Jo Nesbo - The Son

‘That fits with where the rocks stick up,’ Kari said.

‘He lay on the rocks for a little while before the current got hold of him and carried him off. I didn’t move an inch. If those guys knew that I’d seen them. .’

‘But you had,’ Simon said. ‘And you were so close that you would be able to recognise them again.’

Gilberg shook his head. ‘No chance. I’ve already forgotten them. That’s the trouble when you get high on anything you can lay your hands on, you know what I mean? Messes with your head.’

‘I think you mean that’s the plus side,’ Simon said, rubbing his face.

‘But how did you know they worked for Nestor?’ Kari shifted her weight restlessly.

‘Their suits,’ Gilberg said. ‘The men looked identical, as if they had nicked a shipment of black two-piece suits destined for the Norwegian Undertakers’ Association.’ He manoeuvred the snus with his tongue. ‘You know what I mean?’

‘We’re prioritising the case,’ Simon said to Kari in the car on their way back to Police HQ. ‘I want you to review Vollan’s movements for the forty-eight hours before he was killed and get me a list of everyone, and I mean everyone, he came into contact with.’

‘Fine,’ Kari said.

They passed Bla and stopped for a flow of young pedestrians. Hipsters on their way to a concert, Simon thought and looked over at Kuba. He saw a big screen that had been erected on the outdoor stage while Kari called her father and said she wouldn’t be coming for dinner. They were showing a black-and-white film. Images of Oslo. It looked like the fifties. A time Simon remembered from his own childhood. For the hipsters it was probably just a curiosity, something from the past, all innocent and possibly charming. He could hear laughter.

‘I’ve been wondering about something,’ Kari began. ‘You said that Nestor would know if we brought Gilberg in for an interview. Were you serious?’

‘What do you think?’ Simon said and accelerated towards Hausmannsgate.

‘I don’t know, but it sounded like you meant it.’

‘I don’t know what I meant. It’s a long story. For years there were rumours of a mole in the police force who leaked information to the person who ran most of the drugs and sex trafficking in Oslo. But it’s a long time ago and though there was a lot of talk at the time no one ever produced any evidence to prove that this mole or that person actually existed.’

‘What person?’

Simon looked out of the window. ‘We called him the Twin.’

‘Ah, the Twin,’ Kari said. ‘They talked about him in the Drug Squad, a bit like Gilberg’s ghosts at the Ila Centre. Was he real?’

‘Oh, the Twin is real.’

‘And what about the mole?’

‘Well. A man called Ab Lofthus left behind a suicide note in which he claimed to be the mole.’

‘Wasn’t that sufficient evidence?’

‘Not in my book.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because Ab Lofthus was the least corrupt officer ever to work for Oslo Police.’

‘How do you know?’

Simon stopped for a red light at Storgata. The darkness seemed to flow out of the buildings around them and with the darkness came the creatures of the night. They walked with shuffling footsteps, or slumped against walls in doorways where music pounded, or sat in cars with their elbows hanging out of the side window. Searching, hungry looks. Hunters.

‘Because he was my best friend.’

Johannes checked the time. Ten minutes past ten. Ten minutes past lockdown. The others were locked in their cells by now; he would be manually locked in his once he had finished his final cleaning round at eleven o’clock. It was a strange thing. When you had been in prison for a long time the days started to fade away as quickly as minutes and the calendar girls on the wall in your cell couldn’t keep up with the passing months. But this last hour had felt as long as a year. A long, horrible year.

He entered the control room.

There were three people on duty, one fewer than during the day. The springs in the chair creaked as one of them turned away from the monitors.

‘Evening, Johannes.’

It was Geir Goldsrud. He pushed the rubbish bin out from under the desk with his foot. It was an automatic response. The young shift supervisor helping the old cleaner with the stiff back. Johannes had always liked Geir Goldsrud. He pulled the pistol out of his pocket and aimed it at Goldsrud’s face.

‘Cool. Where did you get that?’ said one of the other officers, a blond man who played third-division football for Hasle-Loren.

Johannes didn’t reply, he just kept his gaze and his aim fixed firmly at a point between Goldsrud’s eyes.

‘Light this for me, would you?’ The third officer had stuck an unlit cigarette in between his lips.

‘Put it away, Johannes.’ Goldsrud spoke quietly without blinking and Johannes could see that he had understood. That this wasn’t a novelty lighter.

‘Proper James Bond gadget, mate. How much do you want for it?’ The football player had got up and was coming towards Johannes to take a closer look.

Johannes aimed the small pistol at one of the monitors up under the ceiling and pulled the trigger. He didn’t know quite what to expect and was just as startled as the others when there was a bang, the screen exploded and glass shattered.

The football player stood rooted to the spot.

‘Get down on the floor!’ Johannes was blessed with a booming baritone, but now his voice was high-pitched and squealing like a near-hysterical old woman. But it worked. The knowledge that a desperate man is standing in front of you with a lethal weapon has a greater impact than any authoritative voice. All three men now knelt down and put their hands behind their heads as if this was a drill, as if being threatened at gunpoint was something they had practised. And perhaps they had. Learned that total surrender is the only appropriate response. And probably the only acceptable one at their pay grade.

‘All the way down. Down on the floor!’

They did as they were told. It was almost like magic.

He looked at the control board in front of him. Found the button that opened and shut the doors to the cells. Then the one that operated the locks and both entrances. Finally the big, red universal button, the one which opened every single door, to be used only in the event of fire. He pressed it. A long, howling tone indicated that the prison was now open. And a funny thought crossed his mind. That this was where he had always wanted to be. The skipper on the bridge of his ship.

‘Keep your eyes on the floor,’ he said. His voice was already growing stronger. ‘If any of you try to stop me, me and my mates will come after you and your families. Remember that I know everything about you, boys. Trine, Valborg. .’ He reeled off the names of their wives and children, the schools they went to, their hobbies, where in Oslo they lived, information accumulated over the years, while he continued to look at the monitors. When he had finished, he left them. He went out of the door and then he started to run. He ran along the corridor, then downstairs to the floor below. He pulled the first door. It opened. He continued down the next corridor. His heart was already pounding, he hadn’t worked out as much as he ought to, he hadn’t kept in shape. He intended to start now. The second door opened as well. His legs protested at having to move so fast. Perhaps it was the cancer, perhaps it had reached his muscles and was weakening him. The third door led to the lock. He waited while the first door sealed behind him with a low hum, counting the seconds. He looked down the corridor towards the staff changing room. When he finally heard the door close, he grabbed the handle of the door in front of him. Pressed it down and pulled it.