Jo Nesbo - The Son

‘Kefas also claims to have evidence of an alleged hit which he believes Agnete Iversen ordered. Kefas said that out of consideration for Iversen’s son, he would refrain from presenting proof of the latter, and as far as the property transactions are concerned my client will be given a reduced sentence in return for a guilty plea and for giving evidence against Thou in a subsequent trial.’

Pontius Parr took off his rectangular glasses and polished them with his handkerchief. Kari was surprised at how childishly blue his eyes were.

‘It sounds like an deal we can honour.’

‘Good,’ Ohre said, opened the briefcase that was lying on the chair next to him, took out an envelope and pushed it across the table to Parr.

‘Here is a printout of all property transactions undertaken to launder money for Levi Thou. Iversen is also prepared to testify against Fredrik Ansgar, formerly of the Serious Fraud Office, who made sure that no one ever investigated the transactions.’

Parr took the envelope. Squeezed it.

‘There’s something else inside,’ he said.

‘A memory stick. It contains a sound file which Kefas sent to my client from a mobile, and which he requested should also be handed over to you.’

‘Do you know what’s on it?’

Ohre and Iversen exchanged looks again. Iversen cleared his throat.

‘It’s a recording of someone. Chief Inspector Kefas said that you would know who it was.’

‘I brought along a computer in case you wanted to listen to it straight away,’ Ohre added.

The open briefcase. The weapons. The olive-green grenade.

Chief Inspector Simon Kefas had time to press his eyes shut and cover his ears. There was a flash of light that felt like fire breathing on his face and a bang like a punch to the stomach.

Then he opened his eyes, lunged forward, grabbed the pistol from the briefcase and turned round. The blond man was frozen, as if he had just stared straight into the eyes of Medusa. He still had his arm around Sonny’s head and the knife in his hand. And Simon saw it now, Sonny had been right: the guy really did have a cross on his forehead. A cross-hairs sight. Simon pulled the trigger and saw the hole the bullet made below the blond fringe. As the man fell, Sonny grabbed the Uzi.

Simon had explained to him that they would have a maximum of two seconds before the temporary paralysis would lift. They had sat in the hotel room at the Bismarck and practised this very moment, seizing the weapons and discharging them. They hadn’t been able to predict the sequence of events in detail, obviously, and right up until the point where the Twin opened the briefcase, triggering the stun grenade, Simon had been sure that it would all go to hell. But when he saw Sonny pull the trigger and pirouette on one foot, he knew that the Twin wouldn’t go home happy after this day at work. The bullets spat from the stuttering weapon that never made it past the first syllable. Two of the Twin’s men were already down, and the third had managed to stick his hand inside his jacket when the spray of bullets drew a dotted line across his chest. He remained standing for a moment before his knees received the message that he was dead, and by then Simon had already turned to the Twin. And stared in astonishment at the empty chair. How could such a big man move so-

He spotted him at the end of the aquarium, right by the swing door to the kitchen.

He took aim and pressed the trigger three times in quick succession. He saw the Twin’s jacket twitch and then the glass in the aquarium cracked. For a moment it looked as if the water might retain its rectangular shape, held together by habit or unseen forces, before it came crashing towards them like a green wall. Simon tried to leap aside, but he was too slow. He crunched a lobster underfoot as he took a step, felt his knee buckle and fell his full length in the deluge. When he looked up again, he couldn’t see the Twin, only the flapping kitchen door.

‘Are you OK?’ Sonny asked as he offered to help Simon back on his feet.

‘Never been better,’ Simon groaned and knocked aside Sonny’s hand. ‘But if the Twin gets away now, he’ll be gone for good.’

Simon ran to the kitchen door, kicked it open and entered holding the pistol in front of him. The harsh smell of a commercial kitchen. His gaze quickly scanned the brushed metal worktops and cookers, rows of pots, ladles and palette knives hanging from the low ceiling and obstructing his view. Simon squatted down to look for shadows or movement.

‘The floor,’ Sonny said.

Simon looked down. Red stains on the blue-grey tiles. His eyes hadn’t deceived him, one of his bullets had found its target.

He heard the distant sound of a door slamming.

‘Come on.’

The blood trail led them out of the kitchen, along a dark corridor where Simon tore off his sunglasses, up a staircase and down another corridor, which ended in a metal door. A door that would have made the very noise they had just heard. Even so, Simon checked all the side doors on their way down the corridor and looked inside. Nine out of ten men fleeing from two men and an Uzi would always take the shortest and most obvious way out, but the Twin was the tenth man. Always cold, always rational and calculating. The type who survives a shipwreck. He might simply have slammed the door in order to misdirect them.

‘We’re losing him,’ Sonny said.

‘Calm down,’ Simon said and opened the last side door. Nothing.

And the bloodstains were now unequivocal. The Twin was behind the metal door.

‘Ready?’ Simon asked.

Sonny nodded and positioned himself with the Uzi aimed right at the door.

Simon pressed his back against the wall beside the door, lowered the handle and pushed open the metal door.

He saw Sonny get hit. By the sunlight.

Simon stepped outside. He felt the wind on his face. ‘Damn. .’

They were looking out at an empty street that lay bathed in morning sunshine. The street was Ruselokkveien which intersected Munkedamsveien and disappeared upwards in the direction of the Palace Gardens. No cars, no people.

And no Twin.

‘The blood stops here,’ Simon said, pointing at the tarmac. The Twin must have realised he was leaving a trail of blood and managed to stop it from dripping on the ground. The type that survives a shipwreck.

He stared up at the deserted Ruselokkveien. Let his gaze sweep past St Paul’s Church, past the small bridge where the road bent and disappeared out of sight. He looked left and right across Munkedamsveien. Nothing.

‘Bloody he-’ Sonny slapped his thigh with the Uzi in frustration.

‘If he’d stayed on the road, we would have been in time to see him,’ Simon said. ‘He must have gone in somewhere.’

‘Where?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Perhaps he had a car out here.’

‘Perhaps. Hey!’ Simon pointed at the ground between Sonny’s shoes. ‘Look, there’s another bloodstain. What if-’

Sonny shook his head and opened his jacket. The side of the clean shirt Simon had given him was red.

Simon swore silently. ‘That bastard managed to reopen the wound?’

Sonny shrugged.

Simon let his gaze wander upwards again. There was no street parking. No shops were open. Only closed gates leading to backyards. Where could he have gone? Look at it from another perspective, Simon thought. Compensate for the blind spots. Let in. . He shifted his gaze. His pupils reacted to something. A sharp flash of sunlight bouncing off a small piece of moving glass. Or metal. Brass.

‘Come on,’ Sonny said. ‘We’ll try the restaurant again, perhaps he-’

‘No,’ Simon said in a low voice. A brass door handle. A closer that makes the door shut slowly behind you. A place that is always open. ‘I can see him.’