Jo Nesbo - The Thirst

The phone was snatched from her hand.

‘Smith? This is Harry, I’m with you. Have you locked the office door? OK, do that now, and switch the light off. Nice and calmly.’ Hallstein Smith stared at the computer screen. ‘OK, I’ve locked the door and turned the light out,’ he whispered.

‘Can you see him?’

‘No. Yes, now I see him.’ Hallstein saw a figure enter the end of the passageway. He stumbled on the scales, regained his balance, and carried on past the stalls, towards the camera. As the man passed beneath one of the lights, his face was illuminated.

‘Oh God, it’s him, Harry. It’s Valentin.’

‘Stay calm.’

‘But … he’s unlocked the door, he’s got keys, Harry. Maybe he’s got the office key as well.’

‘Is there a window in there?’

‘Yes, but it’s too small and too high up the wall.’

‘Anything heavy you can hit him with?’

‘No. I … I’ve got the pistol, though.’

‘You’ve got a pistol?’

‘Yes, it’s in the drawer. But I haven’t had time to test it.’

‘Breathe, Smith. What does it look like?’

‘Er, it’s black. At Police HQ they said it’s a Glock something-or-other.’

‘Glock 17. Is the magazine inserted?’

‘Yes. And it’s loaded, they said. But I can’t see a safety catch.’

‘That’s OK, it’s in the trigger, so you just have to squeeze the trigger to fire.’

Smith pressed the phone to his mouth and whispered as quietly as he could. ‘I can hear keys in the lock.’

‘How far away is the door?’

‘Two metres.’

‘Stand up and hold the pistol with both hands. Remember, you’re in darkness and he’s got the light behind him, he won’t be able to see you clearly. If he’s unarmed, you shout “Police, down on your knees”. If you see a weapon you shoot three times. Three times. Understood?’

‘Yes.’

The door in front of Smith opened.

And there he stood, silhouetted against the light of the barn behind him. Hallstein Smith gasped for the air that felt like it was being sucked out of the room as the man raised his hand. Valentin Gjertsen.

Katrine jumped. She had heard the bang from the phone, even though Harry was holding it tightly to his ear.

‘Smith?’ Harry cried. ‘Smith, are you there?’

No reply.

‘Smith!’

‘Valentin’s shot him!’ Katrine groaned.

‘No,’ Harry said.

‘No? You told him to fire three times, and he’s not answering!’

‘That was a Glock, not a Ruger.’

‘But why …?’ Katrine stopped when she heard a voice on the phone. She stared at the look of intense concentration on Harry’s face. Tried in vain to work out who he was listening to, if it was Smith or the voice she had only heard in recordings of old interviews, the high voice that had given her nightmares. Who right now was telling Harry what he was thinking of doing to …

‘OK,’ Harry said. ‘You’ve picked up his revolver? … Good, put it in the drawer and stay sitting where you can see him properly. If he’s lying in the doorway, just leave him there. Is he moving? … OK, no … No, no first aid. If he’s only wounded, he’ll be waiting for you to move closer. If he’s dead, it’s too late. And if he’s somewhere in between, then that’s his bad luck, because you’re just going to sit there and watch. Understood, Smith? Good. We’ll be there in half an hour, I’ll call you when we’re in the car. Don’t take your eyes off him, and call your wife and tell them to stay in the house, and say that we’re on our way.’

Katrine took the phone, as Harry slipped out of bed and vanished into the bathroom. She thought he was saying something to her before she realised he was throwing up.

Truls’s hands were sweating so much he could feel it right through the legs of his trousers.

Ulla was drunk. Even so, she was sitting at the very edge of the sofa and holding the beer bottle he had given her in front of her like a defensive weapon.

‘Imagine, this is the first time I’ve been in your home,’ she said, slurring slightly. ‘And we’ve known each other … how many years?’

‘Since we were fifteen,’ Truls said, who at that precise moment wasn’t capable of any complicated mental arithmetic.

She smiled to herself and nodded, or rather, her head just fell forward.

Truls coughed. ‘It’s getting really windy out there now. This Emilia …’

‘Truls?’

‘Yes?’

‘Could you imagine fucking me?’

He swallowed.

She giggled without looking up. ‘Truls, I hope that pause doesn’t mean—’

‘Of course I can,’ Truls said.

‘Good,’ she said. ‘Good.’ She lifted her head and gazed at him with unfocused eyes. ‘Good.’ Her head was swaying on her slender neck. As if it were full of something heavy. A heavy mood. Heavy thoughts. This was his chance. The opening he had been dreaming of, but never imagined he would get: he had been granted permission to fuck Ulla Swart.

‘Have you got a bedroom so we can get it done?’

He looked at her. Nodded. She smiled, but she didn’t look happy. To hell with that. Fuck happy – Ulla Swart was horny, and that was what mattered now. Truls was about to reach out and stroke her cheek, but his hand wouldn’t obey him.

‘Is something wrong, Truls?’

‘Wrong? No, how could there be?’

‘You look so …’

He waited. But nothing more came.

‘So what?’ he prompted.

‘So lost.’ Instead of his hand, it was hers, it was hers stroking his cheek. ‘Poor, poor Truls.’

He was about to knock her hand away. Knock away the hand of Ulla Swart, who after all these years had reached out to touch him without contempt or disgust. What the hell was wrong with him? The woman wanted to get fucked, plain and simple, and that was a job he could manage, he’d never had any trouble getting it up. All he had to do now was get them up from this sofa, out into the bedroom, off with their clothes and then slip the salmon in. She could scream and groan and whine, he wasn’t going to stop before she—

‘Are you crying, Truls?’

Crying? She was obviously so drunk she was seeing things.

He saw her pull her hand back and press it to her lips.

‘Real salt tears,’ she said. ‘Are you upset about something?’

And now Truls felt it. Felt the hot tears running down his cheeks. Felt his nose start to run as well. Felt the pressure in his throat as if he was trying to swallow something that was too big, something that would smother him or make him burst.

‘Is it me?’ she asked.

Truls shook his head, unable to speak.

‘Is it … Mikael?’

It was such an idiotic question that he almost got angry. Of course it wasn’t Mikael. Why the hell would it be Mikael? The man who was supposed to be his best friend, but who, ever since they were boys, had taken every opportunity to tease him in front of the others, only to shove him out in front when they were threatened with a beating. And who later, when they were both in the police, got Beavis to do all the shitty jobs that had to be done so that Mikael Bellman could get where he was today. Why would Truls sit here crying about something like that, over a friendship that had been nothing more than two outsiders who had been forced together, in which one of them had become a success and the other a pathetic loser? Like hell! So what was it, then? Why was it that when the loser had the chance to make up lost ground and fuck his wife, he started crying like an old woman? Now Truls could see tears in Ulla’s eyes too. Ulla Swart. Truls Berntsen. Mikael Bellman. It had been the three of them. And the rest of Manglerud could go to hell. Because they had no one. Only each other.