Jo Nesbo - The Son

‘Let’s go upstairs,’ he whispered. ‘I’ve got something for you.’

They went back to the kitchen. It had stopped raining outside. He took something from the pocket of his jacket which was hanging over the kitchen chair.

‘These are for you.’

The earrings were so beautiful they initially left her speechless.

‘Don’t you like them?’

‘They’re gorgeous, Stig. But how did you. . Did you steal them?’

He looked gravely at her without replying.

‘I’m sorry, Stig.’ Her thoughts were muddled and tears welled up in her eyes. ‘I know you’re not using any more, but I can see that the earrings used to belong to someone-’

‘She’s no longer alive,’ Stig interrupted her. ‘And something that beautiful should be worn by someone who is.’

Martha blinked in confusion. Then the penny dropped. ‘They belonged. . they were. .’ She looked up at him, half blinded by tears. ‘Your mother’s.’

She closed her eyes, felt his breath on her face. His hand on her cheek, throat, neck. Her own free hand which she placed on his side, wanting to push him away. Pull him closer. She knew they had long since kissed in their imagination. Hundreds of times, at least, since the first time they met. But it was different when their lips finally touched and an electric shock went through her. She kept her eyes closed, felt his lips, so soft, his hands gliding across the small of her back, his stubble, his smell and his taste. She wanted it, wanted all of it. But the touch also awakened her, tore her out of the lovely dream she had allowed herself to get lost in because there had been no consequences. Not until now.

‘I can’t,’ she whispered in a trembling voice. ‘I’ve got to go now, Stig.’

He released her and she quickly turned away. She opened the front door, but paused before she left.

‘It was my fault, Stig. We can never meet again like this. Do you understand? Never.’

She closed the door behind her before she could hear his reply. The sun had forced its way through the layer of clouds and the steam rose from the glittering, black tarmac. She stepped out into the humid heat.

Through his binoculars Markus saw the woman hurry into the garage, start the old Golf they had arrived in and reverse out, still with the hood down. She drove so fast that he couldn’t focus on her properly, but it looked as if she was crying.

Then he aimed the binoculars at the kitchen window again. Zoomed in. The man was standing there watching her. His hands were clenched, his jaw was tight and the veins bulged at his temples as if he was in pain. And the next moment Markus knew why. The son stretched out his arms, opened his hands and pressed them against the inside of the windowpane. Something gleamed in the sunlight. Earrings. They stuck to each palm and two thin streams of blood trickled down to his wrists.

The office was in twilight. Someone had turned off all the lights when they left, probably thinking they were the last ones there, and Simon had let it stay that way, the summer evenings were still light enough. Besides, he had a new keyboard with illuminated keys, so he hadn’t even needed to turn on his reading lamp. Their floor of the office building alone consumed 250,000 kWh per year. If they could bring it down to 200,000, they would apparently save enough money to run two extra emergency vehicles.

He navigated his way around the Howell Clinic’s website. The pictures from the eye clinic were nothing like most other American private hospitals, which resembled five-star hotels with smiling patients, ecstatic testimonies and surgeons who looked like film stars and airline pilots. This clinic displayed only a few photographs and sober information about staff qualifications, results, articles published in reputable journals and Nobel Prize nominations. And most important of all: the percentage of successful operations for the procedure Else needed. The figure was well above fifty — but not as high as he had hoped. On the other hand, it was low enough for him to believe it. There were no prices listed on the website. But he hadn’t forgotten what it was. It was high enough for him to believe it.

He sensed movement in the darkness. It was Kari.

‘I tried calling you at home. Your wife said you were here.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why are you working so late?’

Simon shrugged. ‘When you can’t go home with good news, sometimes you put off going home for as long as you can.’

‘What do you mean?’

Simon ignored her. ‘What do you want?’

‘I did as you said, turned over every stone, looked for every possible and impossible connection between the Iversen murder and the triple homicide. And I can’t find a single thing.’

‘You realise, of course, that that doesn’t rule out that there is a connection,’ Simon said and moved to another page on the website.

Kari pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘Well, if there is, then I certainly can’t find it. And I’ve had a very good look. And I’ve been thinking-’

‘We like thinking.’

‘Perhaps it’s this simple: the burglar spotted two opportunities — the Iversen house and a location with drugs and money. And he had learned from his first robbery that you should always make people give you the code to their safe before you kill them.’

Simon looked up from his computer. ‘A robber, who has already shot two people, squanders half a kilo of Superboy with a street value of half a million kroner to kill his third victim?’

‘Bjornstad thought it was gang-related, a way to send a message to the competition.’

‘Gangs can send messages without spending half a million on postage, Officer Adel.’

Kari threw back her head and sighed. ‘Agnete Iversen definitely isn’t mixed up with drug dealing and the likes of Kalle Farrisen, I think we can be sure of that.’

‘But there is a connection,’ Simon insisted. ‘What I don’t understand is that now when we’ve uncovered what he’s trying to hide, namely that there is a connection, we still can’t identify what that connection is. If the connection really is that obscure, why go to all the trouble of hiding that it’s the same killer?’

‘Perhaps the cover-up isn’t designed to confuse us,’ Kari yawned.

She closed her mouth immediately when she saw Simon stare at her with wide eyes.

‘Of course. You’re right.’

‘Am I?’

Simon got up. Then he sat down again. He slammed the desk with the palm of his hand. ‘He’s not worried that the police might work out his identity. This is about someone else.’

‘He’s scared that someone else will come after him?’

‘Yes. Or perhaps he doesn’t want to alert them to his presence. But at the same time. .’ Simon cupped his chin with his hand and swore under his breath.

‘At the same time what. .?’

‘It’s more complicated than that. Because he’s not hiding altogether. Killing Kalle in that manner is sending someone a message.’ Simon kicked off irritably and the chair tilted back. They sat, not saying a word while the darkness grew denser around them without them noticing. Simon was the first to break the silence. ‘I’ve been thinking that Kalle’s life was ended in the same way as some of his customers. Respiratory failure following an overdose. As if the killer is some kind of avenging angel. Does that ring any bells?’

Kari shook her head. ‘Only that Agnete Iversen probably wasn’t executed according to the same logic; as far as I know she never shot anyone in the chest.’

Simon got up. Walked over to the window and stared down at the street lights. A rumbling came from under the wheels of two skateboards. Two boys, both wearing hoodies, passed below him.