Free Midnight Sun by Jo Nesbø Page A

of the Lord when death comes.’
    This wasn’t a wedding sermon. Nor was there any bridal couple at the altar. I sat up in the pew and craned my neck. And then I saw it, right in front of the altar. A large coffin.
    â€˜Even so, perhaps he was hoping to forget his past when he set out on his last journey. That his debts would expire, that a line would be drawn under his sins without him having to pay. But he was gathered in, the way we shall all be.’
    I glanced at the exit. Two men were standing on either side of the door with their hands folded in front of them. They were both staring at me. Black suits. Fixers’ outfits. The station wagon from Oslo outside. I had been tricked. Mattis had been sent up to the cabin to lure me from my stronghold and down into the village. To a funeral.
    â€˜And that is why we stand here today with this empty coffin . . .’
    My
funeral. An empty coffin waiting for me.
    Sweat broke out on my forehead. What was their plan, how was it going to happen? Were they going to wait until the ceremony was over, or was I going to be despatched in here, in front of everyone?
    I slipped one hand behind me and made sure that the pistol was there. Should I try to shoot my way out? Or cause a scene, stand up and point at the pair by the door, shouting that they were killers from Oslo, sent by a drug dealer? But what good would that do if the villagers had come here voluntarily to attend the funeral of a stranger from the south? The Fisherman must have paid the villagers; he had even managed to get Lea to go along with the conspiracy. Or, if what she said was true, and they didn’t pay too much heed to earthly possessions here in the village, maybe the Fisherman’s people had started a rumour about me, saying I was the devil incarnate. God knows how they’d managed it, but I knew I had to get away.
    Out of the corner of my eye I saw one of the two fixers turn to the other and mutter something. This was my chance. I grabbed the handle of the pistol and pulled the gun out from my trousers. Stood up. I had to shoot now, before they had time to turn towards me, so I wouldn’t have to see their faces.
    â€˜. . . for Hugo Eliassen, who set out to sea alone even though the weather was bad. To fish for pollock, he said. Or to flee from his unresolved deeds.’
    I sat down heavily on the pew again, and tucked the pistol back inside my waistband.
    â€˜We must hope that as a Christian he fell to his knees on his boat and prayed, pleaded for forgiveness, begged to be let into the Kingdom of Heaven. Many of you here knew Hugo better than I did, but the people I have spoken to say that they believe he would have done just that, because he was a God-fearing man, and I trust that Jesus, our shepherd, heard him and brought him back into the flock.’
    Only now did I realise how hard my heart was pounding, as if it was going to burst out of my chest.
    The congregation began to sing again.
    â€˜
The pure and mighty flock.
’
    Someone handed me an open copy of Landstad’s hymnbook and pointed at the yellowed page with a friendly nod. I joined in with the second verse. Out of sheer relief and gratitude, I thanked providence for letting me live at least a little longer.
    I stood outside the church watching the black station wagon drive off with the coffin.
    â€˜Well,’ said an elderly man who had stopped beside me. ‘A watery grave is better than no grave.’
    â€˜Hmm.’
    â€˜You’ll be the one staying in the hunting cabin,’ he said, and looked across at me. ‘So, are you getting any grouse?’
    â€˜Not many.’
    â€˜No, we’d have heard the gun going off,’ he said. ‘Sound carries a long way in weather like this.’
    I nodded. ‘Why did the hearse have Oslo number plates?’
    â€˜Oh, that’s just Aronsen, he’s a proper show-off. He bought it down there, I daresay he thinks that makes it look