Jo Nesbo - The Thirst

‘But he didn’t make a mistake today,’ Oleg said. ‘Steffens is your father, isn’t he?’

Anders nodded. ‘When it comes to saving the life of a corrupt, lazy piece of shit like Berntsen, of course he doesn’t make mistakes.’

Oleg looked at his watch. Pulled out his phone. No message from his mum. He put it back. She’d told him there was nothing he could do to help Harry. But that he could help Truls Berntsen.

‘It’s none of my business,’ Oleg said. ‘But have you ever asked your father how much he’s given up? How many years of hard work he’s devoted to learning everything there is to learn about blood, and how many people that work has saved?’

Anders shook his bowed head.

‘No?’ Oleg said.

‘I don’t talk to him.’

‘Not at all?’

Anders shrugged. ‘I moved. Changed my name.’

‘Is Wyller your mother’s name?’

‘Yes.’

They saw a man dressed in silver rush into the hybrid room before the doors closed again.

Oleg cleared his throat. ‘Like I said, it’s none of my business. But don’t you think you’re being hard on him?’

Anders raised his head. Looked Oleg in the eye. ‘You’re right,’ he said, nodding slowly. ‘It’s none of your business.’ Then he got up and walked towards the exit.

‘Where are you going?’ Oleg asked.

‘Back to the university. Will you take me? If not, I’ll catch the bus.’

Oleg stood up and followed him. ‘There are enough cooks there. But there’s a police officer here who might be about to die.’ He caught up with Anders and put his hand on his shoulder. ‘And as a fellow police officer, right now you’re his next of kin. So you can’t leave. He needs you.’

When he turned Anders round he saw that the young detective’s eyes were wet.

‘They both need you,’ Oleg said.

Harry needed to do something. Fast.

Smith had turned off the main road and was driving carefully down a narrow forest road with banks of snow on both sides. Between them and the frozen water was a red-painted boathouse with a white wooden plank across its double doors. He could see two houses, one on either side of the road, but they were partially hidden by trees and rocks, and were so far away that there was no way he could alert anyone there by shouting for help. Harry took a deep breath and felt his top lip with his tongue; it tasted metallic. He could feel sweat running under his shirt, even though he was freezing. He tried to think. Think the way Smith was thinking. A small, open boat all the way to Denmark. It was obviously perfectly possible, yet still so daring that no one in the police would consider it as a likely escape route. And what about him – how was Smith thinking of solving that problem? Harry tried to shut out the voice that was desperately hoping he would be spared. And the comfortably apathetic voice telling him everything was lost, and that fighting against the inevitable would only mean more pain. Instead he listened to the cold, logical voice. Which said that Harry no longer had any value as a hostage and would only hold Smith back in the boat. Smith wasn’t scared of using the gun, he’d already shot Valentin and a police officer. And it was likely to happen in here, before they got out of the car, because that would muffle the noise best.

Harry tried to lean forward, but the fixed, three-pointed belt was pinning him to the seat. And the handcuffs were pressing against the small of his back and rubbing through the skin of his wrists.

There was a hundred metres to go to the boathouse.

Harry bellowed. A guttural, rattling sound that came from the depths of his stomach. Then he rocked from side to side and hit his head against the side window. It cracked and a white rosette appeared in the glass. He roared as he butted it again. The rosette grew larger. A third time. A piece of glass fell out.

‘Shut up or I’ll shoot you now!’ Smith shouted, and aimed the revolver at Harry’s head while he kept one eye on the road.

Harry bit.

Felt the pain of the pressure on his gums, felt the metallic taste that had been there ever since he had stood in front of the table in the auditorium with his back to Smith and quickly picked up the iron teeth and put them in his mouth before putting the handcuffs on. How strangely easily the sharp teeth sank into Hallstein Smith’s wrist. Smith’s scream filled the car and Harry felt the revolver hit his left knee before falling to the floor between his feet. Harry tensed his neck muscles and pulled Smith’s arm to the right. Smith let go of the wheel and punched Harry in the head, but his own seat belt prevented him from reaching properly. Harry opened his mouth, heard a gurgling sound, and bit again. His mouth filled with warm blood. Perhaps he had hit the artery, perhaps not. He swallowed. It was thick, like drinking brown sauce, and tasted sickeningly sweet.

Smith grabbed hold of the wheel again with his left hand. Harry had been expecting him to brake, but instead he accelerated.

The Amazon spun on the ice before racing off down the slope. The plank across the boathouse snapped like a matchstick when it was struck by more than a ton of vintage Swedish car, and the doors were torn off their hinges.

Harry was thrown forward in his seat belt as the car slammed into the back of a twelve-foot metal boat that was forced into the doors at the end of the boathouse facing the water.

He noticed that the car key had snapped in the ignition before the engine died. Then he felt an intense pain in his teeth and mouth as Smith tried to pull his arm free. But he knew he had to hold on. Not that he was doing much damage. Even though he had punctured the artery, it was – as every self-harmer knew – so thin at that point in the wrist that it could take hours for Smith to bleed to death. Smith jerked his arm again, but more weakly this time. Harry caught a glimpse of his face out of the corner of his eye. Smith was pale. If he couldn’t stand the sight of blood, maybe Harry could get him to faint? Harry clamped his jaws together as hard as he could.

‘I see that I’m bleeding, Harry.’ Smith’s voice was weak but calm. ‘Did you know that when Peter Kürten, the ‘Vampire of Düsseldorf” was about to be executed, he asked Dr Karl Berg a question? He asked if Berg thought Kürten would have time to hear his own blood squirt from his decapitated neck before he lost consciousness. And if so, that pleasure would triumph over all other pleasure. But I’m afraid this isn’t enough to count as an execution, and it’s only the start of my pleasure.’

With a quick movement Smith released his seat belt with his left hand, and leaned over Harry, putting his head in his lap as he reached down to the floor. His hand fumbled over the rubber mat, but couldn’t find the revolver. He leaned further, then turned his head towards Harry as he pushed his arm deeper under the seat. Harry saw a broad smile spread across Smith’s lips. He had found the revolver. Harry lifted his foot and stamped down hard with it. He felt the lump of metal and Smith’s hand through the thin sole of his shoe.

Smith groaned and looked up at him. ‘Move your foot, Harry. Otherwise I’ll fetch the slaughter knife and use that instead. Do you hear? Move y—’

Harry loosened his bite and tensed his stomach muscles. ‘ Assh you woosh .’

He raised both legs with a jerk, using the taut seat belt to help him as he forced his knees, and Smith’s head, up towards his chest.

Smith felt the revolver come free beneath Harry’s shoe, but as he was lifted up by Harry’s knees he lost his grip on it. He had to reach his arm further down, and managed to touch the hilt with two fingers just as Harry let go of his right arm. All he had to do was pick up the revolver and turn it round to point at Harry. Then Smith realised what was happening, and he saw Harry’s mouth open again, saw the glint of metal, saw him lean down towards him, felt warm breath on his neck. It was as if icicles were drilling through his skin. His scream was cut short as Harry’s jaws locked around his larynx. Then Harry’s foot came down again and stamped on his hand and the revolver.