Jo Nesbo - The Thirst

‘We’ll stop there and reconvene when we know more.’ Katrine gathered her papers and hurried away from the podium and out through the side door. ‘When we know more than you ,’ she muttered to herself, and swore.

She marched down the corridor. What the hell had happened? Had something gone wrong with her treatment? She hoped so. Hoped there was a medical explanation, unforeseen complications, a sudden attack of something, even a mistake on the hospital’s part. No, it wasn’t possible, they’d placed Penelope in a secret room that only those closest to her knew the number of.

Bjørn came running up behind her. ‘I’ve just spoken to Ullevål. They say it was an unfamiliar poison, but which they wouldn’t have been able to do anything about anyway.’

‘Poison? From the bite, or did it happen in the hospital?’

‘Unclear – they say they’ll know more tomorrow.’

Bloody chaos. Katrine hated chaos. And where was Harry? Fuck, fuck.

‘Take care not to stab those heels through the floor,’ Bjørn said quietly.

Harry had told Oleg that the doctors didn’t know. About what was going to happen. About practical things that needed to be sorted out, even if there weren’t many of those. Apart from that, silence hung heavy between them.

Harry looked at the time. Seven o’clock.

‘You should go home,’ he said. ‘Grab something to eat and get some sleep. You’ve got college tomorrow.’

‘Only if I know you’re going to be here,’ Oleg said. ‘We can’t let her be alone.’

‘I’m going to be here until I get thrown out, which will be soon.’

‘But you’ll stay until then? You’re not going to go to work?’

‘Work?’

‘Yes. You’re staying here now, you’re not going on with … that case?’

‘Of course not.’

‘I know how you get when you’re working on a murder investigation.’

‘Do you?’

‘I remember some of it. And Mum’s told me.’

Harry sighed. ‘I’m staying here now. I promise. The world will go on without me, but …’ He fell silent, leaving the rest of the sentence hanging in the air between them: … not without her .

He took a deep breath.

‘How are you feeling?’

Oleg shrugged. ‘I’m scared. And it hurts.’

‘I know. Go now, and come back tomorrow after college. I’ll be here first thing in the morning.’

‘Harry?’

‘Yes?’

‘Is it going to be better tomorrow?’

Harry looked at him. The brown-eyed, black-haired boy didn’t have one drop of Harry’s blood in him, but it was still like looking in a mirror. ‘What do you think?’

Oleg shook his head, and Harry could see he was fighting back tears.

‘Right,’ Harry said. ‘I sat here the way you are now with my mother when she was ill. Hour after hour, day in, day out. I was only a little boy, and it ate me up from inside.’

Oleg wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and sniffed. ‘Do you wish you hadn’t done it?’

Harry shook his head. ‘That’s the weird thing. We couldn’t talk much, she was too ill. She just lay there with a weak smile, and faded away a little bit at a time, like the colour from a photograph left out in the sun. It’s simultaneously the worst and best memory from my childhood. Can you understand that?’

Oleg nodded slowly. ‘I think so.’

They hugged each other goodbye.

‘Dad …’ Oleg whispered, and Harry felt a warm tear against his neck.

But he himself couldn’t cry. Didn’t want to cry. Forty-five per cent, forty-five wonderful percentage points.

‘I’m here, my boy,’ Harry said. In a steady voice. With a numb heart. He felt strong. He could manage this.

MONDAY EVENING

MONA DAA HAD put her trainers on, but her footsteps still echoed between the containers. She had parked her little electric car by the gate and walked straight into the dark, empty container terminal, which was really a cemetery for defunct harbour equipment. The rows of containers were tombstones for dead and forgotten shipments, to recipients who had gone bankrupt or wouldn’t acknowledge the consignment, from senders who no longer existed and couldn’t accept returns. Now the goods were stuck in eternal transit here at Ormøya, in marked contrast to the redevelopment and gentrification of Bjørvika next to it. There, costly, luxurious buildings were rising up, one after the other, with the icy slopes of the Opera House as the jewel in the crown. Mona was convinced it would end up as a monument to the oil era, a Taj Mahal of social democracy.

Mona used the torch she had brought with her to find the way, with the help of the numbers and letters painted on the tarmac. She was wearing black leggings and a black tracksuit top. In one pocket she had pepper spray and a padlock, in the other the pistol, a 9mm Walther she had borrowed without permission from her father, who had served one year in the sanitation department of the military after his medical studies and never returned his gun.

And under the tracksuit top, beneath the transmitter belt, her heart was pounding faster and faster.

H23 was located between two rows of containers stacked three high.

And sure enough, there was a cage.

Its size suggested it had been used to transport something big. An elephant, maybe a giraffe or a hippo. The whole of one end of the cage could be swung open, but it was locked with a huge padlock that was brown with rust. In the middle of one of the long sides, though, was a small, unlocked door that Mona assumed was used by the people feeding the animals and cleaning the cage.

The hinges shrieked as she grabbed hold of the bars and pulled the door open. She looked around one last time. Presumably he was already here, hidden in the shadows or behind one of the containers, checking that she was alone, as agreed.

But there was no longer time for doubt and hesitation. She did the same thing she did when she was about to lift weights in competition, told herself the decision had been taken, that it was simple: the time for thinking was behind her, and action was all that remained. She got inside, took the padlock she had brought with her out of her pocket, and fastened it round the edge of the door and one of the bars. She locked it and put the key in her pocket.

The cage smelt of urine, but she couldn’t tell if it was animal or human. She went and stood in the middle of the cage.

He could approach from right or left, towards one of the ends. She looked up. He could climb onto the stack of containers and talk to her from above. She switched on the recording function of her phone and put it down on the stinking iron floor. Then she pulled the left sleeve of her jacket up and saw that the time was 19.59. She did the same with the right sleeve. The pulse meter said 128.

‘Hi, Katrine, it’s me.’

‘Good. I’ve been trying to get hold of you – did you get my messages? Where are you?’

‘At home.’

‘Penelope Rasch is dead.’

‘Complications. I saw it on VG ’s website.’

‘And?’

‘And I’ve had other things to think about.’

‘Really? Such as?’

‘Rakel’s in Ullevål.’

‘Shit. Is it serious?’

‘Yes.’

‘Bloody hell, Harry. How bad?’

‘Don’t know, but I can’t be part of the investigation any more. I’m going to be at the hospital from now on.’

Pause.

‘Katrine?’

‘Yes? Yes, of course. I’m sorry, it’s just a bit too much to take in all at once. Naturally, you have my full support and sympathy. But, bloody hell, Harry, have you got anyone there to talk to? Do you want me to—?’

‘Thanks, Katrine, but you’ve got a man to catch. I’ll disband my team, and you’ll have to run with what you’ve got. Use Smith. His social skills are probably even worse than mine, but he’s fearless and dares to think outside the box. And Anders Wyller is interesting. Give him a bit more responsibility and see what comes of it.’