by Jo Nesbo
‘No, I was so young when I had Sven that I never had a chance…’
‘You didn’t?’
‘Well, yes, I probably did have a chance or two. But a woman in my situation had such low prestige in those days that the offers you received were generally from men no-one else wanted. It’s not called “finding your match” for nothing.’
‘Just because you were a single mother?’
‘Because Sven was the son of a German, my dear.’
The kettle began to give a low whistle.
‘Ah, I understand,’ Beate said. ‘He must have had a tough time growing up.’
Olaug stared into the air without sensing that the whistling was getting louder.
‘The toughest you can imagine. Just thinking about it can still make me cry. Poor boy.’
‘The water…’
‘There you see. I’m getting senile.’
Olaug lifted the kettle from the stove and poured water into their cups.
‘What does your son do now?’ Beate asked, looking at her watch:
4.15.
‘Import-Export. Various things from the old communist countries.’ Olaug smiled. ‘I don’t know how much money he’s making out of it, but I like the sound of it. “Import-Export.” It’s just nonsense, but I like it.’
‘Anyway, it’s all worked out fine. Despite the tough time he had growing up, I mean.’
‘Yes, but it wasn’t always like that. You’ve probably got him on your records.’
‘There are lots of people on our records. Many who’ve turned out alright, too.’
‘Something happened once when he went to Berlin. I don’t know quite what. He’s never liked talking about what he does, Sven hasn’t. Always so secretive. But I think he might have been visiting his father. And I think it made him feel better about himself. Ernst Schwabe was a dashing man.’
Olaug sighed.
‘But I may be wrong. Anyway, Sven changed.’
‘Oh, how?’
‘He became calmer. Before, he was always chasing things.’
‘Such as what?’
‘Everything. Money. Excitement. Women. He’s like his father, you know. An incurable romantic and ladies’ man. He likes young women, Sven does. And they like him. But I suspect he’s found someone special. He said on the phone that he’s got some news for me. He sounded excited.’
‘He didn’t say what it was?’
‘He wanted to wait until he got here, he said.’
‘Got here?’
‘Yes, he’s coming this evening. He has a meeting first. He’s staying in Oslo until tomorrow, then he’s going back.’
‘To Berlin?’
‘No, no. It’s a long time since Sven lived there. Now he lives in the Czech Republic. Bohemia, he usually calls it, the show-off.’
‘In… er… Bohemia?’
‘Prague.’
Marius Veland stared out of the window of room 406. A girl was lying on a towel on the lawn in front of the student building. She was not unlike the one in 303 whom he had secretly christened Shirley, after Shirley Manson from Garbage. But it wasn’t her. The sun over Oslo fjord had hidden itself behind the clouds. At last the weather had begun to warm up – a heatwave was forecast for the week. Summer in Oslo. Marius Veland was looking forward to it. The alternative had been to go home to Bofjord, the midnight sun and a summer job at the petrol station. To Mother’s meatballs and Father’s endless questions about why he had begun to study Media Studies in Oslo when he had the grades to train to become a civil engineer at NTNU in Trondheim. To Saturdays at the community centre with drunken locals, screaming classmates who had never left their own neighbourhood and thought that those who had were traitors; to the dance band that called itself a ‘blues band’, but always managed to mangle Creedence Clearwater Revival and Lynyrd Skynyrd.
That was not the only reason for him to be in Oslo this summer, though. He had landed the dream job. He was going to listen to records, watch movies and get paid for typing up his opinions on a PC. Over the past two years he had sent his reviews to several of the established papers, without success, but last month he went to So What! where a friend had introduced him to Runar. Runar had told him that he had wound up the clothes business he was running to start Zone , a free paper whose first issue would come out in August, if everything went to plan. The friend had mentioned that Marius liked writing reviews; Runar had said that he liked his shirt and employed him there and then. As a reviewer, Marius’s brief was to reflect ‘new urban values by dealing with popular culture with an irony that was warm, well informed and inclusive’. Such was Runar’s formulation of Marius’s assignment, and for it Marius would be richly rewarded, not in cash, but in free tickets to concerts, films, new bars and access to a milieu where he could make interesting contacts with a view to his future. This was his chance and he needed to be properly prepared. Of course, he had a good general background in pop, but he had borrowed CDs from Runar’s collection to do some further swotting up on the history of popular music. In recent days it had been American rock in the ’80s: R.E.M., Green On Red, Dream Syndicate, Pixies. Right now Violent Femmes was on the CD player. It sounded dated, but energetic.
The girl below got up from her towel. It was probably a little cool. Marius followed her with his eyes towards the neighbouring block. On her way she passed someone walking with a bike. From his clothing he looked like a courier. Marius closed his eyes. He was going to write.
Otto Tangen rubbed his eyes with nicotine-stained fingers. A sense of unease had spread through the bus, though it may have seemed to the outside world like calm. No-one stirred and no-one uttered a word. It was 5.20 and there had not been so much as a movement on one of the screens, just tiny fragments of time spurting by in white digits in the corner. Another drop of sweat rolled down between Otto’s buttocks. Sitting like this you began to have paranoid thoughts, you imagined that someone had been tampering with the equipment and that you were sitting watching a recording from the previous day or something of that kind.
He was drumming his fingers on the table beside the console. That bastard Waaler had banned smoking in the bus.
Otto leaned to the right and squeezed out a silent fart while looking at the guy with the blond shaven skull. He had been sitting in a chair without saying a word ever since he arrived. Looked like a retired bouncer.
‘Doesn’t seem our man’s turning up for work today,’ Otto said. ‘Perhaps he thought it was too hot. Perhaps he postponed it till tomorrow and went for a beer in Aker Brygge instead. They said in the weather report that -’
‘Shut up, Tangen.’
Waaler spoke in a low voice, but it was loud enough.
Otto gave a deep sigh and flexed his shoulders.
The clock in the corner of the screen said 5.21.
‘Has anyone seen the guy in 303 leave?’
It was Waaler’s voice. Otto discovered that Waaler was looking at him.
‘I was asleep this morning,’ he said.
‘I want room 303 checked. Falkeid?’
The head of Special Forces cleared his throat.
‘I don’t consider the risk -’
‘Now, Falkeid.’
The fans cooling the electronics buzzed as Falkeid and Waaler exchanged looks.
Falkeid cleared his throat again.
‘Alpha to Charlie Two. Come in. Over.’
Atmospheric noise.
‘Charlie Two.’
‘Clear 303 right away.’
‘Received. Clearing 303.’
Otto studied the screen. Nothing. Imagine if…
There they were.
Three men. Black uniforms, black balaclavas, black machine guns, black boots. It all happened quickly, but it seemed strangely undramatic. It was the sound. There was no sound.
They didn’t use the smart little explosives to open the door, but an old-fashioned crowbar. Otto was disappointed. Must be the cutbacks.
The soundless men on the screen positioned themselves as if the
y were starting a race, one with the bar hooked under the lock, the other two one metre behind with their weapons raised. Suddenly they went into action. It was one coordinated movement, a crisp dance routine. The door flew open. The two men standing at the ready stormed in and the third man literally dived after them. Otto was already looking forward to showing the recording to Nils. The door glided back half-way where it stopped. Great shame they hadn’t had the time to put cameras in the rooms.
Eight seconds.
Falkeid’s radio crackled.
‘303 cleared. One girl and one boy, both unarmed.’
‘And alive?’
‘Extremely… er, alive.’
‘Have you searched the boy?’
‘He’s naked, Alpha.’
‘Get him out,’ Waaler said. ‘Fuck!’
Otto stared at the doorway. They’ve been doing it. Naked. They’ve been doing it all night and all day. He stared at the doorway, transfixed.
‘Get him dressed and take him back to your position, Charlie Two.’
Falkeid put the walkie-talkie down, looked at the others and gently shook his head.
Waaler banged the flat of his hand down hard against the arm of the chair.
‘The bus is free tomorrow, too,’ Otto said, casting a fleeting glance at the inspector.
He would have to tread warily now.
‘I don’t charge any more for Sundays, but I have to know when -’
‘Hey, look at that.’
Otto automatically turned round. The bouncer had finally opened his trap. He was pointing to the middle screen.
‘In the hall. He went in through the front door and straight into the lift.’
It went quiet in the bus for two seconds. Then there was the sound of Falkeid’s voice on the walkie-talkie.
‘Alpha to all units. Possible target has gone into the lift. Stand by.’
‘No, thank you,’ Beate smiled.
‘Yes, well, that’s probably enough cookies,’ the old lady sighed, putting the biscuit tin back on the table. ‘Where was I? Oh, yes. It’s nice to have visits from Sven now that I’m on my own.’
‘Yes, it must be lonely living in such a big house.’
‘I chat quite a bit with Ina, but she went to her gentleman friend’s holiday cabin today. I asked her to say hello to him, but they’re so strange about things like that nowadays. It’s as if they want to try out everything and at the same time they don’t think anything will last. That’s probably why they’re so secretive.’
Beate stole a look at her watch. Harry said they would ring as soon as it was all over.
‘You’re thinking about something else now, aren’t you?’
Beate nodded slowly.
‘That’s quite alright,’ Olaug said. ‘Let’s hope they catch him.’
‘You’ve got a good son.’
‘Yes, it’s true. And if he had visited me as often as he has just recently, I wouldn’t complain.’
‘Oh? How often’s that?’ Beate asked. It should be over by now. Why hadn’t Harry rung? Hadn’t he shown up after all?
‘Once a week for the last four weeks. Well, even more frequently actually. He’s been here every five days. Short stays. I really think he’s got someone down there in Prague waiting for him. And, as I said, I think he’s got some news for me this evening.’
‘Mm.’
‘Last time, he brought me a piece of jewellery. Do you want to see it?’
Beate looked at the old lady. And suddenly she felt how tired she was, tired of the job, of the Courier Killer, of Tom Waaler and Harry Hole, of Olaug Sivertsen and, most of all, of herself, the noble, dutiful Beate Lonn who thought she could achieve something, make a difference, if she was a good girl, good and bright with it, bright and always doing what other people wanted her to do. It was time for a change, but she didn’t know whether she could carry it through. Most of all she just wanted to go home, hide under the duvet and sleep.
‘You’re right,’ Olaug said. ‘There’s not much to see, anyway. More tea?’
‘Please.’
Olaug was just going to pour out the tea when she saw that Beate was holding her hand over her cup.
‘Sorry,’ Beate said laughing. ‘What I meant was that I would like to see it.’
‘What…’
‘See the piece of jewellery your son gave you.’
Olaug brightened up and went out of the kitchen.
Good girl, Beate thought. She lifted the cup to finish her tea. She would have to ring Harry and hear how it had gone.
‘Here it is,’ Olaug said.
Beate Lonn’s teacup, that is, Olaug Sivertsen’s teacup, or to be absolutely precise, the Wehrmacht teacup, stopped in mid-air.
Beate stared at a brooch – at the precious stone that was attached to the brooch.
‘Sven imports them,’ Olaug said. ‘I suppose they’re only cut in this special way in Prague.’
It was a diamond. In the shape of a pentagram.
Beate ran her tongue round her mouth to get rid of the dryness.
‘I have to ring someone,’ she said.
The dryness would not go.
‘Can you find me a photo of Sven in the meantime? Preferably an up-to-date one. It’s quite important.’
Olaug looked confused, but nodded.
Otto was breathing through an open mouth as he stared at the screen and registered the voices around him.
‘Possible target going into sector Bravo Two. Possible target stopped in front of the door. Ready, Bravo Two?’
‘Bravo Two ready.’
‘Target stationary. He’s putting his hand in his pocket. Possible weapon. We can’t see his hand.’
Waaler’s voice: ‘Now.’
‘Into action, Bravo Two.’
‘Strange,’ mumbled the bouncer.
Marius Veland thought at first he was hearing things and turned down Violent Femmes to be sure. There it was again. Someone was knocking at the door. Who on earth could that be? As far as he knew, everyone in the corridor had gone home for the summer. Not Shirley, though. He had seen her on the stairs. He had stopped to ask her if she would go with him to a concert. Or a film. Or a play. Free. She could choose.
Marius got up and noticed that his hands were sweating. Why? There was no sensible reason for it to be her. He cast a sweeping glance around the room and realised that he had never actually looked at it until now. He didn’t have enough things for the room to be in a real mess. The walls were bare except for a ripped poster of Iggy Pop and a sad-looking bookshelf that would soon be full of free CDs and DVDs. It was an awful room, completely without character. There was another knock. He hastily prodded a flap from his duvet sticking out of the back of the sofa bed. He opened the door. It couldn’t be her. It couldn’t be… It wasn’t her.
‘Mr Veland?’
‘Yes?’
Taken aback, Marius stared at the man.
‘I’ve got a package for you.’
The man took off his rucksack, pulled out an A4 envelope and passed it over. Marius held the stamped white envelope in his hand. There was no name written on it.
‘Are you sure it’s for me?’ he asked.
‘Yes. I need a receipt…’
The man held out a clipboard with a sheet of paper on.
Marius looked at him enquiringly.
‘Sorry. You wouldn’t have a pen, would you?’ the man smiled.
Marius stared at him again. Something was not right, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
‘Just a moment,’ Marius said.
He took the envelope with him, put it on the shelf beside the bunch of keys with the skull on, found a pen in a drawer and turned round. Marius recoiled when he saw that the man was already standing in the dark passage behind him.
‘I didn’t hear you,’ Marius said and heard his own laughter nervously rebound off the walls.
It wasn’t that he was frightened. Where he came from people generally walked in so as not to let
the heat out, or to let the cold in. There was something strange about this man, though. He had taken off his goggles and helmet and now Marius could see what it was that had made him start. He seemed too old. Bike couriers were usually in their twenties. This guy’s body was slim and in good shape. It could pass for a young man’s. But the face belonged to someone well into his thirties, maybe into his forties even.
Marius was about to say something when he spotted what the courier was holding in his hand. The room was bright, but the hallway was dark and Marius Veland had seen enough films to recognise the contours of a gun with a silencer on the end of it.
‘Is that for me?’ Marius floundered.
The man smiled and pointed the gun at him. At his face. Then Marius knew that he should be afraid.
‘Sit down,’ the man said. ‘You’ve got a pen. Open the envelope.’
Marius dropped into a chair.
‘You have some writing to do,’ the man said.
‘Well done, Bravo Two!’
Falkeid shouted, his face red and shiny.
Otto was breathing through his nose. On the screen the man was lying on his stomach on the floor in front of room 205, with his wrists handcuffed behind his back. And best of all, he was lying with his face twisted towards the camera so that you could see the surprise, see it contort in pain, see the defeat slowly sink in for the bastard. It was a scoop. No, it was more than that, it was a historic recording. The dramatic climax to the bloody summer in Oslo: the arrest of the Courier Killer on his way to committing his fourth murder. The whole world will be fighting to show it. My God, he, Otto Tangen, was a rich man. No more 7-Eleven shit, no more of that bastard Waaler, he could buy… he could… Aud-Rita and he could…
‘It’s not him,’ the doorman said.
The bus went quiet.
Waaler leaned forward in his chair.
‘What’s that, Harry?’
‘It’s not him, 205 is one of the rooms we didn’t have any luck with. According to the room list I have here, his name is Odd Einar Lillebostad. It’s difficult to see what the guy on the floor is holding in his hand, but it looks to me as though it could be a key. Sorry, guys, but my guess is that Odd Einar Lillebostad has just returned home.’
Otto stared at the picture. He had equipment worth over a million kroner in the bus, bought and borrowed equipment that could focus on the hand and magnify it easy as wink to see if that bastard doorman was right. But he didn’t need to. The branch in the apple tree was cracking. He could see the light in the windows from the garden. The tin can crackled.