Jo Nesbo - The Thirst

‘Nice house,’ Danial Banks said, leaning against the R8 with his arms folded. ‘Wasn’t your bank prepared to take it as collateral?’

‘I’m only renting,’ Mehmet said. ‘The basement.’

‘That’s bad news for me,’ Banks said. He was much shorter than Mehmet, but it didn’t feel like it as he stood there squeezing the biceps inside his smart jacket. ‘Because burning it down won’t help either of us if you don’t get anything from the insurance to repay your debt, will it?’

‘No, I don’t suppose it would.’

‘Bad news for you, too, because that means I’m going to have to use the more painful methods instead. Do you want to know what they are?’

‘Don’t you want to know if I can pay first?’

Banks shook his head and pulled something from his pocket. ‘The instalment was due three days ago, and I told you punctuality was crucial. And so that all my clients, not just you, know that that sort of thing isn’t tolerated, I can’t make any exceptions.’ He held the object up in the light of the lamp on the garage. Mehmet gasped for breath.

‘I know it isn’t very original,’ Banks said, tilting his head and looking at the pliers. ‘But it works.’

‘But—’

‘You can choose which finger. Most people prefer the left little finger.’

Mehmet felt it coming. The anger. And he felt his chest expand as he filled his lungs with air. ‘I’ve got a better solution, Banks.’

‘Oh?’

‘I know it isn’t very original,’ Mehmet said, sticking his right hand in his jacket pocket. Pulled it out. Held it out towards Banks, clutching it with both hands. ‘But it works.’

Banks stared at him in surprise. Nodded slowly.

‘You’re right there,’ Banks said, taking the bundle of notes Mehmet was holding out to him and pulling the elastic band off.

‘That covers the repayment and the interest, down to the last krone,’ Mehmet said. ‘But feel free to count it.’

Ping.

A match on Tinder.

The triumphant sound your phone makes when someone you’ve already swiped right on swipes your picture right as well.

Elise’s head was spinning, her heart was racing.

She knew it was the familiar response to the sound of Tinder’s matchmaking: increased heart rate as a consequence of excitement. That it released a whole load of happy chemicals that you could become addicted to. But that wasn’t why her heart was galloping. It was because the ping hadn’t come from her phone.

But the ping had rung out at the very moment she’d swiped right on a picture. The picture of a person who, according to Tinder, was less than a kilometre away from her.

She stared at the closed bedroom door. Swallowed.

The sound must have come from one of the neighbouring apartments. There were lots of single people living in the block, lots of potential Tinder users. And everything was quiet now, even on the floor below where the girls had been having a party when she went out earlier that evening. But there was only one way to get rid of imaginary monsters. By checking.

Elise got up from the sofa and walked the four steps over to the bedroom door. Hesitated. A couple of assault cases from work swirled through her head.

Then she pulled herself together and opened the door.

She found herself standing in the doorway gasping for air. Because there wasn’t any. None that she could breathe.

The light above the bed was switched on, and the first thing she saw was the soles of a pair of cowboy boots sticking off the end of the bed. Jeans and a pair of long legs, crossed. The man lying there was like the photograph, half in darkness, half out of focus. But he had unbuttoned his shirt to reveal his bare chest. And on his chest was a drawing or a tattoo of a face. That was what caught her eye now. The silently screaming face. As if it were held tight and was trying to pull free. Elise couldn’t bring herself to scream either.

As the person on the bed sat up, the light from his mobile phone fell across his face.

‘So we meet again, Elise,’ he whispered.

And the voice made her realise why the profile picture had seemed familiar to her. His hair was a different colour. And his face must have been operated on – she could see the scars left by stitches.

He raised his hand and shoved something into his mouth.

Elise stared at him as she backed away. Then she spun round, got some air into her lungs, and knew she had to use it to run, not scream. The front door was only five steps away, six at most. She heard the bed creak, but he had further to run. If she could just get out into the stairwell she’d be able to scream and get some help. She made it to the hallway and reached the door, tugged the handle down and pushed, but the door wouldn’t open properly.

The security chain. She tried to pull the door closed, to grab the chain, but it was all taking too long, like a bad dream, and she knew it was too late. Something was pressed over her mouth and she was dragged backwards. In desperation she stuck her hand through the opening above the security chain, grabbed hold of the door frame outside, tried to scream, but the huge nicotine-stinking hand was clamped tightly over her mouth. Then she was yanked free and the door slammed shut in front of her. The voice whispered in her ear: ‘Didn’t you like me? You don’t look as good as your profile picture either, baby. We just need to get to know each other better, we didn’t have a chance for that last t-time.’

The voice. And that last, solitary stammer. She’d heard it once before. She tried to kick and tear herself free, but he had her in a vice-like grip. He dragged her over to the hall mirror. Rested his head on her shoulder.

‘It wasn’t your fault I was found guilty, Elise, the evidence was overwhelming. That’s not why I’m here. Would you believe me if I said it is a coincidence?’ Then he grinned. Elise stared into his mouth. His teeth looked like they were made of iron, black and rusty, with sharp spikes in both upper and lower jaw, like a bear trap.

It creaked gently when he opened his mouth – was it spring-loaded?

She remembered the details of the case now. The photographs from the scene. And knew she would soon be dead.

Then he bit.

Elise Hermansen tried to scream into his hand as she saw the blood spraying from her own throat.

He raised his head again. Looked into the mirror. Her blood was running from his eyebrows, from his hair and down over his chin.

‘I’d call that a m-match, baby,’ he whispered. Then he bit again.

She felt dizzy. He wasn’t holding her so tightly now, he didn’t need to, because a paralysing chill, an alien darkness was moving slowly over her, into her. She pulled one hand free and reached towards the photograph on the side of the mirror. Tried to touch it, but her fingertips couldn’t reach.

THURSDAY MORNING

THE SHARP AFTERNOON light reached through the living-room windows and out into the hallway.

Detective Inspector Katrine Bratt was standing in front of the mirror, silent and thoughtful, looking at the photograph that was stuck to the frame. It showed a woman and a young girl sitting on a rock hugging each other, both with wet hair and wrapped in big towels. As if they had just gone swimming in a rather too chilly Norwegian summer and were trying to keep warm by clinging to one another. But now there was something separating them. A dark streak of blood had run down the mirror and across the photograph, right between the two smiling faces. Katrine Bratt didn’t have children. She may have wished that she had in the past, but not now. Now she was a newly single career woman, and she was happy with that. Wasn’t she?

She heard a low cough and looked up. Met the gaze of a deeply scarred face with a prominent brow and a remarkably high hairline. Truls Berntsen.