Jo Nesbo - The Son

‘No, I had nothing to do with it. Who is Johnny’s room-mate?’

‘He calls himself Stig Berger.’

‘Hm. And where is he now?’

‘I don’t know. No one does. The police have asked everyone here. Listen, if it’s not you, then I want to know who ordered the raid.’

‘I don’t know,’ Simon said, opening the wardrobe. ‘Only the Commissioner can authorise a Delta deployment, check with him. Are these Stig Berger’s clothes?’

‘As far as I know.’

He had a hunch that she was lying, that she knew they belonged to him. He picked up the blue trainers at the bottom of the wardrobe. Size 8?. Put them back, closed the wardrobe and spotted the photo fixed to the wall next to the wardrobe. Any doubts he might have had until now evaporated.

‘His name is Sonny Lofthus,’ Simon said.

‘What?’

‘The other resident. His name is Sonny and this is a picture of his father, Ab Lofthus. His father was a police officer. His son became a killer. So far he has killed six people. You’re welcome to complain to the Commissioner, but I think we can safely say that Delta’s presence was justified.’

He saw how her face seemed to stiffen and the pupils contracted as if there was suddenly too much light. Staff here had seen a thing or two, but it was still a shock to learn that they had given shelter to a mass murderer.

He squatted down on his haunches, there was something under the bunk bed. He pulled it out.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘A stun grenade,’ he said, holding up the olive-green object which looked like the rubber grip on the handlebars of a bicycle. ‘It produces a powerful flash of light and a bang of around 170 dB. It’s not dangerous, but it leaves people so blind, deaf, dizzy and disorientated for a few seconds that Delta have time to do what they have to do. But they didn’t pull the pin out of this one, so it never went off. That’s how it is, people make mistakes under pressure. Don’t you agree?’

He glanced at the trainers and then looked up at her. But when she returned his gaze, it was steady and firm. He saw nothing there.

‘I have to get back to the hospital,’ Simon said. ‘Will you call me if he comes back again?’

‘Are you all right?’

‘Probably not,’ Simon said. ‘But the patient is my wife. She’s going blind.’

He looked down at his hands. He was tempted to add: just like me .

Hugo Nestor loved Vermont. It was one of the few restaurant-bar-nightclub combinations that had actually succeeded in all three areas. The clientele was made up of the rich and beautiful, the not-beautiful but rich, the not-rich but beautiful, a cross section of celebrities, semi-successful financiers and people who worked nights in the entertainment and nightlife industry. Plus successful criminals. It was at Vermont in the nineties that the Tveita Gang and people involved in money laundering, bank and post office robberies had bought methuselahs of Dom Perignon, and because Norwegian strippers at the time had lacked a certain finesse, had better ones flown in from Copenhagen for a quick lap dance in their private dining room. They had used drinking straws to blow cocaine directly into the various orifices of the strippers, and eventually into their own, while the waiters brought them oysters, Perigord truffles and foie gras from geese that had been treated much as they were treating themselves. In short, Vermont was a place with style and tradition. A place where Hugo Nestor and his people could sit every night at their cordoned-off table and watch the world outside go to hell. A place where you could do business, where bankers and financiers could mix with criminals without the cops who frequented Vermont reading too much into it.

Consequently the request from the man who had sat down at their table wasn’t among the more unusual. He had come in, looked around and pushed his way through the crowds right over to them, but been stopped by Bo when he tried to straddle the red cordon that marked out their territory. After exchanging a few words, Bo had come over to Nestor and whispered into his ear: ‘He wants an Asian girl. He says it’s for a client who’ll pay whatever it costs.’

Nestor tilted his head and sipped his champagne. There was a saying of the Twin’s that he had made his own: Money can buy you champagne . ‘Does he look like a cop to you?’

‘No.’

‘Me neither. Get him a chair.’

The guy was wearing a suit that looked expensive, a freshly ironed shirt and a tie. He had pale eyebrows above a pair of prominent, exclusive spectacles. No, correct that, no eyebrows.

‘She has to be under twenty.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Nestor said. ‘Why are you here?’

‘My client is a friend of Iver Iversen.’

Hugo Nestor looked at him closely. He didn’t have any eyelashes, either. Perhaps he had alopecia universalis like Hugo’s brother — alleged brother — who didn’t have a single body hair. In which case the hair on the guy’s head had to be a wig.

‘My client is in shipping. He’ll pay you cash and in heroin that has come in by sea. You probably know better than I do what that means in terms of purity.’

Fewer stops. Fewer middlemen cutting the drugs.

‘Let me call Iversen,’ Nestor said.

The guy shook his head. ‘My client demands total discretion, neither Iversen nor anyone else must know. If Iversen is dumb enough to tell his close friends what he gets up to, then that’s his problem.’

And potentially ours, Nestor thought. Who was this guy? He didn’t look like an errand boy. A protege? A highly trusted family lawyer?

‘I understand, of course, that a direct approach from a man you don’t know requires extra assurances of a safe transaction. My client and I therefore suggest an advance to prove we’re serious. What do you say?’

‘I say 400,000,’ Nestor said. ‘It’s just a figure I plucked out of the air, I still don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Of course not,’ the guy said. ‘We can do that.’

‘How soon?’

‘I’m thinking tonight.’

‘Tonight?’

‘I’m only in town until tomorrow morning, then I fly back to London. The money is in my suite at the Plaza.’

Nestor exchanged looks with Bo. Then he drained the tall champagne flute in one gulp.

‘I don’t understand a word you’re saying, mister. Unless you’re trying to tell me that you’re inviting us back for a drink in your suite.’

The guy flashed a smile. ‘That’s exactly what I’m saying.’

They searched the guy the moment they reached the car park. Bo held him while Nestor checked him for weapons and microphones. The guy let himself be frisked without resisting. He was clean.

Bo drove the limo to the Plaza and they walked from the multi-storey car park behind Spektrum to the towering glass prism that was the Plaza Hotel. They looked down at the city from the external lift and Nestor thought it was a metaphor — people down there grew smaller the higher he himself rose.

Bo took out his pistol as the guy opened the door to the suite. There was no obvious reason to expect an ambush; Nestor currently had no living enemies that he knew of. No unresolved disputes in the market and the police were free to arrest him if they wanted to, but they didn’t have anything on him. And yet he sensed an unease which he couldn’t quite pin down. He put it down to professional vigilance and decided not to drop his guard, something other people in the business could learn from. Nestor hadn’t got to where he was without good reason.

The suite was fine. Amazing view, he’d give them that. The guy had set out two briefcases on the coffee table. While Bo checked the other rooms, the guy went behind the bar and started mixing drinks.