by Jo Nesbo
Three thoughts struck him at once. The first was that if Jens had seen him coming out of Millie’s Karaoke alive he probably wouldn’t run off. He had no choice; he would have to finish the job.
The second was that raindrops don’t taste sweet and metallic.
The third was that it hadn’t clouded over, someone was blocking the opening, someone who was bleeding.
Then things began to happen very fast again.
He hoped there were still enough nerves in his left hand to keep it wrapped around the rung. Harry grabbed the gun from his mouth with his right, saw sparks flying off the rung above and heard the hiss of the ricochet, felt something catch his trouser leg before he aimed the gun at the black circle and felt the recoil in his damaged jaw as he fired. A muzzle flared and Harry emptied the magazine. Kept pressing. Click, click, click. Bloody amateur.
He could see the moon again, dropped the gun and before it hit the ground he was already climbing the ladder. Then he was up. The road, toolboxes and heavy construction equipment were bathed in the yellow light from a ridiculously big balloon someone had tied above them. Jens was sitting on a pile of sand, arms crossed over his stomach, rocking backward and forward, roaring with laughter.
“Shit, Harry, you’ve really messed things up. Look.”
He unfolded his arms. Blood bubbled out, thick and gleaming.
“Black blood. That means you hit the liver, Harry. There’s a chance my doctor is going to impose an alcohol ban on me. Not good.”
The police sirens had grown louder and louder. Harry tried to control his breathing.
“I wouldn’t take it to heart, Jens. I’ve heard the brandy they serve in Thai prisons is terrible.”
He limped toward Jens, who was pointing a gun at him.
“Now, now, Harry, don’t overdo it, it just hurts a bit. Nothing that can’t be fixed for money.”
“You’ve run out of bullets,” Harry said, continuing to walk.
Jens laughed and coughed. “Good try, Harry, but you’re the one who’s run out of bullets, I’m afraid. You see, I can count.”
“Can you?”
“Ha ha. I thought I’d told you. Numbers. Knowing that kind of thing is how I make my living.”
He showed Harry with the fingers of his free hand.
“Two at you and the dyke in the karaoke dive and three at the ladder. That’s one left for you, Harry. Worth putting a bit aside for a rainy day, you know.”
Harry was only two steps away.
“You’ve been watching too many shit action movies, Jens.”
“Famous last words.”
Jens sat up with an apologetic expression on his face and pulled the trigger. The click was deafening. Jens’s moue was replaced with disbelief.
“It’s only in shit action movies that all the guns have six bullets, Jens. That one’s a Ruger SP101. Five.”
“Five?” Jens glared at the gun. “Five? How do you know?”
“Knowing that kind of thing is how I make my living.”
Harry could see the blue lights on the road beneath them. “Best if you give it to me, Jens. The police have a tendency to shoot on sight if they see a gun.”
Confusion was written all over Jens’s face as he passed the gun to Harry, who stuffed it into his waistband. Perhaps it was because the belt wasn’t there and the gun fell down his trouser leg, perhaps it was because he was tired, perhaps it was because he relaxed when he saw what he thought was capitulation in Jens’s eyes. He lurched backward as the punch struck him, caught unawares by how fast Jens moved. He felt his left leg buckle beneath him, then his head hit the concrete with a crunch.
He was out for a second. Mustn’t lose consciousness. The radio searched desperately for the station. The first thing he saw was a gold tooth glinting. Harry blinked. It wasn’t a gold tooth; it was the moon reflecting on the blade of a Sami knife. Then the hungry steel arced down toward him.
Harry would never know if he had acted instinctively or if there had been a mental process behind what he did. His left hand rose with fingers spread, straight toward the shiny steel. The knife breached his palm with consummate ease. When the knife was through to the handle, Harry pulled his hand away and kicked with his good leg. He hit his target somewhere in the black blood, Jens folded, groaned and fell sideways into the sand. Harry struggled to his knees. Jens had crawled into the fetal position and was holding both hands to his stomach. He was screaming. With laughter or pain, it was hard to say.
“Fuck, Harry. It hurts so much it’s just fantastic.” He gasped, grunted and laughed in turn.
Harry got to his feet. He looked at the knife protruding through both sides of his hand, unsure what the wisest course of action would be: pull it out or leave it in to stop the blood? He heard something shouted through a megaphone from the street below.
“Do you know what’s going to happen now, Harry?” Jens had closed his eyes.
“Not really.”
Jens paused to collect himself. “Let me explain then. This is going to be a big payday for a whole stack of policemen, lawyers and judges. You bastard, Harry, this is going to cost me.”
“What do you mean?”
“What do I mean? Are you playing the Norwegian Boy Scout again now? Everything can be bought. If you have money. I’ve got money. Besides …” He coughed. “There are a couple of politicians with vested interests in the building industry who do not want to see BERTS go down the pan.”
Harry shook his head. “Not this time, Jens. Not this time.”
Jens bared his teeth in a pained blend of a smile and a grimace. “Want to bet?”
Come on, Harry thought. Don’t do anything you’ll regret, Hole. He looked at his watch, a reflex action in his profession. Time of arrest for the report.
“There’s one thing I was wondering about, Jens. Inspector Crumley thought I was giving too much away when I asked you about Ellem Ltd. Perhaps I was. But you’ve known for a long time that I knew it was you, haven’t you?”
Jens tried to focus on Harry. “A while. That’s why I never understood why you worked so hard to release me from remand. Why, Harry?”
Harry felt dizzy and sat down on one of the toolboxes.
“Well, perhaps it hadn’t occurred to me yet that I knew it was you. Perhaps I wanted to see what card you were going to play next. Perhaps I just wanted to flush you out. I don’t know. What made you think I knew?”
“Someone said.”
“Impossible. I haven’t said a word about it until tonight.”
“Someone knew without you saying.”
“Runa?”
Jens’s cheek was trembling and he had white saliva at the corners of his mouth. “Do you know what, Harry? Runa had what some call intuition. I call it observational prowess. You have to learn to hide your thoughts better, Harry. Don’t open up to the enemy. It’s incredible what a woman is willing to tell you if you threaten to cut off what makes her a woman. You—”
“How did you threaten her?”
“Nipples. I threatened to cut off her nipples. What do you think about that, Harry?”
Harry had lifted his face to the sky and closed his eyes, as though expecting rain.
“Did I say something wrong, Harry?”
Harry felt hot air streaming through his nostrils.
“She was waiting for you, Harry.”
“Which hotel do you stay at when you’re in Oslo?” Harry whispered.
“Runa said you would come and save her, she said you knew who had kidnapped her. She cried like a baby and hit out with her prosthesis. It was quite funny. So—”
The sound of vibrating metal. Clang, clang, clang. They were on their way up the ladder. Harry looked at the knife still in his hand. No. He glanced around. Jens’s voice grated in his ear. A sweet tingle started somewhere down in his stomach, a light hiss in his head, like getting drunk on champagne. Don’t do it, Hole, hold on tight. But he could already feel the ecstasy of free fall. He let go.
The lock
on the toolbox gave at the second kick. The pneumatic drill was a Wacker, light, probably no more than twenty kilos, and started at the first press of the button. Jens shut his mouth at once and his eyes widened as his brain gradually grasped what was going to happen.
“Harry, you can’t—”
“Open wide,” Harry said.
The roar of the juddering machine drowned the traffic beneath them, the yapping megaphone and the sound of the vibrating iron ladder. Harry leaned over Jens with his legs apart, his face still raised toward the sky and his eyes closed. It was raining.
Harry slumped into the sand. Lay on his back and gazed up at the sky; he was on the beach, she asked if he would put some cream on her back, she had such sensitive skin. Didn’t want to get burned. Not burned. Then they were there, loud voices, boots on the concrete and the greased click of guns being cocked. He opened his eyes and was blinded by a light on his face. Then the torch moved on and he glimpsed the outline of Rangsan.
Harry caught the smell of his own gall before the contents of his stomach filled his mouth and nose.
EPILOGUE
51
Liz woke up knowing she would see the yellow ceiling with the T-shaped crack in the plaster. For two weeks she had been staring at it. She wasn’t allowed to read or watch TV because of a fractured skull, only listen to the radio. The bullet wound would heal quickly, they said, no vital organs had been damaged.
Not vital to her anyway.
A doctor had been to see her and asked if she had any plans to have children. She had shaken her head and didn’t want to hear the rest, and he had acquiesced. There was time enough for bad news later; now she was trying to concentrate on the good news. Such as not having to direct the traffic for the next few years. And the Police Chief dropping by to say she could have a few weeks off.
Her eyes wandered to the windowsill. She tried to turn her head, but they had built an apparatus like an oil rig over her head, making it impossible to move.
She didn’t like being alone, had never liked it. Tonje Wiig had visited her the day before and asked if she knew what had happened to Harry. As though he had contacted her telepathically while she had been lying in a coma. But Liz had realized that Wiig’s concern wasn’t merely professional and she hadn’t commented. She only said he would turn up soon enough.
Tonje Wiig had looked so lonely and dejected. Well, she would survive. She was the type. She had been informed that she was the new ambassador, taking up the post in May.
Someone coughed. She opened her eyes.
“How’s it going?” a hoarse voice said.
“Harry?”
A lighter clicked and she smelled cigarette smoke.
“You’re back then?” she said.
“Just keeping my head above water.”
“What are you doing?”
“Experimenting,” he said. “Trying to find the ultimate way of losing consciousness.”
“They say you walked out of the hospital.”
“There wasn’t any more they could do for me.”
She laughed carefully, letting the air out in small bursts.
“What did he say?” Harry asked.
“Bjarne Møller? It’s raining in Oslo. Looks like spring will be early this year. Otherwise nothing new. Told me to say hello and tell you everyone’s sighing with relief on both sides. Director General Torhus popped by with flowers and asked after you. He told me to congratulate you.”
“What did Møller say?” Harry repeated.
Liz sighed. “OK, I gave him your message and he checked it out.”
“And?”
“You know how unlikely it is that Brekke would’ve had anything to do with your sister’s assault, don’t you.”
“Yes.”
She could hear the crackle of the tobacco as he inhaled.
“Perhaps you should let it go, Harry.”
“Why?”
“Brekke’s ex-wife didn’t understand the questions. She’d dumped him because she thought he was boring, not for any other reason. And …” She breathed in. “And he wasn’t even in Oslo when your sister was assaulted.”
She tried to hear how he was taking this.
“Sorry,” she said.
She heard the cigarette fall and a rubber heel grind it into the stone tiles.
“Well, I just wanted to see how you were,” he said. Chair legs scraped on the floor.
“Harry?”
“I’m here.”
“Just one thing. Come back. Promise me you will. Don’t stay out there.”
She could hear his breathing.
“I’ll come back,” he said without any intonation, as though sick of this refrain.
52
He watched the dust dance in a solitary beam of light intruding through a crack in the wooden floor above them. His shirt clung to him like a terrified woman, the sweat smarted on his lips and the stench of the earth floor made him feel sick. But then he was passed the pipe, one hand gripped the needle and spread the black tar over the hole; he held the pipe still over the flame and life was mellow again. After the second drag they appeared: Ivar Løken, Jim Love and Hilde Molnes. After the third, the rest appeared. Apart from one. He drew the smoke down into his lungs, held it there until he thought he would explode and then at last she was there. She was standing in the veranda doorway with the sun on one side of her face. Two steps, then she floated through the air, black and arched from the soles of her feet to the tips of her fingers, a gentle arc, endlessly slow, breaking the surface with a soft kiss, diving deeper and deeper into the water until it closed behind her. It bubbled; a wave lapped against the side of the pool. Then it was still, and the green water reflected the sky again as though she had never existed. He inhaled for a last time, lay back on the bamboo mat and closed his eyes. Then he heard the soft splashes of swimming strokes.
JO NESBØ
Cockroaches
Jo Nesbø’s books have been translated into forty-seven languages. He is the author of ten Harry Hole novels, as well as Headhunters and several children’s books. He has received the Glass Key Award for best Nordic crime novel. He is also a musician, songwriter, and economist and lives in Oslo.
www.jonesbo.com
BOOKS BY JO NESBØ
Headhunters
The Harry Hole series
1. The Bat
2. Cockroaches
3. The Redbreast
4. Nemesis
5. The Devil’s Star
6. The Redeemer
7. The Snowman
8. The Leopard
9. Phantom
10. Police
ALSO BY JO NESBØ
The Inspector Harry Hole Series*
THE BAT (1)
Inspector Harry Hole of the Oslo Crime Squad is dispatched to Sydney to observe a murder case. Harry is free to offer assistance, but he has firm instructions to stay out of trouble. The victim is a twenty-three-year-old Norwegian woman, a minor celebrity back home. Never one to sit on the sidelines, Harry befriends one of the lead detectives, and one of the witnesses, as he is drawn deeper into the case. Together, they discover that this is only the latest in a string of unsolved murders, and the pattern points toward a psychopath working his way across the country. As they circle closer and closer to the killer, Harry begins to fear that no one is safe, least of all those investigating the case.
Crime Fiction
THE REDEEMER (6)
Christmas shoppers stop to hear a Salvation Army concert on a crowded Oslo street. A gunshot cuts through the music and the bitter cold: one of the singers falls dead, shot in the head at point-blank range. Harry Hole—the Oslo Police Department’s best investigator and worst civil servant—has little to work with: no suspect, no weapon, and no motive. But Harry’s troubles will multiply. As the search closes in, the killer becomes increasingly desperate, and Harry’s chase takes him to the most forbidden corners of the former Yugoslavia.
Crime Fiction
THE SNOWMAN (7)
One night, a boy named Jonas wakes up and discovers that his mother has disappeared. Only one trace of her remains: a pink scarf, his Christmas gift to her, now worn by the snowman that inexplicably appeared in their yard earlier that day. The case deepens when a pattern emerges: over the past decade, eleven women have vanished—all on the day of the first snow. But this is a killer who makes his own rules … and he’ll break his pattern just to keep the game interesting, drawing Harry ever closer into his twisted web.
Crime Fiction
THE LEOPARD (8)
Inspector Harry Hole has retreated to Hong Kong, escaping the trauma of his last case in squalid opium dens, when two young women are found dead in Oslo, both drowned in their own blood. Media coverage quickly reaches a fever pitch. After he returns to Oslo, the killer strikes again, Harry’s instincts take over, and nothing can keep him from the investigation, though there is little to go on. Worse, he will soon come to understand that he is dealing with a psychopath who will put him to the test as never before.
Crime Fiction
PHANTOM (9)
When Harry Hole moved to Hong Kong, he thought he was escaping the traumas of his life in Oslo and his career as a detective for good. But now, the unthinkable has happened—Oleg, the boy he helped raise, has been arrested for killing a man. Harry can’t believe that Oleg is a murderer, so he returns to hunt down the real killer. Although he’s off the police force, he still has a case to solve that will send him into the depths of the city’s drug culture, where a shockingly deadly new street drug is gaining popularity.
Crime Fiction
* * *
*The Redbreast (3), Nemesis (4), and The Devil’s Star (5) are available from HarperCollins.
Also Available
HEADHUNTERS
Roger Brown is a corporate headhunter, but one career simply can’t support his luxurious lifestyle and his wife’s fledgling art gallery. At an art opening one night, he meets Clas Greve, who is not only the perfect candidate for a major CEO job, but also, perhaps, the answer to his financial woes: Greve just so happens to mention that he owns a priceless Peter Paul Rubens painting that’s been lost since World War II—and Roger Brown just so happens to dabble in art theft. But when he breaks into Greve’s apartment, he finds more than just the painting.