Jo Nesbo - The Son

‘I miss my colleagues and the excitement,’ Fredrik said. ‘But not the slow pace and the bureaucracy. Perhaps you quit for the same reason?’

He raised his glass too quickly to his lips for Simon to read his face to determine if he genuinely didn’t know or was just pretending. After all, it was shortly after Fredrik had announced his departure to what many regarded as the dark side that the row over the money laundering case had erupted. Fredrik had even been one of the people working on the case. But perhaps he no longer had any police contacts.

‘Something like that,’ Simon muttered.

‘Murder is more up your street,’ Fredrik said and glanced with feigned discretion at his watch.

‘Talking about my street,’ Simon said, ‘I wanted to meet because I need a loan. It’s for my wife, she needs an eye operation. Else — do you remember her?’

Fredrik chewed his jellyfish and made a sound that could mean both yes and no.

Simon waited until he had finished.

‘I’m sorry, Simon, we only invest our clients’ money in blue-chip companies or in government-backed bonds, we never lend to the private market.’

‘I’m aware of that, but I’m asking you because I can’t go down the usual routes.’

Fredrik carefully dabbed the corners of his mouth and put the napkin on his plate. ‘I’m sorry I can’t help you. An eye operation? That sounds serious.’

The waiter arrived, took Fredrik’s plate, saw that Simon’s was untouched and looked quizzically at him. Simon gestured for him to take it away.

‘You didn’t like it?’ Fredrik said and asked for the bill in a few words which might be Japanese.

‘I don’t know, but I’m generally sceptical when it comes to invertebrates. They slip down too easily, if you know what I mean. I don’t like waste, but that particular animal looked as if it was still alive, so I’m hoping it might get a second chance in the aquarium.’

Fredrik laughed unnecessarily heartily at his joke; relieved that the second part of their conversation appeared to be over. He grabbed the bill the moment it arrived.

‘Let me. .’ Simon began, but Fredrik had already slipped his credit card into the payment terminal the waiter had brought and was pressing the keypad.

‘It was good to see you again and I’m sorry I wasn’t able to help you,’ Fredrik said when the waiter had disappeared and Simon could sense that the pressure on the seat of Fredrik’s chair had already eased.

‘Did you read about the Iversen killing yesterday?’

‘Oh God, I did, yes.’ Fredrik shook his head, took off his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘Iver Iversen is one of our clients. A tragedy.’

‘He was already a client of yours when you worked for the Serious Fraud Office, I believe.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘A suspect, I mean. It’s a great shame that everyone with your qualifications quit. With people like you on the team we might have been able to bring the case to trial. The property business needs overhauling; we used to agree about that, don’t you remember, Fredrik?’

Fredrik put on his sunglasses again. ‘You always did gamble with high stakes, Simon.’

Simon nodded. So Fredrik did know why Simon had suddenly changed departments.

‘Talking of gambling,’ Simon said. ‘I’m only a stupid cop without a degree in finance, but whenever I read Iversen’s accounts, I always wondered how that company managed to stay afloat. It was hopeless at buying and selling property; most of the time it suffered considerable losses.’

‘Yes, but it was always good at managing property.’

‘Blessed be losses you can carry forward. Because of them Iversen has hardly paid any tax on his operating profits in the last few years.’

‘Good heavens, you sound as if you’re back with the Serious Fraud Office.’

‘My password still gets me access to the old files. I stayed up last night reading them on my computer.’

‘Did you? But there’s nothing illegal about that, those are the tax rules.’

‘Yes,’ Simon said, resting his chin on his hand and looking up at the blue sky. ‘And you would know; after all, you investigated Iversen. Perhaps Agnete Iversen was killed by an embittered tax collector.’

‘What?’

Simon laughed briefly and got up. ‘Just an old man winding you up. Thanks for lunch.’

‘Simon?’

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t want you to get your hopes up, but I’ll ask around about your loan.’

‘I appreciate that,’ Simon said and buttoned up his jacket. ‘Bye.’

He didn’t need to turn round; he knew that Fredrik was watching him pensively as he walked away.

Lars Gilberg put down the newspaper he had found in the rubbish bin outside 7-Eleven that would serve as tonight’s pillow. He saw that page after page was about the murder of this rich woman from the west side of Oslo. If the victim had been some poor sod who had died from a contaminated overdose down by the river or in Skippergata, he would barely have warranted a few lines. A hotshot from Kripos, a man called Bjornstad, announced that every available resource would be deployed in the investigation. Oh, really? How about first catching the mass murderers who mixed arsenic and rat poison in the drugs they sold? Gilberg peered out from his shadowland. The figure approaching him wore a hoodie and looked like one of the regular joggers who included the path along the river in their running route. But he had spotted Gilberg, was slowing down, and Lars Gilberg presumed him to be either a cop or a posh boy looking for speed. It wasn’t until he was under the bridge and had pulled back his hood that Gilberg recognised the boy. He was sweaty and out of breath.

Gilberg got up from his groundsheet, eager, happy almost. ‘Hello, lad. I’ve looked after your stuff, you know, it’s still there.’ He nodded towards the bushes.

‘Thank you,’ the boy said, squatting down and checking his pulse. ‘But I was wondering if you could do me another favour.’

‘Of course. Anything.’

‘Thank you. Which dealers sell Superboy?’

Lars Gilberg closed his eyes. Dammit. ‘Don’t do it, lad. Not Superboy.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I can name three people killed by that shit this summer alone.’

‘Who sells the purest goods?’

‘I don’t know about purity. It’s not my poison. But the dealer is easy, only one outlet in this town sells Superboy. The dealers always work in pairs. One has the drugs and the other takes the money. They hang out under Nybrua.’

‘What do they look like?’

‘It varies, but usually the money man is a stocky, acne-scarred guy with short hair. He’s the boss, but he likes being on the street and handling the money himself. He’s a suspicious bastard, doesn’t trust his dealers.’

‘Stocky and acne-scarred?’

‘Yes, he’s easy to recognise from his eyelids. It’s like they hang down over his eyes and make him look sleepy. You get me?’

‘Do you mean Kalle?’

‘Y’know ’im?’

The boy nodded slowly.

‘Then you know what happened to his eyelids?’

‘What are his opening hours, do you know?’ the boy asked.

‘They’re there from four o’clock to nine o’clock. I know this because the first customers start queuing half an hour before. And the last ones come racing, just before nine, like rats up a drainpipe, in case they miss him.’

The boy put his hood back up. ‘Thanks, mate.’

‘Lars. My name is Lars.’

‘Thanks, Lars. Do you need anything? Money?’

Lars always needed money. He shook his head. ‘What’s your name?’

The boy shrugged. The what-do-you-want-me-to-be-called? shrug. Then he continued his run.

Martha was sitting in reception when he came up the stairs and continued straight past her.