Jo Nesbo - The Thirst

‘I want Wyller and Bjørn,’ Harry said. He was still seated, hands behind his head, legs stretched out in front of him.

‘No problem with Wyller, but you’ll have to ask the new head of Krimteknisk about Bjørn. Something Lien.’

‘I’ve asked Bjørn, and he says he’s going to talk to her.’

‘Yes, I’m sure he is,’ Katrine found herself saying. ‘Have you spoken to Wyller?’

‘Yes. He got quite excited.’

‘And the last person?’

‘Hallstein Smith.’

‘Really?’

‘Why not?’

‘An eccentric with a nut allergy and no experience of police work?’

Harry leaned back in his chair, dug in his trouser pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack of Camels. ‘If there’s a new creature in the jungle called a vampirist, I want the person who knows most about that creature by my side the whole time. But you seem to be saying that the fact that he’s allergic to nuts should count against him?’

Katrine sighed. ‘I just mean that I’m getting fed up of all these allergies. Anders Wyller’s allergic to rubber, he can’t use latex gloves. Or condoms, I assume. Imagine that.’

‘I’d rather not,’ Harry said, looking down into the packet and sticking a sad, broken little cigarette between his lips.

‘Why don’t you just keep your cigarettes in your jacket pocket like other people, Harry?’

Harry shrugged. ‘Broken cigarettes taste better. By the way, I’m assuming that because the boiler room hasn’t officially been designated an office, the smoking ban doesn’t apply there?’

‘Sorry,’ Hallstein Smith said over the phone. ‘Thanks for asking, though.’

He hung up, put his phone in his pocket and looked at his wife May, who was sitting on the other side of the kitchen table.

‘Is something wrong?’ she asked with a worried expression.

‘That was the police. They asked if I wanted to join a small group working to catch this vampirist.’

‘And?’

‘And I’ve got a deadline for my PhD. I haven’t got time. And I’m not interested in that sort of manhunt. We have quite enough hawks and doves at home.’

‘And you told them that?’

‘Yes. Apart from the bit about hawks and doves.’

‘And what did they say?’

‘He. It was a man. Harry.’ Hallstein Smith laughed. ‘He said he understood, and that police investigations are boring and full of painstaking work, and not at all like they’re depicted on television.’

‘Well, then,’ May said, and raised her cup to her lips.

‘Well, then,’ Hallstein said, and did the same.

Harry’s and Anders Wyller’s footsteps echoed, drowning out the gentle sound of water dripping from the brick roof of the tunnel.

‘Where are we?’ Wyller asked. He was carrying the screen and keyboard of a desktop computer of older vintage.

‘Under the park, somewhere between Police HQ and Bots Prison,’ Harry said. ‘We call it the Culvert.’

‘And there’s a secret office here?’

‘Not secret. Just vacant.’

‘Who’d want an office here, underground?’

‘No one. That’s why it’s vacant.’ Harry stopped in front of a metal door. Inserted a key in the lock and turned it. Pulled the handle.

‘Still locked?’ Wyller asked.

‘Swollen.’ Harry braced one foot on the wall next to the door and yanked it open. They were hit by a warm, damp smell of brick cellar. Harry breathed it in happily. Back in the boiler room.

He switched the lights on inside. After a few moments’ hesitation, fluorescent lights on the ceiling began to flicker. Once the lights had settled down they looked around the square room with its grey-blue linoleum floor. No windows, just bare concrete walls. Harry glanced over at Wyller. Wondered if the sight of their workplace might dampen the spontaneous joy the young detective had shown when Harry invited him to join his team of guerrillas. It didn’t look like it.

‘Rock’n’roll,’ Anders Wyller said, and grinned.

‘We’re first, so you get to choose.’ Harry nodded towards the desks. On one of them stood a scorched brown coffee machine, a water container and four white mugs with names written on them by hand.

Wyller had just installed the computer and Harry had started up the coffee machine when the door was tugged open.

‘Wow, it’s warmer than I remember,’ Bjørn Holm laughed. ‘Here’s Hallstein.’

A man with big glasses, messy hair and a checked jacket appeared behind Bjørn Holm.

‘Smith,’ Harry said, holding his hand out. ‘I’m pleased you changed your mind.’

Hallstein Smith took Harry’s hand. ‘I’ve got a weakness for counter-intuitive psychology,’ he said. ‘If that’s what it was. If not, you’re the worst telephone salesman I’ve ever encountered. But it’s the first time I’ve called the salesman back to accept an offer.’

‘No point pushing anyone, we only want people who are motivated to be here,’ Harry said. ‘Do you like your coffee strong?’

‘No, preferably a bit … I mean, I’ll take it however you all do.’

‘Good. Looks like this is yours.’ Harry handed Smith one of the white mugs.

Smith adjusted his glasses and read the handwritten name on the side. ‘Lev Vygotsky.’

‘And this is for our forensics expert,’ Harry said, passing Bjørn Holm one of the other mugs.

‘Still Hank Williams,’ Bjørn read cheerfully. ‘Does that mean it hasn’t been washed for three years?’

‘Indelible marker,’ Harry said. ‘Here’s yours, Wyller.’

‘Popeye Doyle? Who’s that?’

‘Best cop ever. Look him up.’

Bjørn turned the fourth mug round. ‘So why doesn’t it say Valentin Gjertsen on your mug, Harry?’

‘Forgetfulness, probably.’ Harry took the jug from the coffee maker and filled all four mugs.

Bjørn noticed the bemused expressions on the others’ faces. ‘It’s a tradition that we have our heroes on our mugs, and Harry the name of the main suspect. Yin and yang.’

‘It doesn’t really matter,’ Smith said. ‘But just for the record, Lev Vygotsky isn’t my favourite psychologist. He was, admittedly, a pioneer, but—’

‘You’ve got Aune Ståle’s mug,’ Harry said, putting the last chair in place so that all four formed a circle in the middle of the floor. ‘OK, we’re free, we’re our own bosses and we don’t report to anyone. But we keep Katrine Bratt informed, and vice versa. Sit down. Let’s start with each of us saying honestly what we think of this case. Base it on facts and experience, or gut feeling, one single stupid detail or nothing at all. None of what you say will ever be used against you later, and it’s OK to go way off beam. Who wants to start?’ The four of them sat down.

‘Obviously I’m not making the decisions,’ Smith said. ‘But I think … well, you start, Harry.’ Smith wrapped his hands around him as if he was freezing, even though they were sitting next door to the boiler that heated the whole prison. ‘Maybe tell us why you think it isn’t Valentin Gjertsen.’

Harry looked at Smith. Took a sip from his mug. Swallowed. ‘OK, I’ll start. I don’t think it isn’t Valentin Gjertsen. Even if the thought has occurred to me. A killer carries out two murders without leaving any evidence. That takes planning and a cool head. But then he suddenly carries out an assault where he liberally scatters evidence and proof, all of which points towards Valentin Gjertsen. There’s something insistent about that, as if the person responsible wants to announce who he is. And that obviously arouses suspicions. Is someone trying to manipulate us into thinking it’s someone else? If so, Valentin Gjertsen is the perfect scapegoat.’ Harry looked at the others, noted Anders Wyller’s concentrated, wide-eyed expression, Bjørn Holm looking almost sleepy, and Hallstein Smith looking friendly, inviting, as if in a setting like this he had automatically slipped into his role as psychologist. ‘Valentin Gjertsen is a plausible culprit, given his past,’ Harry went on. ‘And he is also one the murderer knows we’re unlikely to find, seeing as we’ve already tried for so long without any result. Or because the killer knows that Valentin Gjertsen is dead and buried. Because he himself killed and buried him. Because a Valentin who’s been buried in secret can’t deny our suspicions with an alibi or anything like that, but even from the grave he can carry on drawing attention away from alternative perpetrators.’