Jo Nesbo - The Thirst

She pulled him round to the west side of the sculpture, away from the two couples who were looking at the view of the church spires to the east. She gave him the envelope containing the money, which he slipped inside his long Armani coat, which for some reason didn’t look like an Armani coat on him.

‘Anything new?’ she asked.

‘There won’t be any more tip-offs,’ Truls said, glancing around.

‘No?’

He looked at her, as if to check if she was joking. ‘The man was murdered, for fuck’s sake.’

‘So you’d better offer something a bit less … fatal next time.’

Truls Berntsen snorted. ‘Christ, you’re even worse than me, the whole lot of you.’

‘Really? You gave us Mehmet’s name, but we still chose not to reveal it or print his picture.’

Truls shook his head. ‘Can you hear yourself, Daa? We just led Valentin straight to a guy who has only done two things wrong. Running a bar that Valentin’s victim happened to visit, and agreeing to help the police.’

‘At least you’re saying “we”. Does that mean you’ve got a guilty conscience?’

‘Do you think I’m some kind of psychopath, or what? Of course I think this is bad.’

‘I’m not going to answer that question. But yes, I agree that it’s pretty bad. Does this mean that you’re not going to be my source any more?’

‘If I say no, does that mean you won’t protect my identity in future?’

‘No,’ Mona said.

‘Good. So you do have a conscience.’

‘Well,’ Mona said, ‘it’s not so much that we care about the source than that we care what our colleagues would say if we blew a source. What are your colleagues saying, by the way?’

‘Nothing. They’ve figured out that I’m the leak, so they’ve isolated me. I’m not allowed to take part in meetings or know anything about the investigation.’

‘No? I can feel myself losing interest in you, Truls.’

Truls snorted. ‘You’re cynical, but at least you’re honest, Mona Daa.’

‘Thanks. I assume.’

‘OK, I might have one last tip-off. But this is about something else entirely.’

‘Fire away.’

‘Police Chief Mikael Bellman is fucking a high-profile woman.’

‘There’s no money in tip-offs like that, Berntsen.’

‘OK, it’s free, just print it anyway.’

‘The editor doesn’t like infidelity stories, but if you’ve got evidence and are willing to stand by the story, I might be able to convince them. But in that case you’d be quoted, with your full name.’

‘With my name? That’s suicide, you can see that, surely? I can tell you where they meet, you could send one of those hidden photographers.’

Mona Daa laughed. ‘Sorry, it doesn’t work like that.’

‘Doesn’t it?’

‘The press abroad do this sort of thing, but not us here in little Norway.’

‘Why not?’

‘The official explanation is that we don’t sink to that level.’

‘But?’

Mona shrugged her shoulders, shivering. ‘Because there aren’t really any limits to how low we’re actually prepared to go, my personal theory is that it’s another example of everyone’s-got-something-to-hide syndrome.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Married editors are no less unfaithful than anyone else. If you reveal someone’s infidelity, everyone in a small public arena like Norway’s risks being caught in the blast. We can write about affairs in the great big “abroad”, maybe refer to affairs abroad here at home if one public figure has said something careless about another. But investigative journalism into infidelity among people in positions of power?’ Mona Daa shook her head.

Truls blew out scornfully through his nose. ‘So there’s no way to make it public?’

‘Is this something you think should be revealed because Bellman shouldn’t be Police Chief?’

‘What? No, maybe not that.’

Mona nodded and looked up at the Monolith, and the remorseless struggle to reach the top that it depicted. ‘You must really hate him.’

Truls didn’t answer. He just looked rather surprised, as if that was something he hadn’t thought about. And Mona wondered what was going on inside that pockmarked, not particularly attractive face, with its heavy jaw and beady eyes. She almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

‘I’m going now, Berntsen. We’ll be in touch.’

‘Will we?’

‘Maybe not.’

When Mona had walked some way into the park, she turned round and saw Truls Berntsen in the light of one of the lamps up by the Monolith. He had stuck his hands in his pockets, and was just standing there with his back hunched, looking for something. He seemed so incredibly alone standing there like that, as unmoving as the blocks of stone around him.

Harry stared at the ceiling. The ghosts hadn’t come. Maybe they wouldn’t be coming tonight. You never knew. But they had a new member. What would Mehmet look like when he came? Harry shut the thought out and listened to the silence. Holmenkollen was certainly quiet, there was no denying that. Too quiet. He preferred to hear the city outside. Like night-time in the jungle, full of noises that could warn you in the darkness, tell you when something was coming and when it wasn’t. Silence contained too little information. But that wasn’t it. It was the fact that there was no one beside him in bed.

If he counted, then the number of nights he had shared a bed with anyone was in a clear minority. So why did he feel so alone, he, a man who had always sought out solitude and had never needed anyone else?

He rolled onto his side and tried shutting his eyes.

He didn’t need anyone now either. He didn’t need anyone. He didn’t need anyone .

He just needed her.

A creaking sound. From the timber walls. Or a floorboard. Perhaps the storm was early. Or the ghosts late.

He turned onto the other side. Shut his eyes again.

The creaking was just outside the bedroom door.

He got up, walked over and opened it.

It was Mehmet. ‘I saw him, Harry.’ Where his eyes had been there were two black sockets that sparked and smoked.

Harry woke with a start.

His phone was purring like a cat on the bedside table next to him.

‘Yes?’

‘This is Dr Steffens.’

Harry felt a sudden pain in his chest.

‘It’s about Rakel.’

Of course it was about Rakel. And Harry knew that Steffens was only saying that to give him the seconds he needed to steel himself for the news.

‘We can’t bring her out of the coma.’

‘What?’

‘She won’t wake up.’

‘Is … will she …?’

‘We don’t know, Harry. I know you must have an awful lot of questions, but so do we. I really can’t tell you anything except that we’re working as hard as we can here.’

Harry bit the inside of his cheek to make sure this wasn’t just the world premiere of a new nightmare. ‘OK, OK. Can I see her?’

‘Not now, we’ve got her in intensive care. I’ll call as soon as we know more. But it might take a while, Rakel is probably going to be in a coma for some time, so don’t hold your breath, OK?’

Harry realised that Steffens was right: he wasn’t breathing.

They hung up. Harry stared at the phone. She won’t wake up . Of course not, she didn’t want to, because who the hell wants to wake up? Harry got out of bed and went downstairs. Opened the kitchen cupboards. Nothing. Empty, empty. He rang for a taxi then went back upstairs to get dressed.

He saw the blue sign, read the name and braked. Pulled in to the side of the road and switched the engine off. Looked around. Forest and road. It reminded him of those anonymous, monotonous stretches of road in Finland, where you get the feeling that you’re driving through a desert of trees. Where the trees stand like a silent wall on either side of the road and a body is as easy to hide as it would be to sink it in the sea. He waited until a car had passed. Checked the mirror. He couldn’t see any lights now, either in front or behind. So he got out onto the road, walked round the car and opened the boot. She was so pale. Even her freckles were paler. And her frightened eyes looked big and black above the muzzle. He lifted her out, and had to help her stand up. He took hold of the handcuffs and led her across the road and over the ditch, towards the black wall of trees. He switched the torch on. Felt her trembling so much that the handcuffs were shaking.