Harry Hole Oslo Sequence 10 - Police

am,’ said the warden without looking up.
    ‘Perhaps better if you move and then we can get the car out of the way,’ Harry said.
    ‘I don’t think you should talk to me like—’ the warden started, looked up and froze when he saw Harry and the Odessa. And was still frozen to the spot when Harry got into his car, stuffed the gun back in the belt, twisted the key, let go of the clutch and shot off down the road.
    Harry turned into Slemdalsveien, accelerated and passed an oncoming tram. Said a silent prayer that Arnold Folkestad would be on his way home just like him.
    He swung into Holmenkollveien. Hoping Rakel wouldn’t freak out when she saw him. Hoping Oleg . . .
    God, how he was looking forward to seeing them. Even now, in the state he was in. Especially now.
    He slowed before turning into the drive up to the house.
    Then he jammed on the brakes.
    Put the car into reverse.
    Backed up slowly.
    He looked at the parked cars he had just passed, lining the pavement. Stopped. Breathed through his nostrils.
    Arnold Folkestad had been on his way home, true enough. Just like him.
    For parked between two cars which were more typical of Holmenkollen – an Audi and a Mercedes – was a Fiat of indeterminate vintage.

50
    HARRY STOOD UNDER the spruce trees for a few seconds studying the house.
    From there he couldn’t see any signs of a break-in, neither through the door with the three locks nor through the bars on the windows.
    Of course it was by no means certain that it was Folkestad’s Fiat on the road. Lots of people had a Fiat. Harry had placed his hand on the bonnet. It was still warm. He had left his own car in the middle of the road.
    Harry ran through the trees until he was at the back of the house.
    Waited, listened. Nothing.
    He crept over to the wall. Stretched, peered in through the windows, but saw nothing, only darkened rooms.
    He continued round the house until he came to the illuminated windows of the kitchen and the living room.
    Stood up on his tiptoes and looked in. Ducked down again. Leaned back against the rough timber and concentrated on breathing. Because he had to breathe now. Had to ensure his brain had enough oxygen to think at speed.
    A fortress. And what bloody good had that been?
    He had them.
    They were there.
    Arnold Folkestad. Rakel. And Oleg.
    Harry concentrated on memorising what he had seen.
    They were sitting in the entrance hall by the front door.
    Oleg on a spindle-back chair placed in the middle of the room, with Rakel right behind him. Oleg had a white gag in his mouth, and Rakel was tying him to the chair.
    And a few metres behind them, ensconced in an armchair, was Arnold Folkestad with a gun in his hand, evidently giving Rakel orders.
    The details. Folkestad’s gun was a Heckler & Koch, standard police issue. Reliable, wouldn’t jam. Rakel’s mobile phone was on the living-room table. Neither of them looked hurt for the moment. For the moment.
    Why . . .?
    Harry stopped thinking. There wasn’t room, there wasn’t time for any whys, just how he could stop Folkestad.
    Harry had already seen that it was an impossible shot. He wouldn’t be able to hit Arnold Folkestad without endangering Oleg and Rakel.
    Harry raised his head above the windowsill and ducked down again.
    Rakel would soon have finished her job.
    Folkestad would soon start his.
    He had seen the baton. It was leaning against the bookcase beside the armchair. Soon Folkestad would smash Oleg’s face the way he had with the others. A young boy who wasn’t even a policeman. And Folkestad had to be under the illusion that Harry was already dead, so the revenge was pointless. Why . . .? Stop. No whys.
    He had to ring Bjørn. Get Delta sent here. They were in the forest on the wrong side of town. It could easily take forty-five minutes. Fuck! He would have to do this on his own!
    Harry told himself he had time.
    He had several seconds, maybe a minute.
    But he couldn’t hope for the element of surprise if he tried to burst in, not with three locks to open. Folkestad would hear him long before he was inside. Holding a gun to either Rakel’s or Oleg’s head.
    Quickly, quickly! Something, anything, Harry.
    He took out his mobile phone. Wanting to text Bjørn. But his fingers wouldn’t obey, they had frozen, they were numb, as though the blood supply had been cut off.
    Not now, Harry, don’t freeze. This is a standard number. It’s not them, they are . . . victims. Faceless victims. They are . . . the woman you