Jo Nesbo - The Son

‘It’s gone dead. 666S. I thought of it myself. Do you know what it means?’

The guy nodded. ‘It’s the Arizona police code for suicide.’

Knut blinked several times. ‘Is it?’

‘Yep. The “S” stands for suicide. My dad taught me that.’

Knut saw the guy disappear out of the gate and into the light summer evening as a gust of wind caught the tall grass over by the gate and made it sway back and forth like a concert audience in response to some sentimental ballad. Suicide . Bloody hell, that was so much cooler than 666 Satan!

Pelle looked in the rear-view mirror and rubbed his bad foot. Everything was bad; business, his mood and the address which the customer in the back had just given him, the Ila Centre. So, for now, they were stationary in what was practically Pelle’s regular spot in the cab rank in Gamlebyen.

‘You mean the hostel?’ Pelle asked.

‘Yes. But now it’s called. . Yes, the hostel.’

‘I don’t drive anyone to the hostel without being paid up front. Sorry, but I’ve had some bad experiences.’

‘Of course. I hadn’t thought of that.’

Pelle watched as his customer or, more accurately, potential customer rummaged around his pocket. Pelle had been in his cab for thirteen hours straight, but it would be a few more hours before he would drive home to his flat in Schweigaards gate, park the cab, stagger up the stairs on the folding crutches he kept under the seat, collapse on his bed and fall asleep. Hopefully without dreaming. Though that depended on the dream. It could be heaven or hell, you never knew. The customer handed him a fifty-krone note and a handful of change.

‘This is just over a hundred, it’s not enough.’

‘A hundred isn’t enough?’ said the now not so potential customer apparently with genuine surprise.

‘Long time since you last took a cab?’

‘You could say that. It’s all I’ve got, but perhaps you could drive as far as that gets me?’

‘Sure,’ Pelle said, put the money in the glove compartment since the guy didn’t look like he would want a receipt, and hit the accelerator.

Martha was alone in room 323.

She had sat in reception and watched first Stig then Johnny go out. Stig had been wearing the black shoes she had given him.

The centre’s regulations allowed them to search a resident’s room without warning or permission if they suspected them of keeping weapons. But the rules also stated that searches should normally be carried out by two staff members. Normally. How do you define normal? Martha looked at the chest of drawers. And then at the wardrobe.

She started with the chest of drawers.

It contained clothes. Just Johnny’s clothes; she knew what clothes Stig owned.

She opened the door to the wardrobe.

The underwear she had given Stig lay neatly folded on one shelf. His coat was on a hanger. On the top shelf was the red sports bag she had seen him arrive with. She was reaching up to lift it down when she spotted the blue trainers at the bottom of the wardrobe. She let go of the bag, bent down and picked up the shoes. Took a deep breath. Held it. She was looking for coagulated blood. Then she turned them over.

She breathed a sigh of relief and felt her heart skip a beat.

The soles were completely clean. The pattern wasn’t even stained.

‘What are you doing?’

Martha spun round as her heart began beating wildly. She pressed her hand to her chest. ‘Anders!’ She bent double and laughed. ‘You scared me half to death.’

‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ he pouted and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. ‘It’s almost nine thirty.’

‘I’m sorry, I lost track of time. Someone said one of the residents might be keeping weapons in his room and it’s our duty to check.’ Martha was so flustered that the lie came effortlessly.

‘Duty?’ Anders snorted. ‘Perhaps it’s time you started thinking about what duty really means. Most people think of their family and home when they talk about duty, not working in a place like this.’

Martha sighed. ‘Anders, please don’t start. .’

But she already knew that he wasn’t going to give in, as usual it had taken him only seconds to get wound up. ‘There’s a job for you at my mother’s gallery whenever you want it. And I agree with her. It would be much better for your personal development to mix with more stimulating people there than the losers in this place.’

‘Anders!’ Martha raised her voice, but knew that she was too tired, she didn’t have the energy. So she walked up to him and put her hand on his arm. ‘Don’t call them losers. And I’ve told you before, your mother and her customers don’t need me.’

Anders snatched back his arm. ‘What people in this place need isn’t you, but for the state to stop bailing them out. Those bloody junkies are Norway’s pet project.’

‘I’m not prepared to have this discussion again. Why don’t you drive on without me and I’ll take a taxi when I’m done?’

But Anders folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the door frame. ‘So which discussion are you prepared to have, Martha? I’ve been trying to get you to set a date-’

‘Not now.’

‘Yes, now! My mother wants to plan her summer and-’

‘Not now, I said.’ She tried to push him aside, but he refused to budge. He stuck out his arm to block her path.

‘What kind of answer is that? If they’re paying for-’

Martha ducked under his arm, out into the corridor and started walking away.

‘Hey!’ She heard the door of the room slam shut and Anders’s footsteps behind her. He grabbed her arm, spun her round and pulled her close. She recognised the expensive aftershave his mother had given him for Christmas, but which Martha couldn’t stand. Her heart almost stopped when she saw the black emptiness in his eyes.

‘Don’t you dare walk away from me,’ he snarled.

She had automatically raised a hand to shield her face and now she saw the shock in his face.

‘What’s this?’ he whispered with steel in his voice. ‘You think I’m going to hit you?’

‘I. .’

‘Twice,’ he hissed and she felt his hot breath on her face. ‘Twice in nine years, Martha. And you treat me as if I was some bloody. . some bloody wife-beater.’

‘Anders, let go, you’re-’

She heard a cough behind her. Anders released his hold on her arm, stared furiously over her shoulder and spat out the words:

‘So, junkie, you want to get past or not?’

She turned round. It was him. Stig. He just stood there, waiting. He moved his calm gaze from Anders to her. It asked a question. Which she answered with a nod; everything was fine.

He nodded and stepped past them. The two men glowered at each other as he passed. They were the same height, but Anders was broader, more muscular.

Martha watched Stig as he continued down the corridor.

Then her gaze returned to Anders. He had tilted his head and was glaring at her with this hostile expression which he exhibited more and more often, but which she had decided was caused by the frustration he experienced at not getting the recognition he felt he deserved at work.

‘What the fuck was that?’ he said.

He didn’t used to swear, either.

‘What?’

‘It was like the two of you. . communicated. Who is that guy?’

She exhaled. Relieved, almost. At least this was familiar territory. Jealousy. It hadn’t changed since they were teenage sweethearts and she knew how to handle it. She put her hand on his shoulder.

‘Anders, don’t be so silly. Now come with me, we’ll go and get my jacket and then we’re going home. And we’re not going to argue tonight, we’re going to cook dinner.’