Jo Nesbo - Phantom

‘Are you sure you want this?’ he said without trying to cough away his hoarseness. They stood there; she with a hand on his shoulder, her eyes fixed on his like a concentrated tango partner.

She nodded.

Such a cosmic, intense black in the blackness that it sucked you in. He didn’t even notice her raise her foot and close the door. He heard it close, so gently, that was all, the sound of an expensive hotel, like a kiss.

And while they made love he thought only of the darkness and the aroma. The darkness of her hair, eyebrows and eyes. And the aroma of the perfume he had never asked her about, but that was only hers, which was in her clothes, in her wardrobe, which had rubbed off on his clothes then, when they hung together with hers. And which was now in the wardrobe here. Because the other man’s clothes had also hung in her wardrobe. And that was where she had found them, not at his house, perhaps it had not even been his idea, perhaps she had just taken them straight from the wardrobe and brought them here. But Harry said nothing. Because he knew he had her on loan, that was all. He had her right now, and it was either that or nothing. So he held his tongue. Made love to her the way he always had, with intensity and at his leisure. Not allowing himself to be influenced by her greed or impatience, but did it with such slow passion that she alternated between cursing him and gasping. Not because that was how he thought she wanted it, but because that was how he wanted it. Because he only had her on loan. He had only these few hours.

And when she came, stiffened and stared at him with that paradoxical, wronged expression, all the nights they had spent together came back, and he was close to tears.

Afterwards they shared a cigarette.

‘Why won’t you tell me that you’re a couple?’ Harry said, inhaling and passing her the cigarette.

‘Because we aren’t. It’s a… a stop-gap thing.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know anything any more. I should stay away from everything and everyone.’

‘He’s a good man.’

‘That’s the point. I need a good man, so why don’t I want a good man? Why are we so bloody irrational when we actually know what’s best for us?’

‘Humans are a perverted and damaged species,’ Harry said. ‘And there is no cure, only relief.’

Rakel cuddled up to him. ‘That’s what I like about you, the indomitable optimism.’

‘I see it as my duty to spread sunshine, my love.’

‘Harry?’

‘Mm.’

‘Is there any way back? For us?’

Harry closed his eyes. Listened to the heartbeats. His own and hers.

‘Not back, no.’ He turned to her. ‘But if you think you still have some future left in you…’

‘Do you mean that?’

‘This is just pillow talk, isn’t it?’

‘Muppet.’ She kissed him on the cheek, passed him the cigarette and stood up. Got dressed.

‘You can stay upstairs at mine, you know.’

He shook his head. ‘It’s best like this now.’

‘Don’t forget I love you,’ she said. ‘Never forget that. Whatever happens. Do you promise?’

He nodded. Closed his eyes. The door closed as gently again the second time. Then he opened his eyes. Looked at his watch.

It’s best like this now.

What else could he have done? Gone back to Holmenkollen with her, ensuring Dubai had followed his trail there, and dragged Rakel into this confrontation, the way he had done with the Snowman? Because he could see it now, he could see they had been dogging his steps from the very first day. Sending an invitation to Dubai via his pushers had been superfluous. They would find him before he found them. And then they would find Oleg.

So, the sole advantage he had was that he could choose the place. The scene of the crime. And he had chosen. Not here in the Plaza, this was so that he could have some time out, a couple of hours’ sleep and collect himself. The place was Hotel Leon.

Harry had considered contacting Hagen. Or Bellman. Explaining the situation to them. But it would give them no other choice but to arrest him. Even so, it was just a question of time before the police would put together the three descriptions they had been given by the barman in Kvadraturen, the security guard at Vestre Cemetery and the old lady in Madserud alle. A man, one ninety-two, wearing a linen suit, scar on one side of his face and a bandaged chin and neck. They would soon be putting out a call for Harry Hole. So it was urgent.

He got up with a groan, opened the wardrobe.

Put on the ironed underpants and a shirt with a polo player. Mulled over the Armani trousers. Shook his head with a soft expletive and donned his suit instead.

Then he pulled out the tennis bag lying on the hat shelf. Hans Christian had explained it was the only one he had with enough space for a rifle.

Harry bundled it over his shoulder and left. The door behind him closed with a soft kiss.

I don’t know if it’s possible to say exactly how the throne changed hands. Exactly when violin came to power and began to rule over us rather than vice versa. Everything had gone down the pan; the deal I had tried to make with Ibsen, the coup at Alnabru. And Oleg went around with that depressed Russian mug on him, complaining life without Irene was meaningless. After three weeks we shot up more than we earned, we were high when working and we knew it was all about to go tits up. As even then it meant less than the next fix. It sounds like a cliche, it is a cliche, and that’s precisely how it is. So bloody simple and so absolutely impossible. I think I can safely say that I have never loved any human, I mean, really loved. But I was hopelessly in love with violin. For while Oleg was using violin as medicine to dull the pain of his broken heart, I was using violin as it is supposed to be used. To be happy. And I mean just that: fricking happy. It was better than food, sex, sleep, yes, it was even better than breathing.

And that was why it did not come as a shock when, one evening after the showdown, Andrey took me aside and said the old boy was concerned.

‘I’m fine,’ I said.

He explained that if I didn’t sharpen up and go to work with a clear head every bloody day from now on the old boy said I would be forcibly packed off to rehab.

I laughed. Said I didn’t realise this job had fringe benefits like health schemes and stuff. Did Oleg and I get dental treatment and pensions as well?

‘Oleg doesn’t.’

I saw in his eyes more or less what that meant.

I had no intention of kicking the habit yet. And neither did Oleg. So we didn’t give a toss, and the following evening we were as high as the Post Office building, sold half of our stock, took the rest, stole a car and drove to Kristiansand. Played fricking Sinatra at full blast, ‘I Got Plenty of Nothing’, which was true, we didn’t even have a bloody licence. In the end Oleg was singing too, but only to drown out Sinatra and moi, he claimed. We laughed and drank lukewarm beer, it was like the old days. We stayed at Hotel Ernst, which wasn’t as dull as it sounds, but when we asked at reception where the dope dealers hung out, we got only a blank look in return. Oleg had told me about the town’s festival, which had been wrecked by some idiot who was so desperate to be a guru he booked bands that were so cool they couldn’t afford them. Nevertheless, the Christian folk in the town maintained that half of the population between eighteen and twenty-five had bought drugs because of the festival. But we didn’t find any customers; we zoomed around on a dark evening in the pedestrian area where there was one — one! — drunken man and also fourteen members of a Ten Sing choir, who enquired whether we wanted to meet Jesus.