Cockroaches

by Jo Nesbo

  Hilde Molnes coughed, and there was movement from the sofa. She sat herself up and gulped down some more gin. The tonic was long forgotten.

  “She gets like that sometimes,” Jens said, as if she weren’t there. And in a way she wasn’t, Harry could see. Her jaw had dropped and she was snoring softly. Jens glanced at her.

  “The first time I met her she told me she drinks tonic to avoid catching malaria. It contains quinine, you know. But it tastes so boring without gin.” He smiled wanly and lifted the phone again to check the dial tone was there. “In case she …”

  “I understand,” Harry said.

  They took a seat on the terrace and listened to the town. The sounds of pneumatic drills carried above the hum of the traffic.

  “The new elevated motorway,” Jens said. “They’re working on it day and night now. It’s going to go straight through the quarter over there.” He pointed.

  “I’ve heard a Norwegian’s involved in the project, Ove Klipra. Do you know him?” Harry looked at Jens from the corner of his eye.

  “Ove Klipra, yes, of course. We’re his biggest broker. I’ve done quite a few currency deals for him.”

  “Oh yes? Do you know what he’s up to at the moment?”

  “Up to? He’s been buying a lot of companies, if that’s what you mean.”

  “What kind of companies?”

  “Mostly smaller entrepreneur-driven companies. He tends to develop capacity to be able to take on a greater share of the BERTS transport contract by buying up subcontractors.”

  “Is that wise?”

  Jens’s spirits rose, obviously relieved to think about something else. “As long as the buyouts can be financed, it is. And as long as the companies don’t go down the drain before they’re awarded the expected commissions.”

  “Do you know a company called Phuridell?”

  “Certainly do.” Jens laughed. “Klipra asked us to do some analysis on them and we recommended he should buy. The question, though, is how you know about Phuridell.”

  “It wasn’t a very lucky recommendation, was it?”

  “No, not exactly …” Jens seemed perplexed.

  “I got someone to sniff around the company yesterday and it turns out that to all intents and purposes it’s gone bankrupt,” Harry said.

  “That’s correct, but what makes you so interested in Phuridell?”

  “Let me put it this way: I’m more interested in Klipra. You have a general idea of what he owns. How hard will this hit him?”

  Jens shrugged. “Normally it wouldn’t be a problem, but along with BERTS he’s financed so many buyouts on credit that the whole thing is a house of cards. One puff of wind and it could collapse, if you know what I mean. And then Klipra’s had it as well.”

  “So he bought Phuridell on your company’s—or should I say your—recommendation. Only two weeks later it goes bust and now there’s a chance that everything he’s built up will crash to the ground because of one broker’s advice. I don’t know much about company analyses, but I do know that three weeks is a very short time. He must have reckoned you’d sold him a second-hand car without an engine. Cowboys like you should be behind bars.”

  The direction of Harry’s thoughts began to dawn on Jens.

  “You don’t mean Ove Klipra …? You’re joking!”

  “Well, I have a theory.”

  “And that is?”

  “Ove Klipra murdered the ambassador at the motel and made sure the finger of suspicion pointed at you.”

  Jens stood up. “Now you’re really off beam, Harry.”

  “Sit down and listen, Jens.”

  Jens dropped back down into the chair with a sigh. Harry leaned across the table.

  “Ove Klipra is an aggressive man, isn’t he? A so-called man of action?”

  Jens hesitated. “Yes.”

  “Suppose Atle Molnes has something on Klipra and demands a large sum of money from him just as Klipra is fighting to keep his head above water.”

  “What sort of something?”

  “Let’s just say that Molnes needs money and he’s got his hands on some material that could make Klipra’s life very uncomfortable. Normally Klipra might have been able to deal with it, but in this already tight spot the pressure’s too much for him. He feels like a cornered rat. Are you with me?”

  Jens nodded.

  “They leave Klipra’s house in the ambassador’s car because Klipra insists they should do the handover of the compromising material and the money in a more discreet place. The ambassador has no objections, with good reason. I doubt Klipra has you on his mind when he steps out of the car by his bank and sends the ambassador off to the motel. Which he does so that he can later get into the motel unseen. But then he starts thinking. Perhaps he can kill two birds with one stone. He knows the ambassador had visited you earlier in the afternoon and you would be drawn into the police inquiry anyway. Then he started toying with the idea: perhaps kind herr Brekke hasn’t got an alibi for the evening?”

  “Why on earth would he think that?”

  “Because he’s requested a company analysis from you for the day after. You’ve been his broker for so long that he knows a bit about how you work. Perhaps he even rings you from a phone box and has confirmation that you aren’t taking calls and no one else can give you an alibi. He has tasted blood, now he wants to go further and persuade the police you’re lying.”

  “The video recording?”

  “As you’re Klipra’s regular currency adviser he must have visited you several times and knows the system in the car park. Perhaps Molnes mentioned in passing that you had accompanied him down to his car, and he knew you would say that in your statement to the police. And any half-decent detective would check this on the video.”

  “So Ove Klipra bribed the attendant and killed him afterward with prussic acid? Sorry, Harry, but it’s asking too much to imagine that Ove Klipra would haggle with a black kid, buy opium and spike it with prussic acid in his kitchen.”

  Harry took the last cigarette from his packet; he had been saving it for as long as he could. He glanced at his watch. Actually there was no reason to believe that Runa would phone at five in the morning. Yet he noticed that he made sure the phone was on the periphery of his vision. Jens proffered his lighter before Harry had a chance to find his own.

  “Thank you. Do you know anything about Klipra’s background, Jens? Did you know he came here as a jack-of-all-trades but in reality he was escaping from Norway amid ugly rumors that had started to spread.”

  “I knew he never finished the engineering degree he started in Norway, yes. The rest is news to me.”

  “Do you think that a refugee like him, someone who is already an outsider in society, has any scruples about using the means that are necessary to flourish, especially when the means are more or less accepted everywhere? Klipra has been in one of the world’s most corrupt industries in one of the world’s most corrupt countries for more than thirty years. Have you heard the song, ‘If it rains, I’m like everyone else, I get wet’?”

  Jens shook his head.

  “What I’m saying is that as a businessman Klipra plays according to the same rules as everyone else. These people have to make sure they don’t get their hands mucky, that’s why they hire other people to do their dirty work. I would guess Klipra doesn’t even know what Jim Love died of.”

  Harry drew on his cigarette. It didn’t taste as good as he imagined it would.

  “I see,” Jens said at length. “But there is an explanation for the bankruptcy, so I don’t understand why he would blame me. What happened was we bought the company from a multinational concern who hadn’t fixed the price of its dollar debt as they had dollars coming in from other daughter companies.”

  “What?”

  “To cut a long story short—as the company broke away and came into Klipra’s possession, the dollar came under incredible pressure. It was like a ticking bomb. I told him to fix the debt instantly by selling dollar futures,
but he said he would wait because the dollar was overvalued. With normal currency fluctuations you could say that in the worst-case scenario he was taking a risk. But it was worse than a worst-case scenario. When the dollar almost doubled in value relative to the baht over three weeks, the company’s debt doubled as well. The company didn’t go bust in the course of the three weeks but three days!”

  Jens stressed the latter so loudly that Hilde Molnes twitched and mumbled something in her sleep. He looked over with concern and waited until she had rolled onto her side and started to snore again.

  “Three days!” he repeated in a whisper, and indicated how short the time was with his thumb and first finger.

  “So you think it wouldn’t be reasonable of him to blame you?”

  Jens shook his head. Harry stubbed out his cigarette; it had been an anticlimax.

  “From what I know of Klipra, ‘reasonable’ isn’t in his vocabulary. You shouldn’t underestimate the streak of irrationality in human nature, Jens.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When you bang in a nail and hit your thumb what do you throw at the wall?”

  “The hammer?”

  “Well, how does it feel to be a hammer, Jens Brekke?”

  At half past five Harry called the police station, went through three people before finding someone who could speak acceptable English and she told him they hadn’t seen or heard anything.

  “She’ll turn up,” she said.

  “I’m certain she will,” Harry said. “I imagine she’s in some hotel. Before long she’ll be ringing for breakfast.”

  “What?”

  “I imagine … never mind. Thanks for your help.”

  Jens accompanied him down the staircase. Harry gazed up at the sky; it was getting lighter.

  “When all this is over I’d like to ask you a favor,” Jens said. He took a deep breath and smiled sheepishly. “Hilde has agreed to marry me and I need a best man.”

  A couple of seconds passed before Harry realized what he meant. He was so taken aback he didn’t know what to say.

  Jens was studying the tips of his shoes. “I know it sounds strange that we’re going to get married so soon after the death of her husband, but we have our reasons.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “You haven’t known me long? I know, Harry. However, I wouldn’t be a free man now if it weren’t for you.” He lifted his chin and smiled. “Give it some thought anyway.”

  As Harry hailed a taxi in the street the sky over the rooftops to the east was lightening. The haze of exhaust fumes, which Harry had presumed disappeared during the night, had just settled between the houses to slumber. Now it was up with the sun and formed part of a magnificent red sunrise. They drove along Silom Road, and the pillars by the road cast long, silent shadows over the blood-drenched tarmac, like sleeping dinosaurs.

  Harry sat in bed staring at the bedside table. He’d forgotten all about the letter until now. He picked up the most recent envelope and ripped it open with his key. Perhaps it was because the two envelopes were identical that he had assumed it was from Runa. It was typed, printed on a laser machine, brief and to the point:

  Harry Hole. I can see you. Don’t come any closer. She will be returned safe and sound when you are on the plane home. I can find you anywhere. You are alone, very alone. Number 20.

  He felt as if someone had gripped him around the throat and he had to stand up to breathe.

  This isn’t happening, he thought. This can’t happen—not again.

  I can see you … Number 20.

  He knows what they know.

  You are alone.

  Somebody had talked. He picked up the phone, but put it down again. Think, think. Woo hadn’t taken a thing. He lifted the receiver again and unscrewed the speaking end. Beside the microphone, which was supposed to be there, was a small black object resembling a chip. Harry had seen them before. It was a Russian model, probably better than the bugs the CIA used.

  The throbbing of his foot dulled all the other pain as he dealt the bedside table a ferocious kick and sent it flying.

  42

  Wednesday, January 22

  Liz lifted the coffee cup to her mouth and slurped so loudly that Løken glanced at Harry with one eyebrow raised, as if to ask who this creature was. They were at Millie’s Karaoke. From a photo on the wall a platinum-blonde Madonna stared down at them with a hungry gaze while a digitalized singback version of “I Just Called to Say I Love You” blithely limped along. Harry tried to switch off the remote. They had read the letter and no one had responded yet. Harry found the right button and the music stopped abruptly.

  “That’s what I had to tell you,” Harry said. “As you can see, we have a leak.”

  “What about the bug you say this Woo put in your phone?” Løken asked.

  “It doesn’t explain how this person knows we’re after him. I haven’t said much on the phone. Anyway, from now on I suggest we meet here. If we find the informant they might be able to lead us to Klipra, but I don’t think we should begin at that end.”

  “Why not?” Liz asked.

  “I have a feeling the informant is as well disguised as Klipra.”

  “Really?”

  “By writing that letter Klipra is revealing that he gets information from inside. He would never do that if we had any chance of finding the source.”

  “Why not ask the most obvious question?” Løken asked. “How do you know the informant isn’t one of us?”

  “I don’t. But if it is, we’ve lost already, so we’ll have to take the risk.”

  The others nodded.

  “Needless to say, time is against us. It’s equally needless to say the odds are against the girl. Seventy percent of kidnaps of this kind end in the victim being killed.” He tried to say this in as neutral a tone as possible, and he avoided their eyes in the sure knowledge that everything he thought and felt was written in his.

  “So where do we start?” Liz asked.

  “We begin by eliminating,” Harry said. “Eliminating where she isn’t.”

  “Well, as long as he has the girl they’re unlikely to let him cross any international borders,” Løken said. “Or check in at a hotel.”

  Liz agreed. “He’s probably somewhere they can hide for a long time.”

  “Is he alone?” Harry asked.

  “Klipra isn’t associated with any of the crime families,” Liz said. “The kind of organized crime he’s involved in doesn’t mess around with kidnapping. Finding someone to take care of an opium slave like Jim Love isn’t that hard. But kidnapping a white girl, the daughter of an ambassador … Anyone he tried to hire would have checked it all out before agreeing. They would’ve known the whole police force would be on them if they took the job.”

  “So you think he’s alone?”

  “Like I said, he isn’t in one of the families. Inside those families there are loyalties and traditions. But Klipra would employ contractors he could never trust a hundred percent. Sooner or later they would discover why he wanted the girl and they might use it against him. The fact that he got rid of Jim Love suggests he will stop at nothing to protect his identity.”

  “OK, let’s assume he’s operating solo. Where would he hide her?”

  “Loads of places,” Liz said. “His companies must own a lot of properties, and some of those have to be empty.”

  Løken coughed loudly, caught his breath again and swallowed.

  “I’ve suspected for ages that Klipra has a secret love nest. On occasion he’s taken a couple of boys with him in the car and has stayed over till the following morning. I’ve never managed to track down the place; it’s certainly not registered anywhere. But it’s obvious it must be somewhere he’s left in peace, somewhere not too far from Bangkok.”

  “Could we find any of the boys and ask them?” Harry said.

  Løken shrugged and looked at Liz.

  “It’s a big city,” she said. “In our experience these boys disappear like de
w in the morning sun the minute we start looking for them. Besides, we’d have to involve lots of other people.”

  “OK, forget it,” Harry said. “We can’t risk Klipra getting wind of what we’re doing.”

  Harry tapped a pen rhythmically against the edge of the table. To his irritation he noticed that “I Just Called to Say I Love You” was still buzzing around his head.

  “So, to summarize, we assume Klipra has carried out this kidnap on his own and that he is in an out-of-the-way place a drive away from Bangkok.”

  “What do we do now?” Løken asked.

  “I’m off to Pattaya,” Harry said.

  * * *

  He was on the margins of the expat scene. Harry hadn’t felt he was very important in the case, just another Norwegian seeking better weather. Roald Bork looked the same as he had at the funeral, same lively blue eyes and gold chain on display. He was standing at the gate as Harry swung around the big Toyota 4×4 in front of his house. The dust settled on the gravel while Harry struggled with the seat belt and the ignition key. As usual, he was unprepared for the heat that hit him as he opened the door and instinctively gasped for breath. There was a salty taste to the air, which told him the sea was right behind the low ridges.

  “I heard you coming up the drive,” Bork said. “Quite a vehicle, that one.”

  “I rented the biggest they had,” Harry said. “I’ve learned it gives you a kind of priority. You need it with the nutters here driving on the left.”

  Bork laughed. “Did you find the new motorway I told you about?”

  “Yes, I did. Except it wasn’t quite finished, so they’d closed it with sandbags in a couple of places. But everyone drove over them, and I followed suit.”

  “That sounds about right,” Bork said. “It’s not quite legal and not quite illegal. Is it any wonder we fall in love with this country?”

  They removed their shoes and went into the house. The cold, cooling stone tiles stung Harry’s bare feet. In the living room there were pictures of Fridtjof Nansen, Henrik Ibsen and the Norwegian royal family. In one a boy was sitting on a chest of drawers squinting into the camera. He must have been about ten and had a football under his arm. Documents and newspapers were tidied into neat piles on the dining-room table and piano.