Jo Nesbo - The Son

‘Stig!’ she called out.

It took a moment too long before he stopped. Now that could be down to his generally impaired reflexes. Or that his name wasn’t Stig. He was sweating; it looked as if he had been running. She hoped it wasn’t away from trouble.

‘I’ve got something for you,’ she said. ‘Wait!’

She picked up the box, told Maria she would be back in a couple of minutes and hurried after him. She touched his elbow lightly with her hand. ‘Come on, we’ll go up to yours and Johnny’s.’

When they entered the room, they were met by an unexpected sight. The curtains were drawn so that the room lay bathed in light, there was no Johnny and the air was fresh because one of the windows had been opened — as much as the window lock permitted. The council had told them to install window locks in every room after several incidents where pedestrians on the pavement below had come close to being hit by the large, heavy objects which were regularly hurled from the centre’s windows; radios, speakers, stereos and the occasional television. The centre’s residents got through a lot of electrical goods, but it was organic material which had triggered the order. Due to the extensive social phobia rampant among the residents, they were often reluctant to use the communal toilets. So a few had been given permission to keep a bucket in their room which they emptied at regular — though sadly sometimes irregular — intervals. One of the irregulars had kept his bucket on the windowsill so that he could open the window and get rid of the worst smells. One day, a staff member had opened the door to the room and the draught had blown over the bucket. It was during the renovation of the new patisserie and as fate would have it a painter was on a ladder directly below the window. The painter had escaped without permanent injury, but Martha — who had been the first person to arrive at the scene and come to the assistance of the shocked man — knew that the incident had left him mentally scarred.

‘Sit down,’ she said, pointing to the chair. ‘And take off your shoes.’

He did as he was told. She opened the box.

‘I didn’t want the others to see them,’ she said and took out a pair of soft, black leather shoes. ‘They were my father’s,’ she said, handing them to him. ‘You take about the same size.’

He looked so surprised that she felt herself blushing.

‘We can’t send you to a job interview in trainers,’ she added hastily.

She looked around the room while he put them on. She wasn’t sure, but thought she could smell detergent. The cleaners hadn’t been here today, as far as she knew. She walked up to a photograph attached to the wall with a drawing pin.

‘Who is that?’

‘My father,’ he said.

‘Really? A police officer?’

‘Yes. Look.’

She turned to him. He had got up and pressed first his right foot and then his left on the floor.

‘And?’

‘They’re a perfect fit,’ he smiled. ‘Thank you so much, Martha.’

She jumped when he said her name. It wasn’t that she wasn’t used to hearing it, the residents used their first names all the time. Surnames, home addresses and the names of family members were, however, confidential; after all, the staff witnessed drug dealing every day. But there was something about the way he said it. Like a touch. Careful and innocent, but just as tangible. She realised it was inappropriate for her to be alone with him in the room; her initial assumption had been that Johnny would be here as well. She wondered where he could be; the only things that could make Johnny get out of bed were drugs, the toilet or food. In that order. And yet she stayed where she was.

‘What kind of job are you looking for?’ she asked. She was aware she sounded slightly breathless.

‘Something in the judicial system,’ he said gravely. There was something very sweet about this earnestness. Almost precocious.

‘A bit like your father?’

‘No, police officers work for the executive power. I want to work for the judicial power.’

She smiled. He was so different. Perhaps that was the reason she had been thinking about him, because he was nothing like the other addicts. And he was so very different from Anders as well. Where Anders always had steely control, this guy seemed open and vulnerable. Where Anders was suspicious and dismissive of people he had yet to know and possibly give his seal of approval to, Stig seemed friendly, kind, naive almost.

‘I’ve got to go now,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ he said, leaning against the wall. He had unzipped his hoodie. The T-shirt underneath was soaked in sweat and stuck to his body.

He was about to say something when her walkie-talkie crackled.

She raised it to her ear.

She had a visitor.

‘What were you going to say?’ she asked when she had acknowledged the message.

‘It can wait,’ the boy said and smiled.

It was the older police officer again.

He was waiting for her at reception.

‘They let me in,’ he said apologetically.

Martha looked reproachfully at Maria, who held up her hands in a what’s-the-big-deal? gesture.

‘Do you have somewhere we can. .?’

Martha took him into the meeting room, but didn’t offer him coffee.

‘Do you know what this is?’ he asked, holding up his mobile phone so she could see the screen.

‘A picture of some soil?’

‘It’s a shoeprint. That probably doesn’t mean very much to you, but I’ve been wondering why I thought that shoeprint seemed so familiar. And then I realised it’s because I’ve seen it at so many potential crime scenes. You know, places where we find dead bodies. Mostly as tracks in the snow at a container port, in a drug den, near a drug dealer in a backyard, in a World War II bunker doubling up as a shooting gallery. In short. .’

‘In short, places frequented by the type of people who live here.’ Martha sighed.

‘Exactly. Death is usually self-inflicted, but whatever the cause, this shoeprint keeps reappearing. Those blue army trainers have become the most common footwear for drug addicts and homeless people across all of Norway because the Salvation Army and Bymisjonen hand them out. And therefore they are completely useless as evidence, there are too many of them on the feet of people with criminal records.’

‘So what are you doing here, Chief Inspector Kefas?’

‘They no longer make these trainers and those in use wear out. But if you look carefully at the picture, you’ll see that the shoeprint has a clear pattern, meaning these trainers are new. I checked with the Salvation Army and they told me that they sent their last batch of blue trainers to you in March of this year. So my question is simply: have you handed out any shoes like this since the spring? Size 8?.’

‘The answer is yes, of course.’

‘Who-’

‘Lots.’

‘Size-’

‘Size 8? is the most common shoe size for men in the Western world — also among drug users, as it happens. I’m not able or prepared to tell you anything more than that.’ Martha looked at him with tightened lips.

Now the police officer sighed. ‘I respect your loyalty to the residents. But we’re not talking about a gram of speed here, this is a murder inquiry. I found this shoeprint where that woman up at Holmenkollasen was shot and killed yesterday. Agnete Iversen.’

‘Iversen?’ Martha suddenly felt breathless again. How odd. But then again the therapist who had given her the diagnosis ‘compassion fatigue’ had told her to look out for signs of stress.

Chief Inspector Kefas tilted his head slightly to one side. ‘Yes, Iversen. It’s had a lot of press coverage. Shot on the doorstep of her home-’

‘Yes, yes, I saw some headlines. But I never read such stories, we have enough upset in this job. If you know what I mean.’