Jo Nesbo - Phantom

Harry turned. Saw the red concert poster from the day before was gone.

He continued down Oslo gate and was walking past Minne Park by Gamlebyen cemetery when he heard a voice from the shadows by the gate.

‘Two hundred to spare?’ it said in Swedish.

Harry half stopped, and the beggar stepped out. His coat was long and ragged, and the beam from the spotlight caused his large ears to cast shadows over his face.

‘I assume you’re asking for a loan?’ Harry said, fishing out his wallet.

‘Collection,’ Cato said, extending his hand. ‘You’ll never get it back. I left my wallet at Hotel Leon.’ There wasn’t a whiff of spirits or beer on the old man’s breath, just the smell of tobacco and something that reminded him of childhood, playing hide-and-seek at his grandfather’s, when Harry hid in the wardrobe and inhaled the sweet, mouldy smell of clothes that had hung there for years. They must have been as old as the house itself.

Harry located a five-hundred note and handed it to Cato.

‘Here.’

Cato stared at the money. Ran his hand over it. ‘I’ve been hearing this and that,’ he said. ‘They say you’re police.’

‘Oh?’

‘And that you drink. What’s your poison?’

‘Jim Beam.’

‘Ah, Jim. A pal of my Johnnie. And you know the boy, Oleg.’

‘Do you know him?’

‘Prison’s worse than death, Harry. Death is simple, it liberates the soul. But prison eats away at your soul until there is nothing human left of you. Until you become a phantom.’

‘Who told you about Oleg?’

‘My congregation is large and my parishioners are numerous, Harry. I listen. They say you’re hunting that person. Dubai.’

Harry checked his watch. There was usually plenty of room on the flights at this time of the year. From Bangkok he could also go to Shanghai. Zhan Yin had texted that she was alone this week. They could go to the country house together.

‘I hope you don’t find him, Harry.’

‘I didn’t say I was-’

‘Those who do, die.’

‘Cato, tonight I’m going to-’

‘Have you heard about the Beetle?’

‘No, but-’

‘Six insect legs that bore into your face.’

‘I have to go, Cato.’

‘I’ve seen it myself.’ Cato dropped his chin onto his priest’s collar. ‘Under Alvsborg Bridge by Gothenburg harbour. A policeman searching for a heroin gang. They smacked a brick studded with nails in his face.’

Harry realised what the man was talking about. Zjuk. The Beetle.

The method had originally been Russian and used on informers. First of all, the informer’s ear was nailed to the floor beneath a roof beam. Then six long nails were hammered halfway into a brick, the brick was tied to a rope slung around the beam and the informer held the rope end between his teeth. The point — and the symbolism — was that so long as the informer kept his mouth shut he was alive. Harry had seen the result of zjuk carried out by the Tapei Triad on a poor sod they found in a backstreet of Tanshui. They had used broad nail heads that didn’t make such big holes on their way in. When the paramedics came and pulled the brick off the dead man the face came with it.

Cato stuffed the five-hundred note in his trouser pocket with one hand and placed the other on Harry’s shoulder.

‘I understand you want to protect your son. But what about the other guy? He also had a father, Harry. They call it self-sacrifice when parents fight for their children, but really they’re protecting themselves, the ones who have been cloned. And that doesn’t require any moral courage; it’s just genetic egotism. As a child my father used to read the Bible to us, and I thought Abraham was a coward when God told him to sacrifice his son and he obeyed. Growing up, I understood that a truly selfless father is willing to sacrifice his child if it serves a higher goal than father and son. For that does exist.’

Harry threw his cigarette down in front of him. ‘You’re mistaken. Oleg is not my son.’

‘He isn’t? Why are you here then?’

‘I’m a policeman.’

Cato laughed. ‘Sixth commandment, Harry. Don’t lie.’

‘Isn’t that the eighth?’ Harry trod on the smouldering cigarette. ‘And as far as I recall, the commandment says you shouldn’t bear false witness against your neighbour, which would mean it’s fine to lie a bit about yourself. But perhaps you didn’t complete your theology studies?’

Cato shrugged. ‘Jesus and I have no formal qualifications. We are men of the Word. But like all medicine men, fortune-tellers and charlatans we can sometimes inspire false hopes and genuine comfort.’

‘You’re not even a Christian, are you?’

‘Let me say here and now that faith has never done me any good, only doubt. So that is what has become my testament.’

‘Doubt.’

‘Exactly.’ Cato’s yellow teeth glistened in the darkness. ‘I ask: Is it so certain that a God doesn’t exist, that he doesn’t have a design?’

Harry laughed quietly.

‘We’re not so different, Harry. I have a false priest’s collar; you have a false sheriff’s badge. How unshakeable is your faith in your gospel actually? To protect those who have found their way and make sure those who have lost theirs are punished according to their sins? Aren’t you also a doubter?’

Harry tapped a cigarette from the packet. ‘Unfortunately there is no doubt in this case. I’m going home.’

‘If that is so, I wish you a good trip. I have a service to hold.’

A car hooted and Harry turned automatically. Two headlights blinded him before sweeping round the corner. The brake lights resembled the glow of cigarettes in the darkness as the police vehicle slowed down to enter the Police HQ garages. And when Harry turned back Cato had gone. The old priest seemed to have melted into the night; all Harry could hear were footsteps heading for the cemetery.

In fact it did take only five minutes to pack and check out of Hotel Leon.

‘There’s a small discount for customers who pay cash,’ said the boy behind the counter. Not everything was new.

Harry flicked through his wallet. Hong Kong dollars, yuan, US dollars, euros. His mobile phone rang. Harry lifted it to his ear while fanning out the notes and offering them to the boy.

‘Speak.’

‘It’s me. What are you doing?’

Shit. He had planned to wait and phone her from the airport. Make it as simple and brutal as possible. A quick wrench.

‘I’m checking out. Can I ring you back in a couple of minutes?’

‘I just wanted to say that Oleg has contacted his solicitor. Erm… Hans Christian, that is.’

‘Norwegian kroner,’ said the boy.

‘Oleg says he wants to meet you, Harry.’

‘Hell!’

‘Sorry? Harry, are you there?’

‘Do you take Visa?’

‘Cheaper for you to go to an ATM and withdraw cash.’

‘Meet me?’

‘That’s what he says. As soon as possible.’

‘That’s not possible, Rakel.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because-’

‘There’s an ATM only a hundred metres down Tollbugata.’

‘Because?’

‘Take my card, OK?’

‘Harry?’

‘First of all, it’s not possible, Rakel. He’s not allowed visitors, and I won’t get round that a second time.’

‘And second of all?’

‘I don’t see the point, Rakel. I’ve read the documents. I…’

‘You what?’

‘I think he shot Gusto Hanssen, Rakel.’

‘We don’t take Visa. Have you got anything else? MasterCard, American Express?’

‘No! Rakel?’

‘Then let’s say dollars and euros. The exchange rate’s not very favourable, but it’s better than the card.’

‘Rakel? Rakel? Shit!’