Jo Nesbo - The Son

‘I asked you why.’

‘Keep following up that lead, I have to go.’ Simon started walking towards the car.

‘Wait!’ Kari called out and blocked his path. ‘Don’t you dare run off now. What’s going on?’

‘Going on?’

‘You’re on some sort of mission here. It’s not on.’ Kari brushed some strands of hair away from her face.

Simon could see it now; she was exhausted as well.

‘I don’t know what this is about,’ she said. ‘If you want to save the day, be a hero in the twilight of your career, prove Bjornstad and Kripos wrong. But it’s unacceptable, Simon. This case is too big to be a pissing contest for a bunch of overgrown boys.’

Simon looked at her for a long time. And, finally, he nodded slowly. ‘You might be right. But my motives are not what you think.’

‘Then tell me what they are.’

‘I can’t, Kari. You’ll just have to trust me.’

‘When we went to see Iversen, you said I had to wait outside because you were thinking of breaking the rules. I don’t want to break the rules, Simon. I just want to do my job. So if you don’t tell me what this is about. .’ Her voice was quivering. Definitely tired, Simon thought. ‘. . then I’ll have to go to someone higher up and tell them what’s going on.’

Simon shook his head. ‘Don’t do it, Kari.’

‘And why not?’

‘Because,’ Simon said, found her gaze and fixed it. ‘The mole is still there. Give me twenty-four hours. Please.’

Simon didn’t wait for her reply. It wouldn’t make any difference. He walked past her and towards his car. He felt her eyes on his back.

On his way down the hills from Holmenkollasen Simon played the soundtrack from the short phone conversation with Sonny. The rhythmic pounding. The exaggerated moaning. The thin walls in the Bismarck Hotel. How could he have failed to recognise that sound?

Simon looked down at the boy behind the reception counter who was studying his warrant card. So many years had passed and yet nothing had changed at the Bismarck. Apart from the boy; he hadn’t sat there back then. And that was all right with him.

‘Yes, I can see you’re a police officer, but I don’t really have a guestbook I can show you.’

‘He looks like this,’ Simon said, putting the photograph on the counter.

The boy studied it. He hesitated.

‘The alternative is that we raid the building and shut the whole place down,’ Simon said. ‘What do you think your father would say if you got his brothel closed down?’

The family resemblance hadn’t deceived him, he had been right.

‘He’s on the second floor. Room 216. You walk-’

‘I’ll find it. Give me a key.’

Again, the boy looked reluctant. Then he opened the drawer, removed a key from a big bundle and handed it to Simon. ‘But we don’t want any trouble.’

Simon walked past the lift and took the steps two at a time. He listened out as he walked down the corridor. It was quiet now. Outside room 216 he took out his Glock. Placed his finger on the two-part double-action trigger. Inserted the key as noiselessly as he could into the lock and turned it. Positioned himself at the side of the door with the pistol in his right hand and opened it with his left hand. Counted to four and stuck his head out and back in one quick movement. He exhaled.

It was dark inside, the curtains were closed, but it was light enough for Simon to have caught a glimpse of the bed.

It was made up and empty.

He went inside to check the bathroom. A toothbrush and some toothpaste.

He went back to the bedroom, didn’t turn on the light, but sat down in the redundant chair near the wall. Took out his phone and pressed some buttons. A beeping began somewhere in the room. Simon opened the wardrobe. On top of a briefcase a mobile was glowing at him with his own number shown in the display.

Simon pressed end call and sank back in the chair.

The boy had deliberately left his phone behind so that he couldn’t be traced. But he probably hadn’t expected anyone to find it in a densely populated area such as this. Simon listened out into the darkness. Listened to a clock counting down.

Markus was still awake when he saw the Son coming down the road.

Markus had had the yellow house under surveillance ever since that other person had arrived some hours ago; he hadn’t even changed into his pyjamas, he didn’t want to miss a thing.

He recognised the Son from the way he moved as he walked in the middle of the quiet, night-time street and the street lights swept over him as he passed underneath them. He seemed tired, perhaps he had walked far, because he was staggering. Markus found him in his binoculars. He was wearing a suit, clutching his side and had a red handkerchief tied around his forehead. Was that blood on his face? Never mind, he must warn him. Markus opened his bedroom door carefully, tiptoed down the stairs, put on his shoes and ran down to the gate across the patchy, worn grass.

The Son noticed him and stopped right in front of the gate to his own house.

‘Hello, Markus. Shouldn’t you be in bed?’

His voice was calm and soft. He looked like he had been in the wars, but he spoke as if he was telling him a bedtime story. Markus decided he too would speak with a voice like that when he grew up and had stopped being scared.

‘Are you hurt?’

‘Someone bumped into me when I was driving,’ the Son smiled. ‘It’s nothing.’

‘There’s someone in your house.’

‘Oh?’ the Son said, turning to the shiny black windows. ‘Good guys or bad guys?’

Markus gulped. He had seen the photo on TV. But he had also heard his mother say that there was nothing to be scared of, that he only hurt bad people. And on Twitter several people were praising him, tweeting that the police should just let baddies kill baddies, that it was like using predators for pest control.

‘Neither, I think.’

‘Oh?’

Martha woke up when someone entered the room.

She had been dreaming. Dreaming about the woman in the attic. About the baby. That she saw the baby, that it was alive, that it had been there the whole time, trapped in the basement where it had been crying and crying while it waited to be let out. And now it was out. It was here.

‘Martha?’

His voice, his lovely, calm voice sounded incredulous.

She turned over in the bed and looked at him.

‘You said I could come,’ she said. ‘There was no one to let me in, but I knew where the key was, so. .’

‘You came.’

She nodded. ‘I took this room, I hope it’s OK.’

He just nodded and sat down on the edge of the bed.

‘The mattress was on the floor,’ she said and stretched. ‘By the way, a book fell through the slats as I was putting the mattress back on the bed. I put it on the table over there.’

‘OK?’

‘What was the mattress doing-’

‘I was hiding under it,’ he said without taking his eyes off her. ‘When I crawled out, I just eased it down on the floor and left it. What have you got there?’

He raised the hand with which he had been clutching his side and touched one of her ears. She didn’t reply. She let him feel the earring. A gust of wind moved the curtains she had put up after finding them in the blanket box. A beam of moonlight crept in, caught his hand and face. She froze.

‘It’s not as bad as it looks,’ he said.

‘No, not the cut to your forehead. But you’re bleeding somewhere else. Where?’

He pulled his jacket to one side and showed her. The right side of his shirt was soaked with blood.

‘What was it?’

‘A bullet. It just nipped me and went straight through. Completely harmless, it’s just a little blood, it’ll soon-’