by Jo Nesbo
Harry couldn’t help himself. The hairs on the back of his neck rose when he heard Toowoomba’s voice again over the speakers.
‘It’s definitely a place with a lot of people,’ Watkins said. ‘What’s that bang? Listen, children. Is it a fair?’
‘Rewind and play it again,’ McCormack said.
‘Who’s that?’ Toowoomba repeated, followed by a loud sound and children’s shouts.
‘What’s . . .?’ Watkins began.
‘That’s a pretty loud splash,’ said a voice from the door. They turned. Harry saw a small brown head with black curls, a little moustache and tiny, thick glasses, attached to a large body that looked as if it had been inflated with a bicycle pump and could burst at any moment.
‘Jesús Marguez – the best ears in the force,’ McCormack said. ‘And he’s not even blind.’
‘Just almost blind,’ Marguez mumbled, straightening his glasses. ‘What have you got here?’
Lebie played the tape again. Marguez listened with closed eyes.
‘Indoors. Brick walls. And glass. No muffling of any kind, no carpets or curtains. People, young people of both sexes, probably a number of young families.’
‘How can you know all that from listening to some noise?’ Watkins asked suspiciously.
Marguez sighed. It clearly wasn’t the first time he had come across sceptics.
‘Do you realise what fantastic instruments ears are?’ he said. ‘They can distinguish between a million separate differences in pressure. One million. And one and the same sound can be comprised of tens of different frequencies and elements. That gives you a choice of ten million. An average dictionary contains only about a hundred thousand headwords. A choice of ten million, the rest is training.’
‘What’s the sound in the background we can hear the whole time?’ Harry asked.
‘The one between 100 and 120 hertz? Hard to say. We can filter away the other sounds in our studio and isolate it, but it takes time.’
‘And that is what we haven’t got,’ McCormack said.
‘But how could he identify Harry even though Harry never spoke?’ Lebie asked. ‘Intuition?’
Marguez removed his glasses and polished them absent-mindedly.
‘What we so nicely call intuition, my friend, is always supported by our sensory impressions. But when the impression is so small and delicate that we only perceive it as a sensation, a feather under a nose while we’re sleeping, and we cannot put a name to the associations, the brain cuts in and we call it intuition. Perhaps it was the way . . . er, Harry was breathing?’
‘I held my breath,’ Harry said.
‘Have you rung him from here before? Maybe the acoustics? Background noise? Humans have sensationally good memories as far as noises are concerned, generally better than we ourselves are aware.’
‘I’ve rung him from here once before . . .’ Harry stared at the old fan. ‘Of course. That’s why I can recognise the background noise. I’ve been there before. The bubbles . . .’
He turned.
‘He’s in Sydney Aquarium!’
‘Hm,’ Marguez said, studying the shine of his glasses. ‘That makes sense. I’ve been there myself, of course. A splash like that can be made by the tail of a pretty big saltie.’
When he looked up again he was alone in the room.
55
A Straight Left and Three Shots
SEVEN O’CLOCK.
They would perhaps have endangered the lives of civilians on the short stretch from the police station down to Darling Harbour, had it not been for the storm that had cleared the streets of people and cars. Lebie did his best, nevertheless, and it was probably the blue light on the car roof that allowed a solitary pedestrian to jump for his life at the last moment and a couple of oncoming cars to swerve to safety. Watkins was in the back seat swearing non-stop, while McCormack was in the front ringing Sydney Aquarium to prepare them for some police action.
As they turned into the car park the flags in the harbour were flying horizontal, and waves were crashing over the edge of the quay. Several police cars were already there and uniformed officers were closing the exits.
McCormack gave the final orders.
‘Yong, you distribute the photos of Toowoomba to our people. Watkins, you stay with me in the control room – they’ve got cameras there covering the whole aquarium. Lebie and Harry, you start searching. The aquarium closes in a few minutes. Here are the radios, put the plugs in your ears, fix the mikes to your lapels and check you have radio contact at once. We’ll guide you from the control room, OK?’
As Harry got out of the car a gust of wind caught him and almost knocked him over. They ran for shelter.
‘Fortunately it’s not as full as it usually is,’ McCormack announced. He was already breathing heavily from the short sprint. ‘Must be the weather. If he’s here we’ll find him.’
They were met by the security manager who showed McCormack and Watkins to the control room. Harry and Lebie checked their radios, were ushered past the ticket windows and set off along the corridors.
Harry checked for the gun in his shoulder holster. The aquarium seemed different now, with all the light and all the people. Besides, it felt like an eternity since he had been here with Birgitta, as though it had been in a different era.
He tried not to think about it.
‘We’re in position.’ McCormack’s voice sounded secure and reassuring in the earpiece. ‘We’re studying the cameras now. Yong has a couple of officers with him and is checking the toilets and the cafe. We can see you, by the way. Keep going.’
The corridors in the aquarium led the public in a circle back to where they had started. Harry and Lebie were walking anticlockwise so that all the faces were coming towards them. Harry’s heart was pounding. His mouth was dry and his palms were wet. There was a buzz of foreign languages around them, and to Harry it seemed as if he were swimming through a maelstrom of different nationalities, complexions and apparel. They walked through the underwater tunnel where he and Birgitta had spent the night – where children were standing now with their noses glued to the glass watching the marine underworld go about its undisturbed everyday business.
‘This place gives me the creeps,’ Lebie whispered. He walked with his hand inside his jacket.
‘Just promise me you won’t fire a shot here,’ Harry said. ‘I don’t want half of Sydney Harbour and a dozen sharks in my lap, OK?’
‘No worries,’ Lebie answered.
They emerged on the other side of the aquarium, which was as good as deserted. Harry swore.
‘They close the ticket office at seven,’ Lebie said. ‘Now the people who are still here have to be let out.’
McCormack contacted them. ‘Afraid it seems as if the bird’s flown, boys. You’d better come back to the control room.’
‘Wait here,’ Harry said to Lebie.
Outside the ticket-booth window there was a familiar face. He was wearing a uniform, and Harry grabbed him.
‘Hi, Ben, do you remember me? I came here with Birgitta.’
Ben turned and looked at the animated blond hair. ‘Yes, I do,’ he said. ‘Harry, wasn’t it? Yeah, yeah, so you’ve come back? Most do. How’s Birgitta?’
Harry swallowed. ‘Listen, Ben. I’m a police officer. As you’ve probably heard by now, we’re on the lookout for a very dangerous man. We haven’t found him yet, but I have a feeling he’s still here. No one knows this place better than you do. Is there anywhere he could have hidden?’
Ben’s face was swathed in deep, thoughtful folds.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘Do you know where Matilda is, our saltie?’
‘Yes.’
‘Between the crafty little sod we call Fiddler Ray and the big sea turtle, well, we’ve moved her now, and we’re going to make a pool so that we can have a few freshies—’
‘I know where she is. This is urgent, Ben.’
‘Right. If you’re fit and not too jittery, you can jump over the plex
iglas in the corner.’
‘Into where the crocodile is?’
‘It spends most of its time half asleep in the pool. From the corner it’s five or six steps to the door we use when we wash and feed Matilda. But you’ll have to be nippy because a saltie’s incredibly fast. It’ll be on you, all two tons of it, before you know what’s hit you. Once we were going to—’
‘Thanks, Ben.’ Harry broke into a run and people scattered to the side. He folded his lapel and spoke into the mike: ‘McCormack, Holy here. I’m going to check behind the crocodile pen.’
He caught Lebie by the arm and dragged him along. ‘Last chance,’ he said. Lebie’s eyes widened with alarm as Harry stopped by the crocodile and took a run-up. ‘Follow me,’ Harry said, jumping onto the plexiglas wall and swinging himself over.
As his feet hit the ground on the other side, the water in the pool began to ferment. White froth rose and as Harry headed for the door he saw a green Formula One car accelerating out of the water, low-slung, with small lizard feet on the sides whirling round like rotary whisks. He kicked off and slipped in the loose sand. From far behind him he heard the roars and from the corner of his eye he saw the raised bonnet of the racer. He was up again, sprinted the few metres to the door and grabbed the handle. For a fraction of a second Harry’s mind dwelt on the possibility that the door might be locked. The next moment he was inside. A scene from Jurassic Park appeared at the back of his mind and made him bolt the door behind him. Just in case.
He unholstered his gun. The damp room stank of a nauseous mixture of detergent and rotten fish.
‘Harry!’ It was McCormack on the radio. ‘First of all, there is a simpler route into where you are now than straight through that beast’s food bowl. Secondly, stay right there, nice and calm, until Lebie’s walked round.’
‘Can’t hear . . . bad re . . . ion, sir,’ Harry said, scratching a nail across the mike. ‘I’m . . . go . . . n alone.’
He opened the door at the other end of the room and emerged into a tower with a spiral staircase in the middle. Harry guessed that the stairs led down to the underwater tunnels, and decided to go up. On the next landing there was another door. He peered up the stairs, but there didn’t appear to be any more doors.
He twisted the handle and pushed the door open carefully with his left hand while keeping the gun trained ahead of him. It was as black as night inside, and the stench of rotten fish was overwhelming.
Harry found a light switch on the wall inside the door, which he operated with his left hand, but it didn’t work. He let go of the door and took two probing steps forward. There was a crunch beneath his feet. Harry guessed what it was and retreated soundlessly to the door. Someone had smashed the bulb in the ceiling. He held his breath and listened. Was there someone else in the room? A ventilator rumbled.
Harry slipped back onto the landing.
‘McCormack,’ he whispered into the mike, ‘I think I’ve found him. Listen, do me a favour and call his mobile phone.’
‘Harry Holy, where are you?’
‘Now, sir. Please, sir.’
‘Harry, don’t make this a personal vendetta. It’s—’
‘It’s hot today, sir. Will you help me or not?’
Harry heard McCormack’s heavy breathing.
‘OK, I’ll call now.’
Harry nudged the door open with his foot and stood legs akimbo in the doorway, his gun held in front of him with both hands, waiting for the phone to ring. Time felt like a droplet that would never fall. Perhaps two seconds passed. Not a sound.
He’s not here, Harry thought.
Then three things happened at once.
The first was that McCormack started talking. ‘He’s switched off . . .’
The second was that Harry realised he was silhouetted against the doorway like a wild creature in flight.
The third was that Harry’s world exploded in a shower of stars and red blotches on his retina.
Harry remembered fragments of Andrew’s boxing lessons from their drive to Nimbin. Such as that a hook performed by a professional boxer is normally more than enough to knock an untrained man unconscious. By moving his hip he gets the whole of his upper torso behind the hook and gives the punch so much power that the brain short-circuits instantly. An uppercut placed precisely on the point of the chin lifts you from the floor and sends you straight into dreamland. For certain. Also a perfect straight right from a right-handed boxer leaves you poor odds for being able to stand upright afterwards. And most important of all: if you don’t see the punch coming, the body won’t react and swerve away. Just a minor movement of the head can considerably soften the impact of a punch. It’s very rare for a boxer to see the decisive blow that knocks him out.
The only explanation for Harry not being unconscious must therefore have been that the man in the dark had been standing to Harry’s left. Because Harry was standing in the doorway he couldn’t hit him in the temple from the side, which according to Andrew in all probability would have been sufficient. He couldn’t throw an effective hook or an uppercut as Harry was holding his arms with the gun in front of him. Nor a straight right, because that would have meant standing in front of the gun. The only option remaining was a straight left, a punch Andrew had dismissed as a ‘woman’s punch, most suited to irritate or at best bruise an opponent in a street fight’. Andrew may have been correct about that, but this straight left had sent Harry flying backwards down the spiral staircase where his back had met the edge of the railing and he had almost flipped over.
When he opened his eyes, though, he was still standing upright. A door was open at the other end of the room, through which he was fairly sure Toowoomba had made his escape. But he could also hear a clanking sound he was fairly sure was his gun rolling down the metal stairs. He decided to go for the gun. With a suicidal dive down the staircase Harry grazed his forearms and knees, but caught the gun just as it was about to bounce off the edge and plunge twenty metres to the bottom of the shaft. He struggled to his knees, coughed and confirmed he had lost his second tooth since coming to this bloody country.
He stood up and almost immediately passed out.
‘Harry!’ someone shouted in his ear.
He also heard a door being flung open somewhere below him and felt running feet shaking the stairs. Harry aimed himself at the door in front of him, saw the door at the other end of the room, half hit it and staggered out into the dusk with a sense that he had dislocated his shoulder.
‘Toowoomba!’ he screamed into the wind. He looked around. Before him lay the town, and behind him Pyrmont Bridge. He was standing on the roof of the aquarium and had to hold on tight to the top of a fire escape in the gusting wind. The water in the harbour had been whipped into white foam and he could taste the salt in the air. Below him he saw a dark figure on his way down the fire escape. The figure stopped for a second and looked around. To its left was a police car with a flashing light. In front of it, behind a fence, the two tanks of water that protruded from Sydney Aquarium.
‘Toowoomba!’ Harry yelled and tried to raise the gun. His shoulder refused point-blank, and Harry screamed with pain and fury. The figure jumped down from the ladder, ran to the fence and began to climb over. Harry realised at that moment what he was intending to do – to get into the building housing the tank, go out through the back and swim the short distance to the quay on the other side. From there it would take him only seconds to disappear into the crowds. Harry stumbled down the fire escape. He charged at the fence as if intending to tear it down, swung himself over with one arm and landed on the cement with a thud.
‘Harry, report in!’
He pulled the plug out of his ear and lurched towards the building. The door was open. Harry ran in and fell to his knees. Beneath the arched roof ahead of him, bathed in lights hanging from a steel cable over the tank, was an enclosed piece of Sydney Harbour. A narrow pontoon crossed through the middle of the tank, and a fair way down it, there was Toowoomba. He was wearing
a black roll-neck sweater and black trousers and running in as relaxed and elegant a manner as a narrow, unstable pontoon would allow.
‘Toowoomba!’ Harry shouted for the third time. ‘I’m going to shoot!’
Harry leaned forward, not because he couldn’t stand upright, but because he couldn’t raise his arm. He got the dark figure in his sights and pulled the trigger.
The first shot made a tiny splash in front of Toowoomba, who seemed to be running with consummate ease. Harry aimed a bit to the right. There was a splash behind Toowoomba. The distance was almost a hundred metres now. An absurd thought occurred to Harry: it was like shooting practice inside the hall in Økern – the lights in the ceiling, the echo between the walls, the pulse in the trigger finger and the deep meditative concentration.
Like training on the shooting range in Økern, Harry thought, and fired for the third time.
Toowoomba plunged headlong.
Harry said later in his statement that he assumed the shot had hit Toowoomba in the left thigh, and that therefore it was unlikely to kill him. Everyone knew, however, that this was no more than a wild guess, firing as he had from a hundred metres away. Harry could have said anything he liked without anyone being able to prove the contrary. Since there was no body left on which to do an autopsy.
Toowoomba lay screaming half submerged in the water as Harry advanced up the pontoon. Harry felt dizzy and nauseous, and everything was beginning to blur – the water, the lights in the roof and the pontoon tilting from side to side. As Harry ran he remembered Andrew’s words about love being a greater mystery than death. And he remembered the old story.
Blood rushed in his ears, in surges, and Harry was the young warrior Walla, and Toowoomba was the snake Bubbur, who had taken the life of his beloved Moora. And now Bubbur had to be killed. By love.
In McCormack’s statement later he was unable to say what Harry Holy had shouted into his mike after they’d heard the shots.
‘We just heard him running and shouting something, probably in Norwegian.’
Even Harry was unable to say what he’d shouted.