by Jo Nesbo
‘Good. And the plaster on his knee. Did he have that?’
Clausen laughed softly.
‘As I told you, it is not my habit to study men’s bodies in such detail. But if it makes you happier, I can say that my immediate reaction is that this is the man I saw. Beyond that…’
He made a gesture with outstretched arms.
‘Thank you,’ Beate said getting up.
‘My pleasure,’ Clausen said, following them to the door where he proffered his hand. That was a strange thing to do, Holm thought, but he took it. But when Clausen proffered his hand to Beate, she shook her head with a little smile:
‘Sorry, but… you have blood on your fingers. And your chin’s bleeding.’
Clausen put a hand up to his face.
‘Indeed,’ he said smiling. ‘That’s Truls. My dog. Our games at the weekend got a little out of hand.’
He looked Beate in the eyes and his smile became broader and broader.
‘Goodbye,’ Beate said.
Bjorn Holm was not quite sure why he shuddered when he emerged into the heat again.
Klaus Torkildsen had pointed both fans in the room towards his face, but it felt as if they were only blowing the hot air from the machine back at him. He tapped his finger against the thick glass of the screen. Under the internal number in Kjolberggata. The subscriber had just rung off. That was the fourth time today that the person in question had spoken to precisely that mobile phone number. Brief conversations.
He double-clicked on the mobile phone number to find the subscriber’s name. A name appeared on the screen. He double-clicked to find an address and a profession. When it came up, Klaus sat looking at the information for a moment. Then he dialled the number he had been told to call when he had something to report.
A phone was picked up.
‘Hello?’
‘This is Torkildsen at Telenor. Who am I talking to?’
‘Never mind about that, Torkildsen. What have you got for us?’
Torkildsen could feel his sweaty upper arms sticking to his chest.
‘I’ve done a bit of checking around,’ he said. ‘Hole’s mobile is constantly on the move and impossible to trace. But there is another mobile which has rung the internal number in Kjolberggata several times.’
‘Right. Whose is it?’
‘The subscription is under the name of Oystein Eikeland. His profession is given as taxi driver.’
‘So?’
Torkildsen pushed out his lower lip and tried to blow hot air upwards to clear his glasses, which were wet with condensation.
‘I was just thinking that there could be a connection between a telephone that is continually on the move all over town and a taxi driver.’
The line went quiet at the other end.
‘Hello?’ Torkildsen said.
‘Received and understood,’ the voice said. ‘Keep tracing the numbers, Torkildsen.’
As Bjorn Holm and Beate wandered into reception in Kjolberggata, Beate’s mobile phone bleeped.
She whipped it out of her belt, read the display and placed it against her ear in one sweeping movement.
‘Harry? Ask Sivertsen to roll up his left trouser leg. We’ve got a picture of a masked cyclist in front of the Fountain at half past five last Monday with a plaster on his knee. And he’s holding a brown polythene bag.’
Bjorn had to take longer strides to keep up with his diminutive female colleague as she made her way down the corridor. He heard a voice crackling on the phone.
Beate swung into her office.
‘No plaster and no wound? No, I know that doesn’t prove anything, but for your information Andre Clausen has more or less identified the cyclist in the picture as the same person he saw at Halle, Thune and Wetterlid.’
She sat down behind her desk.
‘What?’
Bjorn Holm saw three deep sergeant’s chevrons appear on her forehead.
‘Right.’
She put down the phone and stared at it as if she didn’t know whether to believe what she had just heard.
‘Harry thinks he knows who the Courier Killer is,’ she said.
Bjorn didn’t answer.
‘Check to see if the lab is free,’ she said. ‘He’s given us a new job.’
‘What kind of job?’ Bjorn asked.
‘A real shit job.’
Oystein Eikeland was sitting in a taxi in the parking area below St Hanshaugen with his eyes half closed, peering down the street at a girl with long legs, imbibing caffeine on a seat on the pavement outside Java. The hum of the air conditioning was drowned out by the sounds of music the loudspeakers were emitting.
Malicious rumour had it that the song was a Gram Parsons number and that Keith and the Stones had nicked it for the Sticky Fingers album while they were down in France. The ’60s were over and they were trying to drug themselves into creativity: ‘Wild Horses’.
One of the back doors opened. Oystein was startled. Whoever it was must have come from behind, from the park. In the mirror he saw a tanned face with a powerful jaw and reflector sunglasses.
‘Lake Maridal, driver.’ The voice was soft, but the command intonation was unmistakable. ‘If it isn’t too much trouble…’
‘Not at all,’ Oystein mumbled as he turned down the music and took a last deep drag of his cigarette before he tossed it out of the open window.
‘Whereabouts by Lake Maridal?’
‘Just drive. I’ll tell you.’
They drove down Ullevalsveien.
‘Rain is forecast,’ Oystein said.
‘I’ll tell you,’ the voice repeated.
No tip then, Oystein thought.
After a ten-minute drive they had left the residential quarter behind them and suddenly it was all fields, farms and Lake Maridal. It was such a wonderful transition that an American passenger had once asked Oystein if they were in a theme park.
‘You can take the turning up there to the left,’ the voice said.
‘Up into the woods?’ Oystein asked.
‘Right. Does that make you nervous?’
The thought had never occurred to Oystein. Until now. He looked into the mirror again, but the man had moved across to the window so that he could only see half of his face.
Oystein slowed down, indicated he was turning left and swung into the turning. The gravel track in front of them was narrow and bumpy with grass growing in the middle.
Oystein hesitated.
Branches with green leaves that reflected in the light hung over the track on each side and seemed to be waving them on. Oystein put his foot on the brake. The gravel crunched under the tyres and the car came to a halt.
‘Sorry,’ he said to the mirror. ‘Just had the chassis fixed for 40 thousand and we are under no obligation to drive on tracks like these. I can ring for another car if you like.’
The man in the back seat appeared to be smiling, at least the half he could see.
‘And which telephone were you thinking of using, Eikeland?’
Oystein felt the hairs on the back of his neck rising.
‘Your own telephone?’ the voice whispered. ‘Or Harry Hole’s?’
‘I’m not exactly sure what you’re talking about, but the trip stops here, mister.’
The man laughed.
‘ Mister? I don’t think so, Eikeland.’
Oystein felt an urge to swallow, but resisted the temptation.
‘Listen, you don’t have to pay since I couldn’t drive you to your destination. Get out and wait here and I’ll organise another car for you.’
‘Your record says that you’re smart, Eikeland. So I assume you know what I’m after. I hate to have to use this cliche, but it is up to you whether we do this the easy way or the hard way.’
‘I really don’t know what… Ow!’
The man had slapped the back of Oystein’s head, just above the headrest, and as Oystein was automatically thrust forwards, he could feel, to his surprise, his eyes filling with tears. I
t wasn’t that it hurt particularly. The blow had been of the type they handed out at junior school: light, a sort of introductory humiliation. The tear ducts were, however, already aware of what his brain still refused to accept. That he was in serious trouble.
‘Where’s Harry’s phone, Eikeland? In the glove compartment? In the boot? In your pocket perhaps?’
Oystein didn’t answer. He sat still as his eyes fed his brain. Forest on both sides. Something told him that the man in the back seat was fit and that he would catch Oystein in a matter of seconds. Was the man alone? Should he set off the alarm that was connected to the other cars? Was it a good idea to get other people involved?
‘I see,’ the man said. ‘The hard way then. And do you know what?’ Oystein was unable to react before he felt an arm around his neck pulling him back against the headrest. ‘Deep down, that’s what I’d hoped.’
Oystein lost his glasses. He stretched his hand out towards the steering column, but couldn’t reach.
‘Press the alarm and I’ll kill you,’ the man whispered into his ear. ‘And I’m not speaking metaphorically, Eikeland, but in the sense that I will literally take your life.’
Despite the fact that his brain was not getting oxygen, Oystein Eikeland could hear, see and smell unusually well. He could see the network of veins on the inside of his own eyelids, smell the aroma of the man’s after-shave and hear the slightly whining overtone of glee – like a kind of drivebelt – in the man’s voice.
‘Where is he, Eikeland? Where is Harry Hole?’
Oystein opened his mouth and the man released his grip.
‘I have no idea what it is you -’
Then the arm was back, squeezing.
‘Last try, Eikeland. Where’s your piss-artist pal?’
Oystein felt the pains, the irritating will to live, but he also knew that it would soon be over. He had experienced similar things before. It was just a phase, a stage before the much more pleasurable sense of indifference kicked in. The seconds passed. The brain was beginning to shut down branch lines. First his sight went.
Then the man let go again and the oxygen streamed into his brain. Sight returned. And the pain.
‘We’ll find him anyway,’ the voice said. ‘You can choose whether it’s before or after you’ve left us.’
Oystein felt something cold and hard move across his temples. Then across the bridge of his nose. Oystein had seen his share of Westerns, but he had never seen a. 45calibre revolver close up before.
‘Open up.’
Let alone tasted one.
‘I’m going to count to five. Then I’ll shoot. Nod if there’s something you want to say to me. Preferably before I count to five. One…’
Oystein tried to combat his fear of death. Tried telling himself that mankind is rational and that the man behind him would not gain anything by taking his life.
‘Two…’
Logic is with me, Oystein thought. The barrel had a nauseous smell of metal and blood.
‘Three. And don’t worry about the seat covers, Eikeland. I’ll tidy up and wash everything down thoroughly after me.’
Oystein could feel his body beginning to shake, an uncontrollable reaction he could only view as a spectator, and he was reminded of a rocket he had seen on TV that had shaken in the same way, seconds before it was fired into the cold, empty void of outer space.
‘Four.’
Oystein nodded. Repeatedly and with vigour.
The gun disappeared.
‘It’s in the glove compartment,’ he gasped. ‘He said I should keep it switched on and I wasn’t to touch it if it rang. He took mine.’
‘I’m not interested in the phones,’ the voice said. ‘I want to know where Hole is.’
‘I don’t know. He didn’t say anything. Yes, he did. He said it was best for both of us if I knew nothing.’
‘He was lying,’ the man said.
The words came slowly and calmly, and Oystein could not make out whether the man was angry or enjoying himself.
‘Just best for him, Eikeland. Not for you.’
The cold gun barrel on Oystein’s cheek felt like a glowing iron.
‘Wait! Harry did say something. I remember now. He said that he was going to lie low at his place.’
The words streamed out of Oystein’s mouth; he had the impression that he was pumping them out half formed.
‘We’ve been there, you numbskull,’ the voice said.
‘I don’t mean the place where he lives. His place in Oppsal. The place where he grew up.’
The man laughed and Oystein smarted with pain as the gun barrel was thrust up his nostril.
‘We’ve been tracking your phone for the last few hours, Eikeland. We know which part of town he’s in. And it isn’t in Oppsal. You’re lying: fact. Or to put it another way: five.’
A bleep. Oystein squeezed his eyes shut. The bleeping would not stop. Was he dead already? The bleeps formed a tune. Purple Rain. Prince. It was the digital ringtone of a mobile phone.
‘Yes, what’s up?’ the voice behind him said.
Oystein didn’t dare open his eyes.
‘At Underwater? Five o’clock? OK, get all the guys together immediately. I’m on my way.’
Oystein heard the rustle of clothing behind him. His hour had come. He heard a bird singing outside. A beautiful high trill. He didn’t even know what kind of bird it was. He should have known. Now he would never know. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder.
Oystein tentatively opened his eyes and peered in the mirror.
A flash of white teeth and then the voice with the same undertone of glee: ‘City centre, driver. Step on it.’
38
Monday. The Cloud.
Rakel opened her eyes with a start. Her heart was pounding fiercely. She had slept. She listened to the unrelenting din of children swimming in the open-air Frogner swimming pool. A faintly bitter taste of grass lingered in her mucous linings and the heat lay like a warm duvet on her back. Had she been dreaming? Was that what had woken her?
A sudden gust of wind blew the duvet away and gave her goosepimples.
Odd how dreams sometimes just slide away from you, like slippery soap, she thought as she rolled over. Oleg was gone. She raised herself on her elbows and looked around her.
The next second she was on her feet.
‘Oleg!’
She began to run.
She found him by the diving pool. He was sitting on the edge talking to a boy she thought she had seen before. Could have been a boy in his class.
‘Hi, Mummy.’ He squinted up at her and smiled.
Rakel grabbed his arm, harder than she had intended.
‘I told you not to clear off without saying a word.’
Oleg was taken aback and a little embarrassed. His friend fell back a couple of paces.
She let go. Sighed and stared at the horizon. The sky was blue apart from one single white cloud that seemed to be pointing upwards as if someone had just fired a rocket.
‘It’s nearly five. We’re going home now,’ she said. Her voice was a long way off. ‘Time to eat.’
In the car on the way home Oleg asked if Harry was coming.
Rakel shook her head.
While they were waiting for the lights to change on the Smestad crossing she bent forwards to look up and find the cloud again. It had not moved, but it was a bit higher now and there was a tinge of grey at the bottom.
She remembered to lock the door when they arrived home.
39
Monday. Meetings.
Roger Gjendem stopped at the window of Underwater to stare at the water bubbling in the aquarium. An image flickered past. A seven-year-old boy swimming towards him with hurried, frantic strokes and the panic visible on his face, as if he, Roger, his big brother, was the only person in the world who could save him. Roger had called out to him with a laugh, but Thomas had not realised that he was already in shallow water and all he had to do was put his feet on the bottom. Now and
then Roger mused that he had managed to teach his brother how to swim in water; it was on land that he had gone under.
He stood in the doorway to Underwater for a few seconds to let his eyes grow accustomed to the dark. Apart from the barman he could only see one single person in the room, a red-haired woman sitting with her back half turned towards him with half a glass of beer in front of her and a cigarette between her fingers. Roger went down the steps to the lower floor and peered in. Not a soul. He decided to wait by the bar on the ground floor. The wooden planks creaked under his feet and the red-haired woman looked up. Shadows fell across her face, but there was something about the way she was sitting, her bearing, that made him think that she was nice-looking. Or had been. He noticed that she had a bag beside the table. Perhaps she was waiting for someone too.
He ordered a beer and checked the time on his watch.
He had walked round the block a few times so that he would not arrive before 5.00, as arranged. He didn’t want to give the impression he was too keen – that would arouse suspicion. Though who could mistrust a journalist for being too keen when it was information that might lead to the biggest case of the summer being turned on its head? If indeed that was what this was all about.
Roger had kept an eye open while trudging up and down the streets. For a car parked where it shouldn’t be, someone standing and reading a paper at the corner of the street, a tramp sleeping on a bench, perhaps. He hadn’t spotted anything though. They were professionals of course. That was what frightened him most. The certainty that they could carry out their threat and get away with it. He had heard a colleague mumbling in his cups that there were some things going on at Police HQ that the public would not believe, even if it had been reported in the papers, but Roger shared the public’s view.
He looked at his watch again. Seven minutes past.
Would they storm in the minute Harry Hole arrived? They hadn’t told him a thing, they just said that he should turn up as arranged and behave as he normally would when working on a job. Roger took another large gulp in the hope that the alcohol would settle his nerves.
Ten minutes past. The barman was sitting in the corner of the bar reading a holiday brochure.