Jo Nesbo - The Thirst

Something was shading the sun. A cloud? A face? Yes, a face. A woman’s face. Like a darkened memory that was suddenly illuminated.

She was sitting on top of him, riding him. Whispering that she loved him, that she always had. That she had been waiting for this. Asking if he felt the same, that time was standing still. He felt vibrations in the boat, her groans rose to a continuous scream, as if he had plunged a knife into her, and he released the air from his lungs and the sperm from his testicles. And then she died on top of him. Hit his chest with her head as the wind hit the window above the bed in the flat. And before time began to move again, they both fell asleep, unconscious, without memory, without conscience.

He opened his eyes. It looked like a big, hovering bird.

It was a helicopter. It was hovering ten, twenty metres above him, but he still couldn’t hear anything. But he realised that was what was making the boat vibrate.

Katrine was standing outside the boathouse, shivering in the shade as she watched the officers approach the Volvo Amazon inside the building.

She saw them open the front doors on both sides. Saw a suited arm fall out from one side. From the wrong side. From Harry’s side. The naked hand was bloody. The officer put his head inside the car, presumably to check for breathing or a pulse. It took a while, and eventually Katrine couldn’t hold back any longer, and heard her own trembling voice: ‘Is he alive?’

‘Maybe,’ the officer shouted above the noise of the helicopter out over the water. ‘I can’t feel a pulse, but he might be breathing. If he is alive, I don’t think he’s got long left, though.’

Katrine took a few steps closer. ‘The ambulance is on its way. Can you see the gunshot wound?’

‘There’s too much blood.’

Katrine went inside the boathouse. Stared at the hand dangling out of the door. It looked as if it was searching for something, something to hold on to. Another hand to hold. She stroked her own hand over her stomach. There was something she should have told him.

‘I think you’re wrong,’ the other officer said from inside the car. ‘He’s already dead. Look at his pupils.’

Katrine closed her eyes.

He stared up at the face that had appeared above him on both sides of the boat. One of them had pulled his black mask off, and his mouth was opening, forming words; from the way his neck muscles were tensing it looked like he was shouting. Perhaps he was shouting at him to drop the revolver. Perhaps he was shouting his name. Perhaps he was shouting for revenge.

Katrine went over to the door on Harry’s side of the car. Took a deep breath and looked inside. Stared. Felt the shock hit her even harder than she had prepared herself for. She could hear the siren of the ambulance now, but she had seen more dead bodies than these two officers, and knew from a brief glance that this body had been permanently vacated. She knew him, and knew that this was just the shell he had left behind.

She swallowed. ‘He’s dead. Don’t touch anything.’

‘But we ought to try to revive him, shouldn’t we? Maybe—’

‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘Let him be.’

She stood there. Felt the shock slowly fade. Give way to surprise. Surprise at the fact that Hallstein Smith had chosen to drive the car himself rather than make his hostage drive. That what she had thought was Harry’s seat wasn’t.

Harry lay in the bottom of the boat, looking up. People’s faces, the helicopter that was blocking the sun, the blue sky. He had managed to stamp his foot down on the revolver again before Hallstein Smith pulled it free. And then Hallstein seemed to give up. Maybe it was his imagination, but he had thought he could feel through the teeth, in his mouth, how the other man’s pulse became weaker and weaker. Until in the end it was gone altogether. Harry had lost consciousness twice before he managed to get his hands and the handcuffs round to the front of his body again, loosened the seat belt and fished the key to the handcuffs out of his jacket pocket. The car key had broken off in the ignition and he knew he didn’t have the strength to climb the steep, ice-covered slope back to the main road, or get over the high fences of the properties on either side of the road. He had called for help, but it was as if Smith had beaten his voice out of him, and the weak cries he did manage to make were drowned by a helicopter somewhere, probably the police helicopter. So that they would be able to see him from the air, he had dragged Smith’s boat out onto the ice, lain down in it and fired several shots into the air.

He let go of the Ruger revolver. It had done its job. It was over. He could retreat now. Back to the summer, when he was twelve years old and was lying in a boat with his head in his mother’s lap and his father telling him and Sis about a jealous general during the war between the Venetians and the Turks. Harry knew he would have to explain it to his sister once they’d gone to bed. He was secretly quite pleased about that, because no matter how long it took, they wouldn’t give up until she understood the connections. And Harry liked connections. Even when he knew, deep down, that there weren’t any.

He closed his eyes.

She was still lying there. Lying beside him. And now she was whispering in his ear.

‘Do you think you can give life too, Harry?’

HARRY POURED JIM beam into the glass. Put the bottle back on the shelf. Picked up the glass. And put it down next to the glass of white wine on the counter in front of Anders Wyller. The customers behind him were jostling to be served.

‘You’re looking much better now,’ Anders said, and looked down at the glass of whiskey without touching it.

‘Your father patched me up,’ Harry said. He glanced at Øystein, who nodded to indicate that he would try to hold the fort alone for a while. ‘How’s it going in the unit?’

‘Good,’ Anders said. ‘But you know, the calm after the storm.’

‘You know it’s called—’

‘Yes. Gunnar Hagen asked me today if I wanted to take over as temporary assistant lead detective while Katrine’s on leave.’

‘Congratulations. But aren’t you a bit young for that?’

‘He told me it was your idea.’

‘My idea? Must have been when I still had concussion.’ Harry turned the volume up on the amplifier and the Jayhawks sang ‘Tampa to Tulsa’ a bit louder.

Anders smiled. ‘Yes, my father said you took quite a beating. By the way, when did you figure out he was my dad?’

‘There was nothing to figure out, the evidence told me. When I sent his hair for DNA analysis, Forensics found a match with one of the DNA profiles from the crime scene. Not from one of the suspects, but the profile of one of the detectives, which obviously we always need when they’ve been at a crime scene. Yours, Anders. But it was only a partial match. A family connection. A father–son match. You received the result first, but didn’t pass it on to me, or anyone else in the unit. Then, when I belatedly found out about the match, it didn’t take much to discover that the maiden name of Dr Steffens’s deceased wife was Wyller. Why didn’t you tell me?’

Anders shrugged. ‘I couldn’t see that the match had any relevance for the case.’

‘And you didn’t want to be linked to him? That’s why you use your mother’s maiden name?’

Anders nodded. ‘It’s a long story, but it’s getting better now. We’re talking. He’s a bit more humble, he’s realised he’s not mister perfect. And I’m … well, a bit older, a bit wiser, maybe. So – how did you figure out that Mona was in my flat?’

‘Deduction.’

‘Of course. Such as?’

‘The smell in your hall. Old Spice. Aftershave. But you hadn’t shaved. And Oleg had mentioned the rumour that Mona Daa uses Old Spice as perfume. And then there was the cat cage. People don’t have cat cages. Not unless they’re going to have repeated visits from a woman who’s allergic to cats.’