Jo Nesbo - Phantom

He forced his arm into the jacket sleeve and walked towards her. She backed away, taking tiny, shuffling steps, but not releasing him from her gaze. Harry held up the palms of his hands and made swiftly for the terrace door.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘And sorry.’

Then he pushed open the door and went onto the terrace.

The power of the explosion suggested it was a heavy-calibre weapon. Then came the sound of the shot, the primer blast, and that was the confirmation. Harry fell to his knees as the next bullet splintered the back of the garden chair beside him.

A very heavy calibre.

Harry scrabbled back into the living room.

‘Keep down!’ he shouted as the living-room window shattered. Glass tinkled onto the parquet floor, the TV and the table covered with family photographs.

Bent double, Harry ran through the living room, the hall, to the front door. Opened it. Saw the muzzle of flame from the open door of a black limousine under a street lamp. He felt a stinging pain on his face, and a high-pitched, piercing metallic sound rang out. Harry turned automatically and saw that the wall-mounted doorbell had been shot to pieces. Large white splinters of wood stuck out.

Harry retreated. Lay down on the floor.

A heavier calibre than any of the police weapons. Harry thought of the tall figure he had seen running across the ridge. That had not been a police officer.

‘You’ve got something in your cheek…’

It was the woman; she had to shout over the shrill ringing of the bell that had got stuck. She was standing behind him, at the back of the hall. Harry groped with his fingers. It was a splinter of wood. He pulled it out. Had time to think it was lucky it was on the same side as the scar: it shouldn’t reduce his market value to any dramatic extent. Then there was another bang. This time it was the kitchen window. He was running out of Hong Kong dollars.

Over the ringing he could hear sirens in the distance. Harry raised his head. Through the hallway and living room he saw that lights had come on in the surrounding houses. The street was illuminated like a Christmas tree. He was going to be a floodlit moving target whichever route he took. The options were being shot or arrested. No, not even that. They heard the sirens as well, and knew time was running out for them. And he hadn’t returned fire, so they must have assumed he was unarmed. They would follow him. He had to get away. He pulled out his mobile. Shit, why hadn’t he taken the trouble to file his number under T? It wasn’t as if his contacts list was exactly full.

‘What’s the number of directory enquiries again?’ he shouted.

‘The number… for… directory enquiries?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well.’ She stuck a pensive finger in her mouth, tucked the red asbestos gown underneath her as she sat down on a wooden chair. ‘There’s 1880. But I think they’re nicer on 1881. They’re not as quick or stressed. They take their time and have a chat if you’ve-’

‘Enquiries 1880,’ said a nasal voice in Harry’s ear.

‘Asbjorn Treschow,’ Harry said. ‘With a c and an h.’

‘We’ve got an Asbjorn Berthold Treschow in Oppsal, Oslo, and an Asbjo-’

‘That’s him! Could you give me his mobile number?’

Three seconds of an eternity later a familiar crabby voice answered.

‘I don’t want any.’

‘Tresko?’

Protracted pause without an answer. Harry visualised his fat friend’s astonished face.

‘Harry? Long time-’

‘Are you at work?’

‘Yes.’ The extended e indicated suspicion. No one rang Tresko for no reason.

‘I need a quick favour.’

‘Yes, I suppose you do. Doh, what about the hundred kroner you borrowed? You said-’

‘I need you to turn off the electricity in the Frogner Park / Madserud alle area.’

‘You what?’

‘We’ve got a police emergency here. There’s a guy gone nuts with a gun. We need cover of darkness. Are you still at the substation in Montebello?’

Another pause.

‘So far, but are you still a cop?’

‘Of course. Tresko, this is actually pretty urgent.’

‘I don’t give a shit. I don’t have the authorisation to do that. You’ll have to talk to Henmo, and he-’

‘He’s asleep and we don’t have the time!’ Harry shouted. At that moment another shot rang out and a cupboard in the kitchen was hit. A set of dishes slid out with a clatter and smashed on the floor.

‘What on earth was that?’ Tresko asked.

‘What do you think? You can choose between the responsibility for a forty-second blackout or a pile of human bodies.’

Silence at the other end for a few moments. Then it came, slowly:

‘Fancy that, eh, Harry? Now I’m sitting here and I’m in charge. You would never have believed that, would you, eh?’

Harry took a deep breath. Saw a shadow glide across the terrace. ‘No, Tresko. I wouldn’t have believed it. Can you-’

‘You and Oystein never thought I’d amount to much, did you?’

‘No, we made a big booboo there.’

‘What about saying pleas-’

‘Turn that fucking electricity off!’ Harry yelled. And heard the dial tone. He got to his feet, took the elderly woman under his arm and half dragged her into the bathroom. ‘Stay here,’ he whispered, closing the door behind him and running to the open front door. He charged into the light, steeling himself for the deluge of bullets.

And then everything went black.

So black that he landed on the flagstones and rolled forward thinking for a confused instant that he was dead. Before he realised that Asbjorn ‘Tresko’ Treschow had flicked the switch, pressed the key or whatever it was they did at the substation. And that he had forty seconds.

Harry ran blind into the pitch black. Stumbled over the picket fence, felt tarmac under his feet and ran on. Heard shouting and sirens coming closer. But also the growl of a powerful car engine starting up. Harry kept to the right, could see enough to stay on the road. He was south of Frogner Park. There was a chance he would make it. He passed darkened detached houses, trees, forest. The district was still without electricity. The car engine was coming closer. He lurched left into the car park by the tennis courts. A puddle in the gravel almost brought him to grief, but he stumbled on. The only objects reflecting enough light to be seen were the white chalk stripes on the tennis courts behind the wire fence. Harry saw the outline of the OTC clubhouse. He sprinted to the wall in front of the dressing-room door and dived headlong as the light from two car headlamps swept across. He landed and rolled sideways on the concrete. It was a soft landing, but nevertheless it made him dizzy.

He lay as still as a mouse, waiting.

Heard nothing.

Stared up into the dark night.

Then, without warning, he was dazzled by light.

The outside lamp beneath the roof. The electricity was back.

Harry lay for two minutes listening to the sirens. Cars came and went on the road by the clubhouse. The search parties. The area was probably already surrounded. Soon they would be bringing in the dogs.

He couldn’t move away, so he would have to break into the building.

He stood up, peered over the edge of the wall.

Saw the box with the red light and the keypad beside the door.

The year the king was born. God knows when that was.

He visualised a photo from a gossip mag and tried 1941. It beeped and he wrenched at the door handle. Locked. Hang on, hadn’t the king just been born when the family went to London in 1940? 1939? Bit older maybe. Harry feared it would be three tries and you’re out. 1938. Grabbed the handle. Shit. 1937? Green light. The door opened.

Harry slipped in and heard the door lock behind him.