by Jo Nesbo
In that instant his brain formed two observations. It was odd that Jon Karlsen was wearing a dinner suit and not the Salvation Army uniform. And the physical distance between Thea and Jon did not make sense. In a concert hall, with loud music playing, two lovers would be nestling up to each other.
In desperation his brain tried to reverse the train of events he had already set in motion, the finger curled around the trigger.
There was a loud bang.
So loud Harry's ears were ringing from where he was standing.
'What?' he shouted at Martine over the sound of the drummer's sudden attack on the crash cymbal, making Harry temporarily deaf.
'He's sitting in row 19, three rows back from Jon and the Prime Minister. Seat 25. In the middle.' She tried to smile, but her lips were trembling too much. 'I got you the best seat in the hall, Harry.'
Harry looked at her. Then he began to run.
Jon Karlsen was trying to make his legs move like the beat of drumsticks on the platform of Oslo Central, but he had never been much of a sprinter. The automatic doors let out protracted sighs, closed again and the shimmering silver airport express set off as Jon arrived. He groaned, put down his suitcase, relinquished the small rucksack and slumped down on one of the designer benches on the platform. He kept the black bag on his lap. Ten minutes to the next train. No problem, he was in plenty of time. Oceans of time he had. So much he almost wished he had a bit less. He peered down the tunnel where the next train would emerge. When Sofia had left Robert's flat and he had finally fallen asleep towards the morning he had had a dream. A bad dream in which Ragnhild's eye had transfixed him.
He checked his watch.
Now the concert would have started. And poor Thea would be sitting there without him and she didn't know a thing. Nor did the others for that matter. Jon blew on his hands, but the cold temperatures cooled down the moist air so fast that his hands became colder. It had to be done like this, there was no other way. Everything had spiralled out of control; he couldn't risk staying any longer.
It was all his own fault. He had lost control with Sofia last night and he should have foreseen that. All his tensions came spilling out. What made him so mad was the way Sofia had taken everything without a word, without a sound. Just watched him with the same closed, introverted gaze. Like a dumb sacrificial lamb. Then he had hit her in the face. With a clenched fist. He had grazed the skin on his knuckles and had punched her again. Stupid. So that he wouldn't see her he had turned her face to the wall, and had only calmed down after he had ejaculated. But it was too late. Looking at her before she left, he realised that this time she would not be able to get away with excuses like walking into a door or slipping on ice.
The second reason for his having to escape was the silent phone call he had received yesterday. He had checked. It came from a hotel in Zagreb. Hotel International. He had no idea how they had got hold of his mobile number; it wasn't registered anywhere. But he did have a premonition about what it meant: even though Robert was dead they still had unfinished business. That was not the plan, and he couldn't understand it. Perhaps they would send another man to Oslo. He would have to get away whatever happened.
The plane ticket he had bought in a desperate hurry was for Bangkok via Amsterdam. And in the name of Robert Karlsen. Like the one he had bought in October. Now, as then, he had his brother's ten-year-old passport in his inside pocket. No one could refute the similarity between him and the person in the photo. All passport officials were aware that things happened to a young person's appearance over ten years.
After buying the ticket he had gone to Gøteborggata to pack a suitcase and a rucksack. There were still ten hours before the plane was scheduled to take off and he needed to go into hiding. So he had headed for one of the Army's 'partly furnished' flats in Haugerud for which he had a key. The flat had been empty for two years and, besides damp problems, had a sofa, an armchair with the stuffing coming out of the back and a bed with a stained mattress. This was where Sofia had been ordered to appear every Thursday at 6 p. m. Some of the stains were hers. Others he had made when he was alone. And at those times he had always thought about Martine. It had been like a hunger which had only been satisfied once and it was that satisfaction he had been searching for ever since. And now he had found it, with the fifteenyear- old Croatian girl.
Then one autumn day an angry Robert had visited him and said Sofia had taken him into her confidence. Jon had been so furious he had almost lost control of himself.
It had been so . . . humiliating. Just like the time when he was thirteen and his father had beaten him with his belt because his mother had found semen stains on his bed sheets.
When Robert had threatened he would tell all to the high command of the Salvation Army if he so much as looked in Sofia's direction again, Jon had realised there was one option left. And it was not to stop meeting Sofia. For what neither Robert nor Ragnhild nor Thea understood was that he had to have her, it was the only way he could achieve redemption and true satisfaction. In a couple of years Sofia would be too old and he would have to find someone else. However, until then she would be his little princess, the light of his soul and the flame of his loins, as Martine had been when the magic had worked for the first time in Østgård.
More people arrived on the platform. Perhaps nothing would happen. Perhaps he would have to await events for a couple of weeks and then return. Return to Thea. He took out his mobile and texted her. Dad's ill. Flying to Bangkok tonight. I'll call tomorrow.
He pressed SEND and patted the black bag. Five million kroner in dollar notes. Dad would be so happy to hear he could pay off the debt and be free at last. I'm carrying the sins of others, he thought. I'll set them free.
He stared into the tunnel, the black eye socket. Eighteen minutes past eight. Where was it?
Where was Jon Karlsen? He scanned the rows of backs in front of him while slowly lowering the revolver. The finger had obeyed and slackened the pressure on the trigger. How close he had been to firing the gun he would never know, but now he knew this: Jon Karlsen was not here. He had not come. That was the reason for the confusion when they were taking their seats.
The music became quieter, the brushes flitted across the drums and the guitar strumming slowed to a stroll.
He saw Jon Karlsen's girlfriend duck down and her shoulders move as if searching for something in her bag. She sat still for a few seconds with bowed head. Then stood up, and he followed her with his eyes as, with jerky, impatient movements, she danced along the row of people standing up and making room. He knew what he had to do.
'Excuse me,' he said, getting up. He barely noticed the glares of the people standing up with affected effort and sighs; all he was concerned about was that his last chance to find Jon Karlsen was leaving the auditorium.
Emerging into the foyer, he stopped and heard the padded auditorium door slip back into place as the music died, as if by a flick of the fingers. The woman had not gone far. She was standing by a pillar in the middle of the foyer texting. Two men in suits stood talking by the other entrance to the auditorium, and two cloakroom attendants were sitting behind the counter staring absent-mindedly into the distance. He checked that the coat hanging over his arm still hid the revolver and was about to approach her when he heard the sound of running to his right. He turned in time to see a tall man with reddened cheeks and wild eyes charging towards him. Harry Hole. He knew it was too late; the coat was in the way and he would not be able to get a clear shot. He staggered backwards against the wall as the policeman's hand hit him in the shoulder. And watched in amazement as Hole grabbed the handle to the auditorium door, tore it open and was gone.
He leaned back against the wall and squeezed his eyes shut. Then he slowly straightened up, saw the woman pacing with the phone to her ear and a desperate expression on her face and walked towards her. He stood facing her, pulled the coat to one side so that she could see the revolver and said in a slow, clear voice: 'Please come with me. Otherwi
se I will have to kill you.'
He could see her eyes darken as her pupils dilated with terror and she dropped her mobile phone.
It fell and hit the railway track with a thud. Jon looked at the phone which continued to ring. For a moment, before he saw that it was Thea on the line, he had thought it was the voiceless person from last night ringing again. She hadn't said a word, but it had been a woman, he was sure of that now. It had been her; it had been Ragnhild. Stop! What was going on? Was he going mad? He concentrated on breathing. He mustn't lose control now.
He clung to the black bag as the train glided into the station.
The train doors opened with a puff of air, he boarded, put the suitcase and rucksack in the luggage compartment and found an empty seat.
There was a gap in the row of seats like a missing tooth. Harry studied the faces on either side of the empty seat, but they were too old, too young or the wrong gender. He ran to the first seat in row 19 and crouched down by the old white-haired man sitting there.
'Police. We're—'
'What?' the man shouted with a hand behind his ear.
'Police,' Harry said, louder this time. In a row a bit further forward he noticed a man with a wire behind his ear move and talk to his lapel.
'We're on the lookout for someone who was supposed to be sitting in the middle of this row. Have you seen anyone leave or—'
'What?'
An elderly lady, obviously his companion for the evening, leaned over. 'He just left. The auditorium, that is. During the performance . . .' She said the latter in such a way that it was clear she assumed that this was the reason the police wanted to talk to him.
Harry ran up the aisle, pushed open the door, stormed through the foyer and down the stairs to the front doors. He saw the uniformed back outside and shouted from the stairs. 'Falkeid!'
Sivert Falkeid turned, saw Harry and opened the door.
'Did a man just come out here?'
Falkeid shook his head.
'Stankic is in the building,' Harry said. 'Sound the alarm.'
Falkeid nodded and raised his lapel.
Harry raced back into the foyer, spotted a small, red mobile phone on the floor and asked the women in the cloakroom if they had seen anyone leaving the auditorium. They looked at each other and answered no in unison. He asked if there were other exits apart from down the stairs to the front doors.
'The emergency exit,' one suggested.
'Yes, but the doors make such a noise when they shut we would have heard it,' the other one said.
Harry stood by the auditorium door surveying the foyer from left to right as he tried to figure out escape routes. Had Stankic really been here? Had Martine told him the truth this time? At that very instant he knew she had. There was that sweet smell in the air again. The man who had been standing in the way when Harry arrived. He knew in an instant where Stankic must have made his getaway.
Harry tore open the door to the men's toilet and was met by a gust of ice-cold wind from the open window on the far side. He went to the window, looked down at the cornice and the car park beneath and thumped the sill with his fist. 'Fuck, fuck, fuck.'
A sound came from one of the toilet cubicles.
'Hello!' Harry shouted. 'Is there anyone in there?'
By way of an answer the urinal flushed with an angry hiss.
There was that sound again. A sort of sobbing. Harry's eyes ran along the locks on the cubicle doors and found one with red for engaged. He threw himself down on his stomach and saw a pair of legs and pumps.
'Police,' Harry shouted. 'Are you hurt?'
The sobbing ceased. 'Has he gone?' asked a tremulous woman's voice.
'Who?'
'He said I had to stay here for fifteen minutes.'
'He's gone.'
The cubicle door slid open. Thea Nilsen was sitting on the floor, between the bowl and the wall, with make-up running down her face.
'He said he would kill me if I didn't say where Jon was,' she said through her tears. As though to apologise.
'And what did you say?' Harry asked, helping her up onto the toilet lid.
She blinked twice.
'Thea, what did you tell him?'
'Jon texted me,' she said, staring without focus at the toilet walls. 'His father's ill, he said. He's flying to Bangkok tonight. Imagine. This evening of all evenings.'
'Bangkok? Did you tell Stankic?'
'We were supposed to meet the Prime Minister this evening,' Thea said as a tear rolled down her cheek. 'And he didn't even answer me when I rang, the . . . the—'
'Thea! Did you tell him Jon was catching a plane this evening?' She nodded, like a somnambulist, as though none of this had anything to do with her.
Harry rose to his feet and strode into the foyer where Martine and Rikard were standing and talking to a man Harry recognised as one of the Prime Minister's bodyguards.
'Call off the alarm,' Harry shouted. 'Stankic is no longer in the building.'
The three of them turned towards him.
'Rikard, your sister is sitting in there. Could you look after her? And, Martine, could you come with me?'
Without waiting for an answer, Harry took her arm and she had to jog to keep up with him down the steps towards the exit.
'Where are we going?' she asked.
'Gardemoen Airport.'
'And what are you going to do with me there?'
'You will be my eyes, dear Martine. You will see the invisible man for me.'
He studied his facial features in the reflection from the train window. The forehead, the nose, the cheeks, the mouth, the chin, the eyes. Tried to see what it was, where the secret lay. But he couldn't see anything special above the red neckerchief, just an expressionless face with eyes and hair which, against the walls of the tunnel between Oslo Central and Lillestrøm, were as black as the night outside.
33
Monday, 22 December. The Shortest Day.
IT TOOK HARRY AND MARTINE EXACTLY TWO MINUTES AND thirty-eight seconds to run from the concert hall to the platform of the National Theatre station where, two minutes later, they boarded an Inter City train stopping at Oslo Central and Gardemoen Airport on its way to Lillehammer. True, this was a slower train but it was still faster than waiting for the next airport express. They dropped into the two free seats left in a carriage full of soldiers on their way home for Christmas leave and gangs of students with boxes of wine and Santa hats.
'What's going on?' Martine asked.
'Jon's making his getaway,' Harry said.
'Does he know Stankic is alive?'
'He's not fleeing from Stankic, but from us. He knows his cover is blown.'
Martine's eyes widened. 'What do you mean?'
'I hardly know where to begin.'
The train drew into Oslo Central. Harry scrutinised the passengers on the platform, but did not see Jon Karlsen.
'It all started when Ragnhild Gilstrup offered Jon two million kroner to help Gilstrup Invest buy some of the Salvation Army's properties,' Harry said. 'He turned her down because he wasn't convinced she was scrupulous enough to keep a secret. Instead he went behind her back and spoke to Mads and Albert Gilstrup. He demanded five million and they were instructed not to tell Ragnhild about the deal. They agreed.'
Martine's mouth fell. 'How do you know this?'
'After Ragnhild's death Mads Gilstrup more or less broke down. He decided to come clean about the whole business. So he rang the police. A telephone number on Halvorsen's business card. Halvorsen didn't answer, but he left the confession as a voicemail. A few hours ago I played the message. Among many other things he said Jon demanded a written agreement.'