Jo Nesbo - The Son

‘You’ve done a good deed, Nestor, there is a chance they might be rescued now,’ he said. ‘I thought you would want to know that before you. .’

Before I what? Nestor gulped. The guy had promised not to kill him! Had. . Wait. He had promised not to shoot him. The light from the torch was now pointing straight at the padlock to the enclosure. The guy inserted a key into the lock. Nestor could hear the dogs now. Not barking, only a barely audible, but harmonised bass. A muted growl that came from the pits of their stomachs and rose in volume, tone and pitch, hushed and controlled like Wagner’s contrapuntal music. And no drugs could suppress his fear now. Fear that felt like being hosed down with icy water. If only the pressure could have washed him away, but this man was on the inside, inside him, hosing down the inside of his head and body. There was no escape. It was Hugo Nestor himself who was holding the hose.

Fidel Lae sat in the darkness, staring. He had stopped moving or making a sound. Only curled up in an attempt to keep warm and control his shaking. He recognised the two men’s voices. One was the man who had appeared out of nowhere and locked him up more than twenty-four hours ago. Fidel had barely eaten any of the dog food, only drunk the water. And shivered with cold. Even on a summer night the chill eats its way into your body, petrifies it, chases you around. He had screamed for help until his throat felt raw and he had no voice left, until blood and not saliva moistened his throat and the water he had drunk offered no relief, but stung and burned like alcohol. When he heard the car, he had tried screaming again, but started sobbing when his voice made no sound; it merely grated like a rusty engine.

Then he could tell from the dogs that someone was approaching. He had hoped. And prayed. And finally seen the silhouette against the summer-night sky, seen that he was back. The man who had floated over the moor yesterday was now bent double as he dragged something along. A suitcase. With a living human being inside. A man who stood with his hands tied behind his back and his feet pressed so close together that he clearly had problems keeping his balance when he was put in front of the gate to the enclosure where Fidel was.

Hugo Nestor.

They were only four metres from Fidel’s cage, and yet he couldn’t hear what they were talking about. The man unlocked the padlock and put his hand on Nestor’s head as if blessing him. He said something. Then he gave Nestor’s head a little push. The plump man in the suit screamed briefly, then he fell backwards and hit the gate, which opened inwards. The dogs stirred. The man quickly pushed Nestor’s feet inside and closed the gate. The dogs hesitated. Then Ghostbuster seemed to jerk and started moving. Fidel watched the white dogs as they pounced on Nestor. Their movements were so silent that he could clearly hear the chomping jaws, the sound of flesh being torn, the almost ecstatic growling and then Nestor’s scream. A single, quivering, strangely pure note that rose towards the light Nordic sky where Fidel could see insects dance. Then the note was suddenly cut short and Fidel saw something else rise, it looked like a swarm coming towards him and he felt the spray of tiny warm droplets and knew what it was because he had himself cut the artery of a still living elk on a hunting trip. Fidel wiped his face with the sleeve of his jacket and looked away. He saw that the man outside the cage had also turned away. Saw his shoulders shake. As if he was crying.

‘It’s the middle of the night,’ the doctor said, rubbing his eyes. ‘Why don’t you go home and get some sleep, Kefas, and we’ll do this tomorrow?’

‘No,’ Simon said.

‘As you wish,’ the doctor said, indicating to Simon to take a seat on one of the chairs along the wall of the bleak hospital corridor. When the doctor sat down next to him and paused before leaning towards him, Simon knew that it was bad news.

‘Your wife doesn’t have much time left. If she’s to have any chance of a successful operation, she needs to have surgery in a matter of days.’

‘And there’s nothing you can do?’

The doctor sighed. ‘Normally we don’t advise patients to go abroad and subject themselves to expensive private treatment — especially when the outcome of surgery is relatively uncertain. But in this case. .’

‘You’re saying I need to get her to the Howell Clinic now?’

‘I’m not saying you have to do anything. Many blind people live a full life with their handicap.’

Simon nodded while his fingers stroked the stun grenade he still kept in his pocket. He tried to process the information, but it was as if his brain was trying to run away, seeking refuge by speculating if handicap wasn’t a non-PC word. He supposed they called it ‘differently abled’ now. Or had that — like hostel — also become non-PC? Things changed so quickly that he couldn’t keep up, and health and social care terminology seemed to go off faster than milk.

The doctor cleared his throat.

‘I. .’ Simon began and heard his mobile crackle. He grabbed it, grateful for some time out. He didn’t recognise the sender of the text message.

You’ll find Nestor’s prisoners in Enerhauggata 96. Hurry. The Son.

The Son.

Simon pressed a number.

‘Listen, Simon,’ the doctor said, ‘I don’t have time to-’

‘That’s all good,’ Simon said and held up a hand to silence the doctor as he heard a sleepy voice answer the call: ‘Falkeid.’

‘Hi, Sivert, it’s Simon Kefas. I want you to dispatch Delta to raid the following address: Enerhauggata 96. How fast can you get there?’

‘It’s the middle of the night.’

‘That’s not what I was asking.’

‘Thirty-five minutes. Have you got authorisation from the Commissioner?’

‘Pontius isn’t available right now,’ Simon lied. ‘But relax, we’ve got grounds for the raid as far as the eye can see. Trafficking. And time is of the essence. Just do it, it’ll be on my head.’

‘I hope you know what you’re doing, Simon.’

Simon hung up and looked at the doctor. ‘Thank you, Doctor, I’ll think about it. Now I’ve got to get back to work.’

Betty heard the mating noises as soon as they exited the lift on the top floor.

‘Really.’ Betty frowned.

‘It’s pay-TV,’ said the security guard she had taken with her.

They had received complaints from the neighbouring rooms and, as a matter of policy, Betty had made a note in the night log at reception. ‘02.13 a.m. noise complaint about Suite 4.’ She had called Suite 4, but got no reply. Then she had called security.

They ignored the ‘Do Not Disturb’ request hanging on the door handle and knocked hard. Waited. Knocked again. Betty shifted her weight from one foot to another.

‘You look nervous,’ the security guard said.

‘I’ve a feeling that the guest is up to. . something.’

‘Something?’

‘Drugs — what do I know?’

The security guard released the button on his cosh and straightened up while Betty slipped the master key into the lock. Opened the door.

‘Mr Lae?’

The living room was empty. The mating noises were coming from a woman in a red leather corset with a white cross that was supposed to indicate she was a nurse. Betty grabbed the remote control from the coffee table and turned off the TV while the security guard entered the bedroom. The briefcases had gone. Betty noticed empty glasses and half a lemon on the bar counter. The lemon had dried out and its flesh had a strange brown colour. Betty opened the wardrobe. The suit, the large suitcase and the red sports bag were gone. It was the oldest trick in the hotel fraud book, hanging a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign outside the door and turning on the TV so that it sounded as if the guest was still there. But Mr Lae had paid for the room in advance. And she had already checked that no charges from the restaurant or the bar had been made to the room.