by Jo Nesbo
He navigated his way around the Howell Clinic’s website. The pictures from the eye clinic were nothing like most other American private hospitals, which resembled five-star hotels with smiling patients, ecstatic testimonies and surgeons who looked like film stars and airline pilots. This clinic displayed only a few photographs and sober information about staff qualifications, results, articles published in reputable journals and Nobel Prize nominations. And most important of all: the percentage of successful operations for the procedure Else needed. The figure was well above fifty – but not as high as he had hoped. On the other hand, it was low enough for him to believe it. There were no prices listed on the website. But he hadn’t forgotten what it was. It was high enough for him to believe it.
He sensed movement in the darkness. It was Kari.
‘I tried calling you at home. Your wife said you were here.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why are you working so late?’
Simon shrugged. ‘When you can’t go home with good news, sometimes you put off going home for as long as you can.’
‘What do you mean?’
Simon ignored her. ‘What do you want?’
‘I did as you said, turned over every stone, looked for every possible and impossible connection between the Iversen murder and the triple homicide. And I can’t find a single thing.’
‘You realise, of course, that that doesn’t rule out that there is a connection,’ Simon said and moved to another page on the website.
Kari pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘Well, if there is, then I certainly can’t find it. And I’ve had a very good look. And I’ve been thinking—’
‘We like thinking.’
‘Perhaps it’s this simple: the burglar spotted two opportunities – the Iversen house and a location with drugs and money. And he had learned from his first robbery that you should always make people give you the code to their safe before you kill them.’
Simon looked up from his computer. ‘A robber, who has already shot two people, squanders half a kilo of Superboy with a street value of half a million kroner to kill his third victim?’
‘Bjørnstad thought it was gang-related, a way to send a message to the competition.’
‘Gangs can send messages without spending half a million on postage, Officer Adel.’
Kari threw back her head and sighed. ‘Agnete Iversen definitely isn’t mixed up with drug dealing and the likes of Kalle Farrisen, I think we can be sure of that.’
‘But there is a connection,’ Simon insisted. ‘What I don’t understand is that now when we’ve uncovered what he’s trying to hide, namely that there is a connection, we still can’t identify what that connection is. If the connection really is that obscure, why go to all the trouble of hiding that it’s the same killer?’
‘Perhaps the cover-up isn’t designed to confuse us,’ Kari yawned.
She closed her mouth immediately when she saw Simon stare at her with wide eyes.
‘Of course. You’re right.’
‘Am I?’
Simon got up. Then he sat down again. He slammed the desk with the palm of his hand. ‘He’s not worried that the police might work out his identity. This is about someone else.’
‘He’s scared that someone else will come after him?’
‘Yes. Or perhaps he doesn’t want to alert them to his presence. But at the same time . . .’ Simon cupped his chin with his hand and swore under his breath.
‘At the same time what . . .?’
‘It’s more complicated than that. Because he’s not hiding altogether. Killing Kalle in that manner is sending someone a message.’ Simon kicked off irritably and the chair tilted back. They sat, not saying a word while the darkness grew denser around them without them noticing. Simon was the first to break the silence. ‘I’ve been thinking that Kalle’s life was ended in the same way as some of his customers. Respiratory failure following an overdose. As if the killer is some kind of avenging angel. Does that ring any bells?’
Kari shook her head. ‘Only that Agnete Iversen probably wasn’t executed according to the same logic; as far as I know she never shot anyone in the chest.’
Simon got up. Walked over to the window and stared down at the street lights. A rumbling came from under the wheels of two skateboards. Two boys, both wearing hoodies, passed below him.
‘Oh, I forgot,’ Kari said. ‘I did find one connection. Between Per Vollan and Kalle Farrisen.’
‘Yes?’
‘I spoke to one of my old CIs from the Drug Squad. He said he thought it was odd that two people who knew each other so well had died in such a short space of time.’
‘Vollan knew Farrisen?’
‘Yes. Well. Too well, according to my CI. And another thing. I’ve checked Kalle’s file. He was questioned repeatedly in connection with a murder investigation some years ago, he was even remanded in custody. The victim was never identified.’
‘Never?’
‘All we know is that she was a young Asian girl. Dental analysis suggested she was sixteen years old. A witness saw a man inject her using a syringe in a backyard. The witness picked out Kalle in a line-up.’
‘Aha.’
‘But Kalle was released when someone else confessed.’
‘Lucky guy.’
‘Yes. Incidentally, the man who confessed to the murder is the same one who has just escaped from Staten Prison.’
Kari watched Simon’s immobile figure in front of the window. She wondered if he had heard what she said; she was about to repeat it when his rough, comforting grandfatherly voice rang out:
‘Kari?’
‘Yes?’
‘I want you to check out absolutely every aspect of Agnete Iversen’s life. See if there is something that even looks like a gunshot anywhere near her. Anything – do you understand?’
‘Sure. What do you have in mind?’
‘I’m thinking . . .’ the soothing quality of his voice had gone, ‘that if . . . if . . . then . . .’
‘Then what?’
‘Then this has only just begun.’
25
MARKUS HAD SWITCHED off the light in his bedroom. Watching others in the knowledge that they couldn’t see you was a strange feeling. Even so, a jolt like an electric shock went through him every time the Son looked out of the window and right into Markus’s binoculars. It was almost as if he knew someone was spying on him. The Son was in his parents’ bedroom now, he sat on that pink blanket box which Markus knew was empty except for some duvet covers and sheets. The room with no curtains was lit up by a ceiling lamp with four light bulbs which made it easy to see inside. And since the yellow house lay on a lower level than Markus’s own, and Markus was sitting on the top bunk of the bed which he had dragged over to the window, he could see what the Son was doing. Which wasn’t much; he had been sitting there for a long time with his earphones plugged into his mobile, listening to something. It must be a good song because every three minutes he would press the phone again as if he couldn’t get enough of it. And every time he would smile in the same place, even though he was probably feeling a little sad because of that girl. They had kissed and then she had rushed off as fast as she could. Poor guy. Markus wondered if he should go over and knock. Ask the Son if he fancied coming to their house for dinner. His mother would probably think it was nice. But the Son looked sad, so perhaps he didn’t want company. There was always tomorrow. Markus would get up early, go over and ring the doorbell, bring him some warm bread rolls. Yes, that was what he was going to do. Markus yawned. And in his head he, too, played a song. No, not really a song, it was just a sentence. But it was going around his head on a loop. Ever since that thug from Tåsen had asked the Son if he was Markus’s father. ‘Might be.’
Might be. Wow!
Markus yawned again. It was bedtime. After all, he was getting up early tomorrow to heat bread rolls. But as he was about to lower the binoculars, something happened. The Son had got up. Markus pressed the binoculars to h
is eyes again. The Son had moved the rug and lifted up the loose floorboard. The hiding place. He was putting something in the hiding place. It was the red sports bag. He opened it. Took out a bag of white powder. Markus knew immediately what it was, he had seen bags like that on TV. Drugs. Suddenly the Son lifted his head. He looked as if he was listening out for something; he pricked up his ears like antelopes at the watering hole on Animal Planet. And now Markus could hear it, too. The distant sound of an engine. A car. There weren’t many of them in his street this late at night during the summer holidays. The Son sat very still as if paralysed. Markus saw the headlights light up the tarmac. A big, black car, what they call an SUV, stopped below the street lamp between their houses. Two men got out. Markus studied them through his binoculars. They were both wearing black suits. Men in Black. The second was the best. But the smaller of them had blond hair and that was all wrong. The taller did have black curly hair just like Will Smith, but he had a massive bald patch and his skin was as white as chalk. Markus watched them straighten their suits as they looked at the yellow house. The balding man pointed to the window in the bedroom which was lit up and they quickly walked up to the gate. The Son would have some visitors at last!
Just like Markus, they jumped over the fence rather than going through the gate. And like him, they had realised that walking across the lawn made much less noise than taking the gravel path. Markus swung the binoculars towards the bedroom again. The Son had gone. He had probably seen them, too, and had gone downstairs to let in his guests. Markus aimed the binoculars at the front door where the two men had already walked up the steps. It was too dark for Markus to be able to see exactly what happened. But he heard something smash and then the door opened. Markus stopped breathing.
They . . . they had broken in. They were burglars!
Perhaps someone had told them that the house was empty. Whatever, he had to warn the Son – what if they were dangerous?! Markus jumped down from the bed. Should he wake his mother? Ring the police? And say what? That he was spying on his neighbour with his binoculars? And if they came to dust for fingerprints to find the burglars, they would find his, Markus’s, fingerprints! And the Son’s drugs so that he would go to prison as well. Markus stood in the middle of the floor; he had no idea what to do. Then he detected movement in the bedroom across the street. He held up his binoculars again. It was the men, they were in the bedroom. They were looking for something. In the wardrobe, under the bed. They . . . they had guns! Markus instinctively took a step backwards when the tall man with the curls came over to the window, checked that it was shut and stared out, right at Markus. The Son must have hidden himself, but where? He appeared to have put the bag with the drugs back in the hiding place, but it wasn’t big enough for a person. Hah! They would never find the Son, he knew his house much better than they did, just like the Vietnamese soldiers knew the jungle much better than the Americans. He just had to be quiet as a mouse, just like Markus himself had been. The Son would be all right. He had to be all right! Dear God, please let him be all right.
Sylvester glanced around the bedroom and scratched the naked crescent between his dark curls. ‘Dammit, Bo, he must have been here! I’m sure the light wasn’t on in any of the windows yesterday.’ He flopped down on the pink blanket box, stuck the gun in his shoulder holster and lit a cigarette.
The small blond man stood in the middle of the floor, still holding his gun. ‘I’ve a hunch that he’s here somewhere.’
Sylvester waved his cigarette. ‘Relax, he’s been and gone. I checked both loos and the other bedroom.’
The blond man shook his head. ‘No, he’s somewhere in this house.’
‘Give over, Bo, he’s not a ghost, just an amateur who’s been lucky. Up until now.’
‘Maybe you’re right. But I’d never underestimate Ab Lofthus’s son.’
‘Am I supposed to know who that is?’
‘Before your time, Sylvester. Ab Lofthus was the toughest cop in town, by a mile.’
‘How would you know?’
‘Because I met the guy, you moron. Back in the nineties me and Nestor were in the middle of a deal at Alnabru when Lofthus and another cop just happened to drive by. Lofthus knew straight away that they had stumbled on a drugs deal, but rather than call for backup, him and his partner tried to nick us. Ab Lofthus single-handedly beat up four of our guys before we managed to floor him. Which was no easy matter, let me tell you – the guy was a wrestler. We were gonna shoot him right there and then, but Nestor chickened out, was scared that spilling cop blood would be bad for business. And while we were arguing about it, the guy was lying there screaming “Bring it on!” like that deluded knight in Monty Python – do you remember? They chop off his arms and legs, and still he won’t accept that he’s beaten.’
Bo laughed. Like you laugh at a treasured memory, Sylvester thought. The man was sick, he loved death and mutilation and would lie on his couch watching entire seasons of Ridiculousness on the Web because it consisted of footage of people properly hurting themselves, not just the funny home videos of people tripping over or spraining fingers, something the whole family could laugh at.
‘I thought you said there were two of them,’ Sylvester argued.
Bo snorted. ‘His partner backed off immediately. Very happy to cooperate, fell on his knees and begged for mercy, you know the type.’
‘Yep,’ Sylvester said. ‘A loser.’
‘Nope,’ Bo said. ‘A winner. It’s called emotional intelligence. And that guy’s strategy took him further along than you would think. But enough of that. Let’s check the house again.’
Sylvester shrugged and was almost out of the door when he realised that Bo hadn’t followed him. He turned round and looked at his partner who was still standing in the same place, staring at the spot where Sylvester had just been sitting. At the lid of the blanket box. Bo raised a finger to his lips and pointed at the box. Sylvester took out his gun and flicked the safety catch aside. He felt his senses heighten; the light grew stronger, sounds intensified and his pulse throbbed in his neck. Without making any noise Bo shifted to the left of the blanket box so that Sylvester also had a clear line of fire. Sylvester closed both hands around the gun handle and moved closer. Bo signalled that he would open the lid. Sylvester nodded.
He held his breath as Bo – with his pistol aimed at the blanket box – placed the fingertips of his left hand under the edge of the lid. Waited a second, listened. And flipped open the lid.
Sylvester felt the resistance from the trigger against his forefinger.
‘Damn!’ Bo hissed.
Apart from the bed linen, the blanket box was empty.
Together Bo and Sylvester searched the other rooms, turning the lights on and off, but found nothing. Eventually they went back to the bedroom where everything was as they had left it.
‘You were wrong,’ Sylvester said, articulating the words slowly and clearly because he knew exactly how much they would anger Bo. ‘He’s gone.’
Bo rolled his shoulders as if his suit didn’t fit him properly. ‘If the boy has gone, but left the light on, it could mean that he’s planning on coming back. And if we’re ready and waiting when he does, it makes our job easier than if we have to force our way in.’
‘Maybe,’ Sylvester said. He could see where this was heading.
‘Nestor wants us to get him asap. He can do a lot of damage, you know.’
‘Yeah, right,’ Sylvester scowled.
‘So you stay here tonight in case he comes back.’
‘Why do I always get the crappy jobs?’
‘The answer starts with an S.’
Seniority. Sylvester heaved a sigh. He wished that someone would shoot Bo so that he would get a new partner. One with less seniority.
‘I suggest you wait in the living room where you’ll have a view of the front door and the basement door,’ Bo said. ‘We can’t be sure this guy is as easy to end as that chaplain.’
‘I heard you the first time,’
Sylvester said.
Markus saw the two men leave the well-lit bedroom and shortly afterwards the small blond man left the house, got in the SUV and drove away. The Son was still in there somewhere, but where? Perhaps he had heard the car start and drive off, but did he know that one of the men was still in the house?
Markus aimed his binoculars at the dark windows, but he couldn’t see anything. The Son could have sneaked out of the back of the house and got away, but Markus didn’t think so; he had sat by the window listening out, he would have heard something.
Markus sensed movement and aimed the binoculars at the bedroom which was still the only room in the house with the light on. And saw that he was right.
The bed. It was moving. Or rather, the mattress was. It was pushed up and to the side. And there he was. He had hidden between the bed slats and the big, thick double mattress which Markus loved lying on. Just as well that the Son was so skinny; had he been as fat as Markus’s mother feared that Markus would be one day, they would have seen him. Carefully the Son made his way to the loose floorboard, lifted it up and took something from the red sports bag. Markus zoomed in. He focused. And gasped.
Sylvester had positioned the armchair so that he could see the front door and the gate outside. The gate was lit up by a street light, but he would hear in plenty of time if anyone came; he knew that from the crunching of the gravel when Bo left.
It might turn out to be a long night so he needed to think of something that would help him stay awake. He checked the bookcase and found what he was looking for: the family photo album. He switched on a reading lamp and angled it away from the window so that the light couldn’t be seen from the outside. He started flicking through the photographs. They looked like a happy family. So very different from his own. Perhaps this explained his obsession with other people’s pictures. He liked looking at them and trying to imagine what it must be like. He knew that these family photos didn’t tell the whole truth, obviously, but surely they told a truth. Sylvester paused at a picture of three people, possibly taken during the Easter holidays. Smiling and tanned, they were standing in front of a cairn. The woman was in the middle; Sylvester presumed from the other pictures that she was the mother. To her left the father, this Ab Lofthus. And to his right, a man with frameless glasses. ‘The Troika and me on a trip. Photographer: The Diver’ read the caption in feminine handwriting below. Sylvester looked up. Had he heard something? He looked towards the gate outside. No one there. And the sound hadn’t come from the front door or the door to the basement. But something had changed, the density of the air, there was something substantial in the darkness. The darkness. He would always be a little scared of the dark, his dad had made sure of that. Sylvester concentrated on the photograph again. On how happy they looked. Everyone knew you shouldn’t be scared of things that go bump in the night.