Jo Nesbo - The Thirst

‘Hm. But the pistol could still be traced back to the printer that produced it. Forensics can already do that with inkjet printers.’

Rakel looked at Helga, who was looking rather lost.

‘Boys …’ Rakel said.

‘Whatever,’ Oleg said. ‘It’s really crazy – they can make practically anything. So far there are just over two thousand 3D printers in Norway, but imagine when everyone’s got one, when terrorists can 3D-print a hydrogen bomb.’

‘Boys, can’t we talk about something more pleasant?’ Rakel said, feeling strangely breathless. ‘Something a bit more cultured, just for once, seeing as we’ve got a guest?’

Oleg and Harry turned towards Helga, who smiled and shrugged, as if to say that she was fine with anything.

‘OK,’ Oleg said. ‘What about Shakespeare?’

‘That sounds better,’ Rakel said, looking at her son suspiciously as she passed the potatoes to Helga.

‘OK, Ståle Aune and Othello syndrome,’ Oleg said. ‘I haven’t told you that Jesus and I recorded the entire lecture. I was wearing a hidden microphone and transmitter under my shirt, and Jesus was in the next room recording it. Do you think Ståle would be OK if we uploaded it to the Net? What do you think, Harry?’

Harry didn’t answer. Rakel studied him. Was he drifting away again?’

‘Harry?’ she said.

‘Well, obviously I can’t answer that,’ he said, looking down at his plate. ‘But why didn’t you just record it on your phone? It isn’t forbidden to record lectures for private use.’

‘They’re practising,’ Helga said.

The others turned towards her.

‘Jesus and Oleg dream of working as undercover agents.’

‘Wine, Helga?’ Rakel picked up the bottle.

‘Thanks. But aren’t you having any?’

‘I’ve taken a headache pill,’ Rakel said. ‘And Harry doesn’t drink.’

‘I’m a so-called alcoholic,’ Harry said. ‘Which is a shame, because that’s supposed to be a really good wine.’

Rakel saw Helga’s cheeks burn, and hurried to ask: ‘So Ståle’s teaching you about Shakespeare?’

‘Yes and no,’ Oleg said. ‘Othello syndrome implies that jealousy is the main reason for the murders in the play, but that isn’t true. Helga and I read Othello yesterday—’

‘You read it together?’ Rakel put her hand on Harry’s arm. ‘Isn’t that sweet?’

Oleg looked up at the ceiling. ‘Either way, my interpretation is that the real, underlying cause of all the murders isn’t jealousy but a humiliated man’s envy and ambition. In other words, Iago. Othello is just a puppet. The play ought to be called Iago , not Othello .’

‘And do you agree with that, Helga?’ Rakel liked the slim, slightly anaemic, well-mannered girl, and she seemed to have found her feet pretty quickly.

‘I like Othello as the title. And maybe there isn’t a deep-seated reason. Maybe it’s like Othello himself says. That the full moon is the real cause, because it drives men mad.’

‘ No reason ,’ Harry declaimed solemnly in English. ‘ I just like doing things like that .’

‘Impressive, Harry,’ Rakel said. ‘You can quote Shakespeare.’

‘Walter Hill,’ Harry said. ‘ The Warriors , 1979.’

‘Yeah,’ Oleg laughed. ‘Best gang film ever .’

Rakel and Helga laughed. Harry raised his glass of water and looked across the table at Rakel. Smiled. Laughter round the family dinner table. And she thought that he was here now, he was with them. She tried to hold on to his gaze, hold on to him. But imperceptibly, as the sea turns from green to blue, it happened. His eyes turned inward again. And she knew that even before the laughter had died out, he was on his way again, into the darkness, away from them.

Truls walked up the stairs in the dark, crouching with his pistol behind the big, uniformed police officer with the torch. The silence was only broken by a ticking sound, like a clock somewhere further up inside the building. The cone of light from the torch seemed to push the darkness ahead of them, making it denser, more compact, like the snow Truls and Mikael used to shovel for pensioners in Manglerud. Afterwards they would snatch the hundred-krone note from gnarled, trembling hands, and say they would come back with the change. If they ever did wait for them, they were waiting still.

Something crunched beneath their feet.

Truls grabbed the back of the policeman’s jacket, and he stopped and pointed the torch at the floor. Splinters of glass sparkled, and between them Truls could see indistinct footprints in what he was fairly sure was blood. The heel and front of the sole were clearly divided, but he thought the print was too big to be a woman’s. The prints were pointing down the stairs, and he was sure he would have seen them if there had been any further down. The ticking sound had got louder.

Truls gestured to the policeman to go on. He looked at the stairs, saw that the bloody prints were getting clearer. Looked up the stairs. Stopped and raised his pistol. Let the policeman carry on. Truls had seen something. Something that had fallen through the light. Something that sparkled. Something red. It wasn’t ticking they had heard, it was the sound of blood dripping and hitting the stairs.

‘Shine the torch upward,’ he said.

The police officer stopped, turned round, and for a moment looked surprised that the colleague whom he had thought was right behind him had stopped a few steps below and was looking up at the ceiling. But he did as Truls said.

‘Oh my God …’ he whispered.

‘Amen,’ Truls said.

There was a woman hanging from the wall above them.

Her checked skirt had been pulled up, revealing the edge of her white knickers. On one thigh, level with the policeman’s head, blood was dripping from a large wound. It ran down her leg, into her shoe. The shoe was evidently full, because the blood was running down the outside and gathering in drops at the point of the shoe, then falling to join a red puddle on the stairs. Her arms were pulled up above her lolling head. Her wrists were tied with a peculiar set of cuffs which had been hooked over the lamp bracket. Whoever had put her there had to be strong. Her hair was covering her face and neck, so Truls couldn’t see if there was a bite mark, but the amount of blood in the puddle and the terrible dripping told him that she was empty, dry.

Truls looked hard at her. Memorised every detail. She looked like a painting. He would use that expression when he spoke to Mona Daa. Like a painting hung on the wall .

A door opened slightly on the landing above them. A pale face peered out. ‘Has he gone?’

‘Looks like it. Amundsen?’

‘Yes.’

Light streamed out when the door on the other side of the hallway opened. They heard a gasp of horror.

An elderly man stumbled out while a woman who was presumably his wife stayed behind and looked out anxiously from the doorway. ‘That was the devil himself,’ the man said. ‘Look what he’s done.’

‘Please, don’t come any closer,’ Truls said. ‘This is a murder scene. Does anyone know where the perpetrator went?’

‘If we’d known he was gone, we’d have come out to see if there was anything we could do,’ the old man said. ‘But we did see a man from the living-room window. He left the building and headed off towards the metro. We don’t know if it was him though. Because he was walking so calmly.’

‘How long ago was this?’

‘Quarter of an hour, at most.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘Now you’re asking …’ He turned to his wife for help.

‘Ordinary,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ the man agreed. ‘Neither tall nor short. Neither fair nor dark hair. A suit.’