Jo Nesbo - The Thirst

‘No?’

‘He’d rather die than end up here again. His imagination was never enough for him, he had to do it.’

‘Sounds like you do know him after all.’

‘I know what he’s made of.’

‘The same as you? Hormones from hell.’

The old man shrugged. ‘Everyone knows that moral choice is an illusion, it’s only the chemistry of the brain that directs your and my behaviour, Hole. Some people’s behaviour gets diagnosed as ADHD or anxiety and is treated with drugs and sympathy. Others are diagnosed as criminal and evil and are locked up. But it’s the same thing. An unholy mixture of substances in the brain. And I agree that we should be locked up. We rape your daughters, for God’s sake.’ Finne let out a rasping laugh. ‘So clear us off the streets, threaten us with punishment so we don’t head off in the direction the chemicals in our brain would otherwise tell us to go in. But what makes that pathetic is that you’re so weak that you need a moral excuse to lock us up. You create a history of lies about free will and some sort of divine punishment that fits into a system of divine justice based on some unchanging, universal morality. But morality can hardly be unchanging or universal, it’s entirely dependent upon the spirit of the age, Hole. Men fucking men was completely OK a few thousand years ago, then they were put in prison, and now politicians go on parades with them. Everything gets decided according to what society needs or doesn’t need at any given time. Morality is flexible and utilitarian. My problem is that I was born in an age and in a country where men who scatter their seed so wantonly are undesirable. But after a pandemic, when the species needs to get back on its feet again, Svein “the Fiancé” Finne would have been a pillar of the community and a saviour of humanity. Don’t you think, Hole?’

‘You raped women and made them give birth to your children,’ Harry said. ‘Valentin kills them. So why don’t you want to help me catch him?’

‘Am I not being helpful?’

‘You’re giving me general answers and half-baked moral philosophy. If you help us, I’ll put in a good word to the parole board.’

Harry heard Wyller shuffle his feet.

‘Really?’ Finne stroked his moustache. ‘Even though you know I’d start raping again as soon as I got out? I appreciate that it must be very important for you to catch Valentin, seeing as you’re prepared to sacrifice so many innocent women’s honour. But I don’t suppose you have a choice.’ He tapped his temple with one finger. ‘Chemistry …’

Harry didn’t respond.

‘Well, then,’ Finne said. ‘To start with, I’ll have served my sentence on the first Saturday of March next year, so it’s too late to get a reduction that makes much difference. And I was taken outside a couple of weeks ago, and you know what? I wanted to get back here. So, thanks but no thanks. Tell me how you’re doing instead, Hole. I heard that you got married. And have a bastard son, yes? Do you live in a safe place?’

‘Was that all you had to say, Finne?’

‘Yes. But I shall follow your collective progress with interest.’

‘Me and Valentin?’

‘You and your family. Hope to see you in the welcoming committee when I’m released.’ Finne’s laugh turned into a wet cough.

Harry stood and gestured to Wyller to bang on the door. ‘Thanks for sparing some of your precious time, Finne.’

Finne raised his right hand in front of his face and waved. ‘See you again, Hole. Nice to be able to talk about f-future plans.’

Harry saw his grin flit back and forth behind the hole in his hand.

SUNDAY EVENING

RAKEL WAS SITTING at the kitchen table. The pain, drowned out by the noise and distraction of urgent jobs, became harder to ignore whenever she stopped. She scratched her arm. The rash had barely been noticeable yesterday evening. When the doctor asked if she was urinating regularly she had answered yes automatically, but now that she was more aware of it, she realised that she had hardly peed at all in the past couple of days. And then there was her breathing. As if she was out of shape, and she definitely wasn’t.

There was a clatter of keys at the front door and Rakel stood up.

The door opened and Harry came in. He looked pale and tired.

‘Just popped in to change clothes,’ he said, stroked her cheek and carried on towards the stairs.

‘How’s it going?’ she asked as she watched him disappear upstairs to their bedroom.

‘Good!’ he called. ‘We know who it is.’

‘Time to come home, then?’ she said half-heartedly.

‘What?’ She heard footsteps on the floor and knew he’d taken his trousers off, like a little boy or a drunk man.

‘If you and your great big brain have solved the case …’

‘That’s just it.’ He appeared in the doorway at the top of the stairs. He was wearing a thin woollen sweater and leaning against the door frame as he pulled on a pair of thin woollen socks. She had teased him about that, saying that only old men insisted on wearing wool all year round. He had replied that the best survival strategy was always to copy old men, because they, after all, were the winners, the survivors. ‘I didn’t solve anything. He chose to reveal himself.’ Harry straightened up. Patted his pockets. ‘Keys,’ he said, and vanished into the bedroom again. ‘I met Dr Steffens at Ullevål,’ he called. ‘He said he’s treating you.’

‘Really? Darling, I think you should try to get a few hours’ sleep – your keys are still in the door down here.’

‘All you said was that they’d examined you?’

‘What’s the difference?’

Harry came out, ran down the stairs, and hugged her. ‘ Examined is past tense,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘ Treating is present tense. And, as far as I know, treatment is what happens after an examination comes up with something.’

Rakel laughed. ‘I came up with the headaches myself, and that’s what needs treating, Harry. And the treatment’s called paracetamol.’

He held her out in front of him and looked at her intently. ‘You wouldn’t hide anything from me, would you?’

‘So you’ve got time for this sort of nonsense, have you?’ Rakel leaned into him, forced the pain away, bit him on the ear and pushed him towards the door. ‘Go and get the job finished, then come straight home to Mummy. If not, I’ll 3D-print myself a home-loving man made out of white plastic.’

Harry smiled and walked over to the door. Pulled his keys out of the lock. Stopped and looked at them.

‘What is it?’ Rakel said.

‘He had the key to Elise Hermansen’s flat,’ Harry said, slamming the passenger door behind him. ‘And presumably also to Ewa Dolmen’s.’

‘Really?’ Wyller said, taking the handbrake off and rolling down the drive. ‘We definitely checked every key-cutter in the city, and none of them has made any new keys to any of the buildings.’

‘That’s because he made them himself. Out of white plastic.’

‘White plastic?’

‘Using an ordinary 3D printer costing fifteen thousand kroner which you can keep on your desk. All he needed was access to the original key for a few seconds. He could have taken a photograph of it, or made a wax impression of it, and used that to produce a 3D data file. So when Elise Hermansen came home, he had already locked himself inside her flat. That’s why she put the security chain on, she thought she was alone.’

‘And how do you think he got hold of the keys? None of the buildings the victims lived in used a security company, they each had their own caretaker. And they’ve all got alibis, and they all swear they haven’t lent any keys to anyone.’