by Jo Nesbo
And now they wanted him back on the air.
The woman explained that the topic was terrorism in Arab countries and what turned well-educated middle-class people into killing machines. Harry interrupted her before she was finished.
“No.”
“But we would so much like to have you. You are so … so … rock ’n’ roll!” She laughed, with an enthusiasm whose sincerity he could not be sure of, but he recognized her voice now. She had been with them at Kunstnernes Hus that night. She had been good-looking in a boring, young way, had talked in a boring, young way and had eyed Harry hungrily, as though he were an exotic meal she was considering; was he too exotic?
“Try someone else,” Harry said and hung up. Then he closed his eyes and heard Ryan Adams wondering, “Oh, baby, why do I miss you like I do?”
The boy looked up at the man standing beside him at the kitchen counter. The light from the snow-covered yard shone on the hairless skin drawn tightly around his father’s massive skull. Mommy had said that Dad had such a big head because he was such a brain. He had asked her why she said he was a brain and not that he had a brain, and when she had laughed, she had stroked his forehead and said that was the way it was with physics professors. Right now the brain was rinsing potatoes under the tap and putting them straight into a pan.
“Aren’t you going to peel the potatoes, Dad? Mommy usually—”
“Your mother isn’t here, Jonas. So we’ll have to do it my way.”
He hadn’t raised his voice, yet there was an irritation that made Jonas cringe. He never quite knew what made his father so angry. Or, now and then, even whether he was angry. Until he saw his mother’s face with the anxious droop around the corners of her mouth, which seemed to make Dad even more irritable. He hoped she would be there soon.
“We don’t use them plates, Dad!”
His father slammed the cupboard door and Jonas bit his bottom lip. His father’s face came down to his. The square, paper-thin glasses sparkled.
“It’s ‘those’ plates, not ‘them’ plates,” his father said. “How many times do I have to tell you, Jonas?”
“But Mommy says—”
“Mommy doesn’t speak properly. Do you understand? Mommy comes from a place and a family where they’re not bothered about language.” His father’s breath smelled salty, of rotten seaweed.
The front door banged.
“Hello,” she sang out from the hall.
Jonas was about to run to her, but his father held him by the shoulder and pointed to the unlaid table.
“How good you are!”
Jonas could hear the smile in her breathless voice as she stood in the kitchen doorway behind him while he set out glasses and cutlery as quickly as he could.
“And what a big snowman you’ve made!”
Jonas turned in surprise to his mother, who was unbuttoning her coat. She was so attractive. Dark skin, dark hair, just like him, and those gentle, gentle eyes she almost always had. Almost. She wasn’t quite as slim as in the photos from the time she and Dad got married, but he had noticed that men looked at her whenever the two of them took a stroll in town.
“We didn’t make a snowman,” Jonas said.
“You didn’t?” His mommy frowned as she unfurled the big pink scarf he had given her for Christmas.
Dad went over to the window. “Must be the neighbors’ boys,” he said.
Jonas stood up on one of the kitchen chairs and peered out. And, sure enough, there on the lawn in front of the house was a snowman. It was, as his mother had said, big. Its eyes and mouth were made with pebbles and the nose was a carrot. The snowman had no hat, cap or scarf, and only one arm, a thin twig Jonas guessed had been taken from the hedge. However, there was something odd about the snowman. It was facing the wrong way. He didn’t know why, but it ought to have been looking out onto the road, toward the open space.
“Why—” Jonas began, but was interrupted by his father.
“I’ll talk to them.”
“Why’s that?” Mommy said from the hall, where Jonas could hear her unzipping her high black leather boots. “It doesn’t matter.”
“I don’t want that sort roaming around our property. I’ll do it when I’m back.”
“Why isn’t it looking out?” Jonas asked.
In the hall, his mother sighed. “When will you be back, love?”
“Tomorrow sometime.”
“What time?”
“Why? Have you got a date?” There was a lightness of tone in his father’s voice that made Jonas shiver.
“I was thinking I would have dinner ready,” Mommy said, coming into the kitchen, going over to the stove, checking the pans and turning up the temperature on two of the burners.
“Just have it ready,” his father said, turning to the pile of newspapers on the countertop. “And I’ll be home at some point.”
“OK.” Mommy went over to Dad’s back and put her arms around him. “But do you really have to go to Bergen tonight?”
“My lecture’s at eight tomorrow morning,” Dad said. “It takes an hour to get to the university from the time the plane lands, so I wouldn’t make it if I caught the first flight.”
Jonas could see from the muscles in his father’s neck that he was relaxing, that once again Mommy had managed to find the right words.
“Why is the snowman looking at our house?” Jonas asked.
“Go and wash your hands,” Mommy said.
They ate in silence, broken only by Mommy’s tiny questions about how school had been and Jonas’s brief, vague answers. Jonas knew that detailed answers could evoke unpleasant questions from Dad about what they were learning—or not learning—at the “excuse of a school.” Or quick-fire interrogation about someone Jonas mentioned he had been playing with, about what his parents did and where they were from. Questions that Jonas could never answer to his father’s satisfaction.
When Jonas was in bed, on the floor below he heard his father say good-bye to his mother, a door close and the car start up outside and fade into the distance. They were alone again. His mother switched on the TV. He thought about something she had asked. Why Jonas hardly ever brought his friends home to play anymore. He hadn’t known what to answer; he hadn’t wanted her to be sad. But now he became sad instead. He chewed the inside of his cheek, feeling the bittersweet pain extend into his ears, and stared at the metal tubes of the wind chime hanging from the ceiling. He got out of bed and shuffled over to the window.
The snow in the yard reflected enough light for him to make out the snowman down below. It looked alone. Someone should have given it a cap and scarf. And maybe a broomstick to hold. At that moment the moon slid from behind a cloud. The black row of teeth came into view. And the eyes. Jonas automatically sucked in his breath and recoiled two steps. The pebble-eyes were gleaming. And they were not staring into the house. They were looking up. Up here. Jonas drew the curtains and crept back into bed.
3
DAY 1
Cochineal
Harry was sitting on a bar stool in the Palace Grill reading the signs on the walls, the good-natured reminders to clientele not to ask for credit, not to shoot the pianist and to be good or be gone. It was still early evening and the only other customers in the bar were two girls sitting at a table frenetically pressing the buttons of their mobile phones and two boys playing darts with practiced refinement of stance and aim, but poor results. Dolly Parton, who Harry knew had been brought back in from the cold by arbiters of good country-and-western taste, was whining over the loudspeakers with her nasal Southern accent. Harry checked his watch again and had a wager with himself that Rakel Fauke would be standing at the door at exactly seven minutes past eight. He felt the crackle of tension he always did at seeing her again. He told himself it was just a conditioned response, like Pavlov’s dogs starting to salivate when they heard the bell for food, even when there wasn’t any. And they wouldn’t be having food this evening. That is, they would be having food, but only food
. And a cozy chat about the lives they were leading now. Or, to be more precise: the life she was leading now. And about Oleg, the son she had had with her Russian ex-husband, from when she had been working at the Norwegian embassy in Moscow. The boy with the closed, wary nature whom Harry had reached, the boy with whom he had gradually developed bonds that in many ways were stronger than those Oleg had with his own father. And when Rakel had, in the end, been unable to tolerate any more and had left, he didn’t know whose loss had been greater. But now he knew. For now it was seven minutes past eight and she was standing by the door with that erect posture of hers, the arch of her back he could feel on his fingertips and the high cheekbones under the glowing skin he could feel against his. He had hoped she wouldn’t look so good. So happy.
She walked over to him and their cheeks touched. He made sure he let go first.
“What are you looking at?” she asked, unbuttoning her coat.
“You know,” Harry said, and heard that he should have cleared his throat first.
She chuckled, and the laughter had the same effect on him as the first swig of Jim Beam; he felt warm and relaxed.
“Don’t,” she said.
He knew exactly what her “Don’t” meant. Don’t start, don’t be embarrassing, we’re not going there. She had said it softly, it was practically inaudible, yet it felt like a stinging slap.
“You’re thin,” she said.
“So they say.”
“The table …”
“The waiter will come and get us.”
She sat down on the stool opposite him and ordered an aperitif. Campari, it went without saying. Harry used to call her “Cochineal” after the natural pigment that gave the spicy, sweet wine its characteristic color. Because she liked to dress in bright red. Rakel had herself claimed that she used it as a warning, the way animals use strong colors to tell others to keep their distance.
Harry ordered another Coke.
“Why are you so thin?” she asked.
“Fungus.”
“What?”
“Apparently it’s eating me up. Brain, eyes, lungs, concentration. Sucking out colors and memory. The fungus is growing, I’m disappearing. It’s becoming me, I’m becoming it.”
“What are you babbling on about?” she exclaimed with a grimace meant to denote disgust, but Harry caught the smile in her eyes. She liked to hear him talking, even when it was just gobbledygook. He told her about the mold in his apartment.
“How are you doing?” Harry asked.
“Fine. I’m good. Oleg’s fine. But he misses you.”
“Has he said that?”
“You know he has. You should keep tabs on him better.”
“Me?” Harry looked at her, dumbfounded. “It wasn’t my decision.”
“So?” she said, taking the drink from the bartender. “Just because you and I are not together doesn’t mean that you and Oleg don’t have an important relationship. For you both. Neither of you finds it easy to commit to people, so you should nurture the relationships you do have.”
Harry sipped his Coke. “How’s Oleg getting on with your doctor?”
“His name’s Mathias,” Rakel said with a sigh. “They’re working on it. They’re … different. Mathias tries hard, but Oleg doesn’t exactly make it easy for him.”
Harry experienced a sweet tingle of satisfaction.
“Mathias works long hours as well.”
“I thought you didn’t like your men working,” Harry replied, and regretted it the moment he had said it. But instead of getting angry, Rakel sighed sadly.
“It wasn’t the long hours, Harry. You were obsessed. You are your job, and what drives you isn’t love or a sense of responsibility. It’s not even personal ambition. It’s anger. And the desire for revenge. And that’s not right, Harry—it shouldn’t be like that. You know what happened.”
Yes, thought Harry. I allowed the disease to enter your house as well.
He cleared his throat. “But your doctor is driven by … the right things, then?”
“Mathias used to do the night shift at the emergency room. Voluntarily. At the same time as lecturing full-time at the Anatomy Department.”
“And he’s a blood donor and a member of Amnesty International.”
“B negative is a rare blood group, Harry. And you also support Amnesty—I know that for a fact.”
She stirred her drink with an orange plastic stick that had a horse on top. The red mixture swirled around the ice cubes. Cochineal.
“Harry?” she said.
Something in her inflection made him tense up.
“Mathias is going to move in with me. Over Christmas.”
“So soon?” Harry ran his tongue over his palate in an attempt to find moisture. “You haven’t known each other for long.”
“Long enough. We’re planning to get married in the summer.”
Magnus Skarre studied the hot water running over his hands and into the sink. Where it disappeared. No. Nothing disappeared—it was just somewhere else. Like these people about whom he had spent the past few weeks collecting information. Because Harry had asked him. Because Harry had said there might be something in it. And he had wanted Magnus’s report before the weekend. Which meant that Magnus had been obliged to work overtime. Even though he knew that Harry gave them jobs like this to keep them busy in these feet-on-desk times. The uniformed division’s tiny Missing Persons Unit of three refused to delve into old cases; they had more than enough to do with the new ones.
In the deserted corridor on his way back to his office Magnus noticed that the door was ajar. He knew he had closed it, and it was past nine, so the cleaners had finished long before. Two years ago they had had problems with thieving from the offices. Magnus Skarre pulled the door open with a vengeance.
Katrine Bratt was standing in the middle of the room and glanced at him with a furrowed brow, as if it were he who had burst into her office. She turned her back on him.
“I just wanted to see,” she said, casting her eyes over the walls.
“See what?” Skarre looked around. His office was like all the others except that it didn’t have a window.
“This was his office, wasn’t it?”
Skarre frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Hole’s. This was his office for all those years. Even while he was investigating the serial killings in Australia?”
Skarre shrugged. “I think so. Why?”
Katrine Bratt ran a hand over the desktop. “Why did he change offices?”
Magnus walked around her and plopped down on the swivel chair. “It hasn’t got any windows.”
“And he shared the office, first with Ellen Gjelten and then Jack Halvorsen,” Katrine Bratt said. “And both were killed.”
Magnus Skarre put his hands behind his head. This new officer had class. A league or two above him. He bet her husband was the boss of something or other and had money. Her suit seemed expensive. But when he looked at her a bit closer, there was a little flaw somewhere. A slight blemish he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
“Do you think he heard their voices? Was that why he moved?” Bratt asked, scrutinizing a wall map of Norway on which Skarre had circled the hometowns of all the missing persons in Østland, eastern Norway, since 1980.
Skarre laughed but didn’t answer. Her waist was slim and her back willowy. He knew she knew he was ogling her.
“What’s he like, actually?” she asked.
“Why do you ask?”
“I suppose everyone with a new boss does, don’t they?”
She was right. It was just that he had never thought of Harry Hole as a boss, not in that way. OK, he gave them jobs to do and led investigations, but beyond that all he asked was that they keep out of his way.
“He is, as you probably know, somewhat infamous,” Skarre said.
She shrugged. “I’ve heard about his alcoholism, yes. And that he has reported colleagues. And that all the heads wanted him booted out, but the previous
POB protected him.”
“His name was Bjarne Møller,” Skarre said, looking at the map, at the ring around Bergen. That was where Møller had been seen last, before he disappeared.
“And that people at HQ don’t like the media turning him into a kind of pop idol.”