Jo Nesbo - The Son

‘E-example?’

‘I’m reasonable man, Johnny. You keep one eye.’

‘But. . Please, Coco. .’

‘Don’t move or eye will be damaged when I take it out. I show it to the other scumbags so they know is real eye, OK?’

Johnny started screaming, but was quickly stopped by a hand placed over his mouth.

‘Easy, Johnny. Not many nerves in eye, little pain, I promise.’

Johnny knew that his fear was supposed to give him the strength to fight back, but it felt as if it had withered away. Johnny Puma, who had once lifted cars, stared apathetically at the point of the stiletto as it moved closer.

‘How much?’

The voice sounded soft, almost like a whisper. They turned to the door. No one had heard him come in. His hair was wet and he was dressed only in his jeans.

‘Get out!’ Coco hissed.

The boy stayed put. ‘How much does he owe?’

‘Now! You want to taste my knife?’

The new arrival still didn’t move. The gofer who was covering Johnny’s mouth let go and walked up to him.

‘He. . he nicked my earrings,’ Johnny said. ‘It’s true! They’re in his pocket. I was going to pay you with them, Coco. Search him and you’ll see! Please, please, Coco!’ Johnny heard the sobbing in his own voice, but he didn’t care. Besides, Coco didn’t appear to hear him, he was staring at the boy. Probably liked what he saw, the sick pig. Coco called off the gofer with a gesture and chuckled to himself.

‘Is Johnny boy telling the truth, handsome?’

‘You could try finding out,’ the boy said. ‘But if I were you, I would say how much he owes you and there’ll be less trouble. And less mess.’

‘Twelve thousand,’ Coco said. ‘Why-’

He broke off when the boy stuffed his hand in his pocket, produced a small wad of notes and started counting out loud from the top. When he reached twelve, he handed them to Coco and stuffed the remaining notes back in his pocket.

Coco hesitated. As if there had to be something wrong with the money. Then he laughed. Opened his mouth and revealed the gold teeth he had had fitted to replace perfectly healthy white ones.

‘I’ll be damned. I’ll be damned.’

Then he counted the notes again. Looked up.

‘So are we done?’ the boy asked, and not with the stony face of a young drug dealer who had seen too many movies. On the contrary, he smiled. Like waiters used to smile at Johnny back in the days when he dined in fine restaurants and they would ask him if everything was OK with the meal.

‘We’re good,’ Coco grinned.

Johnny lay down on the bed and closed his eyes. He could hear Coco laughing long after he and his gofers had closed the door and disappeared down the corridor.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ the boy said. Johnny could hear him even though he tried to shut out his voice. ‘I’d have done the same if I’d been you.’

But you’re not me, Johnny thought and felt how the tears were still there, somewhere between his throat and chest. You haven’t been Johnny Puma. And then stopped being him.

‘Why don’t we go down to the cafe, Johnny?’

The glare from the computer screen was the only light in the study. Any noise came from outside the door which Simon had left ajar. It was the sound of a radio at low volume in the kitchen downstairs and of Else pottering about. She came from farming stock; there was always something that needed clearing up, washing, sorting, moving, planting, sewing, baking. The work was never-ending. No matter how much you did today, tomorrow would be another full day. It meant working at a steady pace and not rushing so that you broke your back doing it. It was the soothing hum of someone who finds joy and purpose in their chores, the sound of a steady pulse and contentment. To some extent he envied her. But he was also listening out for other sounds; stumbling footsteps or things falling to the floor. If it happened, he would wait. Wait to hear if she had things under control. And if he could hear that she was OK, he wouldn’t ask about it later, but let her think that he hadn’t noticed.

He had logged on to the Homicide Squad’s intranet and read the reports on Per Vollan. Kari had written an impressive amount, she was a hard worker. And yet when he read them, they seemed to be lacking something. Even the most bureaucratic, procedural police report couldn’t hide the passion of an enthusiastic investigator. Kari’s reports were a textbook example of how a police report should sound: objective and factual. No tendentious assertions or prejudices on behalf of the author. Lifeless and cold. He read the witness statements to see if any interesting names cropped up among the people Vollan had been in contact with. Nothing. He stared at the wall. Thought about two words. Nestor. Shelved. Then he googled Agnete Iversen.

Headlines about the murder popped up.

‘WELL-KNOWN PROPERTY INVESTOR BRUTALLY SLAIN.’

‘SHOT AND ROBBED IN HER OWN HOME.’

He clicked on one of the headlines. Inspector Asmund Bjornstad was quoted from the Kripos press conference in Bryn. ‘Kripos’s investigation team has discovered that even though Agnete Iversen was found in the kitchen, she was probably shot on the doorstep.’ And further down. ‘Several pieces of evidence suggest that this is a robbery, but we can’t rule out other motives for the time being.’

Simon scrolled down to some older newspaper articles. They came almost exclusively from the financial papers. Agnete Iversen was the daughter of one of Oslo’s biggest property owners, she had an MBA in Economics from Wharton in Philadelphia and had at a relatively young age taken over the management of the family’s property portfolio. However, after marrying Iver Iversen, a fellow economist, she had retired. One of the financial journalists had described her as the administrator, the refiner, someone who had managed the portfolio in an effective and profitable manner. Her husband, by contrast, had pursued a more aggressive strategy, frequently buying and selling, which involved greater risk, but also greater gain. Another article, two years old, had a photo of their son, Iver Junior, under the headline ‘MILLIONAIRE HEIR LIVES JET-SET LIFE ON IBIZA’. Tanned, laughing, flashing a dazzling smile and red-eyed from the camera flash, sweaty after dancing with a champagne bottle in one hand and an equally sweaty blonde in the other. Three years ago, a page from the financial section, Iver Senior shaking hands with Oslo City Council’s Head of Finance when it was announced that Iversen Property had spent 1 billion kroner buying up council properties.

Simon heard the door to his study being pushed open. A cup of steaming tea was set down in front of him.

‘Don’t you need some more light in here?’ Else said, putting her hands on his shoulders. To massage him. Or to support herself.

‘I’m still waiting for the next instalment,’ Simon said.

‘The next instalment of what?’

‘Of what the doctor said.’

‘But I called to tell you — are you getting forgetful, darling?’ she chuckled and pressed her lips against his head. Her soft lips on his scalp. He suspected that she loved him.

‘You said there wasn’t much he could do,’ Simon replied.

‘Yes.’

‘But?’

‘But what?’

‘I know you, Else. That wasn’t all he said.’

She pulled away, leaving only one hand on his shoulder. He waited.

‘He said there’s a new kind of surgery in the US. It’ll help those who come after me.’

‘After?’

‘When the surgery and the equipment become standard procedure. But that could take years. Right now it’s a complicated operation that costs a fortune.’

Simon spun round so quickly on the swivel chair that she had to take a step back. He clasped her hands. ‘But that’s brilliant news! How much?’