Jo Nesbo - The Son

‘You asked your wife?’

Iversen held up a dismissive hand. ‘Yes, of course. Agnete was a grown-up. She didn’t mind others taking over duties she would rather not undertake herself. To be frank, I think she preferred women to men.’

‘But she gave you a son?’

‘They take their duties very seriously in her family and she was a good mother.’

‘A family that is also the biggest private property owner in Oslo, with a perfect image and a family name so untarnished that an Asian bastard would quite simply be unthinkable.’

‘Yes, Agnete was old-fashioned. And I went to her because ultimately she was in charge.’

‘Because this company is built on her money,’ Simon said. ‘So Agnete decided to get rid of the problem. All of the problem.’

‘I wouldn’t know anything about that,’ Iversen said.

‘No, because you didn’t ask. You left it to her to contact people who could do the job for you. And they in turn had to buy themselves a scapegoat when a witness told the police that they had seen someone inject the girl in that backyard. The tracks had to be covered and you paid.’

Iversen shrugged again. ‘I haven’t killed anyone, I’m just keeping my end of our deal by telling you what happened. The question is, are you going to keep yours?’

‘The question,’ Simon said, ‘is how a woman like your wife found a piece of lowlife like Kalle Farrisen.’

‘I’ve never heard of Kalle Farrisen.’

‘No,’ Simon said, folding his hands in front of him. ‘But you know who the Twin is.’

A moment of perfect silence descended on the room. It was as if even the traffic outside held its breath.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Iversen said at last.

‘I worked for the Serious Fraud Office for many years,’ Simon said. ‘Iversen Property did business with the Twin. You helped him launder money from his drugs and trafficking activities and in return he provided you with fictitious, tax-saving losses to the tune of hundreds of millions of kroner.’

Iver Iversen shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I know nothing about any Twin.’

‘Apart from you being afraid, that’s a lie,’ Simon said. ‘I have evidence that the two of you worked together.’

‘Do you now?’ Iversen said and pressed his fingertips together. ‘Then why didn’t the Serious Fraud Office ever bring a case against me?’

‘Because when I worked for the Serious Fraud Office I was leaned on from the inside,’ Simon said. ‘But I know that the Twin used his blood money to buy commercial property from you and sell it back to you later at a much higher price. Or at least that’s what the paperwork said. He would appear to have made a profit which allowed him to deposit his drugs money in the bank without the tax authorities asking questions about how he came by it. And it provided you with an apparent loss which you could offset against future profits and thus avoid contributing to society. A win-win situation.’

‘An interesting theory,’ Iversen said, shrugging. ‘I’ve told you everything I know. Is there anything else?’

‘Yes. I want to meet the Twin.’

Iversen heaved a sigh. ‘I’ve just told you I don’t know any Twin.’

Simon seemed to nod quietly to himself. ‘Do you know something? We heard that so often at the Serious Fraud Squad that people started doubting if the Twin even existed, they thought he was just a myth.’

‘It sounds to me as if he might just be that, Kefas.’

Simon rose. ‘It’s all good with me. But myths don’t control the drugs and sex trafficking market in an entire city, year in, year out, Iversen. Myths don’t liquidate pregnant women at the request of their business partners.’ He leaned forward, planted both palms on the desk and exhaled so that Iversen got a taste of his old man’s breath. ‘Men don’t get so terrified that they’re willing to dive off a cliff because of a myth. I know he exists.’

Simon pushed himself up to standing and headed for the door while he waved his mobile phone. ‘I’m calling a press conference the moment I get into the lift, so perhaps now is a good time for that father-son chat.’

‘Wait!’

Simon stopped in front of the door without turning round.

‘I’ll. . I’ll see what I can do.’

Simon took out his card and put it on top of the glass display cabinet with the Coca-Cola skyscraper.

‘You and he have until six o’clock.’

‘Inside Staten?’ Simon repeated as they went down in the lift. ‘Lofthus attacked Franck in his own office?’

Kari nodded. ‘That’s all I know for now. What did Iversen say?’

Simon shrugged. ‘Nothing. Not surprisingly, he insisted on speaking to his lawyer first. We’ll have to talk to him tomorrow.’

Arild Franck sat on the edge of the bed waiting to be taken into surgery. He was dressed in one of the hospital’s pale blue gowns and had an ID bracelet around his wrist. He had felt no pain for the first hour, but it was starting to hurt now and that measly little injection the anaesthetist had given him was doing no good at all. He had been promised a proper injection which they claimed would numb his entire arm right before the operation. A surgeon specialising in hands had stopped by and told him in detail what microsurgery was capable of these days, that the severed finger had arrived at the hospital, that the cut was nice and clean, and that once the finger was reunited with its rightful owner, the nerves would surely reattach so he would be able to use his finger for both ‘this and that’ in a few months. His attempt at humour was probably well intended, but Franck wasn’t in a joking mood. So he had interrupted the surgeon and asked how long he would need to reattach the finger and when he could return to work. And when the surgeon had said that the operation itself would take several hours, Franck had — to the surgeon’s amazement — looked at the clock and sworn softly, but audibly.

The door opened and Franck lifted his head. He hoped it was the anaesthetist because it wasn’t just his finger that was throbbing furiously now, it was his head and all of his body.

But it wasn’t anyone in white or green, it was a tall, slim man in a grey suit.

‘Pontius?’ Franck said.

‘Hello, Arild. I just wanted to see how you were doing.’

Franck narrowed one eye. As if it made it easier for him to work out the real reason for the Commissioner’s visit. Parr sat down on the bed beside him. Nodded towards his bandaged hand.

‘Does it hurt?’

‘It’ll be fine. Tell me you’re looking for him?’

The Commissioner shrugged. ‘Lofthus has vanished into thin air. But we’ll find him. Have you any idea what he wanted?’

‘Wanted?’ Franck snorted. ‘Who knows what he wants? He’s clearly on some sort of deranged crusade here.’

‘Quite,’ Parr said. ‘So the real question is when and where he will strike next. Did he give you any indication?’

‘Indication?’ Franck groaned and bent his elbow gently. ‘Like what?’

‘You must have talked about something.’

‘He talked. I was gagged. He wanted to know who the mole was.’

‘Yes, I saw.’

‘You saw ?’

‘From the papers in your office. Or at least those that weren’t covered in blood.’

‘ You were in my office?’

‘This is a top-priority case, Arild. The man is a serial killer. It’s bad enough that the press is after us, but now the politicians are starting to interfere as well. From now on I’m going to be hands-on.’

Franck shrugged his shoulders. ‘OK.’

‘I have a question-’

‘I’m about to go into surgery and it hurts like hell, Pontius. Can’t it wait?’

‘No. Sonny Lofthus was interviewed in connection with the murder of Kjersti Morsand, but denied any involvement. Did anyone tell him that her husband was our prime suspect before we found Lofthus’s hair at the crime scene? Or that we had evidence to suggest Yngve Morsand killed her?’