Jo Nesbo - The Son

And then she saw them emerge from room 323. He was handcuffed and being led out by two police officers. He was almost naked, wearing only a pair of slightly too big, white underpants and he looked oddly vulnerable. Despite his muscular torso he seemed skinny, sunken, finished. A trickle of blood was dripping from one ear.

He looked up. Met her eyes.

Then they walked past her and out of sight.

It was over.

Martha breathed a sigh of relief.

Having knocked on the door twice, Betty took out the master key and let herself into the suite. As usual she took longer than necessary so that even if the guest was in his room, he would have time to avoid a potentially embarrassing situation. This was the policy at the Plaza Hotel: the staff shouldn’t see or hear anything that shouldn’t be seen or heard. But this wasn’t Betty’s policy. Quite the opposite. Her mother had always said that Betty’s curiosity would get her into trouble one day. And, yes, it had done, and on more than one occasion. But as a receptionist it had also come in useful; no one else at the hotel had the same nose for con men as Betty. It had almost become her trademark, exposing people who intended to live, eat and dine at the hotel with no intention of paying their bills. And she was often proactive; Betty had never hidden her ambitions. During her last annual review, her boss had praised her for being vigilant, but discreet, and always putting the hotel’s interests first. Said that she could go far, that reception was just a stepping stone for someone like her. The suite was one of the biggest in the hotel with a panoramic view of Oslo. It had a bar, a kitchenette, a bathroom and the separate bedroom had an en suite bathroom. She could hear the shower running in the en suite.

According to guest registration his name was Fidel Lae and money was clearly no object. The suit she was bringing him was made by Tiger and had been bought in Bogstadveien earlier that day, sent to the tailor for alterations using their express service, and then delivered to the hotel by taxi. In the summer the hotel would usually employ a bellboy to take items to rooms, but this summer had been so quiet that the receptionists did it themselves. Betty had volunteered immediately. Not because she had any real grounds for suspicion. When she had checked him in, he had paid for two nights in advance and con men did not do that. But there was something about him that didn’t ring true. He hadn’t looked like the kind of guy who books the top-floor suite. More like someone who slept rough or would stay in a hostel for backpackers. He seemed so inexperienced and concentrated so hard during check-in as if he had never stayed in a hotel before, but had read about it in theory, and was now keen to get everything just right. Plus he had paid cash.

Betty opened the wardrobe and saw there was already a tie and two new shirts in there, also by Tiger and probably bought at the same shop. A pair of new, black shoes was on the floor. She read the name ‘Vass’ on the insole. She hung up the suit next to a long, soft suitcase with wheels. It was almost as tall as she was; she had seen cases like this before, they were used for transporting snowboards or surfboards. She was tempted to unzip it, but poked the suitcase instead. The fabric gave way. Empty — or at least there wasn’t a snowboard inside. Next to the suitcase stood the only item in the wardrobe which didn’t look new, a red sports bag with the words Oslo Wrestling Club .

She closed the doors to the wardrobe, walked over to the open bedroom door and called out towards the bathroom door: ‘Mr Lae! Excuse me, Mr Lae!’

She heard the tap turn off and shortly afterwards a man appeared with swept-back wet hair and shaving foam all over his face.

‘I’ve hung your suit in the wardrobe. I was told to pick up a letter, to be franked and posted?’

‘Oh, yes. Thank you so much. Could you hang on a minute?’

Betty walked over to the living-room window, took in the view towards the new Opera House and the Oslo Fjord. The new high-rise buildings stood close together like pickets in a fence. Ekebergasen. The Post Office building. The town hall. The rail tracks which came in from the whole country and merged together in a nerve bundle below her at Oslo Central Station. She noticed the driving licence on the large desk. It wasn’t Lae’s. Next to it lay a pair of scissors and a passport-sized photo of Lae wearing the prominent, square glasses with the black frames she had seen him with when she had checked him in. Further along the desk lay two identical and clearly new briefcases. The corner of a plastic bag stuck out from under the lid of one of them. She stared. Matt, but transparent plastic. With the traces of something white on the inside.

She took two steps back so that she could look into the bedroom. The door to the bathroom was open and she could see the back of the guest in front of the mirror. He had a towel wrapped around his waist and was concentrating hard on shaving. It meant that she had a short window of opportunity.

She tried opening the briefcase containing the plastic bag. It was locked.

She looked at the code lock. The small metal wheels showed 0999. She looked at the other briefcase. 1999. Did the two briefcases have the same code? In which case 1999 looked like the code. A year. The year of someone’s birth, perhaps. Or the Prince song. In which case it wouldn’t be locked.

Betty heard the guest turn on the tap in the bathroom. He was splashing water on his face now. She knew she really shouldn’t.

She lifted the lid of the second briefcase. And gasped.

The briefcase was stuffed full with bundles of banknotes.

Then she heard footsteps coming from the bedroom and quickly shut the lid, took three brisk steps and stopped at the door to the corridor with her heart pounding.

He came out from the bedroom and looked at her with a smile. But something about him had changed. Perhaps it was just that he was no longer wearing his glasses. Or it was the bloody piece of tissue over one eye. At that moment she realised what was different. He had shaved off his eyebrows, that was it. Who on earth removes their eyebrows? Apart from Bob Geldof in The Wall , of course. But he was mad. Or pretending to be mad. Was the man in front of her insane? No, mad people didn’t have briefcases full of money, they only thought they did.

He opened the desk drawer, took out a brown envelope and handed it to Betty.

‘Please would you make sure that goes in today’s post?’

‘I’m sure we can manage that,’ she said, hoping he hadn’t detected her trepidation.

‘Thank you so much, Betty.’

She blinked twice. Of course — her name was on the hotel badge.

‘Have a nice day, Mr Lae,’ she smiled and put her hand on the door handle.

‘Wait, Betty. .’

She felt her smile congeal. He had seen her open the briefcase, he was about to-

‘Perhaps it’s. . eh, customary to tip for such services?’

She breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Not at all, Mr Lae.’

It wasn’t until she was in the lift that she realised she was sweating profusely. Why could she never rein in her curiosity? Nor could she very well tell anyone that she had been riffling through a guest’s property. Anyway, since when was it illegal to keep money in a briefcase? Especially if you worked for the police. Because that was what it said on the front of the brown envelope. Police HQ, Gronlandsleiret 44. For the attention of Simon Kefas.

Simon Kefas was standing inside room 323, looking around.

‘So Delta raided the room?’ he said. ‘And took away the guy in the bottom bunk? Johnny — what was his name?’

‘Puma,’ Martha said. ‘I called because I thought perhaps you had. .’