Jo Nesbo - Phantom

‘No,’ Torkildsen said after another pause. ‘I’ll ring you when I’ve got something.’

Harry ended the call and pondered. He was wanted by the police. Even if they didn’t find his name against the number, they could put two and two together if they checked Rakel’s calls and saw a Chinese number appear. The phone gave away his location, and he would have to get rid of it.

When Martine returned with a cup of steaming hot coffee, Harry allowed himself two swigs and then asked straight out if he could borrow her phone for a couple of days.

She studied him with that pure, direct look of hers and said yes, if he’d thought the matter through.

Harry nodded, took the little red phone, kissed her on the cheek and carried his coffee down to the cafe. Five of the tables were already occupied, and more early-morning scarecrows were on their way. Harry sat at a free table and jotted down the numbers from his Chinese phone. Sent the important ones a short text message about his new temporary number.

Drug addicts are as inscrutable as other people, but in one area they are reasonably predictable, so when Harry left his Chinese mobile in the middle of the table and went to the toilet he was quite sure of the result. On his return the phone had vanished. It had gone on a journey the police would be able to follow around town via base stations.

Harry, for his part, walked out and down Toyengata to Gronland.

A police car rolled up the hill towards him. He immediately lowered his head, took out Martine’s phone and pretended he was in conversation as a pretext to shield most of his face.

The car passed. The next few hours would be about staying under cover.

More important, though, he knew something. He knew where to begin.

Truls Berntsen lay frozen under two layers of spruce twigs.

He had been playing the same film all night, over and over. Wolf-face, who had backed away carefully, repeating ‘easy’ like a prayer for a truce while they pointed their guns at each other. Wolf-face. The limousine driver outside Gamlebyen Cemetery. Dubai’s man. When he had stooped to grab the big guy whom Truls had shot, he had to lower his pistol and Truls had realised the man was willing to risk his life to save his pal. Wolf-face must have been an ex-soldier, an ex-policeman, there was some kind of honour crap going on, at any rate. A groan came from the big guy at that moment. He was alive. Truls felt both relief and disappointment. But he had let Wolf-face do it, let him haul the man to his feet and had heard the squelch of blood in his shoes as they staggered down the corridor to the rear door. Once they were outside he had pulled on his balaclava and run out, through reception, to the Saab, driven straight up here, not daring to go home. For this was the safe place, the secret place. The place where no one could see him, the place only he knew and where he went when he wanted to see her.

The place was in Manglerud, in a popular hiking area, but the hikers kept to the paths and never came up to his rock, which in any case was surrounded by a dense scrub forest.

Mikael and Ulla Bellman’s house stood on the ridge opposite the rock, and he had a perfect view of the living-room window where he had seen her sitting on so many evenings. Just sitting on the sofa, her beautiful face, her graceful body that had barely changed over the years, she was still Ulla — the most attractive girl in Manglerud. Sometimes Mikael was there too. He had seen them kissing and caressing each other, but they had always gone into the bedroom before anything else happened. He didn’t know that he wanted to see any more anyway. For he liked to see her sitting there alone best of all. On the sofa with a book and her feet drawn underneath her. Now and then she would cast a glance at the window as though she could feel she was being observed. And on those occasions he felt himself getting excited by the notion that she might know. Know he was out there somewhere.

But now the living-room window was black. They had moved. She had moved. And there were no safe viewing points near the new house. He had checked. And the way things were it wasn’t certain he was going to need one. Was going to need anything. He was a marked man.

They had tricked him into visiting Hole at Hotel Leon at midnight and then attacked.

They had tried to get rid of him. Tried to burn the burner. But why? Because he knew too much? But he was a burner, wasn’t he. Burners do know too much, that goes without saying. He couldn’t understand. Hell! It didn’t matter why, he had to make sure he stayed alive.

He was so cold and tired his bones ached, but he didn’t dare go home until it was light and he had checked the coast was clear. If he could get inside the door of his flat he had enough artillery to withstand a siege. He should have shot them both when he had the chance, but if they tried it on again they would see that it was not so bloody easy to nail Truls Berntsen.

Truls got up. Brushed the fir needles off his clothes, shivered and slapped his arms against his chest. Looked up at the house again. Dawn was beginning to break. He thought of the other Ullas. Like the little dark number at the Watchtower. Martine. He had in fact thought he could get her. She worked with dangerous people, and he was someone who could protect her. But she had ignored him, and as usual he hadn’t had the guts to approach her and get the rejection over and done with. It was better to wait in hope, drag it out, torment yourself, see possible encouragement where less desperate men saw only universal friendliness. And then one day he had overheard someone say something to her, and he had realised she was pregnant. Bloody whore. They’re all whores. Like this girl Gusto Hanssen had used as a lookout. Whore, whore, whore. He hated these women. And the men who knew how to make these women love them.

He jumped up and down slapping his arms around him, but knew he would never get the warmth back.

Harry had gone back to Kvadraturen. Found a seat inside Postcafe. That was the one that opened earliest, four hours before Schroder’s, and he had to queue with beer-thirsty customers until he could buy himself something that would pass for breakfast.

Rakel was his first call. He asked her to check Oleg’s inbox.

‘There’s something from Bellman,’ she said. ‘Looks like a list of addresses.’

‘OK,’ Harry said. ‘Forward it to Beate Lonn.’ He gave her the email address.

Then he texted Beate, said the lists had been sent, and finished his breakfast. He moved to Gj?stgiveri in Stortorvet, and he had just been given a cup of well-percolated coffee when Beate rang.

‘I’ve compared the lists I copied directly from the patrol cars with the list you forwarded. What’s this list?’

‘It’s the list Bellman received and forwarded to me. I’d like to see if he’s been given a correct report or if it’s been doctored.’

‘I see. All the addresses I had from before are on the list you and Bellman received.’

‘Mm,’ Harry said. ‘Wasn’t there one patrol car you didn’t get a list from?’

‘What’s this about, Harry?’

‘It’s about me trying to get the burner to help us.’

‘Help us to do what?’

‘To point out the house where Dubai lives.’

Pause.

‘I’ll see if I can get hold of the last list,’ Beate said.

‘Thanks. Talk to you later.’

‘Wait.’

‘Yes?’

‘Aren’t you interested in the rest of the DNA profile of the blood under Gusto’s nail?’

It was summer, and I was the king of Oslo. I had half a kilo of violin in exchange for Irene and I had sold half on the street. It was supposed to be the starting capital for something big, a new network that would sweep the old boy off the court. First of all, though, the start had to be celebrated. I spent a tiny fraction of the sales money to buy myself a suit that matched the shoes I had been given by Isabelle Skoyen. I looked like a million dollars, and they didn’t raise an eyebrow when I went into the fricking Grand and asked for a suite. We stayed there. We were twenty-four-hour partygoers. Exactly who ‘we’ were varied somewhat, but it was summer, Oslo, women, boys, it was like the old days, though with slightly heavier medication. Even Oleg brightened up and was his old self for a while. It turned out I had more friends than I could remember, and the dope went faster than you would believe. We were kicked out of the Grand and went to the Christiania. Then to the Radisson, Holbergs plass.