Jo Nesbo - The Son

Kari wrapped her arms around her long, insect-like legs. ‘Any regrets?’

Simon looked towards the window. The heat made the air outside quiver.

‘People have made money selling clocks.’

‘Not my father,’ Simon said. ‘And he didn’t like fakes, either. He refused to follow the trend and make cheap copies and plastic digital watches. He thought it was the path of least resistance. He went bankrupt in style.’

‘Well, that explains why you didn’t want to be a watchmaker.’

‘No, I ended up a watchmaker all the same.’

‘How?’

‘Crime scene technician. Ballistics expert. Bullet trajectories and all that. It’s almost the same as tinkering with watches. We’re probably more like our parents than we’d like to believe.’

‘So what happened?’ she smiled. ‘Did you go bankrupt?’

‘Well.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I guess I became more interested in the why rather than the how. I don’t know if it was the right decision to become a tactical investigator. Projectiles and bullet wounds are more predictable than the human brain.’

‘So that’s when you went to work for the Serious Fraud Office?’

‘You’ve read my CV.’

‘I always read up on people I’m going to work with. Had you had enough of blood and guts?’

‘No, but I was scared Else, my wife, might have. When I got married, I promised her more regular working hours and no more shifts. I liked the Serious Fraud Office; it was a little like working with watches again. Talking of my wife. .’ He got up from the desk.

‘Why did you leave the Serious Fraud Office if you enjoyed it so much?’

Simon smiled a tired smile. No, his CV wouldn’t tell her that, would it?

‘Lasagne. I think she’s cooking lasagne. See you tomorrow.’

‘Incidentally, I got a call from an old colleague. He told me he had seen a junkie wandering around wearing a dog collar.’

‘A dog collar?’

‘Like the one Per Vollan used to wear.’

‘What did you do with the information?’

Kari opened her book again. ‘Nothing. I told him the case had been shelved.’

‘Downgraded. Until new evidence is found. What’s the name of the junkie and where can we find him?’

‘Gilberg. At the hostel.’

‘The residential centre. Fancy a break from reading?’

Kari sighed and closed her book. ‘What about the lasagne?’

Simon shrugged. ‘All good. I’ll call Else, she’ll understand. And lasagne tastes better when it’s reheated.’

Johannes tipped the dirty water down the sink and put the bucket and the mop in the broom cupboard. He had washed every corridor on the first floor and in the control room and was looking forward to the book waiting for him back in his cell. The Snows of Kilimanjaro . It was a collection of short stories, but he read only the one story over and over again. It was about a man with gangrene in his foot who knows he is going to die. About how this knowledge doesn’t make him a better or worse person, just more insightful, more honest, less patient. Johannes had never been much of a reader, the book had been recommended to him by the prison librarian, and since Johannes had been interested in Africa ever since he had sailed to Liberia and the Ivory Coast, he had read the first few pages about this apparently innocent, dying man in a tent on the savannah. The first time he had only skimmed through it, now he read slowly, one word at a time, looking for something even though he didn’t even know what it was.

‘Hi.’

Johannes turned round.

Sonny’s ‘hi’ had been almost a whisper and the hollow-cheeked, wild-eyed figure standing in front of him was so pale it was almost transparent. Like an angel, Johannes thought.

‘Hello, Sonny. I heard they put you in solitary. How are you doing now?’

Sonny shrugged.

‘You’ve a good left hook, lad.’ Johannes grinned and pointed to the gap where his front tooth used to be.

‘I hope you can forgive me.’

Johannes gulped. ‘I’m the one who needs forgiving, Sonny.’

The two of them looked at each other. Johannes saw Sonny glance up and down the corridor. There was a pause.

‘Would you break out of prison for me, Johannes?’

Johannes took his time and tried shuffling the words to see if that made them make more sense before he asked: ‘What do you mean? I don’t want to escape. Besides, I’ve nowhere to go. I’ll be found and brought back immediately.’

Sonny didn’t reply, but his eyes radiated black desperation and Johannes understood.

‘You want. . you want me to break out so I can score some Superboy for you.’

Sonny still didn’t reply, but continued to fix the old man’s gaze with his own manic, intense stare. Poor lad, Johannes thought. Sodding heroin.

‘Why me?’

‘Because you’re the only one with access to the control room so only you can do it.’

‘Wrong. I’m the only one with access to the control room and that’s why I know it can’t be done. The doors can only be opened with fingerprints stored in the database. And I’m not in it, my friend. Nor can I be added without submitting four copies of an application which would need to be approved on high. I’ve seen them-’

‘All the doors can be locked and unlocked from the control room.’

Johannes shook his head and looked around to make sure they were still alone in the corridor. ‘Even if you make it outside, there are guards in the security booth in the car park. They check the ID of everyone coming or going.’

‘Everyone?’

‘Yes. Except during shift changes when they let out recognised cars and familiar faces.’

‘Would that include people in a prison officer’s uniform, by any chance?’

‘Definitely.’

‘So you would need to get yourself a uniform and break out when the officers change shift?’

Johannes placed his forefinger and thumb under his chin. His jaw still hurt.

‘How would I get hold of the uniform?’

‘From Sorensen’s locker in the changing room. You’ll have to force it open with a screwdriver.’

Sorensen was a prison officer who had been on sick leave for almost two months now. Nervous breakdown. Johannes knew they called it something else these days, but it was the same thing, a bloody great big mess of feelings. He had been there.

Johannes shook his head again. ‘The changing room is full of prison officers during a shift change. Someone will recognise me.’

‘Change your appearance.’

Johannes laughed. ‘Right. And let’s say I get hold of a uniform, now how would I go about threatening a group of prison officers so that they’ll let me out?’

Sonny lifted up his long white shirt and produced a packet of cigarettes from his trouser pocket. Stuck a cigarette in between his dry lips and lit it with a lighter shaped like a pistol. Johannes nodded slowly.

‘This isn’t about drugs. There’s something you want me to do on the outside, isn’t there?’

Sonny sucked the flame from the lighter into the cigarette and exhaled the smoke. He narrowed his eyes.

‘Will you do it?’ His voice was warm and soft.

‘Will you give me absolution from my sins?’ Johannes asked.

Arild Franck spotted them as he came round the corner. Sonny Lofthus had placed his hand on the forehead of Johannes who was standing with his head bowed and his eyes closed. They looked like a pair of queers to him. He had seen them on the monitor in the control room; they had been talking for a while. From time to time he regretted not fitting every camera with a microphone because he could tell from the men’s wary, sideways glances that they weren’t discussing the next football pools coupon. Then Sonny had taken something out of his pocket. The boy had been standing with his back to the camera so it was impossible to make out what is was until they saw cigarette smoke rise above his head.