Jo Nesbo - Phantom

Harry had understated the case when he said he had ridden only once, but this was quite different from his grandfather’s steadfast battleship of a jade. He had to balance in the saddle, and when he squeezed his knees against the slim horse’s sides he could feel its ribs and the movement of its muscles. And when Medusa accelerated on the path across the field and Balder responded, even this minor increase in pace made Harry feel he had a Formula One animal between his legs. At the end of the field they joined a path that disappeared into the forest and onto the ridge. Where the path forked round a tree Harry tried to steer Balder to the left, but the horse ignored him and followed in Medusa’s hoof prints to the right.

‘I thought stallions were the leaders of a herd,’ Harry said.

‘As a rule they are,’ Isabelle said over her shoulder. ‘But it’s all about character. A strong, ambitious and smart mare can outcompete all of them if she wants.’

‘And you want.’

Isabelle Skoyen laughed. ‘Of course. If you want something you have to be willing to compete. Politics is all about acquiring power.’

‘And you like competing?’

He saw her shrug her shoulders in front of him. ‘Competition is healthy. It means the strongest and the best make the decisions, and that’s to the benefit of the whole herd.’

‘And she can also mate with whoever she likes?’

Isabelle didn’t answer. Harry watched her. Her back was willowy and her firm buttocks appeared to be massaging the horse, moving from side to side with gentle hip movements. They came into a clearing. The sun was shining, and beneath them lay scattered puffs of mist across the countryside.

‘We’ll let them have a rest,’ Isabelle Skoyen said, dismounting. After they had tethered the horses to a tree, Isabelle lay down on the grass and waved for Harry to follow. He sat beside her and adjusted his sunglasses.

‘Are those glasses for men?’ she teased.

‘They protect against the sun,’ Harry said, taking out a pack of cigarettes.

‘I like that.’

‘What do you like?’

‘I like men who are secure with their masculinity.’

Harry looked at her. She was leaning on her elbows and had undone a button on her blouse. He hoped his sunglasses were dark enough. She smiled.

‘So, what can you tell me about Gusto?’ Harry said.

‘I like men who are genuine,’ she said. The smile broadened.

A brown dragonfly whizzed past on the last flight of the autumn. Harry didn’t like what he saw in her eyes. What he had seen ever since he arrived. Expectant relish. And none of the tormented unease there ought to be in someone facing a career-threatening scandal.

‘I don’t like falseness,’ she said. ‘Such as bluffing, for example.’

Triumph shone from her blue mascara-wreathed eyes.

‘I rang a police contact, you see. And apart from telling me a little about the legendary detective Harry Hole, he was able to tell me that no blood had been analysed in the Gusto Hanssen case. The sample had apparently been destroyed. There are no nails with my blood type under them. You were bluffing, Harry.’

Harry lit a cigarette. No blood in his cheeks or ears. He wondered if he had become too old to blush.

‘Mm. If all the contact you had with Gusto was some innocent interviews why were you so frightened I would send the blood to be tested?’

She chuckled. ‘Who says I was frightened? Perhaps I just wanted you to come out here. Enjoy the nature and so on.’

Confirming that he was not too old to blush, Harry lay down and blew smoke up into the ludicrously blue sky. Closed his eyes and tried to find some good reasons not to fuck Isabelle Skoyen. There were many.

‘Was that wrong?’ she asked. ‘All I’m saying is that I’m a single adult woman with natural needs. That doesn’t mean I’m not serious. I would never get involved with anyone I didn’t consider my equal, such as Gusto.’ He heard her voice coming closer. ‘With a tall adult man, on the other hand…’ She laid a hot hand on his stomach.

‘Did you and Gusto lie where we’re lying now?’ Harry asked softly.

‘What?’

He wriggled up onto his elbows and nodded towards the blue trainers. ‘Your wardrobe was full of exclusive men’s shoes, size 42. These barges were the only 45s.’

‘So what? I can’t guarantee that I haven’t had a male visitor who takes size 45 at some point.’ Her hand stroked backwards and forwards.

‘This trainer was made a while ago for the Armed Services, and when they changed model, the surplus stock was taken over by charitable organisations who distributed them to the needy. In the police we call them junkie shoes as they were doled out by the Salvation Army at the Watchtower. The question is of course how a casual visitor, a size 45, would leave behind a pair of shoes. The obvious explanation is that he probably acquired a new pair.’

Isabelle Skoyen’s hand stopped moving. So Harry continued.

‘I’ve seen a picture of the crime scene. When Gusto died he was wearing a cheap pair of trousers, but a very expensive pair of shoes. Alberto Fasciani, unless I’m much mistaken. A generous gift. How much did you pay for them? Five thousand?’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’ She pulled away her hand.

Harry regarded his erection with disapproval; it was already pressing against the inside of the borrowed trousers. He stretched his feet.

‘I left the insoles in the car. Did you know that foot sweat is excellent for DNA testing? We’ll probably find some microscopic remains of skin, too. And there can’t be that many shops in Oslo that sell Alberto Fasciani shoes. One, two? Anyway, it’ll be a simple job to cross-check against your credit card.’

Isabelle Skoyen had sat up. She stared into the distance.

‘Can you see the farms?’ she asked. ‘Aren’t they beautiful? I love cultivated landscapes. And I hate forests. Apart from planted ones. I hate chaos.’

Harry studied her profile. The axe-nose looked downright dangerous.

‘Tell me about Gusto Hanssen.’

She shrugged. ‘Why? You’ve obviously worked most of it out.’

‘Who do you want questioning you? Me or Verdens Gang.’

She gave a short laugh. ‘Gusto was young and good-looking. That kind of stallion is a great sight, but it has dubious genes. Biological father’s a criminal and mother’s a drug addict, according to the foster-father. Not a horse you breed, but one that’s fun to ride if you…’ She took a deep breath. ‘He came here and we had sex. Now and then I gave him money. He met other people as well, it was nothing special.’

‘Did that make you jealous?’

‘Jealous?’ Isabelle shook her head. ‘Sex has never made me jealous. I met other people, too. And after a while someone special. Then I dropped Gusto. Or maybe he had already dropped me. He no longer seemed to need the pocket money anyway. But then he contacted me again. He became a nuisance. I think he had financial problems. And also a drug problem.’

‘What was he like?’

‘He was selfish, unreliable, charming. A self-confident bastard.’

‘And what did he want?’

‘Do I look like a psychologist, Harry?’

‘No.’

‘No. People don’t interest me that much.’

‘Really?’

Isabelle Skoyen shook her head. Looked into the distance. Her eyes glistened.

‘Gusto was lonely,’ she said.

‘How do you know?’

‘I know what loneliness is, OK? And he was full of self-loathing.’

‘Self-confidence and self-loathing?’

‘It’s not a contradiction. You know what you can achieve, but that doesn’t mean you see yourself as someone others can love.’

‘And what’s that down to?’