Jo Nesbo - The Leopard

Tony Leike’s alibi. He hadn’t had an accomplice. That is to say, the victims themselves had been his accomplices. When Borgny and Charlotte had come to after being drugged they hadn’t a clue what it was they had in their mouths. Borgny had been locked in a cellar. Charlotte had been outside, but the wire from her mouth had led to the boot of the wrecked car in front of her, and however much she struggled, scraped and pulled at the boot lid it was, and remained, locked. Neither of them had a chance in hell of escaping from where they were, and when the pain was too great they had taken the predictable route. They had pulled the wire. Had they anticipated what would happen? Had the pain made them give way to hope, the hope that pulling the wire would retract the circular ridges in the mysterious object? And while the girls had slowly but surely gone through the agonies of doubt and conjecture before the inevitable act, Tony Leike was many kilometres away at a dinner or a lecture, secure in the knowledge that the girls would perform the final part of the job themselves. Giving him the best possible alibi for the time of the death. In the strictest sense, he hadn’t even murdered them.

Harry twisted his head to see what radius of movement he had without tightening the steel wire.

He had to do something. Anything. He groaned, thought the wire seemed to tighten; he stopped breathing, stared at the door. Waited for it to open, for…

Nothing happened.

He tried to remember Van Boorst’s demo of the apple, how long the ridges remained out if there was no resistance. If only he could open his mouth even wider, if only his jaws…

Harry closed his eyes. It struck him how strangely normal and obvious the idea seemed, how little resistance he felt. Quite the opposite, he felt relief. Relief at inflicting even more pain on himself, if necessary risking his own life in an attempt to survive. It was logical, simple, the black void of doubt repressed by a bright, clear, insane idea. Harry turned round on his stomach with his head against the U bolt so that there was some slack in the wire. Then he cautiously got up onto his knees. Touched his jaw. Found the point. The point where everything centred: the pain, the jaw joint, the knot, the jumble of nerves and muscles that only just held his jaw together after the incident in Hong Kong. He wouldn’t be able to hit himself hard enough, there had to be body weight behind it. His first finger tested the nail. It protruded about four centimetres from the wall. A standard nail with a large, broad head. It would smash through everything that came in its path if there was enough force. Harry took aim, rested his jaw against the nail in rehearsal, stood up to calculate at what angle he would have to fall. How deep the nail would have to penetrate. And how deep it must not penetrate. Neck, nerves, paralysis. Did calculations. Not coldly and calmly. But he calculated anyway. Forced himself. The nail head was not like the top of a T, it sloped down towards the shank so that it would not necessarily tear everything with it on its way out. Finally, he tried to identify anything he hadn’t considered. Until he realised this was his brain trying to delay events.

Harry took a deep breath.

His body would not obey. It protested, resisted. Wouldn’t lower his head.

‘Idiot!’ Harry strove to shout, but it turned into a whistle. He felt a hot tear trickle down his cheek.

Enough crying, he thought. Time to die a little now.

Then he brought his head down.

The nail received him with a deep sigh.

Kaja was fumbling for her mobile phone. The Carpenters had just shouted a three-part ‘Stop!’ And Karen Carpenter answered ‘Oh, yes, wait a minute.’ The SMS alert.

Outside the car, night had fallen with sudden brutality. She had sent three messages to Harry. Told him what had happened and that she was parked up the road from the house Lene Galtung had entered, awaiting further instructions and a sign of life. Well done. Come and pick me up from the street to the south of the church. Easy to find, it’s the only brick house. Come straight in, it’s open. Harry.

It was in Norwegian. She passed on the address to the taxi driver who nodded, yawned and switched on the engine.

Kaja texted back in Norwegian On my way as they drove north along the illuminated streets. The volcano lit up the night sky like an incandescent lamp, obliterating the stars and lending everything a faint bloodred shimmer.

A quarter of an hour later they found themsleves in a darkened bomb crater of a street. A couple of paraffin lamps hung outside a shop. Either there was another power cut or this neighbourhood didn’t have electricity.

The driver stopped and pointed. Van Boorst. Sure enough, there it was, a brick house. Kaja looked around. Further up the street she saw two Range Rovers. Two bleating mopeds passed with wobbly lights. Heavy African disco came belting out of one door. Here and there she could see the glow of cigarettes and white eyes.

‘Wait here,’ Kaja said, pushing her hair up into the peaked cap and ignoring the driver’s warning cries when she opened the door and slipped out.

She walked quickly up to the house. She had no naive preconceptions about the chances a white woman had in a town like Goma after nightfall, but right now darkness was her best friend.

She could make out the door with black lava boulders on either side, knew she had to hurry, she felt it coming, she would have to pre-empt it. She almost stumbled, rushed onwards, breathing through an open mouth. Then she was there. She placed her fingers on the door handle. Although the temperature had sunk surprisingly fast after the sun had set, sweat was streaming down between her shoulder blades and her breasts. She forced herself to press the handle down. Listened. It was so eerily quiet. As quiet as the time when…

Tears thickened like a viscous cement mix in her throat.

‘Come on,’ she whispered. ‘Not now.’

She closed her eyes. Concentrated on breathing. Emptied her brain of any thoughts. She would manage this now. Her thoughts slowed. Delete, delete. That’s the way. Just one tiny thought left, then she could open the door.

Harry woke with something yanking at the corner of his mouth. He opened his eyes. It was dark. He must have fainted. Then he became aware of the wire pulling at the ball that was still in his mouth. His heart started, accelerated, hammered away. He pushed his mouth up against the bolt, absolutely clear that none of this would help if someone opened the door.

A strip of light from outside struck the wall above him. The blood glistened. He guided his fingers into his mouth, placed them over the teeth in his lower jaw and pressed. The pain made everything go black for a second, but he felt his jaw give. It was dislocated! As he pressed his jaw down with one hand, he took the apple with the other and pulled.

He heard sounds outside the door. Fuck, fuck, fuck! He still couldn’t get the apple past his teeth. He pressed his jaw down further. The sound of bone and tissue crunching and tearing resonated as if it came from his ears. He might just be able to pull his jaw down so far on one side that he could get the apple out sideways, but there was a cheek in the way. He could see the door handle moving. There wasn’t time. No time. Time stopped here.

That last tiny thought. The Norwegian SMS. Gaten. Kirken. The street. The church. Harry didn’t use those endings. Gata. Kirka. That’s what he said. Kaja opened her eyes. What was it he had said on her veranda when they were talking about the title of the Fante book? He never texted. Because he didn’t want to lose his soul, because he preferred not to leave any traces when he disappeared. She had never received a single text from him. Not until now. He would have rung. This didn’t stack up; this was not her brain finding excuses not to open the door. This was a trap.