Jo Nesbo - The Son

He held up his mobile between them so Kari could listen in.

‘We don’t know who the mother or the baby was, all we know is that the mother died — or was killed — by an overdose in the centre of Oslo. In the register she’s just down as “unidentified”.’

‘We know about the case,’ Simon said, swearing silently to himself. ‘Asian, probably Vietnamese. And probably a victim of trafficking.’

‘That’s your department, Kefas. The baby, or the foetus, died because its mother died.’

‘I understand. And who is the father?’

‘The red toothbrush.’

‘The. . red one?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thank you,’ Simon said and ended the call.

Kari went over to the coffee machine to fetch coffee for them both. When she came back, Simon was on another call which she guessed from his soft voice to be with Else. When he hung up, he had on this expression which some people over a certain age suddenly display for a few seconds, as if something has passed them by, as if they have the potential to crumble into dust on the spot. Kari had been about to ask how things were, but decided to let it lie.

‘So. .’ Simon said, trying to sound cheerful. ‘Who do we think is the daddy? Iver Senior or Junior?’

‘We don’t think,’ Kari said. ‘We know.’

Simon looked at her for a moment in surprise. Saw her slowly shake her head. Then he narrowed his eyes, bowed his head and ran his hand across it as if to smooth what little hair he had left.

‘Of course,’ he said quietly. ‘Two toothbrushes. I must be getting old.’

‘I’ll go check to see what we have on Iver,’ Kari said.

When she had gone, Simon turned on his computer and opened his mailbox.

Someone had sent him a sound file. Sent it from a mobile, it would appear.

No one ever sent him sound files.

He opened the file and pressed play .

Morgan looked at the incandescent assistant prison governor who was standing in the middle of the control room. He had wrapped gauze around the stump on his hand, but had dismissed the medical orderly’s urgent requests to lie down.

‘So you raised the barrier and just let the killer drive straight out?!’ Franck thundered.

‘He was driving your car,’ the guard said, wiping sweat off his forehead. ‘He was wearing your uniform cap.’

‘But it wasn’t me!’ Franck roared.

Morgan didn’t know if it was because Franck had high blood pressure, but the red, nauseating substance was seeping through the white gauze and Morgan was starting to feel faint again.

One of the telephones next to the monitors rang. Goldsrud picked it up and listened.

‘They’ve found the finger,’ he said, covering the mouthpiece with his hand. ‘We’ll drive you up to Ulleval Hospital for surgery, so they can-’

‘Where?’ Franck interrupted him. ‘Where did they find it?’

‘In plain sight on the dashboard of your Porsche. It was double-parked down in Gronland.’

‘Find him! Find him!’

Tor Jonasson hung from the strap attached to the bar in the metro train. Mumbled an apology as he bumped into one of the other sleepy morning commuters. He had to sell five mobile phones today. That was his target. And when he stood — or hopefully sat — on the train later this afternoon, he would know if he had succeeded. And that would bring him. . happiness. Maybe.

Tor sighed.

He looked at the uniformed man standing with his back to him. Music was coming from the earphones he was wearing. The cable went to his hand which was holding a mobile that bore the tiny label of the shop where Tor worked on the back. Tor changed position so that he could study the man in profile. Tried to get a good look at him. Wasn’t he the guy who wanted to buy batteries for that museum piece? The Discman. Tor had been intrigued enough to look it up on the Net. They had made Discmans up until 2000, when a Walkman that was compatible with MP3 had been invented. Tor stood so close behind him that he could hear the sound from the earphones over the carriage’s rattling steel wheels, but it disappeared when the train went round a bend and the carriage creaked.

It had sounded like a lone female voice. But he had recognised the tune:

‘ That you’ve always been her lover. . ’ Leonard Cohen.

Simon stared at the sound file icon in disbelief. It had taken him only a few seconds to play it. He pressed play again.

There was no doubt, it was the voice he had initially thought it was. But he didn’t understand what it was about.

‘What are you doing? Picking your lottery numbers?’

Simon turned round. Sissel Thou was doing her morning round and emptying the waste-paper bins.

‘Something like that,’ Simon said and pressed the stop button while she grabbed the bin from under his desk and tipped it into the trolley.

‘You’re throwing your money away, Simon, the lottery is for the lucky ones.’

‘And you don’t think that’s us?’ Simon said as he stared at the computer screen.

‘Look at the world we’ve created,’ she said.

Simon leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. ‘Sissel?’

‘Yes?’

‘A young woman was murdered and now it turns out she was pregnant. But I don’t think the killer was scared of her, I think he was scared of her baby.’

‘Uh-huh.’

Silence.

‘Is that a question, Simon?’

Simon leaned his head against the neck rest. ‘If you knew you were carrying the devil’s son, would you still give birth to him, Sissel?’

‘We’ve had this conversation before, Simon.’

‘I know, but what did you say?’

She gave him a reproachful look. ‘I said that nature sadly doesn’t give the poor mother any choice, Simon. Or the father, for that matter.’

‘I thought Mr Thou abandoned you?’

‘I’m talking about you, Simon.’

Simon closed his eyes again. He nodded slowly. ‘So we’re slaves to love. And who we’re given to love, that’s a lottery too. Is that what you’re saying?’

‘It’s brutal, but that’s how it is,’ Sissel declared.

‘And the gods laugh,’ Simon said.

‘Probably, but meanwhile someone has to clear up the mess down here.’

Simon heard her footsteps fade away. Then he forwarded the sound file from his computer to his mobile, went to the Gents, entered one of the cubicles and played the recording again.

After playing it twice he finally understood what the numbers meant.

Simon and Kari walked through the sunshine across the slightly too big, slightly too exposed, and slightly too summer-quiet Radhusplassen.

‘Fidel Lae’s description helped us find the rental car,’ Kari said. ‘It had been returned, but fortunately it hadn’t been cleaned yet. Forensics found mud stains that match the mud on the track leading to the dog kennel. And here was I thinking mud was just mud.’

‘Every type has its own unique blend of minerals,’ Simon said. ‘Rented under what name?’

‘Sylvester Trondsen.’

‘Who’s he?’

‘A thirty-three-year-old man on unemployment benefit. Couldn’t find him at his registered address. He has two convictions for assault. Our officers linked him to Nestor.’

‘OK.’ Simon stopped in front of an entrance between two boutiques. The door was tall and wide and signalled solidity and gravity. He pressed one of the buttons for the third floor. ‘Anything else?’

‘One of the residents at the Ila Centre told officers that it looked as if the new guy in room 323 and the deputy manager were getting along well.’

‘Martha Lian?’

‘They were seen leaving the centre in a car the other day.’

‘Iversen Property,’ said a voice through the holes in the brass plate over the doorbells.