Jo Nesbo - Police

‘You’ve got to find him. Please. Before he finds me.’

Anton Mittet looked at his watch. Half past six. He yawned. Mona had been in to see the patient with a doctor a couple of times. Otherwise nothing had happened. You had a lot of time to think sitting there like that. Too much time actually. Because your thoughts had a tendency to become negative after a while. And that would have been fine if the negativity had been something he could have worked on. But he couldn’t change the Drammen case or his decision not to report the baton he had found in the forest below the crime scene. He couldn’t go back and unsay, undo, the times he had hurt Laura. And he couldn’t undo his first night with Mona. Nor the second.

He gave a start. What was that? It seemed to come from the far end of the corridor. He listened intently. It was quiet now. But there had been a noise, and apart from the regular squawks from the heart monitor there shouldn’t be any sounds here.

Anton got to his feet silently, loosened the strap over the butt of his gun and took out the weapon. Removed the safety catch. You keep a damn good eye on him, Anton.

He waited, but no one came. Then he began to walk slowly down the corridor. He shook all the doors on the way, but they were locked, as they were supposed to be. He rounded the corner and saw the next corridor stretch out before him. Illuminated the whole way down. And there was no one there. He stopped again and listened. Nothing. Perhaps he hadn’t heard anything after all. He put the gun back in its holster.

Hadn’t heard anything? Oh yes, he had. Something had created waves, which had met the sensitive membrane in his ear, made it react, only a little but enough for the nerves to receive it and transmit the signal to the brain. It was as good as a fact. But it could have been one of a thousand things that had caused it. A mouse or a rat. A bulb exploding with a bang. The temperature falling at night and making the woodwork in the building contract. A bird flying into a window.

It was only now — as he was calming down — that Anton noticed how high his pulse had been. He should start training again. Get into shape. Recover the body that was the real him .

He was about to go back when he thought now that he was here he might as well have a cup of coffee. He went over to the red espresso machine and picked up the solitary green capsule with a shiny lid bearing the name of Fortissio Lungo. And it struck him the noise could have been someone sneaking in and pinching their coffee. Hadn’t there been plenty of capsules yesterday? He put the capsule in the machine, but suddenly noticed it had been perforated. Used, in other words. No, it can’t have been, then the lid would have a kind of chess pattern after it had been squeezed. He switched on the machine. The humming started, and then he realised that for the next twenty seconds it would drown out any other noises. He stepped back two paces so that he wasn’t in the middle of it.

When the cup was full he examined the coffee. Black, nice consistency; the capsule hadn’t been used before.

As the last drop dripped into his cup he thought he heard it again. A noise. The same noise. But this time from the other side, towards the patient’s room. Had he missed something on the way? Anton switched the cup to his left hand and took out his gun again. Walked back, taking long, even steps. Trying to balance the cup without looking at it, feeling the scalding hot coffee burning his hand. Rounded the corner. No one. He breathed out. Continued towards his chair. Was about to sit down. Then he froze. Went back to patient’s room, opened the door.

It was impossible to see him; the duvet was covering him.

But the heart machine’s sonar signal was as steady as ever, and he could see the line running from left to right on the green screen and jumping whenever there was a beep.

He was about to close the door.

But something made him change his mind.

He went in, left the door open and rounded the bed.

Looked down at the patient.

It was him.

He frowned. Leaned in close to his mouth. Was he breathing?

Yes, there it was. The movement in the air and the nauseous, sweet smell which perhaps emanated from the medication.

Anton Mittet went back out. Closing the door behind him. Looked at his watch. Drank the coffee. Looked at his watch again. Noticed that he was counting the minutes. That he wanted this shift to be over soon.

‘How nice that he agreed to talk to me,’ Katrine said.

‘Agreed?’ the warder said. ‘Most of the men in this unit would give their right hand to spend a few minutes on their own with a woman. Rico Herrem is a potential rapist. Are you sure you don’t want someone in there with you?’

‘I know how to take care of myself.’

‘The dentist said that as well. But, OK, at least you’re wearing trousers.’

‘Trousers?’

‘She was wearing a skirt and nylon stockings. Sat Valentin down in the dentist’s chair without having an officer present. You can imagine. .’

Katrine tried to imagine.

‘She paid the price for dressing like. . OK, here we are!’ He unlocked the door to the cell and opened it. ‘I’m right outside. Just shout if you need anything.’

‘Thank you,’ Katrine said, and went in.

The man with the red scalp was sitting at the desk and swivelled round on the chair.

‘Welcome to my humble abode.’

‘Thank you,’ Katrine said.

‘Take this.’ Rico Herrem got up, carried the chair over to her, walked back and sat on the neatly made bed. Good distance. She sat down and felt his body warmth on the chair. He moved further back on the bed as Katrine pulled the chair closer, and she wondered if he was one of those men who was actually afraid of women. And that was why he didn’t rape them, he watched them. Exposed himself to them. Rang them and said all the things he would like to do with them, but which of course he never dared to do. Rico Herrem’s record was more unsavoury than actually frightening.

‘You shouted to me that Valentin wasn’t dead,’ she said, leaning forward. He shrank back even further. The body language was defensive, but the smile was the same: insolent, hate-filled. Obscene. ‘What did you mean by that?’

‘What do you think, Katrine?’ Nasal voice. ‘That he’s alive, I reckon.’

‘Valentin Gjertsen was found dead in prison, right here.’

‘That’s what everyone thinks. Did the guy outside tell you what he did to the dentist?’

‘Something about a skirt and nylons. Apparently that ignites your imagination.’

‘It ignites Valentin’s imagination. And I mean that literally. She used to be here two days a week. Lots of people complained about their teeth at that time. Valentin used one of her drills to force her to take off her nylon stockings and put them over her head. Then he fucked her in the dentist’s chair. But as he said afterwards: “She just lay there like a slaughtered animal.” She must have been given bad advice about what to do if something happened. Then Valentin took out his lighter and, yes, he set fire to the stockings. Have you seen how nylon melts when it burns? That got her going, I can tell you. Screaming and thrashing around, right? The stench of face fried in nylon was in the walls for weeks afterwards. I don’t know what happened to her, but I would guess she doesn’t have to be frightened of being raped again.’

Katrine looked at him. Whipping-dog face, she thought. Been given so many beatings that the grin had become an automatic defence.

‘If Valentin’s not dead, where is he then?’ she asked.

The grin grew wider. He pulled the duvet over his knees.

‘Please tell me if I’m wasting my time here, Rico,’ Katrine sighed. ‘I’ve spent so much time at mental health institutions that crazy people bore me. All right?’