by Jo Nesbo
‘That’s what I’m trying to establish. A girl you say?’
‘Lovely, but a wan little thing. Ingunn? Iriam?’ She turned to the counter. ‘Hey! What’s the name of Gusto’s foster-sister?’ And before anyone had a chance to answer she answered herself: ‘Irene!’
‘Red hair and freckles?’ Harry asked.
‘She was so pale that if it hadn’t been for her hair she would have been invisible. I mean that. In the end the sun shone right through her.’
‘In the end?’
‘Yes, we’ve just been speaking about that. It’s a while since she’s been here. I’ve asked lots of the people who come here if she’s left town or what, but no one seems to know where she is.’
‘Do you remember anything happening around the time the murder took place?’
‘Nothing special except for that particular evening. I heard the police sirens and knew they were probably for some of our young parishioners, when one of your colleagues here received a phone call and stormed out.’
‘Thought it was an unwritten rule that undercover officers weren’t allowed to work here in the cafe.’
‘I don’t think he was working, Harry. He sat alone at the table over there, supposedly reading Klassekampen. It might sound rather vain, but I think he came here to watch moi.’ She coquettishly laid her hand flat against her chest.
‘You still attract lonely police officers, I suppose.’
She laughed. ‘I was the one who checked you over, or have you forgotten?’
‘A girl from a Christian family like you?’
‘In fact his staring made me go all clammy, but he stopped when my pregnancy became visible. Anyway, that night he slammed the door after him, and I watched him head for Hausmanns gate. The crime scene was only a few hundred metres away from here. Straight afterwards rumours began to circulate that Gusto had been shot. And that Oleg had been arrested.’
‘What do you know about Gusto, apart from the fact that he was attractive to women and came from a foster-family?’
‘He was called the Thief. He sold violin.’
‘Who did he work for?’
‘He and Oleg used to sell for the bikers up in Alnabru, Los Lobos. But they joined Dubai, I think. Everyone who was approached did. They had the purest heroin, and when violin made an appearance it was the Dubai pushers who had it. And I suppose it still is.’
‘What do you know about Dubai? Who is he?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t even know if it is a who or a what.’
‘So visible on the streets and yet so invisible behind the scenes. Does nobody know?’
‘Probably, but those who do won’t say.’
Someone called Martine’s name.
‘Stay where you are,’ Martine said, struggling up from the chair. ‘I’ll be back in a sec.’
‘Actually, I’ve got to be off,’ Harry said.
‘Where?’
There was a second’s silence as they both realised he didn’t have a sensible answer to her question.
Tord Schultz sat at the kitchen table by the window. The sun shone low, and there was still enough daylight for him to see everyone walking on the road between the houses. But he couldn’t see the road. He took a bite of bread with cervelat.
Planes flew over rooftops. Landed and took off. Landed and took off.
Tord Schultz listened to the various engine sounds. It was like a timeline: the old engines that sounded right, which had the exact growl, the warm glow, which evoked the good memories, which gave meaning, which were a soundtrack to when things had a meaning: job, punctuality, family, a woman’s caresses, recognition from colleagues. The new generation of engines moved more air, but were hectic, flew faster on less fuel, had greater efficiency, less time for inessentials. Also the essential inessentials. He glanced at the big clock on the fridge again. It ticked like a frightened little heart, fast and frenetic. Seven. Twelve hours left. Soon it would be dark. He heard a Boeing 747. The classic. The best. The sound grew and grew until it was a roar making the windowpanes tremble and the glass clink against the half-empty bottle on the table. Tord Schultz closed his eyes. It was the sound of optimism about the future, raw power, well-founded arrogance. The sound of invincibility to a man in his best years.
After the noise was gone and it was suddenly still in the house he noticed that the silence was different. As if the air had a different density.
As if it were occupied.
He turned right round, to the living room. Through the door he could see the weight-training bench and the furthest end of the coffee table. He looked at the parquet floor, at the shadows from the part of the living room he couldn’t see. He held his breath and listened. Nothing. Just the clock ticking on the fridge. So he took another bite of the bread, a swig from the glass and leaned back in the chair. A big plane was on the way in. He could hear it coming from behind. It drowned the sound of time ticking away. And he was thinking it would have to pass between the house and the sun as a shadow fell over him and the table.
Harry walked along Urtegata and down Platous gate to Grønlandsleiret. Heading for Police HQ on autopilot. He stopped in Bots Park. Looked at the prison, at the solid grey walls.
‘Where?’ she had asked.
Was he really in any doubt as to who killed Gusto Hanssen?
An SAS plane left Oslo for Bangkok, direct, every day before midnight. Flew from there to Hong Kong five times a day. He could go to Hotel Leon right now. Pack his bag and check out. It would take precisely five minutes. The airport express to Gardermoen. Buy a ticket at the SAS counter. A meal and newspapers in the relaxing, impersonal transit atmosphere of an airport.
Harry turned. Saw the red concert poster from the day before was gone.
He continued down Oslo gate and was walking past Minne Park by Gamlebyen cemetery when he heard a voice from the shadows by the gate.
‘Two hundred to spare?’ it said in Swedish.
Harry half stopped, and the beggar stepped out. His coat was long and ragged, and the beam from the spotlight caused his large ears to cast shadows over his face.
‘I assume you’re asking for a loan?’ Harry said, fishing out his wallet.
‘Collection,’ Cato said, extending his hand. ‘You’ll never get it back. I left my wallet at Hotel Leon.’ There wasn’t a whiff of spirits or beer on the old man’s breath, just the smell of tobacco and something that reminded him of childhood, playing hide-and-seek at his grandfather’s, when Harry hid in the wardrobe and inhaled the sweet, mouldy smell of clothes that had hung there for years. They must have been as old as the house itself.
Harry located a five-hundred note and handed it to Cato.
‘Here.’
Cato stared at the money. Ran his hand over it. ‘I’ve been hearing this and that,’ he said. ‘They say you’re police.’
‘Oh?’
‘And that you drink. What’s your poison?’
‘Jim Beam.’
‘Ah, Jim. A pal of my Johnnie. And you know the boy, Oleg.’
‘Do you know him?’
‘Prison’s worse than death, Harry. Death is simple, it liberates the soul. But prison eats away at your soul until there is nothing human left of you. Until you become a phantom.’
‘Who told you about Oleg?’
‘My congregation is large and my parishioners are numerous, Harry. I listen. They say you’re hunting that person. Dubai.’
Harry checked his watch. There was usually plenty of room on the flights at this time of the year. From Bangkok he could also go to Shanghai. Zhan Yin had texted that she was alone this week. They could go to the country house together.
‘I hope you don’t find him, Harry.’
‘I didn’t say I was—’
‘Those who do, die.’
‘Cato, tonight I’m going to—’
‘Have you heard about the Beetle?’
‘No, but—’
‘Six insect legs that bore into your face.’
; ‘I have to go, Cato.’
‘I’ve seen it myself.’ Cato dropped his chin onto his priest’s collar. ‘Under Älvsborg Bridge by Gothenburg harbour. A policeman searching for a heroin gang. They smacked a brick studded with nails in his face.’
Harry realised what the man was talking about. Zjuk. The Beetle.
The method had originally been Russian and used on informers. First of all, the informer’s ear was nailed to the floor beneath a roof beam. Then six long nails were hammered halfway into a brick, the brick was tied to a rope slung around the beam and the informer held the rope end between his teeth. The point – and the symbolism – was that so long as the informer kept his mouth shut he was alive. Harry had seen the result of zjuk carried out by the Tapei Triad on a poor sod they found in a backstreet of Tanshui. They had used broad nail heads that didn’t make such big holes on their way in. When the paramedics came and pulled the brick off the dead man the face came with it.
Cato stuffed the five-hundred note in his trouser pocket with one hand and placed the other on Harry’s shoulder.
‘I understand you want to protect your son. But what about the other guy? He also had a father, Harry. They call it self-sacrifice when parents fight for their children, but really they’re protecting themselves, the ones who have been cloned. And that doesn’t require any moral courage; it’s just genetic egotism. As a child my father used to read the Bible to us, and I thought Abraham was a coward when God told him to sacrifice his son and he obeyed. Growing up, I understood that a truly selfless father is willing to sacrifice his child if it serves a higher goal than father and son. For that does exist.’
Harry threw his cigarette down in front of him. ‘You’re mistaken. Oleg is not my son.’
‘He isn’t? Why are you here then?’
‘I’m a policeman.’
Cato laughed. ‘Sixth commandment, Harry. Don’t lie.’
‘Isn’t that the eighth?’ Harry trod on the smouldering cigarette. ‘And as far as I recall, the commandment says you shouldn’t bear false witness against your neighbour, which would mean it’s fine to lie a bit about yourself. But perhaps you didn’t complete your theology studies?’
Cato shrugged. ‘Jesus and I have no formal qualifications. We are men of the Word. But like all medicine men, fortune-tellers and charlatans we can sometimes inspire false hopes and genuine comfort.’
‘You’re not even a Christian, are you?’
‘Let me say here and now that faith has never done me any good, only doubt. So that is what has become my testament.’
‘Doubt.’
‘Exactly.’ Cato’s yellow teeth glistened in the darkness. ‘I ask: Is it so certain that a God doesn’t exist, that he doesn’t have a design?’
Harry laughed quietly.
‘We’re not so different, Harry. I have a false priest’s collar; you have a false sheriff’s badge. How unshakeable is your faith in your gospel actually? To protect those who have found their way and make sure those who have lost theirs are punished according to their sins? Aren’t you also a doubter?’
Harry tapped a cigarette from the packet. ‘Unfortunately there is no doubt in this case. I’m going home.’
‘If that is so, I wish you a good trip. I have a service to hold.’
A car hooted and Harry turned automatically. Two headlights blinded him before sweeping round the corner. The brake lights resembled the glow of cigarettes in the darkness as the police vehicle slowed down to enter the Police HQ garages. And when Harry turned back Cato had gone. The old priest seemed to have melted into the night; all Harry could hear were footsteps heading for the cemetery.
In fact it did take only five minutes to pack and check out of Hotel Leon.
‘There’s a small discount for customers who pay cash,’ said the boy behind the counter. Not everything was new.
Harry flicked through his wallet. Hong Kong dollars, yuan, US dollars, euros. His mobile phone rang. Harry lifted it to his ear while fanning out the notes and offering them to the boy.
‘Speak.’
‘It’s me. What are you doing?’
Shit. He had planned to wait and phone her from the airport. Make it as simple and brutal as possible. A quick wrench.
‘I’m checking out. Can I ring you back in a couple of minutes?’
‘I just wanted to say that Oleg has contacted his solicitor. Erm … Hans Christian, that is.’
‘Norwegian kroner,’ said the boy.
‘Oleg says he wants to meet you, Harry.’
‘Hell!’
‘Sorry? Harry, are you there?’
‘Do you take Visa?’
‘Cheaper for you to go to an ATM and withdraw cash.’
‘Meet me?’
‘That’s what he says. As soon as possible.’
‘That’s not possible, Rakel.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because—’
‘There’s an ATM only a hundred metres down Tollbugata.’
‘Because?’
‘Take my card, OK?’
‘Harry?’
‘First of all, it’s not possible, Rakel. He’s not allowed visitors, and I won’t get round that a second time.’
‘And second of all?’
‘I don’t see the point, Rakel. I’ve read the documents. I …’
‘You what?’
‘I think he shot Gusto Hanssen, Rakel.’
‘We don’t take Visa. Have you got anything else? MasterCard, American Express?’
‘No! Rakel?’
‘Then let’s say dollars and euros. The exchange rate’s not very favourable, but it’s better than the card.’
‘Rakel? Rakel? Shit!’
‘Something the matter, herr Hole?’
‘She rang off. Is this enough?’
12
I STOOD IN SKIPPERGATA WATCHING the rain bucket down. The winter had never managed to get a grip, and there had been a lot of rain instead. Although it had not dampened demand. Oleg, Irene and I turned over more in one day than I had done in a whole week for Odin and Tutu. To the nearest round figure, I earned six thousand a day. I had counted all the Arsenal shirts in the centre. The old boy must have been making more than two million kroner a week, and that was a conservative calculation.
Every night, before we settled up with Andrey, Oleg and I carefully added up all the takings and made it tally with the goods. There was never as much as a krone missing. It wouldn’t have been worth it.
And I could trust Oleg one hundred per cent, I don’t think he had the imagination to think of stealing, or else he had not understood the concept. Or perhaps his head and his heart were too full of Irene. It was almost comical to see him wagging his tail when she was around. And how utterly blind she was to his adoration. Because Irene could see only one thing.
Me.
It neither bothered me nor pleased me, that was just how it was and always had been.
I knew her so well, knew exactly how I could make her little OMO-pure heart thump, her sweet mouth smile and – if that was what I wanted – her blue eyes fill with big tears. I could have let her go, opened the door and said there you are. But I’m a thief, and thieves don’t give away anything they think they might be able to convert into cash. Irene belonged to me, but two million a week belonged to the old boy.
It’s funny how six thousand a day develops legs when you take crystal meth like ice cubes in your drinks and wear clothes that are not bought from Cubus. That was why I was still dossing in the rehearsal room with Irene, who slept on a mattress behind the drums. But she was managing, didn’t touch so much as a spiked fag, ate veggie shit and had opened a fricking bank account. Oleg was living with his mother, so he must have been rolling in money. He had cleaned himself up, was doing some studying and had even begun to train at Valle Hovin.
While I was standing in Skippergata and thinking and doing mental arithmetic I saw a figure coming towards me in the pouring rain. Glasses misted up, thin hair plastered to his sku
ll, wearing the type of all-weather jacket your fat, ugly girlfriend bought you both for Christmas. Well, either the girlfriend was ugly or she didn’t exist. I could see that from his gait. He limped. They’ve probably invented a word to camouflage it, but I call it a club foot, but then I say ‘spastic’ and ‘negro’ as well.
He stopped in front of me.
Now the thing is, I was no longer surprised at the kind of people who bought heroin, but this man definitely did not belong to the usual category of punter.
‘How much—?’
‘Three hundred and fifty for a quarter.’
‘—would you pay for a gram of heroin?’
‘Pay? We sell, fuckwit.’
‘I know. Just doing a bit of research.’
I looked at him. A journalist? A social worker? Or perhaps a politician? While I was working for Odin and Tutu a similar sort of bozo had come over and said he was on the council and some committee called RUNO, and asked me very politely whether I would go to a meeting about ‘Drugs and Youth’. They wanted to hear ‘voices from the street’. I turned up for a laugh and listened to them rabbit on about European Cities Against Drugs and a big international plan for a drug-free Europe. I was given a soft drink and a bun and laughed until I cried. But the person leading the meeting was this MILF, peroxide blonde, with features like a man, huge jugs and the voice of a sergeant major. For a moment I wondered whether she’d had more than her tits done. After the meeting she came over to me, said she was secretary to the Councillor for Social Services and that she would like to talk more about these things, could we meet at her place if I had ‘the opportunity’ one day. She was a MILF without the M, it turned out. Lived alone on a farm, wore tight riding breeches when she opened the door and wanted ‘it’ to take place in a stable. Didn’t bother me if she’d really had her dick done. They had tidied up nicely and installed a pair of milkers that bounced up a storm. But there’s something odd about screwing a woman who howls like a model aircraft two metres from sturdy, ruminating horses, which watch you with a semi-interested stare. Afterwards I had to pick straw from between my buttocks, and I asked her if she had a thousand kroner to lend me. We continued to meet until I started to earn six thousand a day, and between shags she had time to explain that a secretary did not sit writing letters for her councillor but dealt with practical politics. Even if she was a slave right now she was the person who made things happen. And when the right people understood that, it would be her turn to be a councillor. What I learned from her talk about the City Hall was that all politicians – high or low – wanted the same two things: power and sex. In that order. Whispering ‘cabinet minister’ in her ear at the same time as getting two fingers up could make her squirt all the way to the pigsty. I’m not kidding. And in the face of the guy in front of me I could read some of the same sick, intense longings.