The Thirst: Harry Hole 11

by Jo Nesbo

  ‘Norway. Almost midnight.’ Hallstein Smith smiled. ‘No problem, I’m just glad the press finally realise that vampirism is real, and are interested in it.’

  They ended the conversation, and Smith opened his inbox again.

  Thirteen unopened emails, but he could see from the senders and subject lines that they were requests for interviews and invitations to give lectures. He hadn’t opened the one from Psychology Today either. Because he knew it wasn’t urgent. Because he wanted to save it. Savour it.

  He looked at the time. He had put the kids to bed at half past eight, then had a cup of tea at the kitchen table with May, as usual, going through their day, sharing its small joys and venting its small frustrations. In the past few days he had naturally had more to tell her than vice versa, but he had made sure that the smaller but no less important aspects of the home got as much attention as his own activities. Because what he said was true: ‘I talk too much, and you can read all about this wretched vampirist in the papers, darling.’ He looked out of the window, could just make out the corner of the farmhouse where they were all lying asleep now, all his loved ones. The wall creaked. The moon was slipping in and out of the clouds, scudding faster and faster across the sky, and the bare branches of the dead oak out in the field were waving as if it wanted to warn them that something was coming, that destruction and more death were on the way.

  He opened an email inviting him to give a keynote speech at a psychology conference in Lyon. The same conference that had rejected his abstract last year. In his head he composed a reply in which he thanked them, said it was an honour to be asked, but that he had to prioritise more important conferences and therefore had to say no on this occasion, but that they were welcome to try again another time. Then he chuckled and shook his head. There was no reason to get too full of himself, this sudden interest in vampirism would vanish again when the attacks stopped. He accepted the invitation, aware that he could have asked for more in terms of travel, accommodation and fee, but couldn’t be bothered. He was getting what he needed, he just wanted them to listen to him, to join him on this journey into the labyrinths of the human psyche, recognise his work, so that together they could understand and contribute to making people’s lives better. That was all. He looked at the time. Three minutes to twelve. He heard a sound. It could have been the wind, obviously. He clicked the icon to bring up the security cameras on his screen. The first image he saw was from the camera by the gate. The gate was open.

  Truls cleared his throat.

  She had called. Ulla had called.

  He put the washing-up in the dishwasher, rinsed the two wineglasses, he still had the bottle he had bought just in case before that evening when they had met at Olsen’s. He folded the empty pizza boxes and tried to push them down into the bin bag, but it split. Damn. He tucked them out of sight behind the bucket and mop in the cupboard. Music. What did she like? He tried to think back. He could hear something inside his head, but he wasn’t sure what it was. Something about barricades. Duran Duran? It was something a bit like a-ha, anyway. And he had a-ha’s first album. Candles. Damn. He’d had women here before, but on those occasions the mood hadn’t been so important.

  Olsen’s was located right in the middle of things, so even if there was a storm on the way it wouldn’t be hard to get a taxi on a Wednesday evening, so she could be here any moment, which meant he couldn’t have a shower, he’d have to make do with washing his cock and armpits. Or armpits and cock, in that order. Fuck, he was stressed! He had been planning a quiet evening with Megan Fox in her prime, and then Ulla had called and asked if it was OK for her to pay a little visit. What did she mean by little visit? That she was going to bail on him like last time? T-shirt. The one from Thailand, with ‘Same Same, But Different’? Maybe she wouldn’t find it funny. And maybe Thailand would make her think of venereal disease. How about the Armani shirt from MBK in Bangkok? No, the synthetic fabric would make him sweat, as well as letting on that it was a cheap copy. Truls pulled on a white T-shirt of unknown origin and hurried into the bathroom. He saw that the toilet needed another go with the brush. But first things first …

  Truls was standing at the basin with his cock in his hand when the doorbell rang.

  Katrine stared at her buzzing phone.

  It was almost midnight, the wind had gained in strength in just the past few minutes, and the gusts were now making howling, groaning, slamming sounds outside, but Harry was fast asleep.

  She answered.

  ‘This is Hallstein Smith.’ His whispering voice sounded upset.

  ‘So I see. What is it?’

  ‘He’s here.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I think it’s Valentin.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘Someone’s opened the gate, and I … oh God, I can hear the door of the barn. What should I do?’

  ‘Don’t do anything … Try … Can you hide?’

  ‘No. I can see him on the camera outside. Dear God, it’s him.’ Smith sounded like he was crying. ‘What should I do?’

  ‘Fuck, let me think,’ Katrine groaned.

  The phone was snatched from her hand.

  ‘Smith? This is Harry, I’m with you. Have you locked the office door? OK, do that now, and switch the light off. Nice and calmly.’ Hallstein Smith stared at the computer screen. ‘OK, I’ve locked the door and turned the light out,’ he whispered.

  ‘Can you see him?’

  ‘No. Yes, now I see him.’ Hallstein saw a figure enter the end of the passageway. He stumbled on the scales, regained his balance, and carried on past the stalls, towards the camera. As the man passed beneath one of the lights, his face was illuminated.

  ‘Oh God, it’s him, Harry. It’s Valentin.’

  ‘Stay calm.’

  ‘But … he’s unlocked the door, he’s got keys, Harry. Maybe he’s got the office key as well.’

  ‘Is there a window in there?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s too small and too high up the wall.’

  ‘Anything heavy you can hit him with?’

  ‘No. I … I’ve got the pistol, though.’

  ‘You’ve got a pistol?’

  ‘Yes, it’s in the drawer. But I haven’t had time to test it.’

  ‘Breathe, Smith. What does it look like?’

  ‘Er, it’s black. At Police HQ they said it’s a Glock something-or-other.’

  ‘Glock 17. Is the magazine inserted?’

  ‘Yes. And it’s loaded, they said. But I can’t see a safety catch.’

  ‘That’s OK, it’s in the trigger, so you just have to squeeze the trigger to fire.’

  Smith pressed the phone to his mouth and whispered as quietly as he could. ‘I can hear keys in the lock.’

  ‘How far away is the door?’

  ‘Two metres.’

  ‘Stand up and hold the pistol with both hands. Remember, you’re in darkness and he’s got the light behind him, he won’t be able to see you clearly. If he’s unarmed, you shout “Police, down on your knees”. If you see a weapon you shoot three times. Three times. Understood?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The door in front of Smith opened.

  And there he stood, silhouetted against the light of the barn behind him. Hallstein Smith gasped for the air that felt like it was being sucked out of the room as the man raised his hand. Valentin Gjertsen.

  Katrine jumped. She had heard the bang from the phone, even though Harry was holding it tightly to his ear.

  ‘Smith?’ Harry cried. ‘Smith, are you there?’

  No reply.

  ‘Smith!’

  ‘Valentin’s shot him!’ Katrine groaned.

  ‘No,’ Harry said.

  ‘No? You told him to fire three times, and he’s not answering!’

  ‘That was a Glock, not a Ruger.’

  ‘But why …?’ Katrine stopped when she heard a voice on the phone. She stared at the look of intense concentration on Harry’s face. Tried in vain to work out who h
e was listening to, if it was Smith or the voice she had only heard in recordings of old interviews, the high voice that had given her nightmares. Who right now was telling Harry what he was thinking of doing to …

  ‘OK,’ Harry said. ‘You’ve picked up his revolver? … Good, put it in the drawer and stay sitting where you can see him properly. If he’s lying in the doorway, just leave him there. Is he moving? … OK, no … No, no first aid. If he’s only wounded, he’ll be waiting for you to move closer. If he’s dead, it’s too late. And if he’s somewhere in between, then that’s his bad luck, because you’re just going to sit there and watch. Understood, Smith? Good. We’ll be there in half an hour, I’ll call you when we’re in the car. Don’t take your eyes off him, and call your wife and tell them to stay in the house, and say that we’re on our way.’

  Katrine took the phone, as Harry slipped out of bed and vanished into the bathroom. She thought he was saying something to her before she realised he was throwing up.

  Truls’s hands were sweating so much he could feel it right through the legs of his trousers.

  Ulla was drunk. Even so, she was sitting at the very edge of the sofa and holding the beer bottle he had given her in front of her like a defensive weapon.

  ‘Imagine, this is the first time I’ve been in your home,’ she said, slurring slightly. ‘And we’ve known each other … how many years?’

  ‘Since we were fifteen,’ Truls said, who at that precise moment wasn’t capable of any complicated mental arithmetic.

  She smiled to herself and nodded, or rather, her head just fell forward.

  Truls coughed. ‘It’s getting really windy out there now. This Emilia …’

  ‘Truls?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Could you imagine fucking me?’

  He swallowed.

  She giggled without looking up. ‘Truls, I hope that pause doesn’t mean—’

  ‘Of course I can,’ Truls said.

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘Good.’ She lifted her head and gazed at him with unfocused eyes. ‘Good.’ Her head was swaying on her slender neck. As if it were full of something heavy. A heavy mood. Heavy thoughts. This was his chance. The opening he had been dreaming of, but never imagined he would get: he had been granted permission to fuck Ulla Swart.

  ‘Have you got a bedroom so we can get it done?’

  He looked at her. Nodded. She smiled, but she didn’t look happy. To hell with that. Fuck happy – Ulla Swart was horny, and that was what mattered now. Truls was about to reach out and stroke her cheek, but his hand wouldn’t obey him.

  ‘Is something wrong, Truls?’

  ‘Wrong? No, how could there be?’

  ‘You look so …’

  He waited. But nothing more came.

  ‘So what?’ he prompted.

  ‘So lost.’ Instead of his hand, it was hers, it was hers stroking his cheek. ‘Poor, poor Truls.’

  He was about to knock her hand away. Knock away the hand of Ulla Swart, who after all these years had reached out to touch him without contempt or disgust. What the hell was wrong with him? The woman wanted to get fucked, plain and simple, and that was a job he could manage, he’d never had any trouble getting it up. All he had to do now was get them up from this sofa, out into the bedroom, off with their clothes and then slip the salmon in. She could scream and groan and whine, he wasn’t going to stop before she—

  ‘Are you crying, Truls?’

  Crying? She was obviously so drunk she was seeing things.

  He saw her pull her hand back and press it to her lips.

  ‘Real salt tears,’ she said. ‘Are you upset about something?’

  And now Truls felt it. Felt the hot tears running down his cheeks. Felt his nose start to run as well. Felt the pressure in his throat as if he was trying to swallow something that was too big, something that would smother him or make him burst.

  ‘Is it me?’ she asked.

  Truls shook his head, unable to speak.

  ‘Is it … Mikael?’

  It was such an idiotic question that he almost got angry. Of course it wasn’t Mikael. Why the hell would it be Mikael? The man who was supposed to be his best friend, but who, ever since they were boys, had taken every opportunity to tease him in front of the others, only to shove him out in front when they were threatened with a beating. And who later, when they were both in the police, got Beavis to do all the shitty jobs that had to be done so that Mikael Bellman could get where he was today. Why would Truls sit here crying about something like that, over a friendship that had been nothing more than two outsiders who had been forced together, in which one of them had become a success and the other a pathetic loser? Like hell! So what was it, then? Why was it that when the loser had the chance to make up lost ground and fuck his wife, he started crying like an old woman? Now Truls could see tears in Ulla’s eyes too. Ulla Swart. Truls Berntsen. Mikael Bellman. It had been the three of them. And the rest of Manglerud could go to hell. Because they had no one. Only each other.

  She took a handkerchief out of her bag and gently wiped beneath her eyes. ‘Do you want me to go?’ she sniffed.

  ‘I …’ Truls didn’t recognise his own voice. ‘Damned if I know, Ulla.’

  ‘Me too,’ she laughed, looked at the make-up stains on the handkerchief and put it back in her bag. ‘Forgive me, Truls. This was probably a bad idea. I’ll go now.’

  He nodded. ‘Another time,’ he said. ‘In another life.’

  ‘Nail on the head,’ she said, and stood up.

  Truls was left standing in the hall after the door closed behind her, listening to the sound of her steps echoing in the stairwell, gradually getting fainter. He heard the door open far below. Close. She was gone. Completely gone.

  He felt … yes, what did he feel? Relief. But also a despair that was almost unbearable, like a physical pain in his chest and stomach which made him think for a moment of the gun in the cupboard in the bedroom, and the fact that he could actually be free right here, right now. Then he sank to his knees and rested his forehead on the doormat. And laughed. A grunting laugh that wouldn’t stop, and just got louder and louder. Hell, it was a wonderful life!

  Hallstein Smith’s heart was still racing.

  He was doing what Harry had said, keeping his eyes and pistol trained on the motionless man lying in the doorway. He felt nausea rising as he saw the pool of blood spreading towards him across the floor. He mustn’t throw up, he mustn’t lose his concentration now. Harry had told him to fire three times. Should he put another two bullets in him? No, he was dead.

  He rang May’s number with trembling fingers. She answered immediately.

  ‘Hallstein?’

  ‘I thought you were asleep,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sitting in bed with the children. They can’t sleep because of the storm.’

  ‘Of course. Listen, the police are going to be arriving soon. Blue lights and maybe sirens, so don’t be scared.’

  ‘Scared of what?’ she asked, and he heard the tremble in her voice. ‘What’s going on, Hallstein? We heard a bang. Was that the wind, or something else?’

  ‘May, don’t worry. Everything’s fine …’

  ‘I can hear from your voice that everything isn’t fine, Hallstein! The kids are sitting here crying!’

  ‘I … I’ll come in and explain.’

  Katrine steered the car down the narrow gravel road that wound between the fields and patches of woodland.

  Harry put his phone in his pocket. ‘Smith went into the farmhouse to be with his family.’

  ‘It must be OK, then,’ Katrine said.

  Harry didn’t respond.

  The wind was increasing in strength. In the patches of forest she had to watch out for broken branches and other debris in the road, and out in the open she had to hold the wheel tight as gusts of wind grabbed at the car.

  Harry’s phone rang again as Katrine turned into the open gate to Smith’s property.

  ‘We’re here now,’ Harry said
into his phone. ‘When you arrive, cordon off the area but don’t touch anything until Forensics get here.’

  Katrine stopped in front of the barn and jumped out.

  ‘Lead the way,’ Harry said, following her through the barn door.

  She heard Harry swear as she turned right towards the office.

  ‘Sorry, forgot to warn you about the scales,’ Katrine said.

  ‘It’s not that,’ Harry said. ‘I can see blood on the floor here.’

  Katrine stopped in front of the open door to the office. Stared at the pool of blood on the floor. Shit. There was no Valentin there.

  ‘Keep an eye on the Smiths,’ Harry said behind her.

  ‘What …?’

  She turned round in time to see Harry disappear off to the left and out through the door.

  A gust of wind grabbed Harry as he switched on the torch on his phone and aimed it at the ground. He regained his balance. The blood stood out against the pale grey gravel. He followed the thin trail of drops that indicated which direction Valentin had fled in. The wind was on his back. Towards the farmhouse.

  No …

  Harry drew his Glock. He hadn’t taken the time to check if Valentin’s revolver was in the drawer in the office, so he had to work from the assumption that Valentin was armed.

  The trail was gone.

  Harry swung his phone around and breathed out in relief when he saw that the blood led away from the track, away from the house. Out across the dry yellow grass, towards the field. Here too the trail of blood was easy to follow. The wind had to be up at full gale force now, and Harry felt the first drops of rain hit his cheek like projectiles. When it really started, it would wash away the trail of blood in a matter of seconds.

  Valentin closed his eyes and opened his mouth to the wind. As if it could blow new life into him. Life. Why did everything only reach its full value just as it was in the process of being lost? Her. Freedom. And now life.