Ю Несбё - Blood on Snow

I could see what she was thinking. Because she had a place that she always wanted to go back to, where she would travel in a bottle.

“But I don’t want to die, Mummy. I just want to make up stories.”

I was up on my knees, both hands on the pistol.

I saw Pine and Hoffmann spin round, almost in slow motion.

I shot Pine in the back, speeding up his pirouette. Two shots. White feathers leaped from his brown jacket, dancing in the air like snow. He had pulled his pistol free of his jacket and fired, but didn’t manage to raise his arm. The bullets hit the floor and walls and ricocheted noisily around the stone room. From the corner of my eye I saw that Klein had got the lid off the coffin next to me, but hadn’t yet climbed out. Perhaps he wasn’t keen on the hail of bullets. The Dane had emerged from his coffin and had taken aim at Hoffmann, but because they’d put his coffin at the end of the crypt I was in his line of fire right behind Hoffmann. I jerked back at the same time as I swung my pistol towards Hoffmann. But he was surprisingly quick. He threw himself over the coffin, right at the young girl, and took her down with him as he landed by the long wall of the crypt, behind the rest of his family who were standing there like pillars of salt, mouths agape.

Pine was lying on the floor under the table Benjamin Hoffmann’s coffin was on, his pistol hand sticking stiffly away from his body, like a dipstick he’d lost control of. It swung round, firing out bullets at random. Blood and spinal fluid on the concrete floor. A Glock pistol. Plenty of bullets. Just a matter of time before one of them hit someone. I put another bullet in Pine. And kicked at Klein’s coffin as I raised the pistol towards Hoffmann again. I got him in the sights. He was sitting on the floor with his back against the wall and the young girl in his lap, holding her tight with one arm around her skinny ribcage. With the other hand he was aiming a pistol directly at her temple. She was sitting completely still, just looking at me with big brown eyes, not blinking.

“Erik...” It was the sister. She was looking at her brother, but talking to her husband.

And the man with the half bald head finally reacted. He took an unsteady step towards his brother-in-law.

“Don’t come any closer, Erik,” Hoffmann said. “These men aren’t after you.”

But Erik didn’t stop, he carried on stumbling forward, like a zombie.

“Fuck!” the Dane yelled, shaking and hitting his pistol. Obviously not working. A bullet had probably jammed. Bloody amateur.

“Erik!” Hoffmann repeated, aiming the pistol at his brother-in-law.

The father held out his arms towards his daughter. Moistened his lips. “Bettine...”

Hoffmann fired. The brother-in-law staggered back. Hit in the stomach.

“Come out, or I’ll shoot the girl!” Hoffmann shouted.

I heard a deep sigh beside me. It was Klein, who had got to his feet and was aiming his sawn-off shotgun in front of him, towards Hoffmann. But the table and Hoffmann junior’s coffin were in the way, so he had to take a step closer to the coffin to get a clear line of fire.

“Get back, or I’ll shoot her!” Hoffmann was screaming in falsetto now.

The shotgun was pointing down, at an angle of about forty-five degrees, while Klein leaned back, away from the shotgun, as if he were afraid it was going to go off in his face.

“Klein,” I said. “Don’t do it!”

I saw him begin to close his eyes, the way you do when you know something’s going to go off, but you don’t know exactly when.

“Sir!” I shouted, trying to get eye contact with Hoffmann. “Sir! Let the girl go, please!”

Hoffmann stared at me as though to ask if I took him for a fool.

Damn. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. I reached out and took a step towards Klein.

The blast from the shotgun rang in my ears. A cloud of smoke rose towards the ceiling. Short barrel, large spread.

The girl’s white blouse was now covered in polka dots, one side of her neck was torn open, and Hoffmann’s face looked like it was burning. But they were both alive. As Hoffmann’s pistol skidded away across the floor, Klein leaned over the coffin on the table and stretched his arm out so that the barrel was against the girl’s shoulder and the end reached Hoffmann’s nose, as he tried desperately to hide behind her.

He fired again. The shot blew Hoffmann’s face back into his head.

Klein turned to me with the excited face of a madman. “A unit! Was that enough of a unit for you, you bastard?”

I was ready to shoot Klein in the head if he raised the shotgun towards me, even if I knew it contained nothing but two empty cartridges now. I glanced at Hoffmann. His head was sunken in the middle, like a windfall apple that had rotted from within. He was fixed. So what? He would have died in the end. We all die in the end. But at least I had outlived him.

I got hold of the girl, grabbed the cashmere scarf from Hoffmann’s neck and wound it round her neck, which was pumping out blood. She just stared at me with pupils that seemed to fill her whole eyes. She hadn’t said a word. I sent the Dane over to the stairs to check that no one was coming while I got the grandmother to press her hand against the wound in her granddaughter’s neck to stop the worst of the bleeding. From the corner of my eye I saw Klein reload that ugly gun of his with two new cartridges. I kept a firm grip on my pistol.

The sister was on her knees beside her husband, who was moaning in a low, monotonous voice, his hands folded over his stomach. I’d heard that getting gastric acid in a wound is agony, but I guessed he’d live. But the girl... Shit. What harm had she done anyone?

“What do we do now?” the Dane asked.

“We sit quietly and wait,” I said.

Klein snorted. “What for? The pigs?”

“We wait until we hear a car start up and drive away,” I said. I remembered the calm look of concentration beneath the bearskin cap. I could always hope he wasn’t really that devoted to duty.

“The gravedigger has—”

“Shut up!”

Klein stared at me. The tip of the shotgun tilted upwards slightly. Until he noticed where my pistol was pointing, and lowered it again. And he shut up.

But someone else didn’t. The voice came from under the table.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fucking bastard fucking hell...”

For a moment I thought that the guy was dead but his mouth was refusing to stop, like the body of a snake chopped in half. I’d read that they could carry on wriggling for up to a day afterwards.

“Shit crap fucking bollocking bastard fucking cunt crap.”

I squatted down beside him.

Where Pine had got his nickname was a subject of debate. Some people said it came from the Norwegian word for “pain,” because he knew exactly where to cut his women if they didn’t do their job, places that would cause more pain than disfigurement, and where the scars wouldn’t damage the goods too much. Others said it was from the English word “pine,” because he had such long legs. But right now it looked as if he would be taking his secret with him to the grave.

“Argh, shitting bastard cocksucker! Christ, it fucking hurts, Olav!”

“Doesn’t look like it’s likely to hurt much longer, Pine.”

“No? Shit. Can you pass me my cig?”

I pulled the cigarette from behind his ear and stuck it between his trembling lips. It bobbed up and down, but he managed to keep hold of it.

“L-l-light?” he stammered.

“Sorry, I’ve given up.”

“Sensible man. You’ll live longer.”

“No guarantee.”

“No, course not. You m-might get hit by a b-b-bus tomorrow.”

I nodded. “Who’s waiting outside?”