by Jo Nesbo
13
Sunday, January 12
“He’s gone up in smoke now,” Harry’s neighbor said, crossing himself. He was a powerful-looking man with a deep tan and light blue eyes, reminding Harry of stained wood and faded denim. His silk shirt was open at the neck, around which hung a thick gold chain that gleamed in the sun, matt and thick. His nose was covered with a fine network of blood vessels, and his brown skull shone like a billiard ball beneath the thinning hair. Roald Bork had lively eyes which at close range made him seem younger than his seventy years.
He talked. Loudly and apparently uninhibited by the fact that they were at a funeral. His Nordland dialect sang beneath the vaulted ceiling, but no one turned with a reproving stare.
When they were outside the crematorium, Harry introduced himself.
“Well now, so I had a policeman standing next to me all the time without me knowing. Good job I didn’t say anything. It could have cost me.”
He laughed a reverberating laugh and held out a dry, leathery old-man’s hand. “Bork, on the lowest pension.” The irony didn’t reach his eyes.
“Tonje Wiig said you were a kind of spiritual leader for the Norwegian community here.”
“Then I might have to disappoint you. As you see, I’m a decrepit old man, no shepherd. Besides, I’ve moved to the periphery, in both a literal and metaphorical sense.”
“Oh yes?”
“To the den of iniquity, Thailand’s Sodom.”
“Pattaya?”
“Correct. There are a few other Norwegians living there who I try to keep in order.”
“Let me get straight to the point, Bork. We’ve been trying to contact Ove Klipra, but all we got was a gatekeeper who says he doesn’t know where Klipra is or when he’ll be returning.”
Bork chuckled. “That sounds like Klipra all right.”
“I’ve been told he prefers to make contact himself, but we’re in the middle of a murder investigation here and I don’t have a lot of time. I gather you’re a close friend of Klipra’s, a kind of link to the outside world?”
Bork angled his head. “I’m no adjutant, if that’s what you mean. But you’re right insomuch as I mediate contacts. Klipra doesn’t like speaking to people he doesn’t know.”
“Was it you who arranged the contact between Klipra and the ambassador?”
“Initially it was. But Klipra liked the ambassador, so they spent a lot of time together. The ambassador was also from Sunnmøre, although he was from the country and not a real Ålesund lad like Klipra.”
“Odd he’s not here today then?”
“Klipra travels all the time. He hasn’t answered his phone for a few days, so I would guess he’s out seeing to his businesses in Vietnam or Laos and doesn’t even know the ambassador is dead. This case hasn’t exactly hit the headlines.”
“It generally doesn’t when a man dies of heart failure,” Harry said.
“So that’s why the Norwegian police are here, is it?” Bork asked, drying the sweat from his neck with a large white handkerchief.
“Routine when an ambassador dies abroad,” Harry said, jotting down the telephone number of the police station on the back of a business card.
“Here’s a number where you can reach me if Klipra should turn up.”
Bork studied the card, appeared to be on the point of saying something, but changed his mind, put the card in his breast pocket and nodded.
“I’ve got your number then,” he said, shook hands and walked over to an old Land Rover. Behind him, half mounted on the pavement, came a glint from recently washed red paintwork. It was the same Porsche Harry had seen pull up in front of the Molneses’ house.
Tonje Wiig strolled over to him. “Was Bork able to help you?”
“Not this time around.”
“What did he say about Klipra? Did he know where he was?”
“He didn’t know anything.”
She didn’t make a move to go, and Harry had a vague sense that she was waiting for more. In a moment of paranoia he saw the flinty glare of the diplomat at Fornebu Airport—“No scandals, OK?” Could she have been told to keep an eye on Harry and let Director Torhus know if he went too far? He looked at her and immediately rejected the idea.
“Who owns the red Porsche?” he asked.
“Porsche?”
“There. I thought Østfold girls knew all the makes of car before they were sixteen?”
Tonje Wiig ignored the comment and put on her sunglasses. “It’s Jens’s car.”
“Jens Brekke?”
“Yes. He’s over there.”
Harry turned. On the steps stood Hilde Molnes, dressed in dramatic black silk robes with a serious-looking Sanphet in a dark suit. Behind them stood a younger, fair-haired man. Harry had noticed him in the church. He wore a waistcoat under his suit, despite the thermometer showing thirty-five degrees. His eyes were concealed behind a pair of expensive-looking sunglasses, and he was speaking in a low voice with a woman, also dressed in black. Harry stared at her, and as though she had felt his eyes on her she turned toward him. He hadn’t recognized Runa Molnes at once, and now he could see why. The singular asymmetry was gone. She was taller than the others on the steps. Her gaze was brief and betrayed no feelings, apart from boredom.
Harry excused himself, walked up the steps and offered Hilde his condolences. Her hand was limp and passive in his. She looked at him through glazed eyes, and the smell of strong perfume camouflaged the gin.
Then he turned to Runa. She shielded her eyes from the sun and squinted up as though she had only just noticed him.
“Hi,” she said. “At last someone who is taller than me in this country of pygmies. Aren’t you the detective who came to our house?”
There was an aggressive undertone to her voice, a teenager’s forced self-confidence. Her handshake was firm and strong. Harry’s eyes automatically sought the other hand. A wax prosthesis protruded from the black sleeve.
“Detective?”
Jens Brekke was speaking.
He had removed his sunglasses and was squinting. An untidy blond fringe fell in front of almost transparent blue irises. His round face still had a boy’s puppy fat, but the wrinkles around his eyes suggested he had passed thirty at least. The Armani suit had been exchanged for a classic Del Georgio and the hand-sewn Bally shoes were like black mirrors, but there was something about his appearance that reminded Harry of a rude twelve-year-old dressed as an adult. He introduced himself.
“I’m here from the Norwegian police to make some routine inquiries.”
“I see. Is that normal?”
“You spoke to the ambassador on the day he died, didn’t you?”
Brekke gazed at Harry in surprise. “That’s right. How did you know?”
“We found his mobile phone. Your number was one of the last five he rang. He called at quarter past one.”
Harry studied Brekke carefully, but his face registered no uncertainty or confusion.
“Can we have a chat?”
“Drop by,” Brekke said, conjuring up a business card between index and middle fingers.
“At home or at work?”
“I sleep at home.”
It was impossible to see the little smile playing around the corners of his mouth, but Harry knew it was there nevertheless. As though talking to a detective was just something exciting, something a little out of the ordinary.
“If you’ll excuse me?”
Brekke whispered a few words in Runa’s ear, nodded to Hilde and jogged down to his Porsche. The place was thinning out; Sanphet accompanied Hilde Molnes to the embassy car and Harry was left standing next to Runa.
“There’s a gathering at the embassy,” he said.
“I know. Mum doesn’t feel like going.”
“Right. You’ve probably got family staying.”
“No,” she said.
Harry watched Sanphet close the door after Hilde Molnes and walk around the car.
“Well, you can take a t
axi with me, if you’d like.”
Harry could feel his earlobes flush when he heard how that sounded. He had meant to say “if you’d like to go.”
She glanced up at him. Her eyes were black and he didn’t know what they were saying.
“I wouldn’t.” She started to walk toward the embassy car.
Spirits were low and no one said much. Tonje Wiig had invited Harry to the gathering, and they stood in a corner twirling their glasses. Tonje was well down her second Martini. Harry had asked for water, but instead he had been given a sticky, sweet orange drink.
“So you have family at home, Harry?”
“Some,” Harry said, unsure what the sudden change of topic meant.
“Me too,” she said. “Parents, brother and sister. A couple of aunts and uncles, no grandparents. That’s it. And you?”
“Something similar.”
Miss Ao wound her way past them with a tray of drinks. She was wearing a simple, traditional Thai dress with a long slit down the side. He followed her with his eyes. It wasn’t difficult to imagine how the ambassador might have fallen for the temptation.
At the other end of the room, in front of a large map of the world, stood a man rocking on his heels, his legs wide. He was straight-backed, broad-shouldered and his silver-gray hair was cropped like Harry’s. His eyes were hooded, his jaw was set and his hands were folded behind his back. There was a smell of military from a long way off.
“Who’s that?”
“Ivar Løken. The ambassador called him simply LM.”
“Løken? Funny. He wasn’t on the list of employees I was given by Oslo. What does he do?”
“Good question.” She giggled and sipped her drink. “Sorry, Harry—is it all right if I call you Harry?—I must be a bit tipsy. I’ve had so much work and so little sleep over the last few days. He came here last year, just after Molnes. To put it bluntly, he belongs to the part of the Ministry that’s going nowhere.”
“What does that mean?”
“His career has ended in a cul-de-sac. He came from some job in Defense, but at some point there were a couple too many ‘buts’ by his name.”
“Buts?”
“Haven’t you heard the way Ministry people talk about one another? ‘He’s a good diplomat, but he drinks, but he likes women too much’ and so on. What comes after the ‘buts’ is a lot more important than what comes before; it determines how far you can get in the department. That’s why there are so many sanctimonious mediocrities at the top.”
“So what’s his ‘but’ and why is he here?”
“To be honest, I don’t know. He has meetings and writes the odd report for Oslo, but we don’t see much of him. I think he likes to be left alone. Now and then he goes off on trips to Vietnam, Laos or Cambodia with a tent, malaria pills and a rucksack full of photographic equipment. You know the type, don’t you?”
“Maybe. What kind of reports does he write?”
“Don’t know. The ambassador deals with all that.”
“Don’t know? There aren’t that many of you at the embassy. Is it Intelligence?”
“To what end?”
“Well, Bangkok is a hub for all of Asia.”
She looked at him and smiled wistfully. “I wish we did such exciting things. But I think the Ministry is letting him stay here for long and generally loyal service to king and country. Besides, I’m bound by an oath of confidentiality.”
She giggled again and laid a hand on Harry’s arm. “Let’s talk about something else, shall we?”
Harry talked about something else and then went to find another drink. The human body consists of sixty percent water and he had the feeling that during the day most of his had evaporated up toward the blue-gray sky.
He found Miss Ao standing with Sanphet at the back of the room. Sanphet gave him a measured nod.
“Any water?” Harry asked.
Miss Ao passed him a glass.
“What does LM stand for?”
Sanphet raised an eyebrow. “Are you thinking of Mr. Løken?”
“I am.”
“Why don’t you ask him yourself?”
“In case it’s something you call him behind his back.”
Sanphet grinned. “L stands for ‘living’ and M for ‘morphine.’ It’s an old nickname he acquired working for the UN in Vietnam at the end of the war.”
“Vietnam?”
Sanphet nodded unobtrusively and Miss Ao was gone.
“Løken was with a Vietnamese unit in a landing zone waiting to be picked up by a helicopter when they were attacked by a Vietcong patrol. It was a bloodbath and Løken was one of those hit. He got a bullet right through a muscle in his neck. The Americans had withdrawn their soldiers from Vietnam, but they still had medical orderlies there. They ran around in the elephant grass from soldier to soldier giving first aid. They wrote on the injured men’s helmets in chalk, a kind of makeshift medical chart. If they wrote D it meant the person was dead, so that those who followed didn’t waste any time examining them. L meant the patient was living, and if they wrote M it meant they’d given them morphine. They did that to prevent anyone from being given several shots and dying of an overdose.”
Sanphet nodded toward Løken.
“When they found him he’d already lost consciousness, so they didn’t give him any morphine, just wrote an L on his helmet and loaded him onto the helicopter with the others. When he was woken by his own screams of pain he didn’t understand where he was at first. But when he moved the corpse lying on top of him and saw a man with a white armband injecting one of the others he understood and screamed for morphine. An orderly tapped his helmet and said, ‘Sorry, buddy, you’re already pumped up to the eyeballs.’ Løken couldn’t believe it and tore off his helmet, where, sure enough, there was an L and an M. However, the thing was, it wasn’t his helmet. He looked back at the soldier who had just been injected in the arm. He saw the helmet with an L on, recognized the screwed-up pack of cigarettes under the strap and the UN badge and realized what had happened. The guy had swapped their helmets to get another shot of morphine. He screamed, but his cries of agony were drowned out by the roar of the engine as they took off. Løken lay screaming for half an hour before they reached the golf course.”
“Golf course?”
“The camp. That’s what we called it.”
“So you were there, too?”
Sanphet nodded.
“That’s why you know the story so well?”
“I was a voluntary medical worker and I received them.”
“What happened?”
“Løken’s standing over there. The other guy never woke up again.”
“Overdose?”
“Well, he didn’t die of a shot to the stomach.”
Harry shook his head. “And now you and Løken are working in the same place.”
“By coincidence.”
“What are the odds of that happening?”
“It’s a small world,” Sanphet said.
“LM,” Harry said, then drank up, mumbled he needed more water and went looking for Miss Ao.
“Do you miss the ambassador?” he asked when he found her in the kitchen. She was folding serviettes around the glasses and securing them with elastic bands.
She looked at him in surprise and nodded.
Harry held the empty glass between his hands.
“How long had you been lovers?”
He saw her pretty little mouth open, form an answer, which her brain had not yet prepared, and close and open again, like a goldfish. When the anger reached her eyes and he half expected her to slap him, it died again. Instead her eyes filled with tears.
“I’m sorry,” Harry said without sounding sorry.
“You—”
“I’m sorry, but we have to ask these questions.”
“But I …” She cleared her throat, raised and lowered her shoulders, as though shaking off an evil thought. “The ambassador was married. And I—”
“You’
re also married?”
“No, but …”
Harry took her arm lightly and led her away from the kitchen door. She turned to him, the anger in her eyes returning.
“Listen, Miss Ao, the ambassador was found in a motel. You know what that means. It means you weren’t the only one he was fucking.”
He watched her to see what effect the words would have.
“We’re investigating a murder here. You have no reason to feel any loyalty for this man, do you understand?”
She was whimpering and he became aware he was shaking her arm. He let go. She looked at him. Her pupils were big and black.
“Are you afraid? Is that what it is?”
Her chest rose and fell.
“Would it help if I promise that none of this needs to come out unless you were mixed up in the murder?”
“We were not lovers!”
Harry stared at her, but all he could see was two black pupils.
“OK. What’s a young girl like you doing in a married ambassador’s car? Apart from taking her asthma medication?”
Harry put the empty glass on the tray and left. It was an idiotic thing to say, but Harry was willing to do idiotic things to make something happen. Anything.
14
Sunday, January 12
Elizabeth Dorothea Crumley was in a bad mood.
“Shit! It’s been five days. A foreigner has been knifed in the back at a motel, and we have no fingerprints, no suspects, not one goddamn clue. Just receptionists, Tonya Harding, motel owners and now the mafia. Anything I’ve forgotten?”
“Loan sharks,” said Rangsan from behind the Bangkok Post.
“Loan sharks are the mafia,” the inspector said.
“Not the loan shark Molnes used,” Rangsan said.
“What do you mean?”
Rangsan put down the newspaper. “Harry, you said the chauffeur thought the ambassador owed money to some loan sharks. What does a loan shark do when the debtor is dead? He tries to collect the debts from the family, doesn’t he.”
Liz looked skeptical.
“Some people are still caught up with the notion of family honor, and loan sharks are businessmen. Of course they’ll try to get their money back wherever they can.”