Jo Nesbo - Phantom

Harry felt his throat go dry. He cast a glance at the nameplate under the doorbell.

Rakel Fauke.

Yet the man with the attractive, weak face was standing there and holding the door open as though it were his. Harry knew he had several options for a great opening gambit, but the one he chose was: ‘Who are you?’

The man in front of him produced the facial expression Harry had never been able to achieve. He frowned and smiled at the same time. The superior person’s condescending amusement at the inferior person’s impudence.

‘Since you are on the outside and I am on the inside it would seem more natural that you should say who you are. And what you want.’

‘As you wish,’ Harry said with a loud yawn. Of course, he could blame that on jet lag. ‘I’m here to speak to the lady whose name is by the doorbell.’

‘And you are from?’

‘The Jehovah’s Witnesses,’ Harry said, checking his watch.

The man automatically shifted his eyes from Harry to look for the obligatory second man in the team.

‘My name’s Harry and I come from Hong Kong. Where is she?’

The man arched an eyebrow. ‘ The Harry?’

‘Since it has been one of Norway’s least trendy names for the last fifty years, we can probably assume it is.’

The man studied Harry now, with a nod and a half-smile on his lips as though his brain was playing back the information it had received about the character in front of him. But with no suggestion that he was going to move from the doorway or answer any of Harry’s questions.

‘Well?’ Harry said, shifting weight from one leg.

‘I’ll tell her you were here.’

Harry’s foot was swift. Out of instinct he flipped the sole upward so that the door hit it instead of the shoe upper. That was the kind of trick his new occupation had taught him. The man looked down at Harry’s foot and then at him. The condescending amusement was gone. He was about to say something. A withering remark that would re-establish order. But Harry knew he would change his mind. When he saw the look on Harry’s face that made people change their minds.

‘You’d better-’ the man said. Stopped. Blinked once. Harry waited. For the confusion. The hesitation. The retreat. Blink number two. The man coughed. ‘She’s out.’

Harry stood stock-still. Let the silence ring out. Two seconds. Three seconds.

‘I… er, don’t know when she’ll be back.’

Not a muscle stirred in Harry’s countenance while the man’s face leapt from one expression to another as if searching for one to hide behind. And ended up where it had started: with the friendly one.

‘My name’s Hans Christian. I… apologise for having to be so negative. But a lot of bizarre enquiries regarding the case have come in, and it’s essential that Rakel has some peace now. I’m her solicitor.’

‘Hers?’

‘Theirs. Hers and Oleg’s. Would you like to come in?’

Harry nodded.

On the living-room table there were piles of papers. Harry went over to them. Case documents. Reports. The height of the pile suggested they had not stinted on their searches.

‘Dare I ask what has brought you here?’ Hans Christian asked.

Harry flicked through the papers. DNA tests. Witness statements. ‘Well, do you?’

‘Do I what?’

‘Why are you here? Haven’t you got an office where you can prepare the defence?’

‘Rakel wants to be involved. She is a lawyer herself. Listen, Hole. I know very well who you are and I know you’ve been close to Rakel and Oleg, but-’

‘And how close are you exactly?’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, it sounds as if you’ve assumed responsibility for their all-round care.’

Harry ignored the overtone to his voice and knew that he had revealed himself, knew the man was watching him in amazement. And knew he had lost the upper hand.

‘Rakel and I are old friends,’ Hans Christian said. ‘I grew up close to here, we studied law together, and… well. When you spend the best years of your life together there are bonds of course.’

Harry nodded. Knew that he should keep his mouth shut. Knew that everything he said would make things worse.

‘Mm. With bonds of that kind it’s strange I never saw or heard about you when Rakel and I were together.’

Hans Christian was unable to answer. The door opened. And there she was.

Harry felt a claw close around his heart and wrench it round.

Her figure was the same: slim, erect. The face was the same: heart-shaped with dark brown eyes and the broadish mouth that liked to laugh so much. The hair was almost the same: long, though the darkness was perhaps a tad lighter. But the eyes were changed. They were the eyes of a hunted animal, widened, wild. But when they fell on Harry it was as if something returned. Something of the person she had been. Of what they had been.

‘Harry,’ she said. And at the sound of her voice, the rest came, everything came back.

He took two long strides and held her in his arms. The scent of her hair. Her fingers on his spine. She was the first to let go. He retreated a step and looked at her.

‘You look good,’ he said.

‘You too.’

‘Liar.’

She smiled quickly. Tears had already formed in her eyes.

They stayed standing like that. Harry let her study him, let her absorb his older face with its new scar. ‘Harry,’ she repeated, tilted her head and laughed. The first tear trembled on her eyelashes and fell. A stripe ran down her soft skin.

Somewhere in the room a man with a polo player on his shirt coughed and said something about having to go to a meeting.

Then they were alone.

While Rakel was making coffee he saw her gaze fix on his metal finger, but neither of them made a comment. There was an unspoken agreement that they would never mention the Snowman. So Harry sat at the kitchen table and instead talked about his life in Hong Kong. Told her what he was able to tell. What he wanted to tell. That the job as ‘debt consultant’ for Herman Kluit’s outstanding accounts consisted in meeting customers with payments that had fallen behind and jogging their memories in a friendly way. In brief, the consultation involved advising them to pay as soon as was practical and feasible. Harry said his major and basically sole qualification was that he measured 1 metre 92 centimetres in his stockinged feet, had broad shoulders, bloodshot eyes and a newly acquired scar.

‘Friendly, professional. Suit, tie, multinationals in Hong Kong, Taiwan and Shanghai. Hotels with room service. Elegant office blocks. Civilised, Swiss-style private banks with a Chinese twist. Western handshakes and courtesy phrases. And Asian smiles. By and large they pay the next day. Herman Kluit is content. We understand each other.’

She poured coffee for both of them and sat down. Took a deep breath.

‘I got a job with the International Court of Justice in The Hague, with offices in Amsterdam. I thought that if we left this house behind us, this town, all the attention…’

Me, Harry thought.

‘… the memories, everything would be alright. And for a while it was. But then it started. At first, the senseless bouts of temper. As a boy Oleg never raised his voice. He was grumpy, yes, but never… like that. Said I’d ruined his life by taking him away from Oslo. He said that because he knew I had no defence. And when I started to cry, he started to cry. Asked me why I’d pushed you out. You’d saved us from… from…’

He nodded so that she didn’t have to say the name.

‘He began to come home late. Said he was meeting friends, but they were friends I had never met. One day he admitted he’d been to a coffee shop in Leidseplein and smoked hash.’

‘The Bulldog Palace with all the tourists?’