Jo Nesbo - The Thirst

Mikael made sure to get his timing spot on, and pushed back his chair and stood up at exactly the same time as the Party Secretary, and was first to hold out his hand and say ‘Let’s talk soon’. He was Chief of Police, damn it, and out of the two of them, it was him rather than this grey bureaucrat with the expensive watch who needed to get back to his responsible job fastest.

Once the representatives of the governing party had left, Mikael and Isabelle Skøyen sat down again. They had been given a private room in one of the new restaurants set among the apartment complexes at the far end of Sørenga. They had the Opera House and Ekebergsåsen behind them, and the new freshwater pool in front of them. The fjord was covered in choppy little waves, and the yachts hung crookedly out there like white commas. The latest weather forecasts predicted that the storm was going to hit Oslo before midnight.

‘That went OK, didn’t it?’ Mikael asked, pouring the last of the Voss mineral water into their glasses.

‘ If it weren’t for the positive attitude from the Prime Minister’s office ,’ Isabelle mimicked, and wrinkled her nose.

‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘That “if it weren’t for” is a modifier they haven’t used before. And the fact that they’re referring to the Prime Minister’s office instead of the Prime Minister herself tells me they’re distancing themselves.’

‘Why would they do that?’

‘You heard what I did. A lunch where they mostly asked you about the vampirist case and how quickly you think he can be caught.’

‘Come on, Isabelle, that’s what everyone in the city is talking about right now.’

‘They’re asking because that’s what everything depends on, Mikael.’

‘But—’

‘They don’t need you, your competence or ability to run a department, you do realise that, don’t you?’

‘Now you’re exaggerating, but OK, yes—’

‘They want your eyepatch, your hero status, popularity, success. Because that’s what you’ve got and what this government lacks right now. Take that away and you’re not worth anything to them. And, truth be told …’ She pushed her glass away and stood up. ‘… not to me either.’

Mikael smiled warily. ‘What?’

She took her short fur coat from the hat stand.

‘I can’t deal with losers, Mikael, you know that perfectly well. I went to the press and gave you the credit for saving the day by blowing the dust off Harry Hole. So far he’s arrested a naked ninety-year-old and got an innocent bartender murdered. That doesn’t just make you look like a loser, Mikael, it makes me look like one. I don’t like that, and that’s why I’m leaving you.’

Mikael Bellman laughed. ‘Have you got your period, or what?’

‘You used to know when that was due.’

‘OK,’ Mikael sighed. ‘Speak soon.’

‘I think you’re interpreting “leaving” a little too narrowly.’

‘Isabelle …’

‘Goodbye. I liked what you said about your successful family life. Focus on that.’

Mikael Bellman sat and watched the door close behind her.

He asked the waiter who looked in for the bill, and gazed out across the fjord again. It was said that the people who planned these apartments along the water’s edge hadn’t taken climate change and rising sea levels into account. He had actually thought about that when he and Ulla had their villa built, high up in Høyenhall: that they would be safe there, the sea couldn’t drown them, invisible assailants couldn’t sneak up on them, and no storm could blow the roof off. It would take more than that. He drank from his glass of water. Grimaced and looked at it. Voss. Why were people prepared to pay good money for something that tasted no better than what they could get from the tap? Not because they thought it tasted better, but because they thought other people thought it tasted better. So they ordered Voss when they were out at restaurants with their far-too-boring trophy wives and far-too-heavy Omega Seamaster watches. Was that why he sometimes found himself longing for the old days? For Manglerud, and being drunk at Olsen’s on a Saturday night, leaning over the bar and topping up his beer while Olsen looked the other way, dancing one last slow dance with Ulla as the first line of the Manglerud Stars and the Kawasaki 750 boys glared angrily at him, while he knew that he and Ulla would soon be leaving together, just the two of them, out into the night, walking down Plogveien towards the ice hall and Østensjøvannet, and there he would point out the stars and explain how they were going to get there.

Had they succeeded? Maybe, but it was like when he was a boy, when he was walking in the mountains with his father, when he was tired and thought they had finally reached the summit. Only to discover that beyond that summit lay one that was even higher.

Mikael Bellman closed his eyes.

It was just like that now. He was tired. Could he stop here? Lie down, feel the wind, the heather tickling him, sun-warmed rock against his skin. Say he was thinking of staying here. And he felt a peculiar urge to call Ulla and tell her just that. We’re staying here .

And in response he felt his phone vibrate in his jacket pocket. Of course, it had to be Ulla.

‘Yes?’

‘This is Katrine Bratt.’

‘Right.’

‘I just wanted to inform you that we’ve found out the alias Valentin Gjertsen has been hiding behind.’

‘What?’

‘He withdrew money at Oslo Central Station in August, and six minutes ago we managed to identify him from the recording made by the security camera. The card he used was issued to an Alexander Dreyer, born 1972.’

‘And?’

‘And this Alexander Dreyer died in a car accident in 2010.’

‘Address? Have we got an address?’

‘We have. Delta are on their way there now.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Not yet, but I presume you’d like to be kept informed as things develop?’

‘Yes. As things develop.’

They hung up.

‘Sorry.’ It was the waiter.

Bellman looked down at the bill. He tapped an amount that was far too high into the handheld card reader, and pressed Enter. Stood up and stormed out. Catching Gjertsen now would open all the doors.

His tiredness seemed to have blown away.

John D. Steffens turned the light on. The neon lights flickered for a few moments before the buzzing stabilised, casting a cold glow.

Oleg blinked and gasped. ‘Is that all blood?’ His voice echoed around the room.

Steffens smiled as the metal door slid closed behind them. ‘Welcome to the Bloodbath.’

Oleg shivered. The room was kept chilled, and the bluish light on the cracked white tiles only enhanced the feeling of being inside a fridge.

‘How … how much is there?’ Oleg asked as he followed Steffens between the rows of red blood bags, hanging four-deep from metal stands.

‘Enough for us to be able to cope for a few days if Oslo were attacked by Lakotas,’ Steffens said, climbing down the steps into the old pool.

‘Lakotas?’

‘You probably know them as Sioux,’ Steffens said, squeezing one of the bags, and Oleg saw the blood change colour, from dark to light. ‘It’s a myth that the Native Americans the white man met were especially bloodthirsty. Except for the Lakotas.’

‘Really?’ Oleg said. ‘What about the white man? Isn’t bloodthirstiness pretty evenly divided between types of people?’

‘I know that’s what you learn at school now,’ Steffens said. ‘No one’s better, no one’s worse. But believe me, the Lakotas were both better and worse, they were the best fighters. The Apaches used to say that if Cheyenne or Blackfoot warriors came, they would send their young boys and old men to fight them. But if the Lakotas came, they didn’t send anyone. They started to sing songs of death. And hoped for a quick end.’