Jo Nesbo - The Devil's star

The thought had never occurred to Oystein. Until now. He looked into the mirror again, but the man had moved across to the window so that he could only see half of his face.

Oystein slowed down, indicated he was turning left and swung into the turning. The gravel track in front of them was narrow and bumpy with grass growing in the middle.

Oystein hesitated.

Branches with green leaves that reflected in the light hung over the track on each side and seemed to be waving them on. Oystein put his foot on the brake. The gravel crunched under the tyres and the car came to a halt.

‘Sorry,’ he said to the mirror. ‘Just had the chassis fixed for 40 thousand and we are under no obligation to drive on tracks like these. I can ring for another car if you like.’

The man in the back seat appeared to be smiling, at least the half he could see.

‘And which telephone were you thinking of using, Eikeland?’

Oystein felt the hairs on the back of his neck rising.

‘Your own telephone?’ the voice whispered. ‘Or Harry Hole’s?’

‘I’m not exactly sure what you’re talking about, but the trip stops here, mister.’

The man laughed.

‘ Mister? I don’t think so, Eikeland.’

Oystein felt an urge to swallow, but resisted the temptation.

‘Listen, you don’t have to pay since I couldn’t drive you to your destination. Get out and wait here and I’ll organise another car for you.’

‘Your record says that you’re smart, Eikeland. So I assume you know what I’m after. I hate to have to use this cliche, but it is up to you whether we do this the easy way or the hard way.’

‘I really don’t know what… Ow!’

The man had slapped the back of Oystein’s head, just above the headrest, and as Oystein was automatically thrust forwards, he could feel, to his surprise, his eyes filling with tears. It wasn’t that it hurt particularly. The blow had been of the type they handed out at junior school: light, a sort of introductory humiliation. The tear ducts were, however, already aware of what his brain still refused to accept. That he was in serious trouble.

‘Where’s Harry’s phone, Eikeland? In the glove compartment? In the boot? In your pocket perhaps?’

Oystein didn’t answer. He sat still as his eyes fed his brain. Forest on both sides. Something told him that the man in the back seat was fit and that he would catch Oystein in a matter of seconds. Was the man alone? Should he set off the alarm that was connected to the other cars? Was it a good idea to get other people involved?

‘I see,’ the man said. ‘The hard way then. And do you know what?’ Oystein was unable to react before he felt an arm around his neck pulling him back against the headrest. ‘Deep down, that’s what I’d hoped.’

Oystein lost his glasses. He stretched his hand out towards the steering column, but couldn’t reach.

‘Press the alarm and I’ll kill you,’ the man whispered into his ear. ‘And I’m not speaking metaphorically, Eikeland, but in the sense that I will literally take your life.’

Despite the fact that his brain was not getting oxygen, Oystein Eikeland could hear, see and smell unusually well. He could see the network of veins on the inside of his own eyelids, smell the aroma of the man’s after-shave and hear the slightly whining overtone of glee – like a kind of drivebelt – in the man’s voice.

‘Where is he, Eikeland? Where is Harry Hole?’

Oystein opened his mouth and the man released his grip.

‘I have no idea what it is you -’

Then the arm was back, squeezing.

‘Last try, Eikeland. Where’s your piss-artist pal?’

Oystein felt the pains, the irritating will to live, but he also knew that it would soon be over. He had experienced similar things before. It was just a phase, a stage before the much more pleasurable sense of indifference kicked in. The seconds passed. The brain was beginning to shut down branch lines. First his sight went.

Then the man let go again and the oxygen streamed into his brain. Sight returned. And the pain.

‘We’ll find him anyway,’ the voice said. ‘You can choose whether it’s before or after you’ve left us.’

Oystein felt something cold and hard move across his temples. Then across the bridge of his nose. Oystein had seen his share of Westerns, but he had never seen a. 45calibre revolver close up before.

‘Open up.’

Let alone tasted one.

‘I’m going to count to five. Then I’ll shoot. Nod if there’s something you want to say to me. Preferably before I count to five. One…’

Oystein tried to combat his fear of death. Tried telling himself that mankind is rational and that the man behind him would not gain anything by taking his life.

‘Two…’

Logic is with me, Oystein thought. The barrel had a nauseous smell of metal and blood.

‘Three. And don’t worry about the seat covers, Eikeland. I’ll tidy up and wash everything down thoroughly after me.’

Oystein could feel his body beginning to shake, an uncontrollable reaction he could only view as a spectator, and he was reminded of a rocket he had seen on TV that had shaken in the same way, seconds before it was fired into the cold, empty void of outer space.

‘Four.’

Oystein nodded. Repeatedly and with vigour.

The gun disappeared.

‘It’s in the glove compartment,’ he gasped. ‘He said I should keep it switched on and I wasn’t to touch it if it rang. He took mine.’

‘I’m not interested in the phones,’ the voice said. ‘I want to know where Hole is.’

‘I don’t know. He didn’t say anything. Yes, he did. He said it was best for both of us if I knew nothing.’

‘He was lying,’ the man said.

The words came slowly and calmly, and Oystein could not make out whether the man was angry or enjoying himself.

‘Just best for him, Eikeland. Not for you.’

The cold gun barrel on Oystein’s cheek felt like a glowing iron.

‘Wait! Harry did say something. I remember now. He said that he was going to lie low at his place.’

The words streamed out of Oystein’s mouth; he had the impression that he was pumping them out half formed.

‘We’ve been there, you numbskull,’ the voice said.

‘I don’t mean the place where he lives. His place in Oppsal. The place where he grew up.’

The man laughed and Oystein smarted with pain as the gun barrel was thrust up his nostril.

‘We’ve been tracking your phone for the last few hours, Eikeland. We know which part of town he’s in. And it isn’t in Oppsal. You’re lying: fact. Or to put it another way: five.’

A bleep. Oystein squeezed his eyes shut. The bleeping would not stop. Was he dead already? The bleeps formed a tune. Purple Rain. Prince. It was the digital ringtone of a mobile phone.

‘Yes, what’s up?’ the voice behind him said.

Oystein didn’t dare open his eyes.

‘At Underwater? Five o’clock? OK, get all the guys together immediately. I’m on my way.’

Oystein heard the rustle of clothing behind him. His hour had come. He heard a bird singing outside. A beautiful high trill. He didn’t even know what kind of bird it was. He should have known. Now he would never know. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder.

Oystein tentatively opened his eyes and peered in the mirror.

A flash of white teeth and then the voice with the same undertone of glee: ‘City centre, driver. Step on it.’

Monday. The Cloud.

Rakel opened her eyes with a start. Her heart was pounding fiercely. She had slept. She listened to the unrelenting din of children swimming in the open-air Frogner swimming pool. A faintly bitter taste of grass lingered in her mucous linings and the heat lay like a warm duvet on her back. Had she been dreaming? Was that what had woken her?