by Jo Nesbo
He stared at me sceptically as I explained, but I wasn’t concerned. Because I had seen it in his eyes. The greed. Another of these people after payback, who believe that money can buy them medicine for despair, loneliness and bitterness. That there is not only something called justice, but that it’s a consumer product, sort of. I explained we needed his expertise to cover any clues we left for the police, and to burn anything they found. Perhaps even direct suspicion on others if necessary. I saw the glint in his eye when I said we would take five of the twenty kilos in the stash. Two for me and him, one for Oleg. I watched him doing the calculations, one point two mil times two, two point four for him.
‘And this Oleg is the only other person you’ve spoken to?’ he asked.
‘Cross my heart.’
‘Have you got any weapons?’
‘An Odessa between us.’
‘Eh?’
‘The H&M version of a Stechkin.’
‘OK. It’s unlikely the detectives will give the number of kilos a thought if there are no signs of a break-in, but I suppose you’re scared Odin will come after you?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘I don’t give a shit about Odin. It’s my boss I’m scared of. I have no idea how, but I just know he knows to the gram how much heroin they have stored there.’
‘I want half,’ he said. ‘You and Boris can share the rest.’
‘Oleg.’
‘Be happy I’ve got a bad memory. And it works both ways. It’ll take me half a day to find you and nothing to destroy you.’ He lovingly rolled the ‘r’ in destroy.
It was Oleg who worked out how we should camouflage the robbery. It was so simple and obvious I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it myself.
‘We swap what we pinch with potato flour. The police will report how many kilos they confiscate, not the purity of its content, right?’
The plan was, as I said, as brilliant as it was simple.
The same night that Odin and the old boy were having a birthday party at McDonald’s and discussing the price of violin in Drammen and Lillestrøm, Berntsen, Oleg and I were standing in the darkness outside the fence round the bikers’ clubhouse in Alnabru. Berntsen had taken control, and we were wearing nylon stockings, black jackets and gloves. In our rucksacks we had shooters, a drill, a screwdriver, a jemmy and six kilos’ worth of plastic bags packed with potato flour. Oleg and I had explained where Los Lobos had placed their surveillance cameras, but by climbing over the fence and running to the wall on the left we stayed in the blind spot the whole time. We knew that we could make as much noise as we wanted as the heavy traffic on the E6 below would drown everything, so Berntsen drilled through the wall while Oleg kept lookout and I hummed ‘Been Caught Stealing’, which was on the soundtrack of Stein’s GTA game, and he said it was by a band called Jane’s Addiction, and I remembered because it was a cool name, cooler than the songs actually. Oleg and I were in familiar territory and the layout of the clubhouse was simple: it consisted of one large lounge area. But as all the windows had been cleverly covered with wooden shutters the plan was to drill a peephole, then we would be sure the clubhouse was unoccupied before we entered. Berntsen had insisted on this, he had refused to believe that Odin would leave twenty kilos of heroin, with a street value of twenty-five million, unguarded. We knew Odin better, but gave in. Safety first.
‘There we are,’ Berntsen said, holding the drill, which died with a snarl.
I put my eye to the hole. Couldn’t see fuck. Either someone had switched off the light or else we hadn’t drilled right through. I turned to Berntsen who was wiping the drill. ‘What kind of bloody insulation is this?’ he said, holding up a finger. It looked like egg yolk and fricking hair.
We walked a couple of metres further down and bored a new hole. I peered through. And there was the good old clubhouse. With the same old leather chairs, the same bar and the same picture of Karen McDougal, Playmate of the Year, arranged over some customised motorbike. I never found out what gave them the biggest hard-on: women or bikes.
‘All clear,’ I said.
The back door was festooned with hinges and locks.
‘I thought you said there was one lock!’ Berntsen said.
‘So there was,’ I said. ‘Odin’s obviously developing a bit of paranoia.’
The plan had been to drill the lock off and screw it back on before leaving, so that there would be no signs of a break-in. That was still possible but not in the time we had calculated. We got down to work.
After twenty minutes Oleg checked his watch and said we had to hurry. We didn’t know exactly when the raid was due, only that it would happen at some point after the arrests, and the arrests would have to take place pretty quickly as Odin wouldn’t want to hang around when he realised the old boy wasn’t coming.
We spent half an hour cleaning up the crap, three times as much as calculated. We took out our shooters, pulled the stockings down over our faces and went in, Berntsen first. We had hardly got inside the door when he fell onto one knee and held the shooter in front of him with both hands like a member of the fricking SWAT team.
A guy was sitting on a chair by the west wall. Odin had left Tutu as a watchdog. In his lap he had a sawn-off shotgun. But the watchdog was sitting with his eyes closed, gob open and head against the wall. Rumours were circulating that Tutu stammered even when he snored, but he was sleeping as sweetly as a baby now.
Berntsen got to his feet again and tiptoed towards Tutu, gun first. Oleg and I followed, also on tiptoe.
‘There’s only one hole,’ Oleg whispered to me.
‘What?’ I whispered back.
But then I realised.
I could see the last drill hole. And worked out where the first must have been.
‘Oh shit,’ I whispered. Even though I realised there was no longer any reason to whisper.
Berntsen had reached Tutu. He gave him a nudge. Tutu rolled sideways off the chair and fell to the floor. He lay face down on the concrete and we could see the circular entry into the back of his head.
‘Drill went right through, OK,’ Berntsen said. He poked his finger into the hole in the wall.
‘Bloody hell,’ I whispered to Oleg. ‘What are the chances of that happening, eh?’
But he didn’t answer. He was staring at the body as though he didn’t know whether to vomit or cry.
‘Gusto,’ he said finally, ‘what have we done?’
I don’t know what got into me, but I started laughing. It was impossible to hold back. The übercool hip gyration from the cop with the massive underbite, the despair on Oleg’s face, flattened behind the stocking, and Tutu, who turned out to have a brain after all, with his mouth hanging open. I laughed so much I howled. Until I was slapped and saw sparks in front of my eyes.
‘Shape up unless you want another,’ Berntsen said, rubbing his palm.
‘Thank you,’ I said and meant it. ‘Let’s find the dope.’
‘First we have to figure out what to do with Drillo here,’ Berntsen said.
‘It’s too late,’ I said. ‘Now they’ll find out there’s been a break-in anyway.’
‘Not if we get Tutu into the car and screw the locks on again,’ Oleg whined in a reedy, tear-filled voice. ‘If they discover some of the dope’s gone they’ll think he ran off with it.’
Berntsen looked at Oleg and nodded. ‘Bright partner you’ve got there, Wussto. Let’s get going.’
‘Dope first,’ I said.
‘Drillo first,’ Berntsen said.
‘Dope,’ I repeated.
‘Drillo.’
‘I intend to become a millionaire this evening, you pelican.’
Berntsen raised a hand. ‘Drillo.’
‘Shut up!’ It was Oleg. We stared at him.
‘It’s simple logic. If Tutu isn’t in the boot before the police come we lose both the dope and our freedom. If Tutu, but not the dope, is in the boot we lose only the money.’
Berntsen turned to me. ‘Sounds like Boris agrees w
ith me, Wussto. Two against one.’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘You carry the body and I’ll search for the dope.’
‘Wrong,’ Berntsen said. ‘We carry the body and you wash up the gunge after us.’ He pointed to the sink on the wall beside the bar.
I poured water into a bucket while Oleg and Berntsen grabbed a leg each and dragged Tutu towards the door, leaving a thin trail of blood. Under Karen McDougal’s provocative gaze I scrubbed brain and blood off the wall and then the floor. I had just finished and was about to start searching for dope when I heard a sound from the door that opened onto the E6. A sound I tried to persuade myself was going somewhere else. The fact that the sound was getting louder and louder could be a figment of my imagination. Police sirens.
I checked the bar, the office and the toilet. It was a simple room, no second storey, no cellar, not many places to hide twenty kilos of horse. Then my eyes fell on the toolbox. On the padlock. Which had not been there before.
Oleg shouted something from the door.
‘Give me the jemmy,’ I shouted back.
‘We’ve got to get out now! They’re down the road!’
‘Jemmy!’
‘Now, Gusto!’
I knew it was in there. Twenty-five million kroner, right in front of me, in a shitty wooden box. I started kicking the lock.
‘I’ll shoot, Gusto!’
I turned to Oleg. He was pointing the bloody Odessa at me. Not that I thought he would hit me from that range, it was well over ten metres, but just the idea that he would train a weapon on me.
‘If they catch you, they’ll catch us!’ he shouted with tears in his throat.
‘Come on!’
I battered away at the lock again. The sirens were getting louder and louder. The thing about sirens, though, is that they always sound closer than they are.
I heard a crack like a whip above me on the wall. I looked back at the door, and my blood ran cold. It was Berntsen. He was standing there with a smoking police shooter in his hand.
‘Next one won’t miss,’ he said calmly.
I gave the box one last kick. Then I ran.
We had hardly clambered over the fence and removed the stockings when we found ourselves looking into the headlights of the police cars. We walked casually towards them.
Then they sped past us and turned in front of the clubhouse.
We continued up the hill to where Berntsen had parked his car. Got in and drove off. As we passed the clubhouse I turned and looked at Oleg on the rear seat. Blue light swept across his face, inflamed from the tears and the tight stocking. He looked completely drained, staring into the darkness as if ready to die.
Neither of us said anything until Berntsen pulled in at a bus stop in Sinsen.
‘You screwed up, Wussto,’ he said.
‘I couldn’t know about the locks,’ I said.
‘It’s called preparation,’ Berntsen said. ‘Casing the joint. Sound familiar? We’re going to find an open door with a lock that’s been unscrewed.’
I realised that by ‘we’ he meant the cops. Odd fish.
‘I took the lock and the hinges,’ Oleg sniffled. ‘It’s going to look as though Tutu ran hell for leather when he heard the sirens, didn’t even have time to lock up. And the screw marks could be after a break-in at any point over the last year, right?’
Berntsen looked at Oleg in the mirror. ‘Learn from your pal, Wussto. Actually, don’t. Oslo doesn’t need any more smart thieves.’
‘Right,’ I said. ‘But perhaps it’s not such a bloody smart idea to park on double yellow lines at a bus stop with a body in the back, either.’
‘Agreed,’ Berntsen said. ‘Off you go then.’
‘The body …’
‘I’ll sort Drillo out.’
‘Where …?’
‘None of your business. Out!’
We got out and watched Berntsen’s Saab spin off.
‘From now on, we’ve got to keep away from that guy,’ I said.
‘Why?’
‘He’s killed a man, Oleg. He has to remove all the physical evidence. First he’ll have to find a place to hide the body. But after that …’
‘He’ll have to remove the witnesses.’
I nodded. Felt as depressed as fuck. Then I ventured an optimistic thought: ‘Sounded like he had a great stash in mind for Tutu, didn’t it?’
‘I was going to spend the money on moving to Bergen with Irene,’ Oleg said.
I looked at him.
‘I’ve got a place to do law at uni there. Irene’s in Trondheim with Stein. I was thinking of going up there and persuading her to join me.’
We caught the bus to town. I couldn’t stand Oleg’s blank gaze any longer, it had to be filled with something.
‘Come on,’ I said.
While I fixed him a shot in the rehearsal room I saw him sending me impatient glances, as if he wanted to take over, as if he thought I was clumsy. And when he rolled up his sleeve I knew why. The boy had needle marks all over his forearm.
‘Just until Irene comes back,’ he said.
‘Have you got your own stash as well?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘It’s been stolen.’
That was the night I taught him where and how to make a proper stash.
Truls Berntsen had been waiting for more than an hour at the multi-storey car park when a vehicle finally turned into the vacant spot with a sign showing it was reserved for the firm of solicitors Bach & Simonsen. He had decided this was the right place; only two cars had come to this part of the car park in the hour he had been here, and there were no surveillance cameras. Truls checked the number plate was the same as he had found on AUTOSYS. Hans Christian Simonsen had long lie-ins. Or perhaps he wasn’t asleep, perhaps he had some woman or other. The man getting out had a blond, boyish fringe, the kind Oslo West prats used to have when he was growing up.
Truls Berntsen put on his sunglasses, stuffed his hands in his coat pockets and squeezed the grip of the gun, a Steyr, Austrian, semi-automatic. He had left behind the standard police revolver so that the solicitor wouldn’t have any unnecessary leads. He walked quickly to cut off Simonsen while he was still standing between the cars. A threat works best if it’s fast and aggressive. If the victim has no time to mobilise any other thoughts than fear of life and limb, you will get what you want straight away.
It was as if he had fizz powder in his blood – there was a hiss and a pounding in his ears, groin and throat. He visualised what was going to happen. The gun in Simonsen’s face, so close that the barrel would be all he remembered. ‘Where’s Oleg Fauke? Answer me, quick and precise, or else I’ll kill you right now.’ The reply. Then: ‘If you warn anyone or say this conversation has taken place we’ll be back to kill you. Got that?’ Yes. Or numb nods. Maybe involuntary urination. Truls smiled at the thought. Increased his pace. The pounding had spread to his stomach.
‘Simonsen!’
The solicitor looked up. And his face brightened. ‘Oh, hi there! Berntsen. Truls Berntsen, isn’t it?’
Truls’s right hand froze in his coat pocket. And he must have worn a crestfallen expression because Simonsen gave a hearty laugh. ‘I’ve got a good memory for faces, Berntsen. You and your boss, Mikael Bellman, investigated the embezzlement business at Heider Museum. I was the defence counsel. You won the case, I’m sorry to say.’
Simonsen laughed again. Jovial, naive West Oslo laughter. The laughter of people who have grown up with everyone wishing everyone else well, in a place with the wealth necessary for them to be able to do that. Truls hated all the Simonsens in this world.
‘Anything I can help you with, Berntsen?’
‘I …’ Truls Berntsen fumbled for words. But this was not his strong suit, deciding what to do face to face with … with what? People who were verbally quicker on their feet than he was? It had been fine that time in Alnabru, then it had been two boys and he had taken command. But Simonsen had a suit, education, a different way of speaking, superior
ity, he … oh shit!
‘I just wanted to say hello.’
‘Hello?’ Simonsen said with a question mark in his intonation and face.
‘Hello,’ Berntsen said, forcing a smile. ‘Shame about the case. You’ll beat us next time.’
Then he headed for the exit with an accelerated step. Feeling Simonsen’s eyes on his back. Digging muck, eating shit. Sod the lot of them.
Try the solicitor, and if that doesn’t work there’s a man called Chris Reddy whom everyone knows as Adidas.
The speed dealer. Truls hoped he would have a pretext for violence during the arrest.
Harry swam towards the light, towards the surface. The light became stronger and stronger. Then he broke through. Opened his eyes. And stared straight up at the sky. He was lying on his back. Something came into his field of vision. A horse’s head. And another.
He shaded his eyes. Someone was sitting on a horse, but he was dazzled by the light.
The voice came from far away.
‘I thought you said you’d ridden before, Harry.’
Harry groaned and struggled to his feet as he recalled what exactly had happened. Balder had sailed across the chasm and landed on the ground with his front legs, Harry had been thrown forward, banging into Balder’s neck, losing the stirrups and sliding down one side while holding on tightly to the reins. He vaguely remembered dragging Balder with him, but kicked out at him so as not to have half a ton of horse on top of him.
His back felt as if it was out, but otherwise he seemed to be in one piece.
‘Grandfather’s nag didn’t jump over canyons,’ Harry said.
‘Canyons?’ Isabelle Skøyen laughed, passing him Balder’s reins. ‘That’s no more than a little crevice of five metres. I can jump further without a horse. Didn’t know you were the jittery type, Harry. First back to the farm?’
‘Balder,’ Harry said, patting the horse’s muzzle as they watched Isabelle Skøyen and Medusa racing down towards the open field, ‘are you conversant with the equine gait “an amble”?’