow one metre and forty-six centimetres from the body. And the dead man had singed woollen threads on his coat sleeve.'
Harry studied Beate. It was not primarily her innate ability to distinguish faces he appreciated, but her intelligence, zeal and the idiotic notion they shared: that the job they did was important.
Hagen stamped his feet in the snow. 'Well done, Lonn. But who on earth would shoot a Salvation Army officer?'
'He wasn't an officer,' Halvorsen said. 'Just a normal soldier. Officers are permanent; soldiers are volunteers or work on contracts.' He flipped open his notepad. 'Robert Karlsen. Twenty-nine years old. Single, no children.'
'Not without enemies, it seems,' Hagen said. 'Or what do you say, Lonn?'
Beate didn't look at Hagen, but at Harry, as she answered: 'It might not have been directed at the individual.'
