Jo Nesbo - Phantom

The sun had appeared again, and people were out and about, pushing prams, with disposable barbecues in those net bags hanging from the handles. Grinning at the sun as if it were happiness itself.

I chucked the car keys into a garden and walked up to the flats.

Found the name on the doorbell and rang.

‘It’s me,’ I said when he eventually answered.

‘I’m a bit busy,’ said the voice in the intercom.

‘And I’m a drug addict,’ I said. It was meant as a joke, but I felt the impact of the words. Oleg thought it was funny when for a laugh I occasionally asked punters whether perhaps they were suffering from drug addiction and wanted some violin.

‘What do you want?’ the voice asked.

‘I want some violin.’

The punters’ line had become mine.

Pause.

‘Haven’t got any. Run out. No base to make any more.’

‘Base?’

‘Levorphanol base. Do you want the formula as well?’

I knew it was the truth, but he had to have some. Had to. I pondered. I couldn’t go to the rehearsal room, they were bound to be waiting for me. Oleg. Good old Oleg would let me in.

‘You’ve got two hours, Ibsen. If you haven’t come to Hausmanns gate with four quarters I’ll go straight to the cops and tell all. There’s nothing for me to lose any more. Do you understand? Hausmanns gate 92. You go straight in and it’s on the second floor.’

I tried to imagine his face. Terrified, sweating. The poor old perv.

‘Fine,’ he said.

That was the way. You just have to make them understand the gravity of the situation.

Harry was swallowing the rest of his coffee and staring into the street. Time to move on.

On his way across Youngstorget to the kebab shops in Torggata he received a call.

It was Klaus Torkildsen.

‘Good news,’ he said.

‘Oh yeah?’

‘At the time in question Truls Berntsen’s phone was registered at four of the base stations in Oslo city centre, and that locates his position in the same area as Hausmanns gate 92.’

‘How big is the area we’re talking about?’

‘Erm, a kind of hexagonal area with a diameter of eight hundred metres.’

‘OK,’ Harry said, absorbing the information. ‘What about the other guy?’

‘I couldn’t find anything in his name exactly, but he had a company phone registered at the Radium Hospital.’

‘And?’

‘And, as I said, it’s good news. That phone was in the same area at the same time.’

‘Mm.’ Harry entered a door, walked past three occupied tables and stopped in front of a counter on which was displayed a selection of unnaturally bright kebabs. ‘Have you got his address?’

Klaus Torkildsen read it out, and Harry jotted it down on a serviette.

‘Have you got another number for that address?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I was wondering if he had a wife or a partner.’

Harry heard Torkildsen typing on a keyboard. Then came the answer: ‘No. No one else with that address.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Have we got a deal then? We’ll never speak again?’

‘Yes. Apart from one final thing. I want you to check Mikael Bellman. Who he’s spoken to over recent months, and where he was at the time of the killing.’

Loud laughter. ‘The head of Orgkrim? Forget it! I can hide or explain away a search for a lowly officer, but what you’re asking me to do would get me sacked on the spot.’ More laughter, as if the idea were really a joke. ‘I expect you to keep your end of the bargain, Hole.’

The line went dead.

When the taxi arrived at the address on the serviette a man was waiting outside.

Harry stepped out and went over to him. ‘Ola Kvernberg, the caretaker?’

The man nodded.

‘Inspector Hole. I rang you.’ He saw the caretaker steal a glance at the taxi which was waiting. ‘We use taxis when there are no patrol cars.’

Kvernberg examined the ID card the man held up in front of him. ‘I haven’t seen any signs of a break-in,’ he said.

‘But someone’s rung in, so let’s check. You’ve got a master key, haven’t you?’

Kvernberg nodded and unlocked the main door while the policeman studied the names on the bells. ‘The witness maintained he’d seen someone climbing up the balconies and breaking into the second floor.’

‘Who rang in?’ asked the caretaker on his way up.

‘Confidential matter, Kvernberg.’

‘You’ve got something on your trousers.’

‘Kebab sauce. I keep thinking about getting them cleaned. Can you unlock the door?’

‘The pharmacist’s?’

‘Oh, is that what he is?’

‘Works at the Radium Hospital. Shouldn’t we ring him at work before we enter?’

‘I’d rather see if the burglar’s here so we can arrest him, if you don’t mind.’

The caretaker mumbled an apology and hastened to unlock the door.

Hole went into the flat.

It was obvious that a bachelor was living here. But a tidy one. Classical CDs on their own CD shelf, in alphabetical order. Scientific journals about chemistry and pharmacy stacked in high but neat piles. On one bookshelf there was a framed photograph of two adults and a boy. Harry recognised the boy. He was stooping a little to one side with a sullen expression. He can’t have been more than twelve or thirteen. The caretaker stood by the front door watching carefully, so for appearances’ sake Harry checked the balcony door before going from room to room. Opening drawers and cupboards. But there was nothing compromising on view.

Suspiciously little, some colleagues would say.

But Harry had seen it before; some people don’t have secrets. Not often, it’s fair to say, but it happened. He heard the caretaker shifting weight from foot to foot in the bedroom door behind him.

‘No signs of a break-in or anything taken,’ Harry said, walking past him towards the exit. ‘Maybe a false alarm.’

‘I see,’ said the caretaker, locking up after them. ‘What would you have done if there had been a thief there? Taken him in the taxi?’

‘We’d have probably called for a patrol car,’ Harry smiled, pulling up and examining the boots on the stand by the door. ‘Tell me, aren’t these two boots very different sizes?’

Kvernberg rubbed his chin while scrutinising Harry.

‘Yes, maybe. He’s got a club foot. May I have another look at your ID?’

Harry passed his card to him.

‘The expiry date-’

‘The taxi’s waiting,’ Harry said, snatching the card back and setting off down the stairs at a jog. ‘Thanks for your help, Kvernberg!’

I went to Hausmanns gate, and, course, no one had fixed the locks, so I went straight up to the flat. Oleg wasn’t there. Nor anyone else. They were out getting stressed. Gotta getta fix, gotta getta fix. Several junkies living together, and the place looked like it. But there was nothing there, of course, just empty bottles, used syringes, bloodstained wads of cotton wool and empty fag packets. Fricking burnt earth. And it was while I was sitting on a filthy mattress and cursing that I saw the rat. When people describe rats they always say a huge rat. But rats are not huge. They’re quite small. It’s just that their tails can be quite long. OK, if they feel threatened and stand up on two legs they can seem bigger than they are. Apart from that, they’re poor creatures who get stressed the same as us. Gotta getta fix.

I heard a church bell ring. And I told myself that Ibsen would be coming.

Had to come. Shit, I felt so bad. I had seen them standing and waiting when we went to work, so happy to see us it was moving. Trembling, their banknotes at the ready, reduced to being amateur beggars. And now I was there myself. Sick with longing to hear Ibsen’s lame shuffle on the stairs, to see his idiotic mush.