Jo Nesbo - The Son

‘Do you think that Fredrik Ansgar could have been the mole?’

Simon shook his head vigorously. ‘Fredrik wasn’t even working for the police back when the mole started operating. I believe he was a minor player at that stage, but it’s clear that he could have done a lot of damage if he had been allowed to rise up the ranks. So I stopped him.’

Kari’s eyes widened. ‘You shopped Fredrik Ansgar to the Commissioner?’

‘No. I made him an offer. He could either go quietly or I would take what little I had on him to the top. It probably wasn’t enough to warrant an investigation or a dismissal, but it would have clipped his wings, put his career on hold for a while. He agreed to leave.’

A vein bulged on Kari’s forehead. ‘You. . you just let him go?’

‘We got rid of a rotten apple without dragging the police force through the mud. Yes, I let him go.’

‘You can’t just let people like that walk away.’

He heard the outrage in her voice. Quite right.

‘Fredrik is a small fish and, like I said, he would have got away with it. He couldn’t even be bothered to pretend that it wasn’t a good offer. In fact, he feels that he owes me a favour.’

Simon turned to her. He had intended to provoke her. And it had worked. But it seemed as if her outrage had already passed. Now she just looked like she had found yet another reason to quit the force at the earliest opportunity.

‘What’s the story behind the Twin’s nickname?’

Simon shrugged. ‘I believe he had an identical twin brother. When he was eleven years old, he dreamt two nights in a row that he killed this brother. He concluded that since they were identical twins, it was logical to assume that his brother had had the same dream. From then on it was simply a question of beating the other one to it.’

Kari looked at Simon. ‘Beating the other one to it,’ she repeated.

‘Excuse me,’ Simon said and rushed after Else who was about to walk into a glass wall.

Fidel Lae saw the car before he heard it. This was the thing about new cars, they hardly made any noise. If the wind was coming from the road, across the moor and towards the farm, he might hear the crunching of tyres against the gravel, gear-changing or high-revving as the car drove up the hills, but otherwise Fidel had to rely on his eyes for warning. Of cars, yes. People or animals were another matter — then he had the best alarm system in the world. Nine Dobermann pinschers in a cage. Seven bitches that had a litter every year, which sold for twelve grand — per puppy. They constituted his kennel’s official business where dogs were delivered microchipped to buyers, insured against latent defects and their pedigree registered with the Norwegian Kennel Club.

The unofficial part of the kennel lay deeper into the woods.

Two bitches and one male. Not registered anywhere. Argentine mastiffs. The Dobermann pinschers were scared witless of them. Fifty-five kilos of aggression and loyalty covered in an albino-white short coat which explained why Fidel’s dogs all had names with the word ‘ghost’ in them: the bitches were Ghost Machine and Holy Ghost, the male Ghostbuster. The buyers could call the puppies what the hell they like as long as they paid up. 120, 000 kroner. The price reflected the rarity of the dog, its effective killer instinct and the fact that the breed was banned in Norway and in several other countries. As his customers weren’t especially price-sensitive or concerned about Norwegian legislation, there was little to suggest that the price would go down. On the contrary. For that reason Fidel had moved the Argentine mastiff enclosure even further into the forest this year, so that their barking couldn’t be heard on the farm.

The car was heading for the farm, the track led nowhere else, so Fidel walked quietly down to the gate which was always shut. Not to prevent the Dobermanns from getting out, but to stop trespassers from getting in. And since everyone except his customers were trespassers, Fidel had a refurbished Mauser M98 to hand in a small shed backing onto the kennel near the gate. He kept fancier weapons in the main building, but he could always argue that he used the Mauser for elk hunting as elks did sometimes walk across the moor. Whenever the wind didn’t blow from the direction of the enclosure with the Argentine ghosts, that is.

Fidel arrived at the gate at the same time as the car with a rental company’s logo on the exterior. Fidel could tell from the crunching gears that the driver had little experience with this particular make of car; he also took his time switching off the headlights, the windscreen wipers and, finally, the engine.

‘All right?’ Fidel said, studying the guy who appeared from the car. Hoodie and brown shoes. A townie. Every now and then some of them did make their way here on their own and without having made an appointment. But it was rare. Fidel didn’t advertise with directions on the Net like the other kennels. The guy came up to the gate which Fidel showed no sign of wanting to open.

‘I’m looking for a dog.’

Fidel pushed the peak of his cap up on his forehead. ‘Sorry, but you’ve made a wasted trip. I don’t talk to potential owners of any of my dogs without getting references first. That’s just how it is. A Dobermann pinscher isn’t a cuddly family dog, it needs an owner who knows what he’s taking on. Call me on Monday.’

‘I’m not looking for a Dobermann,’ the guy said and looked past Fidel. Past the farm and the cages for his nine legal bitches. To the forest behind. ‘And my reference is Gustav Rover.’ He held up a business card. Fidel peered at it. Rover’s Motorcycle Workshop . Rover. Fidel had a good memory for names and people because he didn’t see many of either. The motorcycle guy with the gold tooth. He had been here with Nestor to buy an Argentine mastiff.

‘He said your dogs will keep an eye on the Belarus cleaners and make sure they don’t do a runner.’

Fidel spend some time scratching a wart on his wrist. Then he opened the gate. This guy couldn’t be police, they weren’t allowed to entrap people by provoking crimes such as selling illegal dogs, it would sabotage their entire case. At least that was what his lawyer told him.

‘Have you got. .?’

The guy nodded, stuck his hand in the pocket of his hoodie and pulled out a large wad of notes. Thousand-kroner notes.

Fidel opened the gun cabinet and took out the Mauser.

‘I never go and see them without this,’ he explained. ‘If one of them were to get out. .’

It took them ten minutes to walk to the enclosure.

During the last five they could hear furious and increasingly loud barking.

‘They think they’re about to be fed,’ said Fidel, but didn’t add: with you.

The manic dogs hurled themselves at the wire fence when the men came into view. Fidel felt the ground shake when they fell back. He knew exactly how deep the fence posts had been sunk, he only hoped it was deep enough. The imported German cages had metal floors, so that dogs like terriers, dachshunds and bloodhounds couldn’t dig themselves out, and corrugated-iron roofs that kept them dry and prevented even the fittest ones from leaping over the fence.

‘They’re most dangerous when they’re in a pack,’ Fidel said. ‘Then they follow the top dog, Ghostbuster. He’s the biggest.’

The customer just nodded. He looked at the dogs. Fidel knew he must be scared. The open jaws with rows of glistening, gleaming teeth arranged on pale pink gums. Fuck, he was even scared himself. Only when he was with a single dog, preferably one of the bitches, could he be sure that he was the boss.

‘With a puppy you must establish yourself as the top dog quickly and make sure it stays that way. Remember that kindness in the form of indulgence and forgiveness will be viewed as weakness. Undesirable behaviour must be punished, and that’s your job. Do you understand?’