Ю Несбё - The Kingdom

‘Enough!’ screamed Shannon. She put her hands over her ears and a shudder seemed to pass through her body.

‘What if… what if anyway he discovers there’s something wrong and doesn’t drive the car?’

‘Then he discovers something’s wrong. Naturally he’ll have the car checked and the mechanic will tell him the throttle cable is frayed, the brake hoses rotten, nothing more mysterious than that. And we have to make another plan, do it some other way. That’s all there is to it.’

‘And if the plan works, but the police are suspicious?’

‘They examine the wreck and discover the worn parts. We’ve been through this, Shannon. It’s a good plan, OK?’

With a sob Shannon threw herself at me.

I gently extricated myself from her embrace.

‘I’m going now,’ I said.

‘No!’ she sobbed. ‘Stay!’

‘I’ll be watching from the workshop,’ I said. ‘I can see Geitesvingen from there. Call me if anything goes wrong, OK?’

‘Roy!’ She shouted it as though this was the last time she would see me alive, as though I was drifting away from her on an open sea, like a couple of newly-weds on a sailing boat who had drunk themselves into a lovely champagne high but were now abruptly sober.

‘We’ll see each other later,’ I said. ‘Remember to call the emergency services immediately. Remember how it happened, how the car behaved, and describe it to the police exactly as it happened.’

She nodded, pulled herself together, straightened her dress. ‘What… what d’you think they’ll do?’

‘After that,’ I said. ‘I think they’ll put up that crash barrier.’

THE TIME WAS 18.02 and it was just starting to get dark.

I sat by the window in the office with my binoculars trained on Geitesvingen. I had worked out in my head that when the Cadillac went over the edge it would be visible for almost exactly three-tenths of a second, so I’d need to blink quickly.

I had thought I would be less nervous once I was finished with my own bit and the rest was in Shannon’s hands, but it was the other way round. Sitting here idly now I had far too much time to think through everything that could go wrong. And I kept thinking of new things. Each one of them was more unlikely than the one before, but that didn’t greatly help my peace of mind.

The plan was that when it was time to leave for the building site and the cutting of the ribbon Shannon was to complain that she wasn’t feeling well and had to go upstairs and lie down, that Carl would have to go alone. That if he took the Cadillac and drove to the opening ceremony, she could take the Subaru to the party at Årtun if she felt better.

I looked at my watch again. 18.03. Three-tenths of a second. Raised the binoculars again. Swept over the Smitts’ window where the curtains remained in the same position as earlier in the day, found the mountain behind, then Geitesvingen. It might have already happened. It might already be over.

I heard the sound of a car pulling up in front of the workshop and turned the binoculars on it, but they were out of focus. I took the binoculars away from my eyes and saw that it was Kurt Olsen’s Land Rover.

The engine died and he climbed out. He couldn’t see me, because I had turned off the light in the room, and yet he looked directly at me, as though he knew I was sitting there. He just stood there, bow-legged, his thumbs hooked in his belt, like a cowboy calling me out to a duel. Then he walked towards the workshop door, disappeared from sight. A few moments later I heard the bell.

I sighed, stood up and opened the door.

‘Good evening, sheriff. What is it this time?’

‘Hello, Roy. Can I come in?’

‘Right now it’s—’

He pushed me to one side and walked into the workshop. Looked around as though he’d never been there before. Walked over to the shelves on which several things were standing. Fritz heavy-duty cleaner, for example.

‘I’m wondering what’s been going on in here, Roy.’

I froze. Had he finally worked it out? That it was here his father’s body had ended up? Vanished – quite literally – in Fritz’s heavy-duty cleaner?

But then I noticed that he was tapping his index finger on his temple and realised he meant what was going on inside my head.

‘…when you set fire to Grete Smitt.’

‘Is that what Grete says?’ I asked.

‘Not Grete, no. Her father. He saw you leaving the place while Grete was still smouldering, as he put it.’

‘And what does Grete say?’

‘What d’you think, Roy? That something went wrong with the hairdryer. An overload or something. That you helped her. But I don’t believe it, not for one fucking moment, because the flex was almost cut in half. So my question to you now is – and give this a good fucking think before you answer – what the hell did you threaten her with that’s made her lie?’

Kurt Olsen awaited a reply, alternately sucking on his moustache and puffing his cheeks out like a bullfrog.

‘Are you refusing to answer, Roy?’

‘No.’

‘Then what do you call this?’

‘Doing what you said. Having a bloody good think.’

I saw something click behind Kurt Olsen’s eyes and I knew he’d lost it. He took two steps towards me, pulled his right arm back and was about to hit out. I know it because I know what people who are about to hit out look like, like sharks whose eyes roll backwards as they bite. But he stopped, something stopped him. The thought of Roy Opgard at Årtun on a Saturday night. No broken jaws or noses, just nosebleeds and teeth knocked out, so nothing to bother Sigmund Olsen with. Roy Opgard, a man who never lost his head in a fight but in a cold and calculating way humiliated those who did. So instead of striking out, a warning forefinger poked up from Kurt Olsen’s clenched fist.

‘I know that Grete knows things. She knows things about you, Roy Opgard. What does she know?’ He took another step closer and I felt the spray of spittle on my face. ‘What does she know about Willum Willumsen?’

The phone rang in my pocket, but Kurt Olsen drowned it out.

‘You think I’m stupid? That I think the guy who killed Willumsen accidentally skidded on the ice right outside your doorway? That Willumsen, without a word to anyone, wrote off millions of kroner in debt? Because he thought he ought to ?’

Was that Shannon? I had to see who had rung, I had to.

‘Come off it, Roy. As though Willum Willumsen ever wrote off a single krone anyone owed him.’

I fished out my phone. Looked at the display. Shit.

‘Yes, I know you and your brother were involved. Just like when my father disappeared. Because you’re a murderer, Roy Opgard. Are and always have been!’

I nodded to Kurt, and for a moment the torrent of words halted and he opened his eyes wide as though I’d just confirmed his accusations before realising it was a signal that I was going to take the call. Then he started up again.

‘If you hadn’t heard witnesses coming you would have killed Grete Smitt today. You would have…’

I half turned my back to Kurt Olsen, stuck a finger into one ear and pressed the phone against the other. ‘Yes, Carl.’

‘Roy? I need help!’

It was as though the lights went out and I was hurled back sixteen years in time.

Same place.

Same despair in my little brother’s voice.

Same crime about to be committed, only this time it was him who was going to be the victim.

But he was alive. And he needed help.

‘What is it?’ I managed to say as the sheriff stood bellowing his refrain behind me.

Carl hesitated. ‘Is that Kurt Olsen I can hear?’

‘Yes. What is it?’