by Thomas Enger
The other arm was absolutely straight, not a shake. No hesitation. No feeling.
He turned towards Eduardo de Jesus Silva, who was kicking the dust with the toe of his trainers.
‘I’m sorry, Mister High,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘What’s he promised you?’ Charlie asked.
But he already knew the answer. Money. Everything Eduardo had ever dreamed of. Enough money to look after his father. His mother and sister.
‘I need someone who knows the city,’ Freddy said. ‘Someone who knows the people here. I’m sure Hansemann can help me a bit, but you know how valuable local knowledge is.’
Charlie turned back to him.
‘So you’re thinking of taking over – is that it?’
Freddy nodded.
‘Just like that?’
‘No,’ Freddy said. ‘I’m actually doing it for Daddy Longlegs. But it’s a great opportunity for me too.’
Daddy Longlegs, Charlie thought.
No.
It wasn’t him who’d arranged this.
‘You can have…’
Charlie stopped; he knew there was nothing he could offer Freddy to not kill him. Given all the opportunities that would arise as a result, he would do well, no matter what.
‘Let Isabel keep the apartment,’ he said. ‘She doesn’t have anywhere else to go.’
Freddy seemed to consider this, but said nothing.
Charlie lowered his eyes, took a deep breath. Threw up his hands and said, ‘Let’s get it over with then.’
43
Daddy Longlegs was sitting at his desk in the office when his mobile phone rang. He saw the number on the display and grabbed the phone.
‘Hello,’ he said.
‘It’s all gone to hell,’ Durim Redzepi shouted. ‘The carpenter got away. We know where he is, but Jeton and Nikolai are dead.’
Daddy Longlegs closed his eyes and slowly shook his head. Redzepi’s fuck-up quota was full, over full. It had not been the intention, two years ago, to give Henning Juul a warning. He was supposed to have died in the fire. But Redzepi had overheard a conversation that Ørjan Mjønes had had with Juul’s sister, where he promised that they wouldn’t harm him, that they just wanted to scare him. And Redzepi had thought Mjønes meant it.
He should never have given them another chance, Daddy Longlegs thought, before asking, ‘Where are you?’
‘On our way to Oslo,’ Redzepi replied. ‘We’ve got him on GPS.’
Daddy Longlegs rubbed his face with his available hand and sighed; he looked at the man sitting on the sofa with his hands folded.
‘I don’t want to hear another word from you until the job’s done,’ he said. ‘Is that clear?’
There was silence.
‘Is that clear?’
‘Yes, yes.’
Daddy Longlegs hung up and threw the phone down onto the desk. He shook his head.
‘Problems?’ asked the man sitting on the sofa.
Daddy Longlegs nodded.
‘The joiner’s proved to be more resilient than we reckoned.’
‘Soon only Juul will be left,’ said the man on the sofa. ‘And he knows nothing.’
Daddy Longlegs stood up and went over to a cupboard behind the desk, opened it and took out a bottle of Talisker. And two glasses, as well.
‘Would you like some?’ he asked over his shoulder.
The guest shook his head.
‘I’m driving.’
Daddy Longlegs poured a glass and lifted it to his mouth, swallowed, and felt it burn down into his chest. He smacked his lips with pleasure and poured himself another dram.
‘How are things down in Natal?’ the man on the sofa asked. ‘Charlie’s been dealt with, hasn’t he?’
‘I got a phone call just before you came,’ Daddy Longlegs said. ‘Charlie is no longer a potential problem for us.’
Daddy Longlegs put the bottle back into the cupboard and closed it.
‘That’s good.’
He turned towards the sofa and froze when he saw a straight arm holding a gun, aimed at him. He heard a muffled sound and then everything fragmented; floor, ceiling, walls. He heard his glass of whisky shatter, then fell to the floor. He tried to breathe, but there was no air.
In his youth, when he had been on stage, Daddy Longlegs had always wanted a role in which he could die. He’d mused on what he would do, if he should die with his eyes open, if he should shake and cramp, if he should make any noises.
Now he knew that he shouldn’t have done any of those things. He should just have lain there, waiting, until the curtain fell. Anything else was impossible.
Durim Redzepi thumped the steering wheel.
‘Fuck!’
Flurim Ahmetaj sat up in the seat behind him and leaned closer.
‘What is it?’
Redzepi told him what had just happened and the order he’d been given. Ahmetaj shook his head and sat back.
‘I’m out,’ he said.
Redzepi caught his eye in the rear-view mirror.
‘What d’you mean?’
‘When we get to town, drop me somewhere near the main station. I’m out of here.’
‘What? You can’t just go now, Flurim!’
‘I fucking well can. You should, too. Let Daddy Longlegs sort out his own problems. I’m fed up with it. Two of our friends are dead. It’d be crazy to stay in Oslo now, Durim. The police have issued a sketch of you, it’ll only be hours before we’re caught.’
Redzepi hit the wheel again and swore to himself. He knew that Ahmetaj was right. At the same time, he knew what he had to lose. If he did a runner now, he would never know what Daddy Longlegs had found out about Svetlana and Doruntina. And the man they’d been looking for and tried to kill, who’d managed to get away, was somewhere on the road ahead of them, and he was the reason that he’d had to kill Jeton Pocoli himself. His hands were pulsating as though they had their own mind, their own will. They were aching for revenge.
But one thing at a time.
‘Is he far ahead of us?’ Redzepi asked.
No response from the back seat. Redzepi looked at Ahmetaj in the mirror. He was staring out the car window at the passing fields, and appeared not to have heard Redzepi’s question.
‘So that’s how it’s going to be?’ he asked.
‘What?’
‘You’re not even going to help me while you are still in the car?’
‘You’re an idiot if you go through with this, Durim.’
‘That’s my problem, isn’t it?’
Redzepi took one hand off the wheel and put it on the gun on the seat beside him.
‘But, if I were you, I wouldn’t do that,’ Ahmetaj said, without looking at him. ‘We know each other too well for that.’
Redzepi didn’t move his hand from the gun.
Ahmetaj leaned forward again and looked at him.
‘I don’t know what you think you’ll get from all of this, brother. Be smart. Get out while you still can. You can always come back later.’
Redzepi hesitated, before returning his hand to the steering wheel. Ahmetaj was right again. He just didn’t like half-done jobs. And he liked giving up even less, especially when he was so close.
‘At least let me have your PC,’ he said, ‘so I can follow the GPS trackers.’
Ahmetaj shook his head.
‘I would never get it back. And you wouldn’t know what to do with it anyway.’
Redzepi sighed.
Ahmetaj was right. For the third time.
44
The boxes from the sushi restaurant were on the floor, with the remains of wasabi, soya sauce and ginger. The sight of them made Nora think about Iver again; to begin with he’d been very sceptical about eating raw fish, but then he’d come to love it. Soon they would be laying him in the ground, and she hadn’t even started to think about it.
She hadn’t had time to miss him yet; she’d been paralysed by the thought that he was dead and that she�
�d never see him again. She’d rebuked herself for having thought ill of him only hours before he was killed. While it was in no way certain that they’d spend the rest of their lives together, she’d been prepared to give it a try. For the child’s sake.
For her own sake.
Nora got up and went out into the hall. One of his jackets was hanging there, and she took it down off the hook. It was a corduroy jacket, worn at the elbows, and it smelled of him when she put it over her shoulders. It was far too big, but she put in on all the same.
How long had he had this jacket?
For years.
It had almost become a part of him; he always wore it when he went to work. Like it was his uniform.
Nora went back into the living room and emptied the jacket pockets. Not surprisingly, there was a lighter there. A half-empty packet of chewing gum. Some paper, a receipt?
She looked at it. It said ‘Little & Light’ along the top. Iver had bought something that cost 149 kroner; it didn’t specify what. Nora felt to see if there was anything in the inner pocket. A small package that crackled.
The bag had the same logo on it – Little & Light – two capital Ls in old-fashioned writing, joined by the squiggly ampersand. She squeezed the package gently, felt something inside. She opened it.
Put her hand to her mouth.
And started to cry.
It was a baby hat. Size 52. White, soft and beautiful.
She thought about her child, who would never know its father. Who would never know how funny he could be, how warm and tender and loving.
Nora sat down on the sofa and pulled up her legs. She found Jonas’s snow globe and held it in her other hand. So she had two things she could feel, and hold.
Soon the baby would start to kick, she thought. Soon a part of Iver would carry on living, as someone else. It was cold comfort, but right now she clung to anything that might help.
Durim Redzepi was alone on the road.
In the forest.
He was alone, full stop.
Jeton Pocoli and Flurim Ahmetaj’s friend were dead.
And Ahmetaj himself had gone back to Sweden, taking with him all the technology that might help Durim.
He had no one. Nothing.
Durim Redzepi parked by the cabin, but instead of going in, he stood outside and listened to the evening, to the falling night, to life around him. It had been a long time since his girls had disappeared.
Too long.
He was tired. Tired of hunting, waiting, hoping. Hoping for what?
A definitive answer. Something he could reconcile himself to, and move on. Wasn’t that what they said he should do?
But he had actually got his answer already, didn’t he? They disappeared in 1999. What the fuck did he think happened? They were killed, just like all the others. Forget Daddy Longlegs, he told himself, he can’t tell you anything you don’t already know.
But then, there was always that hope.
That fucking hope.
He hadn’t held onto it for so long only to give up now. He had to continue, to find the bastard carpenter and get rid of him.
And that meant that he had to think.
Redzepi thought best when he was moving, so whenever he had to come up with quick, smart solutions, he did something. He decided to tidy up a bit, start getting ready to move out. He was struck by how much stuff he’d managed to accumulate in the four months that he’d been living here. It was mainly things he might need for work – tools, rope and big, black binliners. Ammunition. Extra clothes. Rucksacks, suitcases. He would have to think about cleaning the place as well. That in itself would take hours. Certainly if he was to do it properly.
He got started, heated up some water, got out the ammonium chloride and soap, mops and rags.
What would the carpenter do now that he knows people are after him? he wondered.
He’ll make a break for it, he concluded, disappear again. From what Daddy Longlegs had said, he’d been in hiding for over two years now, and done a damn good job of it too. He’d done it before, so he could do it again.
What would he have done himself?
He would have tackled the problem head on. He would have found out who was chasing him, and then he would have tracked them down.
Was the carpenter that kind of guy? Deep down? He’d obviously thought that attack was the best defence yesterday, and he was still alive. His strategy had been successful.
Dawn had started to break in the east by the time Durim Redzepi had finished cleaning. He was tired, had to sit down, and decided to check the news on his mobile before sleeping for a few hours. Then he would get into the car and drive to Sweden.
He saw that his mates had been found. The emergency services had sent out a patrol after someone had called from that address and then hung up. Aftenposten online said that the police were working with several leads, but couldn’t give any information in light of the ongoing investigation.
Redzepi also read that a lawyer had been murdered in the capital. A reader had posted a link in the comments on one of the online papers, and written: ‘Here is the victim.’ Redzepi clicked on it, and froze with a bottle of water at his lips.
It was him.
Daddy Longlegs.
Was he … dead? How…?
There was no doubt. He was the one who’d come to see him that day, with a picture of the carpenter in his briefcase. But if Daddy Longlegs was dead, he thought – then I’ll never know what happened to Svetlana and Doruntina.
He punched the table, then hid his face in his hands, and felt the hope drain out of him. Now he would never get the answers he’d been promised.
‘Fuck this,’ Redzepi said, and stood up.
He grabbed the car keys and walked out.
45
Henning was sitting up in the hospital bed, as he had been doing for most of the night.
As expected, he hadn’t slept much, mainly because he’d been thinking about Durim Redzepi and how he could have known that Henning would be outside the main police station at four o’clock that afternoon. He’d been so preoccupied with Ann-Mari Sara and Mørck and other possibilities that he hadn’t even thought of the most obvious answer. In other words, the person who knew with absolute certainty that the interview would take place at that time.
The man who had booked the interogation room.
Bjarne Brogeland.
Could he be colluding with the bad guys in some way or another?
Henning tried to go through everything that he’d done together with Bjarne in the past few weeks and months, all their telephone conversations and meetings since they first met at the police headquarters. Was there anything about his body language?
No.
Henning was unable to convince himself. Not Bjarne.
All night, Henning had been aching to get hold of his mobile phone, so he could search on the internet to see if there were any possible connections between Bjarne and Mørck, but none of the officers watching him knew where it was. And they wouldn’t lend him theirs. He just had to wait.
But he wasn’t good at waiting, wasn’t good at lying there doing nothing. He wanted to get up and move, to try and get hold of Ann-Mari Sara and find out what really happened after he blacked out. But she probably wouldn’t want to talk to him now, not after the accusations he’d hurled at her. And he wouldn’t blame her.
Bjarne came by just after breakfast, without Sandland this time. The policeman was lighter in his step than last time, and Henning wondered why. He looked for signs of nervousness or anything else that might indicate that Bjarne had interests other than the best for either Henning or the investigation. But he saw nothing.
Bjarne nodded to the officer in the corner, who stood up with tired legs.
‘You won’t believe what’s happened,’ Bjarne said, as he hurried over to the bed. Before Henning could respond, Bjarne had grabbed the remote control and pointed it at the television on the wall in front of Henning.
Henning studi
ed Bjarne, who looked from the screen, to the remote control and back. He seemed just like he always did. He indicated that Henning should lift his head and look at the screen, at the teletext page he’d just switched to. Henning did as he was told.
‘Lawyer shot and killed’ it said in big letters.
Bjarne flicked onto another page. Henning squinted so he could read what was written there.
Prominent Lawyer Killed
A lawyer has been found dead in his office in central Oslo. The police said in a statement that he was probably shot late yesterday evening.
‘It’s too early to speculate about motives, but we are working through the victim’s client list and current cases as fast as we can,’ Assistant Chief of Police Pia Nøkleby told NTB.
The lawyer was found by one of the cleaners around midnight.
Read more on nrk.no.
‘It’s Preben Mørck,’ Bjarne said, pointing at the screen with the remote control. Henning looked over at him in surprise.
‘What did you say?’
‘I’ve come straight from the scene,’ Bjarne said.
Henning tried to work out what this meant. Yesterday evening he’d told Bjarne about his suspicions regarding Mørck, and then, only a few hours later, someone had shot and killed him.
Henning wasn’t sure that he’d be able to hide his suspicions from Bjarne. If Mørck was Daddy Longlegs, and Henning was sure he was, then he would have valuable information about all the people he had helped over the years, and maybe even about their motives. Perhaps someone was frightened about what he might tell the police if he was questioned – if he was put under pressure.
‘So he was shot?’ Henning said, with some hesitation.
Bjarne nodded.
‘Once in the head and twice in the chest. No room for doubt.’
Henning thought about Iver, who had apparently gone to see Mørck only days before he died. If what Henning knew of Iver was right, he would have asked questions that made Mørck’s alarm bells ring. Possibly also those of whoever Mørck was working for.