Jo Nesbo - The Thirst

‘Brave new world,’ Katrine said.

‘ O brave new world, that has such people in it ,’ Smith said.

Katrine turned to the psychologist. ‘Can you imagine where someone like Valentin might go if he ran?’

‘No.’

‘No, as in “no idea”?’

Smith pushed his glasses further up his nose. ‘No, as in “I can’t imagine him running”.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because he’s angry.’

Katrine shivered. ‘You didn’t exactly make him less angry if he heard your podcast with Daa.’

‘No,’ Smith sighed. ‘Maybe I went too far. Again. Fortunately we’ve got decent locks and security cameras after the break-in in the barn. But maybe …’

‘Maybe what?’

‘Maybe we’d feel safer if I had a weapon, a pistol or something.’

‘Regulations don’t permit us to give you a police weapon without a licence and weapons training.’

‘Emergency armament,’ Wyller said.

Katrine looked at him. Perhaps the criteria for emergency armament had been met, perhaps not. But she could see the headlines after Smith had been shot and it emerged that he had requested emergency armament and had been turned down. ‘Can you help Hallstein get issued with a pistol?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK. I’ve told Skarre to check trains, boats, flights, hotels and boarding houses. We’ll have to hope that Valentin doesn’t have the paperwork to support other identities apart from Alexander Dreyer.’ Katrine looked up at the sky. She had once had a boyfriend who was keen on paragliding, and he had told her that even if there was no wind on the ground, the air just a couple of hundred metres up could break the speed limit on a motorway. Dreyer. Dutch wife. Things to do ? Pistol. Angry.

‘And Harry wasn’t at home?’ she said.

Wyller shook his head. ‘I rang the doorbell, walked round the house, looked in all the windows.’

‘Time to talk to Oleg,’ she said. ‘He must have keys.’

‘I’ll get on to it.’

She sighed. ‘If you don’t find Harry there, it might be an idea to get Telenor to try and locate his phone.’

One of the white-clad forensics guys came over to her.

‘There’s blood in the boot,’ he said.

‘Much?’

‘Yes. And this.’ He held up a large transparent plastic evidence bag. Inside was a white blouse. Torn. Bloody. With lace on it, the way customers had described the blouse Marte Ruud had been wearing the night she went missing.

WEDNESDAY EVENING

HARRY OPENED HIS eyes and stared into the darkness.

Where was he? What had happened? How long had he been unconscious? His head felt like someone had hit it with an iron bar. His pulse was throbbing against his eardrums in a monotonous rhythm. All he could remember was that he was locked in. And as far as he could work out, he was lying on a floor covered in cold tiles. Cold like the inside of a fridge. He was lying in something wet, sticky. He raised his hand and stared at it. Was that blood?

Then, slowly, it dawned on Harry that it wasn’t his pulse throbbing against his eardrums.

It was a bass guitar.

Kaiser Chiefs? Probably. It was definitely one of those hip English bands that he’d actually forgotten. Not that Kaiser Chiefs were bad, but they weren’t exceptional and had therefore ended up in the grey soup of things he had heard more than a year ago but less than twenty: they just hadn’t stuck. While he could remember every note and lyric from the very worst songs from the 1980s, the period between then and now was a blank. Just like the period between yesterday and now. Nothing. Just that insistent bass. Or his heartbeat. Or someone banging on the door.

Harry opened his eyes again. He smelt his hand, hoping it wasn’t blood, piss or vomit.

The bass started to play out of time with the song.

It was the door.

‘Closed!’ Harry shouted. And regretted it when it felt like his head was going to explode.

The track ended and the Smiths took over. And Harry realised he must have plugged his own phone into the stereo when he got sick of Bad Company. ‘There is a Light That Never Goes Out’. If only it would. But the hammering on the door merely continued. Harry put his hands over his ears. But when the track reached the last part with nothing but strings, he heard a voice shouting his name. And because it could hardly be someone who had found out that the new owner of the Jealousy Bar was called Harry, and because he recognised the voice, he grabbed hold of the edge of the counter and heaved himself up. First to his knees. Then a forward-leaning posture, which in spite of everything had to qualify as standing, seeing as the soles of his shoes were planted on the sticky floor. He saw the two empty Jim Beam bottles lying on their sides with their mouths over the edge of the counter, and realised that he had lain there marinating in his own bourbon whiskey.

He saw her face outside the window. It looked like she was alone.

He ran one stiff index finger across his throat to indicate that the bar was closed, but she gave him a long stiff finger in return and started banging on the window instead.

And because the noise sounded like a hammer on the already battered parts of his brain, Harry decided that he may as well open the door. He let go of the counter, took a step. And fell over. Both his feet had fallen asleep – how was that possible? He got up again, and with the help of the tables and chairs he staggered to the door.

‘Bloody hell,’ Katrine groaned when he opened the door. ‘You’re drunk!’

‘Possibly,’ Harry said. ‘But I wish I was drunker.’

‘We’ve been looking for you, you bloody idiot! Have you been here all this time?’

‘I don’t know what “all this time” is, but there are two empty bottles on the bar. Let’s hope I took my time and enjoyed it.’

‘We’ve been calling and calling.’

‘Mm. Must have put my phone on flight mode. Do you like the playlist? Listen. This angry lady is Martha Wainwright. “Bloody Mother Fucking Arsehole”. Remind you of anyone?’

‘Fucking hell, Harry, what are you thinking?’

‘I don’t know about thinking. I am – as you can see – in flight mode.’

She grabbed hold of the collar of his jacket. ‘People are being murdered out there, Harry. And you’re standing here trying to be funny?’

‘I try to be funny every fucking day, Katrine. And you know what? It doesn’t make people any better, or any worse. And it doesn’t seem to have any effect on the number of murders either.’

‘Harry, Harry …’

He swayed, and it dawned on him that she had grabbed his collar primarily to stop him falling over.

‘We missed him, Harry. We need you.’

‘OK. Just let me have a drink first.’

‘Harry!’

‘Your voice is very … loud …’

‘We’re going now. I’ve got a car waiting outside.’

‘My bar is having a happy hour, and I’m not ready for work, Katrine.’

‘You’re not going to work, you’re going home to sober up. Oleg’s waiting for you.’

‘Oleg?’

‘We got him to unlock the house up in Holmenkollen. He was so scared of what he was going to find that he made Bjørn go in first.’

Harry closed his eyes. Shit, shit. ‘I can’t, Katrine.’

‘You can’t what?’

‘Call Oleg and say I’m OK, tell him to go back to his mother instead.’

‘He seemed pretty determined to wait there until you arrived, Harry.’

‘I can’t let him see me like this. And I’m no use to you. Sorry, this isn’t up for discussion.’ He took hold of the door. ‘Now go.’

‘Go? And leave you here?’

‘I’ll be OK. Only soft drinks from now on. Maybe a bit of Coldplay.’