Jo Nesbo - The Thirst

‘So,’ Mikael Bellman said. ‘You’re thinking that if Valentin Gjertsen goes missing for a while, the public will automatically think that he’s left the country, instead of the Oslo Police being unable to catch him. But if we do catch him, we’ve been smart. And if he commits another murder, anything we’ve said will be forgotten anyway.’

He turned towards her. He had no idea why she had chosen to put her big double bed in the living room when she had a perfectly adequate bedroom. Particularly as it was possible for the neighbours to see in. Although he had a suspicion that that was why. Isabelle Skøyen was a big woman. Her long, powerful limbs were spread out under the gold-coloured silk sheet that lay draped over her sensuous body. The sight alone made him feel ready to go again.

‘Just one word, and you’ve sown the idea of him leaving the country,’ she said. ‘In psychology it’s called anchoring. It’s simple, and it always works. Because people are simple.’ Her eyes roamed down his body and she smiled. ‘Especially men.’

She shoved the silk sheet onto the floor.

He looked at her. Sometimes he thought he preferred just looking at her body to touching it, while the opposite was true of his wife. Which was odd, because Ulla’s body, purely objectively, was more beautiful than Isabelle’s. But Isabelle’s violent, raging desires turned him on far more than Ulla’s tenderness and quiet, sob-racked orgasms.

‘Wank,’ she commanded, spreading her legs so that her knees resembled the half-furled wings of a bird of prey, and touched two of her long fingers to her genitals.

He did as she said. Closed his eyes. And heard the glass table buzz. Damn, he’d forgotten Katrine Bratt. He grabbed the vibrating phone and pressed answer.

‘Yes?’

The female voice at the other end said something, but Mikael couldn’t hear anything because one of the ferries blew its horn at the same time.

‘The answer’s yes,’ he shouted impatiently. ‘You’re to go on The Sunday Magazine . I’m busy at the moment, but I’ll call you with instructions later.’

‘It’s me.’

Mikael Bellman stiffened. ‘Darling, is that you? I thought it was Katrine Bratt.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Where? At work, of course.’

And in the far too long pause that followed, he realised that she had obviously also heard the sound of the ferry, and that that was why she had asked. He breathed hard through his mouth as he looked down at his drooping erection.

‘Dinner won’t be ready before half past five,’ she said.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘What—?’

‘Steak,’ she said, and hung up.

Harry and Anders Wyller got out of the car in front of Jøssingveien 33. Harry lit a cigarette and looked up at the red-brick building surrounded by a tall fence. They had driven from Police HQ in sunshine and shimmering autumn colours, but on the way up here the clouds had gathered and were now skimming the hills like a cement-coloured ceiling, draining the colour from the landscape.

‘So this is Ila Prison,’ Wyller said.

Harry nodded and sucked hard on the cigarette.

‘Why is he called the Fiancé?’

‘Because he got his rape victims pregnant and made them promise to give birth to the baby.’

‘Or else …?’

‘Or else he’d come back and perform a Caesarean section himself.’ Harry took one last drag, rubbed the cigarette out against the packet and tucked the butt inside. ‘Let’s get this done.’

‘The regulations don’t allow us to keep him tied up, but we’ll be watching you on the surveillance camera,’ said the guard who had buzzed them in and led them to the end of the long corridor, lined with grey-painted steel doors on both sides. ‘One of our rules is never to get within one metre of him.’

‘Christ,’ Wyller said. ‘Does he attack you?’

‘No,’ the guard said, inserting a key into the lock of the last door. ‘Svein Finne hasn’t had a single black mark against his name in the twenty years he’s been here.’

‘But?’

The prison guard shrugged and turned the key. ‘I think you’ll see what I mean.’

He opened the door, stepped aside and Wyller and Harry walked into the cell.

The man on the bed was sitting in shadow.

‘Finne,’ Harry said.

‘Hole.’ The voice from the shadow sounded like crushed rock.

Harry gestured towards the only chair in the room. ‘OK if I sit down?’

‘If you think you’ve got time for that. I heard you’ve got your hands full.’

Harry sat down. Wyller stood behind him, just inside the door.

‘Hm. Is it him?’

‘Is it who?’

‘You know who I mean.’

‘I’ll answer that if you give me an honest answer – have you missed it?’

‘Missed what, Svein?’

‘Having a playmate who’s up to your level? Like you had with me?’

The man in the shadows leaned forward, into the light from the window near the top of the wall, and Harry heard Wyller’s breathing speed up behind him. The bars laid strips of shadow across a pockmarked face with leathery, red-brown skin. It was covered with wrinkles, so deep and close together that they looked as if they’d been carved by a knife, right down to the bone. He had a red handkerchief tied round his forehead, like a Native American, and his thick, wet lips were framed by a moustache. His tiny pupils sat within brown irises, and the whites of his eyes looked yellow, but he had the muscular, sinewy body of a twenty-year-old. Harry did the maths. Svein Finne, ‘the Fiancé’, had to be seventy-five now.

‘You never forget your first. Isn’t that right, Hole? My name will always be at the top of your list of achievements. I took your virginity, didn’t I?’ His laugh sounded like he was gargling with gravel.

‘Well …’ Harry said, folding his arms. ‘If my honesty is the price for yours, then the answer is that I don’t miss it. And that I’ll never forget you, Svein Finne. Or any of the people you maimed and killed. You all visit me fairly regularly at night.’

‘Me too. They’re very faithful, my fiancées.’ Finne’s thick lips slipped apart as he smiled, and he put his right hand over his right eye. Harry heard Wyller step back and hit the door. Finne’s eye stared at Wyller through the hole in his hand that was big enough to hit a golf ball through. ‘Don’t be scared, son,’ Finne said. ‘It’s your boss you should be frightened of. He was just as young as you are now, and I was already lying on the ground, unable to defend myself. Even so, he held his pistol to my hand and fired. Your boss has a black heart, lad. Remember that. And now he’s thirsty again. Just like him out there. And your thirst is like a fire, that’s why you have to quench it. And until it’s quenched, it’ll keep growing, devouring everything it comes into contact with. Isn’t that right, Hole?’

Harry cleared his throat. ‘Your turn, Finne. Where’s Valentin hiding?’

‘You lot have been here to ask about that before, and I can only repeat myself. I barely spoke to Valentin when he was here. And it’s been almost four years since he escaped.’

‘His methods resemble yours. Some people claim that you taught him.’

‘Nonsense. Valentin was born ready-taught. Believe me.’

‘Where would you have hidden, if you were him?’

‘Close enough to be in your sights, Hole. I’d have been prepared for you this time.’

‘Does he live in the city? Move about the city? New identity? Is he alone or is he working with anyone else?’

‘He’s doing it differently now, isn’t he? Biting and drinking blood. Maybe it isn’t Valentin?’

‘It’s Valentin. So how do I catch him?’

‘You don’t catch him.’