The Redeemer by Jo Nesbø (Extended Excerpt)

8/11/2019 The Redeemer by Jo Nesb (Extended Excerpt)

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FIRST V INTAGE CRI ME/ BLACK LIZA RD EDITION, SEPTEM BER 2014

Translation copyright 2013by Don Bartlett

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Vintage Books,

a division of Random House, LLC, New York, a Penguin Random House

Company. Originally published in Norway asFrelserenby H. Aschehoug & Co.

(W. Nygaard), Oslo, in 2005. Copyright 2005by Jo Nesb. This translation

originally published in hardcover in Great Britain by Harvill Secker, an imprint

of the Random House Group Ltd., London, in 2009and in the United States

by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House LLC, New York, in 2013.

Vintage is a registered trademark and Vintage Crime/Black Lizard

and colophon are trademarks of Random House LLC.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,

and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination

or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons,

living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Grateful acknowledgment is made to Jalma Music for permission

to reprint an excerpt from Alice written by Tom Waits and Kathleen

Brennan, copyright 2002by Jalma Music (ASCAP). Reprinted

by permission of Jalma Music. All rights reserved.

The Library of Congress has cataloged the Knopf edition as follows:

Nesb, Jo, date-author.

[Frelseren. English]

The Redeemer / Jo Nesb ; translated from the Norwegian by Don Bartlett.First American Edition.

pages cm

1. Hole, Harry (Fictitious character)Fiction.

2. PoliceNorwayOsloFiction.

3. Murder for hireNorwayOsloFiction. 4. Oslo (Norway)Fiction.

5. Mystery fiction. I. Bartlett, Don, translator. II. Title.

PT8951.24.E83F74132013

839.82'38dc23 2012047015

Vintage Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-0-307-74298-8

eBook: 978-0-307-59673-4

Book design by Cassandra Pappas

www.weeklylizard.com

Printed in the United States of America

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part one

Advent


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1au g u s t 19 91

The Stars

She was fourteen years old and sure that if she shut her eyestight and concentrated she could see the stars through the

roof.All around her, women were breathing. Regular, heavy,nighttime breathing. One was snoring, and that was Aun-tie Sara, who had been given a mattress beneath the open

window.She closed her eyes and tried to breathe like the oth-

ers. It was difficult to sleep, especially because everything

around her was so new and different. The sounds of thenight and the forest beyond the window in stgrd weredifferent. The people she knew from the meetings in thecitadel and the summer camps were somehow not the same.She was not the same, either. The face and body she saw inthe mirror this summer were new. And her emotions, thesestrange hot and cold currents that flowed through her whenthe boys looked at her. Or when one of them in particularlooked at her. Robert. He was different this year, too.

She opened her eyes again and stared. She knew Godhad the power to do great things, even allow her to see thestars through the roof. If it was His wish.

It had been a long and eventful day. The dry summer

wind had whispered through the corn, and the leaves on the


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4 j o n e s b

trees danced as if in a fever, causing the light to filter throughto the visitors on the field. They had been listening to one of

the Salvation Army cadets from the officer-training schooltalking about his work as a preacher on the Faeroe Islands.He was good-looking and spoke with great sensitivity andpassion. But she was preoccupied with shooing away a bum-blebee that kept buzzing around her head, and by the timeit moved off, the heat had made her drowsy. When the cadetfinished, all faces were turned to the territorial commander,David Eckhoff, who had been observing them with his smil-ing, young eyes, which were actually over fifty years old. Hesaluted in the Salvation Army manner, with his right handraised above his shoulder and pointing to the kingdom ofheaven, amid a resounding shout of Hallelujah! Then heprayed for the cadets work with the poor and the pariahs to

be blessed, and reminded them of the Gospel of Matthew,where it said that Jesus the Redeemer was among them, astranger on the street, maybe a criminal, without food and

without clothing. And that on Judgment Day the righteous,those who had helped the weakest, would have eternal life.It had all the makings of a long speech, but then someone

whispered something and he said, with a smile, that Youth

Hour was next on the program and today it was RikardNilsens turn.

She had heard Rikard make his voice deeper than it wasto thank the commander. As usual, he had prepared what he

was going to say in writing and memorized it. He stood upand recited how he was going to devote his life to the fight,to Jesuss fight for the kingdom of God. His voice was ner-

vous, yet monotonous and soporific. His introverted glowerrested on her. Her eyes were heavy. His sweaty top lip wasmoving to form the familiar, secure, tedious phrases. So shedidnt react when the hand touched her back. Not until itbecame fingertips and they wandered down to the small ofher back, and lower, and made her freeze beneath her thin

summer dress.


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t h e r e d e e m e r 5

She turned and looked into Roberts smiling brown eyes.And she wished her skin were as dark as his so that he would

not be able to see her blush.Shh, Jon had said.Robert and Jon were brothers. Although Jon was one

year older, many people had taken them for twins whenthey were younger. But Robert was seventeen now and

while they had retained some facial similarities, the differ-ences were clearer. Robert was happy and carefree, liked totease and was good at playing the guitar, but was not alwayspunctual for services in the citadel, and sometimes the teas-ing had a tendency to go too far, especially if he noticedothers were laughing. Then Jon would often step in. Jon

was an honest, conscientious boy who most thought wouldgo to officer-training school and wouldthough this was

never formulated out loudfind himself a girl in the Army.The latter could not be taken for granted in Roberts case.Jon was three-quarters of an inch taller than Robert, butin some strange way Robert seemed taller. From the age oftwelve Jon had begun to stoop, as though he were carryingthe woes of the world on his back. Both were dark-skinned,good-looking, with regular features, but Robert had some-

thing Jon did not have. There was something in his eyes,something black and playful, which she wanted and yet didnot want to investigate further.

While Rikard was talking, her eyes were wanderingacross the sea of assembled familiar faces. One day she

would marry a boy from the Salvation Army and perhapsthey would both be posted to another town or another partof the country. But they would always return to stgrd,

which the Army had just bought and was to be their sum-mer site from now on.

On the margins of the crowd, sitting on the steps leadingto the house, was a boy with blond hair stroking a cat thathad settled in his lap. She could tell that he had been watch-

ing her, but he had looked away just as she noticed. He was


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6 j o n e s b

the one person here she didnt know, but she did know thathis name was Mads Gilstrup, that he was the grandchild of

the people who had owned stgrd before, that he was acouple of years older than her and that the Gilstrup familywas wealthy. He was attractive, in fact, but there was some-thing solitary about him. And what was he doing here, any-

way? He had been there the previous night, walking aroundwith an angry frown on his face, not talking to anyone. Shehad felt his eyes on her a few times. Everyone looked at herthis year. That was new, too.

She was jerked out of these thoughts by Robert takingher hand, putting something in it and saying: Come tothe barn when the general-in-waiting has finished. Ive gotsomething to show you.

Then he stood up and walked off, and she looked down

into her hand and almost screamed. With one hand over hermouth, she dropped the object into the grass. It was a bum-blebee. It could still move, despite not having legs or wings.

At last Rikard finished, and she sat watching her par-ents and Robert and Jons parents moving toward the tables

where the coffee was. They were both what Army peoplein their respective Oslo congregations called strong fami-

lies, and she knew watchful eyes were on her.She walked toward the outhouse. Once she was around

the corner, where no one could see her, she scurried in thedirection of the barn.

Do you know what this is? said Robert with the smilein his eyes and the deep voice he had not had the summerbefore.

He was lying on his back in the hay whittling a tree rootwith the penknife he always carried in his belt.

Then he held it up and she saw what it was. She had seendrawings. She hoped it was too dark for him to see her blushagain.

No, she lied, sitting beside him in the hay.

And he gave her that teasing look of his, as if he knew


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something about her she didnt even know herself. Shereturned his gaze and fell back on her elbows.

This is where it goes, he said, and in an instant hishand was up her dress. She could feel the hard tree rootagainst the inside of her thigh and, before she could closeher legs, it was touching her underpants. His breath was hoton her neck.

No, Robert, she whispered.But I made it for you, he wheezed in return.Stop. I dont want to.Are you saying no? To me?She caught her breath and was unable either to answer

or to scream because at that moment they heard Jons voicefrom the barn door: Robert! No, Robert!

She felt him relax and let go, and the tree root was left

between her clenched thighs as he withdrew his hand.Come here! Jon said, as though talking to a disobedi-ent dog.

With a chuckle Robert got up, winked at her and ran outinto the sun to his brother.

She sat up and brushed the hay off her, feeling bothrelieved and ashamed at the same time. Relieved because

Jon had spoiled their crazy game. Ashamed because heseemed to think it was more than that: a game.

Later, during grace before their evening meal, she hadlooked up straight into Roberts brown eyes and seen hislips form one word. She didnt know what it was, but shehad started to giggle. He was crazy! And she was . . . well,

what was she? Crazy, too. Crazy. And in love? Yes, in love,precisely that. And not in the way she had been when she

was twelve or thirteen. Now she was fourteen and this wasbigger. More important. And more exciting.

She could feel the laughter bubbling up inside her now,as she lay there trying to stare through the roof.

Auntie Sara grunted and stopped snoring beneath the

window. Something screeched. An owl?


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8 j o n e s b

She needed to pee.She didnt feel like going out, but she had to. Had to

walk through the dewy grass past the barn, which was darkand quite a different proposition in the middle of the night.She closed her eyes, but it didnt help. She crept out of hersleeping bag, slipped on some sandals and tiptoed over tothe door.

A few stars had appeared in the sky, but they would dis-appear when day broke in the east in an hours time. Thecool air caressed her skin as she scampered along, listen-ing to the unidentifiable sounds of the night. Insects thatstayed quiet during the day. Animals hunting. Rikard saidhe had seen foxes in the distant copse. Or perhaps the ani-mals were the same ones that were out during the day, but

just made different sounds. They changed. Shed their skins,

so to speak.The outhouse stood alone on a small mound behind thebarn. She watched it grow in size as she came closer. Thestrange, crooked hut had been made with untreated woodenboards that had warped, split and turned gray. No windows,a heart on the door. The worst thing about it was that younever knew if anyone was already in there.

And she had an instinct that someone was already inthere.

She coughed so that whoever was there might signal hispresence. A magpie took off from a branch on the edge ofthe wood. Otherwise all was still.

She stepped up onto the flagstone. Grabbed the lumpof wood that passed for a door handle. Pulled it. The blackroom gaped open.

She breathed out. There was a flashlight beside the toi-let seat, but she didnt need to switch it on. She raised theseat lid before closing the door and fastening the door hook.

Then she pulled up her nightgown, pulled down her under-wear and sat down. In the ensuing silence she thought she

heard something. Something that was neither animal nor


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magpie nor insects shedding skin. Something that movedfast through the tall grass behind the toilet. Then the

trickle started and the noise was obscured. But her hearthad already started pounding.When she had finished, she quickly pulled up her under-

pants and sat in the dark listening. But all she could hear wasa faint ripple in the tops of the trees and her blood throb-bing in her ears. She waited for her pulse to slow down, thenshe unhooked the catch and opened the door. The dark fig-ure filled almost the entire doorway. He must have beenstanding and waiting silently outside on the stone step. Thenext minute she was splayed over the toilet seat and he stoodabove her. He closed the door behind him.

You? she said.Me, he said in an alien, tremulous, husky voice.

Then he was on top of her. His eyes glittered in the darkas he bit her lower lip until he drew blood and one handfound the way under her nightgown and tore off her under-

wear. She lay there crippled with fear beneath the knifeblade that stung the skin on her neck while he kept thrust-ing his groin into her before he had even got his trousersoff, like some crazed, copulating dog.

One word from you and Ill cut you into pieces, hewhispered. And not one word issued from her mouth.Because she was fourteen years old and sure that if she shuther eyes tightly and concentrated she would be able to seethe stars through the roof. God had the power to do thingslike that. If it was His wish.


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2s u n d a y, d e c e m b e r 1 4 , 2 0 0 3

The Visit

He studied his reflected features in the train window. Triedto see what it was, where the secret lay. But he saw nothing

in particular, apart from the red neckerchief, just an expres-sionless face and eyes and hair that, approaching the walls ofthe tunnels between Courcelles and Ternes, was as black asthe eternal night of the mtro.Le Monde lay in his lap, fore-casting snow, but above him the streets of Paris were stillcold and deserted beneath impenetrable, low-lying cloudcover. His nostrils flared and drew in the faint but distinct

smell of damp cement, human perspiration, hot metal, eaude cologne, tobacco, wet wool and bile, a smell they nevermanaged to wash out of the train seats, or to ventilate.

The pressure created by an oncoming train made thewindows vibrate, and the darkness was temporarily ban-ished by the pale squares of light that flashed past. Hepulled up the sleeve of his coat and checked his watch, aSeiko SQ50that he had received as partial payment from aclient. There were already scratches on the glass, so he wasnot sure it was a genuine item. A quarter past seven. It wasSunday evening and the car was no more than half full. Helooked around him. People slept on the mtro; they alwaysdid. On weekdays, in particular. Switched off, closed their

eyes and let the daily journey become a dreamless interval


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of nothing between the red or the blue lines on the mtromap, a mute connecting line between work and freedom.

He had read about a man who had sat like this for a wholeday, eyes closed, to and fro, and it was only when they cameto clean the car at the end of the day that they discovered he

was dead. Perhaps he had descended into the catacombs forthis very purpose, to draw a blue connecting line betweenlife and the beyond in this pale yellow coffin, knowing he

would be undisturbed.As for himself, he was forming a connecting line in the

other direction. Back to life. There was this job tonight andthen the one in Oslo. The last job. Then he would be out ofthe catacombs for good.

A dissonant signal screamed before the doors closed inTernes. They picked up speed again.

He closed his eyes, trying to imagine the other smell.The smell of urinal blocks and hot, fresh urine. The smellof freedom. But perhaps it was true what his mother, theteacher, had said. That the human brain can reproducedetailed images of everything you have seen or heard, butnot even the most basic smell.

Smell. The images began to flash past on the inside of

his eyelids. He had been fifteen years old, sitting in the cor-ridor of the hospital in Vukovar, listening to his motherrepeat the mumbled prayer to Thomas the Apostle, thepatron saint of construction workers, to let God spare herhusband. He had heard the rumble of the Serbian artilleryfiring from the river and the screams of those being oper-ated on in the infants ward, where there were no longer anyinfants because the women of the town had stopped pro-ducing after the siege started. He had worked as an errandboy in the hospital and learned to shut out the noises, thescreams and the artillery. But not the smells. And one smellabove all others. Surgeons performing an amputation firsthad to cut through the flesh to the bone, and then, so that

patients did not bleed to death, to use something that looked


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like a soldering iron to cauterize the blood vessels so thatthey were closed off. The smell of burned flesh and blood

was like nothing else.A doctor came into the corridor and waved him and hismother in. Approaching the bed, he had not dared to look athis father; he had just concentrated on the big brown handclutching the mattress and trying, as it seemed, to tear it intwo. It could have succeeded, for these were the strongesthands in the town. His father was a steel-benderhe wasthe person who went on building sites when the bricklayers

were finished, put his large hands around the ends of theprotruding steel used to reinforce the concrete, and withone quick, practiced movement, bent the ends of the steelpoles and wove them into each other. He had seen his father

working; it looked like he was wringing a cloth. No one had

invented a machine that did the job better.He squeezed his eyes shut as he heard his father screamout in pain and anguish: Take the boy out!

But he askedOut!

The doctors voice: The bleeding has stopped. Letsget cracking now! Someone grabbed him under the arms

and lifted him. He tried to struggle, but he was so small, solight. And that was when he noticed the smell. Burned fleshand blood.

The last thing he heard was the doctors voice:Saw, please.

The door slammed behind him and he sank down ontohis knees and continued to pray where his mother had leftoff. Save him. Maim him, but save him. God had the powerto do things like that. If it was His wish.

He felt someone watching him, opened his eyes and wasback in the mtro. On the seat opposite was a woman withtaut jaw muscles and a weary, distant gaze that moved away

when it met his. The second hand on his wristwatch jerked

forward as he repeated the address to himself. He felt his


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pulse. Normal. His head was light, but not too light. Hewas neither hot nor cold, felt neither fear nor pleasure, nei-

ther satisfaction nor dissatisfaction. The train was slowingdown. Charles de Gaulletoile. He sent the woman a finalglance. She had been studying him, but if she should evermeet him again, maybe even tonight, she still would notrecognize him.

He got to his feet and waited by the doors. The brakesgave a low lament. Urinal blocks and urine. And freedom.

As impossible to imagine as a smell. The doors slid open.

Harry stepped onto the platform and stood inhaling thewarm underground air as he read the address on the slip ofpaper. He heard the doors close and felt the draft of air on

his back as the train set off again. Then he walked towardthe exit. An advertisement over the escalator told himthere were ways of avoiding colds. Like hell there are, hecoughed, stuffing a hand down the deep pocket of his woolcoat and finding the pack of cigarettes under the hip flaskand the tin of throat lozenges.

The cigarette bobbed up and down in his mouth as he

walked through the glass exit door, leaving the raw, unnatu-ral heat of Oslos underground behind him, and ran up thesteps to Oslos ultra-natural December darkness and freez-ing temperatures. Harry instinctively shrank. Egertorget.

This small, open square was an intersection between pedes-trian streets in the heart of Oslo, if the city could be said tohave a heart at this time of the year. Shops were open thisSunday since it was the penultimate weekend before Christ-mas, and the square was teeming with people hurrying toand fro in the yellow light that fell from the windows of thesurrounding modest three-story shops. Harry saw the bagsof wrapped presents and made a mental note to buy some-thing for Bjarne Mller, whose last day at Police HQ was

tomorrow. Harrys boss and chief protector in the police


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force for all these years was at long last realizing his plansto reduce his hours, and from next week onward would take

over as a so-called senior special investigator at the Bergenpolice station, which meant in reality that Bjarne Mllercould do as he liked until he retired. Cushy setupbut Ber-gen? Rain and dank mountains. Mller didnt even comefrom Bergen. Harry had always likedbut not alwaysappreciatedBjarne Mller.

A man dressed head to toe in a down jacket and trousersslowly waddled past like an astronaut, grinning and blow-ing frosted breath from round, pink cheeks. Stooped shoul-ders and closed winter faces. Harry spotted a pallid-faced

woman wearing a thin, black leather jacket with holes in theelbows standing by the jewelers, hopping from one foot tothe other as her eyes searched, hoping to find her supplier

soon. A beggar, long-haired and unshaven, but well coveredin warm, fashionable, youthful clothing, sat in a yoga posi-tion, leaning against a lamppost, his head bent forward asif in meditation, with a brown paper cup from a cappuccinobar in front of him. Harry had seen more and more beggarsover the last year, and it had struck him that they all lookedthe same. Even the paper cups were identical, as though it

were a secret code. Perhaps they were creatures from outerspace quietly taking over his town, his streets. No problem.Feel free.

Harry entered the jewelers shop.Can you fix this? he said to the young man behind

the counter, passing him his grandfathers watch. Harry hadbeen given it when he was a boy in ndalsnes, the day theyhad buried his mother. He had almost been frightened, buthis granddad had reassured him that watches were the sortof thing you gave away, and Harry should remember to passit on. Before its too late.

Harry had forgotten all about the watch until Oleg vis-ited him in his flat on Sofies Gate and had seen the silver

watch in a drawer while he was looking for Harrys Game


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Boy. Oleg, who was ten years old, but had long had the mea-sure of Harry at their shared passionthe rather outdated

computer game Tetriswas suddenly oblivious to the duelhe had been looking forward to, and instead sat fiddlingwith the watch, trying to make it go.

Its broken, Harry said.Ooof, Oleg answered. Everything can be repaired.Harry hoped in his heart of hearts that this contention

was true, but he had days when he had severe doubts. None-theless, he had wondered in a vague way whether he shouldintroduce Oleg to Jokke & Valentinerne and their album

Everything Can Be Repaired.However, on reflection, Harryhad concluded that Olegs mother, Rakel, was unlikely toappreciate the connection: her ex-alcoholic lover passing onsongs about being an alcoholic, written and sung by a now-

dead junkie.Can you repair it? he asked the young man behind thecounter. By way of an answer, nimble, expert hands openedthe watch.

Not worth it.Not worth it?If you go to an antique shop, they have better-working

watches and they cost less than it would to have this fixed.Do it anyway, Harry said.OK, said the young man, who had already started

examining the internal mechanisms and, in fact, seemedpretty pleased with Harrys decision. Come back on Tues-day.

On leaving the shop Harry heard the frail sound of a sin-gle guitar string through an amplifier. It rose when the gui-tarist, a boy with scraggly facial hair and fingerless gloves,turned one of the tuning keys. It was time for one of thetraditional pre-Christmas concerts, when well-known art-ists performed on behalf of the Salvation Army in Egertor-get. People had already begun to gather in front of the band

as it took up a position behind the Salvation Armys black


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Christmas kettle, a cooking pot that hung from three polesin the middle of the square.

Is that you?Harry turned. It was the woman with the junkie eyes.Its you, isnt it? Have you come instead of Snoopy? I

need a fix right away. IveSorry, Harry interrupted. Its not me you want.She stared at him. Leaning her head to one side, she nar-

rowed her eyes, as though appraising whether he was lyingto her. Yep, Ive seen you somewhere before.

Im a policeman.She paused. Harry breathed in. There was a delayed

reaction, as if the message had to follow detours aroundscorched neurons and smashed synapses. Then the dullglow of hatred that Harry had been waiting for lit up in her

eyes.The cops?Thought we had a deal. You were supposed to stay in

the square, in Plata, Harry said, looking past her at thevocalist.

Huh, said the woman, standing straight in front ofHarry. Youre not in Narcotics. Youre the guy on the TV

who killedCrime Squad. Harry took her by the arm. Listen, you

can get what you want in Plata. Dont force me to drag youinto the station.

Cannot. She tore her arm away.Harry held up both hands. Tell me youre not going to

do any deals here and I can go. OK?She cocked her head. The thin, anemic lips tightened a

fraction. She seemed to see something amusing in the situa-tion. Should I tell you why I cant go to the square?

Harry waited.Because my boys down there.He felt his stomach churn.


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I dont want him to see me like this. Do you under-stand, cop?

Harry looked into her defiant face as he tried to formu-late a sentence. Merry Christmas, he said, turning hisback on her.

Harry dropped his cigarette into the packed brown snowand walked off. He wanted this job off his back. He didntsee the people coming toward him, and, staring down at theblue ice as if they had a bad conscience, they didnt see him,either, as if they, citizens of the worlds most generous socialdemocracy, were nonetheless ashamed. Because my boys downthere.

On Fredensborgveien, beside Oslos Deichmanske Pub-lic Library, Harry stopped outside the street number that

was scrawled on the envelope he was carrying. He leaned

back and looked up. The faade was gray and black andhad recently been repainted. A graffiti artists wet dream.Christmas decorations were already hanging from some ofthe windows like silhouettes against the gentle yellow lightin what seemed like warm, secure homes. And perhaps theyare indeed that, Harry forced himself to think. Forced,because you cant be in the police for twelve years without

being infected by the contempt for humanity that comeswith the territory. But he did fight against it; you had to givehim that.

He found the name by the bell, closed his eyes and triedto find the right words. It didnt help. Her voice was still inthe way.

I dont want him to see me like this . . .Harry gave up. Is there a right way to formulate the

impossible?He pressed his thumb against the cold metal button, and

somewhere inside the building it rang.

* * *


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The Redeemer by Jo Nesbø (Extended Excerpt)

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Transcript of The Redeemer by Jo Nesbø (Extended Excerpt)