by Jo Nesbo
‘What about it?’ Bratt asked.
‘Do you think she’s alive?’ Harry tried to ask in a casual manner so that she wouldn’t realise it was a test.
‘Do you think I’m stupid?’ she said and watched with undisguised revulsion as the machine coughed and spluttered something black into a white plastic cup. ‘Didn’t you hear the Politioverbetjent say that I worked at the Sexual Offences Unit for four years?’
‘Mm,’ Harry said. ‘Dead then?’
‘As a dodo,’ said Katrine Bratt.
Harry lifted the white cup. He pondered the possibility that he had just been allocated a colleague he might come to appreciate.
Walking home in the afternoon, Harry saw that the snow was gone from the pavements and streets, and the light, flimsy flakes whirling through the air were eaten up by the wet tarmac as soon as they hit the ground. He went into his regular music shop in Akersgata and bought Neil Young’s latest even though he had a suspicion it was a stinker.
As he unlocked his flat he noticed that something was different. Something about the sound. Or perhaps it was the smell. He pulled up sharp at the threshold to the kitchen. The whole of one wall was gone. That is, where early this morning there had been bright, flowery wallpaper and plasterboard, he now saw rust-red bricks, grey mortar and greyish-yellow studwork dotted with nail holes. On the floor was the mould man’s toolbox and on the worktop a note saying he would be back the following day.
He went into the sitting room, slipped in the Neil Young CD, glumly took it out again after a quarter of an hour and put on Ryan Adams. The thought of a drink came from nowhere. Harry closed his eyes and stared at the dancing pattern of blood and total blindness. He was reminded of the letter again. The first snow. Toowoomba.
The ringing of the telephone interrupted Ryan Adams’s ‘Shakedown on 9th Street’.
A woman introduced herself as Oda, said she was calling from Bosse and it was nice to talk to him again. Harry couldn’t remember her, but he did remember the TV programme. They had wanted him to talk about serial killers, because he was the only Norwegian police officer to have studied with the FBI, and furthermore he had hunted down a genuine serial killer. Harry had been stupid enough to agree. He had told himself he was doing it to say something important and moderately qualified about people who kill, not so that he could be seen on the nation’s most popular talk show. In retrospect, he was not so sure about that. But that wasn’t the worst aspect. The worst was that he’d had a drink before going on air. Harry was convinced that it had only been one. But on the programme it looked as if it had been five. He had spoken with clear diction; he always did. But his eyes had been glazed, his analysis sluggish and he hadn’t managed to draw any conclusions, so the show host had been forced to introduce a guest who was the new European flower-arranging champion. Harry had not said anything, but his body language had clearly shown what he thought about the flower debate. When the host, with a surreptitious smile, had asked how a murder investigator related to flower arranging, Harry had said that wreaths at Norwegian burials certainly maintained high international standards. Perhaps it had been Harry’s slightly befuddled, nonchalant style that had drawn laughter from the studio audience and contented pats on the back from the TV people after the programme. He had ‘delivered the goods’, they said. And he had joined a small group of them at Kunstnernes Hus, had been indulged and had woken up the next day with a body from which every fibre of his being screamed, demanded, had to have more. It was a Friday and he had continued to drink all weekend. He had sat at Schrøder’s and shouted for beer as they were flashing the lights to encourage customers to leave, and Rita, the waitress, had gone over to Harry and told him that he would be refused admission in the future unless he went now, preferably to bed. On Monday morning Harry had turned up for work at eight on the dot. He had contributed nothing useful to the department, thrown up in the sink after the morning meeting, clung to his office chair, drunk coffee, smoked and thrown up again, but this time in the toilet. And that was the last time he had succumbed; he hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol since.
And now they wanted him back on the screen.
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 recognised 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 rang off. 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 worktop. The light from the snow-covered garden shone on the hairless skin drawn tightly around his father’s massive skull. Mummy 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? Mummy 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 round the corners of her mouth, which seemed to make Dad even more irritable. He hoped she would soon be there.
‘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 Mummy says –’
‘Mummy doesn’t speak properly. Do you understand? Mummy comes from a place and a family where they’re not bothered about language.’ His father’s breath smelt 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 haven’t made a snowman,’ Jonas said.
‘Haven’t you?’ His Mummy frowned as she unfurled the big pink scarf he had given her for Christmas.
Dad went over to the window. ‘Must be the neighbours’ 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, towards the open space.
<
br /> ‘Why—?’ Jonas began, but was interrupted by his father.
‘I’ll talk to them.’
‘Why’s that?’ Mummy 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 him shiver.
‘I was thinking I would have dinner ready,’ Mummy said, coming into the kitchen, going over to the stove, checking the pans and turning up the temperature on two of the hotplates.
‘Just have it ready,’ his father said, turning to the pile of newspapers on the worktop. ‘And I’ll be home at some point.’
‘OK.’ Mummy went over to Dad’s back and put her arms around him. ‘But do you really have to go to Bergen tonight already?’
‘My lecture’s at eight tomorrow,’ 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 tomorrow.’
Jonas could see from the muscles in his father’s neck that he was relaxing, that once again Mummy had managed to find the right words.
‘Why is the snowman looking at our house?’ Jonas asked.
‘Go and wash your hands,’ Mummy said.
They ate in silence, broken only by Mummy’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 their parents did and where they were from. Questions which Jonas could never answer to his father’s satisfaction.
When Jonas was in bed, on the floor below he heard his father say goodbye 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 any more. 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 bitter-sweet 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 garden 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 PALACE GRILL reading the signs on the walls, the good-natured reminders to bar 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 practised 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 felt 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 cosy 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 that Harry had reached and with whom he had gradually developed bonds that in many ways were stronger than those 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, went without saying. Harry used to call her ‘cochineal’ after the natural pigment that gave the spicy, sweet wine its characteristic colour. Because she liked to dress in bright red. Rakel had herself claimed that she used it as a warning, the way animals use strong colours 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 colours and memory. The fungus is growing, I’m dis appearing. 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 gobbledegook. He told her about the mould in his flat.
‘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 barman. ‘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 with sadness.
‘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, thou
ght 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 still does the night shift at A&E. 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.’
She sighed. ‘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 round 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 was he who had burst into her office. She turned her back on him.