Jo Nesbo - The Son

‘There’s a guy in the bathroom.’

She turned to the security guard who was standing in the doorway to the bedroom.

She followed him inside.

The man lying on the bathroom floor looked like he was hugging the lavatory. A closer inspection revealed that he was tied to it with strips around his wrists. He was wearing a black suit, had blond hair and didn’t look entirely sober. High on something. Or low. Heavy eyelids blinked sleepily at them.

‘Cut me loose,’ he said with an accent she couldn’t place anywhere on the globe.

Betty nodded to the security guard who took out a Swiss army knife and cut the plastic strips.

‘What happened?’ she asked.

The man staggered to his feet. Swayed slightly in front of them. He struggled to focus his swimming eyes. ‘We played some stupid game,’ he mumbled. ‘I’m going to go now. .’

The security guard positioned himself in the doorway and blocked his path.

Betty looked around. Nothing had been damaged. The bill had been paid. All they had was a complaint about television noise. What they risked was trouble with the police, negative press coverage and a reputation for being a meeting place for unsavoury elements. Her boss had praised her for being discreet, for putting the hotel’s interests first. Said that she could go far, that reception was only a stepping stone for someone like her.

‘Let him go,’ she said.

Lars Gilberg was woken up by a rustling from the bushes. He turned over. Saw the contours of a figure among the branches and leaves. Someone was trying to steal the boy’s stuff. Lars wiggled out of the filthy sleeping bag and scrambled to his feet.

‘Oi, you!’

The figure stopped. Turned round. The boy was transformed. It wasn’t just the suit. It was something about his face, it looked swollen somehow.

‘Thanks for looking after my stuff,’ the boy said, nodding to the bag he had tucked under his arm.

‘Hm,’ Lars said and moved his head closer to see if that made it easier to spot the change. ‘You’re not in trouble, are you, lad?’

‘Oh, yes, indeed I am,’ the boy smiled. But there was something about his smile. Something pale. His lips were trembling. He looked as if he had been crying.

‘Do you need help?’

‘No, but thanks for asking.’

‘Hm. I won’t see you again, will I?’

‘No, I don’t think so. Live well, Lars.’

‘I will. And you. .’ He took a step forward and placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Live long. Promise me that?’

The boy nodded quickly. ‘Check under your pillow,’ he said.

Lars automatically looked at his bedding under the arch. And when he turned round again, he just had time to see the back of the boy before he was swallowed up by the darkness.

Lars returned to his sleeping bag. He spotted an envelope sticking out from under his pillow. He picked it up. ‘To Lars’ it said. He opened the envelope.

Lars Gilberg had never seen so much money in his entire life.

‘Shouldn’t Delta be here by now?’ Kari asked, yawned and glanced at her watch.

‘Yes,’ Simon said and looked out. They had parked halfway up Enerhauggata and number 96 lay fifty metres in front of them, on the other side of the street. It was a white-painted, two-storey wooden house, one of those which had been reprieved when Enerhaugen’s picturesque buildings were demolished in 1960 to make way for four tower blocks. The small house lay so still and peaceful in the summer night that Simon found it hard to imagine that people could be kept prisoner inside it.

‘ We feel a dash of guilt, ’ Simon said. ‘ But I think that glass and concrete are more suitable for people today. ’

‘What?’

‘I’m quoting the CEO of OBOS Building Society, in 1960.’

‘Is that right?’ Kari said and yawned again. Simon wondered if she hoped he would feel a dash of guilt for dragging her out of bed in the middle of the night. It could be argued that her presence wasn’t strictly necessary for such a raid. ‘Why isn’t Delta here?’ she asked again.

‘I don’t know,’ Simon said, and at that moment the inside of the car was lit up by the display on his phone which lay between the seats. He looked at the number.

‘But we soon will,’ he said, slowly lifting the mobile to his ear. ‘Yes?’

‘It’s me, Simon. No one is coming.’

Simon adjusted the rear-view mirror. A psychologist might be able to explain why Simon did that, but it had become an automatic response to the other man’s voice. Simon focused on the mirror to see what was behind him.

‘Why not?’

‘Because the grounds for the raid haven’t been properly justified, its necessity explained and you’ve made no attempt to go through the proper channels to authorise Delta.’

‘You can authorise it, Pontius.’

‘Yes. And I said no.’

Simon swore silently. ‘Listen, it-’

‘No, you listen to me. I’ve ordered Falkeid to stand down and told him and his men to go back to bed. Just what are you up to, Simon?’

‘I have reason to believe that people are being held against their will at Enerhauggata 96. Honestly, Pontius, it-’

‘Honesty is good, Simon. Remember that the next time you ring the head of Delta.’

‘There was no time to explain. There is no time, dammit. You used to trust my judgement.’

‘Your use of past tense is correct, Simon.’

‘So you don’t trust me now, is that it?’

‘You gambled away all your money, remember? Including your wife’s. What does that tell me about your judgement, in your opinion?’

Simon clenched his teeth. There had been a time when it wouldn’t have been so easy to predict which one of them would win an argument or who would get the best grades, run the fastest or get the prettiest girl. The only certainty was that they would unite behind the third man in the troika. But he was dead now. And though he had been the best thinker and the strongest of the three, Pontius Parr had always had one advantage: he thought further than either of the other two.

‘We’ll do it early tomorrow morning,’ the Commissioner said with the easy self-confidence which these days made people believe that Pontius Parr knew best. Including Pontius himself. ‘If you’ve got a tip-off about suspected trafficking at the address then it won’t disappear overnight. Go home and get some sleep now.’

Simon opened the car door and got out while indicating to Kari to stay where she was. He closed the door and walked a few metres down the road. He spoke quietly into the mobile.

‘It can’t wait. This is urgent, Pontius.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘The tip-off.’

‘And how did you come by it?’

‘A text message from someone. . anonymous. I’ll go in on my own.’

‘What? Don’t even think about it! Stop, Simon. Do you hear me? Are you there?’

Simon looked at his mobile. Pressed it to his ear again. ‘ An assessment carried out by the officer at the scene . Do you remember learning that, Pontius? Do you remember them teaching us that it always trumped orders from officers remote from the scene?’

‘Simon! Oslo is in chaos as it is. The City Council and the media are on our backs over these killings. Don’t jump off the deep end this time. Simon!’

Simon hung up, turned off his mobile and opened the boot of his car. Unlocked the gun box. Took out his shotgun, his pistol and some boxes of ammunition. Took out the two bulletproof vests lying loose in the boot and got into the car.

‘We’re going in,’ he said, handing the shotgun and one vest to Kari.

She looked at him. ‘Was that the Commissioner you were just talking to?’

‘It was,’ Simon said, checking that the cartridge clip on the Glock 17 pistol was full. Slotted it back into the handle. ‘Pass me the handcuffs and the stun grenade in the glove compartment, would you?’