Jo Nesbo - The Thirst

‘I know what a podcast is, Smith.’

‘So at least they can’t misquote me. Whatever I say will actually be broadcast. Do I have your permission?’

Katrine considered. ‘My first question is: why ?’

‘Because people are scared. My wife is scared, my children are scared, the neighbours, the other parents at school are scared. And, as a researcher in this field, I have a responsibility to make them a bit less scared.’

‘Don’t they have the right to be a bit scared?’

‘Don’t you read the papers, Katrine? The shops have run out of locks and alarm systems in the last week.’

‘Everyone’s scared of what they don’t understand.’

‘It’s more than that. They’re scared because they thought we were dealing with someone I initially assumed was purely a vampirist. A sick, confused individual who was attacking people as a consequence of profound personality disorders and paraphilias. But this monster is a cold, cynical, calculating fighter who’s capable of making rational judgements, who runs when he needs to, like at the Turkish baths. And attacks when he can, like … like in that picture.’ Smith closed his eyes and turned his head away. ‘And I admit it, I’m scared as well. I lay awake all night wondering how these murders could have been committed by one and the same person. How is that possible? How could I have been so wrong? I don’t understand it. But I have to understand it, no one’s better placed than me to understand it, I’m the only person who can explain it and show them the monster. Because once they’ve seen the monster they’ll understand, and their fear will become manageable. It won’t disappear, but at least they’ll feel they can take rational decisions, and that will make them safer.’

Katrine put her hands on her hips. ‘Let’s see if I understand you correctly. You don’t really understand what Valentin Gjertsen is either, but you want to explain that to the public?’

‘Yes.’

‘Lying, with the intention of calming the situation?’

‘I think I’ll manage the latter better than the former. Do I have your blessing?’

Katrine bit her bottom lip. ‘You’re certainly right that you have a responsibility to inform as an expert, and obviously it would be good if people could be reassured. As long as you don’t say anything about the investigation.’

‘Of course not.’

‘We can’t have any more leaks. I’m the only person on this floor who knows what Aurora’s doing right now, not even the Police Chief has been informed.’

‘My word of honour.’

‘Is that him? Is that him, Aurora?’

‘Dad, you’re nagging again.’

‘Aune, perhaps you and I should go and sit outside for a while, so they can look in peace.’

‘In peace? This is my daughter, Wyller, and she wants—’

‘Do as he says, Dad. I’m OK.’

‘Oh. Sure?’

‘Quite sure.’ Aurora turned to the woman from the bank and the man from the Street Crime Unit. ‘It’s not him, move on.’

Ståle Aune stood up, possibly a little too fast, perhaps that’s why he felt giddy. Or perhaps because he hadn’t got any sleep last night. Or eaten anything today. And had been looking at a screen for three hours without a break.

‘You sit down on this sofa here, and I’ll see if I can get us some coffee,’ Wyller said.

Ståle Aune just nodded.

Wyller walked off, leaving Ståle sitting there, looking at his daughter on the other side of the glass wall. She was gesturing at them to move on, stop, rewind. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen her this engaged in anything. Perhaps his initial response and anxiety had been an overreaction. Perhaps the worst was over, perhaps she had somehow managed to move on, while he and Ingrid had been blissfully unaware of what had happened.

And his young daughter had explained to him – the way a psychology lecturer would explain something to a new student – what an oath of confidentiality was. And that she had imposed one on Harry, and that Harry hadn’t broken it until he realised that to do so could save people’s lives – exactly the same way Ståle applied his own oath of confidentiality. And Aurora had survived, in spite of everything. Death. Ståle had been thinking about that recently. Not his own, but the fact that his daughter would also die one day. Why was that thought so unbearable? Maybe it would look different if he and Ingrid became grandparents, seeing as the human psyche is obviously as much a slave to biological imperatives as physical ones, and the impulse to pass on your own genes is presumably a precondition for the survival of the species. He had once asked Harry, long ago, if he didn’t want a child that was biologically his own, but Harry had had his answer ready. He didn’t have the happy gene, only the alcoholic one, and he didn’t think anyone deserved to inherit that. It’s possible that he had changed his mind, because the last few years had at least proved that Harry was capable of experiencing happiness. Ståle took his phone out. He was thinking about phoning Harry and telling him that. That he was a good person, a good friend, father and husband. OK, it sounded like an obituary, but Harry needed to hear it. That he had been wrong to believe that his compulsive attraction to hunting murderers was similar to his alcoholism. That it wasn’t an act of escape, that what he was driven by, far more than Harry Hole the individualist was prepared to admit to himself, was the herding instinct. The good herding instinct. With morals and responsibility towards everyone. Harry would probably just laugh, but that’s what Ståle wanted to tell his friend, if only he’d answer his damn phone.

Ståle saw Aurora’s back straighten up, her muscles tense. Was it …? But then she relaxed again and gestured with her hand that they should go on.

Ståle held the phone to his ear again. Answer, damn it!

‘Successful at my career, sports and family life? Yes, maybe.’ Mikael Bellman looked round the table. ‘But first and foremost I’m just a simple guy from Manglerud.’

He had been worried that the practised clichés would sound hollow, but Isabelle had been right: it only took a little bit of feeling to deliver even the most embarrassing banality with conviction.

‘We’re glad you found the time for this little chat, Bellman.’ The Party Secretary raised his napkin to his lips to indicate that lunch was over, and nodded to the two other representatives. ‘The process is under way and, as I said, we’re extremely pleased that you’ve indicated that you’re inclined to respond positively in the event of an offer being made.’

Bellman nodded.

‘By “we”,’ Isabelle Skøyen interjected, ‘you mean the Prime Minister as well, don’t you?’

‘We wouldn’t have agreed to come here if it weren’t for the positive attitude of the Prime Minister’s office,’ the Party Secretary said.

At first they had invited Mikael to the Government Building for this conversation, but after consulting Isabelle, Mikael had countered by inviting them to neutral territory. Lunch, paid for by the Police Chief.

The Party Secretary looked at his watch. An Omega Seamaster, Bellman noted. Too heavy to be practical. And it made you a target for muggers in every Third World city. It stopped working if you left it off for longer than a day, so you had to wind and wind to reset the time, but if you forgot to tighten the screw afterwards and jumped in the pool, the clock was ruined and the repairs would cost more than four other high-quality watches. In short: he really needed to get that watch.

‘But, as I mentioned, there are other people under consideration. Minister of Justice is one of the weightier ministerial appointments, and I can’t deny that the path is slightly trickier for someone who hasn’t risen through the political ranks.’