Jo Nesbo - The Thirst

She took a handkerchief out of her bag and gently wiped beneath her eyes. ‘Do you want me to go?’ she sniffed.

‘I …’ Truls didn’t recognise his own voice. ‘Damned if I know, Ulla.’

‘Me too,’ she laughed, looked at the make-up stains on the handkerchief and put it back in her bag. ‘Forgive me, Truls. This was probably a bad idea. I’ll go now.’

He nodded. ‘Another time,’ he said. ‘In another life.’

‘Nail on the head,’ she said, and stood up.

Truls was left standing in the hall after the door closed behind her, listening to the sound of her steps echoing in the stairwell, gradually getting fainter. He heard the door open far below. Close. She was gone. Completely gone.

He felt … yes, what did he feel? Relief. But also a despair that was almost unbearable, like a physical pain in his chest and stomach which made him think for a moment of the gun in the cupboard in the bedroom, and the fact that he could actually be free right here, right now. Then he sank to his knees and rested his forehead on the doormat. And laughed. A grunting laugh that wouldn’t stop, and just got louder and louder. Hell, it was a wonderful life!

Hallstein Smith’s heart was still racing.

He was doing what Harry had said, keeping his eyes and pistol trained on the motionless man lying in the doorway. He felt nausea rising as he saw the pool of blood spreading towards him across the floor. He mustn’t throw up, he mustn’t lose his concentration now. Harry had told him to fire three times. Should he put another two bullets in him? No, he was dead.

He rang May’s number with trembling fingers. She answered immediately.

‘Hallstein?’

‘I thought you were asleep,’ he said.

‘I’m sitting in bed with the children. They can’t sleep because of the storm.’

‘Of course. Listen, the police are going to be arriving soon. Blue lights and maybe sirens, so don’t be scared.’

‘Scared of what?’ she asked, and he heard the tremble in her voice. ‘What’s going on, Hallstein? We heard a bang. Was that the wind, or something else?’

‘May, don’t worry. Everything’s fine …’

‘I can hear from your voice that everything isn’t fine, Hallstein! The kids are sitting here crying!’

‘I … I’ll come in and explain.’

Katrine steered the car down the narrow gravel road that wound between the fields and patches of woodland.

Harry put his phone in his pocket. ‘Smith went into the farmhouse to be with his family.’

‘It must be OK, then,’ Katrine said.

Harry didn’t respond.

The wind was increasing in strength. In the patches of forest she had to watch out for broken branches and other debris in the road, and out in the open she had to hold the wheel tight as gusts of wind grabbed at the car.

Harry’s phone rang again as Katrine turned into the open gate to Smith’s property.

‘We’re here now,’ Harry said into his phone. ‘When you arrive, cordon off the area but don’t touch anything until Forensics get here.’

Katrine stopped in front of the barn and jumped out.

‘Lead the way,’ Harry said, following her through the barn door.

She heard Harry swear as she turned right towards the office.

‘Sorry, forgot to warn you about the scales,’ Katrine said.

‘It’s not that,’ Harry said. ‘I can see blood on the floor here.’

Katrine stopped in front of the open door to the office. Stared at the pool of blood on the floor. Shit. There was no Valentin there.

‘Keep an eye on the Smiths,’ Harry said behind her.

‘What …?’

She turned round in time to see Harry disappear off to the left and out through the door.

A gust of wind grabbed Harry as he switched on the torch on his phone and aimed it at the ground. He regained his balance. The blood stood out against the pale grey gravel. He followed the thin trail of drops that indicated which direction Valentin had fled in. The wind was on his back. Towards the farmhouse.

No …

Harry drew his Glock. He hadn’t taken the time to check if Valentin’s revolver was in the drawer in the office, so he had to work from the assumption that Valentin was armed.

The trail was gone.

Harry swung his phone around and breathed out in relief when he saw that the blood led away from the track, away from the house. Out across the dry yellow grass, towards the field. Here too the trail of blood was easy to follow. The wind had to be up at full gale force now, and Harry felt the first drops of rain hit his cheek like projectiles. When it really started, it would wash away the trail of blood in a matter of seconds.

Valentin closed his eyes and opened his mouth to the wind. As if it could blow new life into him. Life. Why did everything only reach its full value just as it was in the process of being lost? Her. Freedom. And now life.

Life, draining out of him. He could feel the cooling blood filling his shoes. He hated blood. It was other one who loved blood. The other, the man he had entered into a pact with. And when had he realised that it wasn’t he who was the devil, but the other, the blood-man? That it was he, Valentin Gjertsen, who had sold and lost his soul? Valentin Gjertsen lifted his face towards the sky and laughed. The storm was here. The demon was free.

Harry ran with the Glock in one hand, his phone in the other.

Across the open ground. Downhill, with the wind behind him. Valentin was injured, and would have taken the easiest possible path to get as much distance between himself and those he knew would soon be coming after him. Harry felt the jolts from his feet transmit themselves to his head, felt his stomach want to turn itself inside out again, and swallowed to keep the vomit down. Thought about a forest track. Thought about a guy in new Under Armour gear ahead of him on the path. And ran.

He was getting close to the forest and slowed down. He knew he would have to face the wind when he changed direction.

There was a small, dilapidated shack in among the trees. Rotten planks, corrugated-iron roof. For tools, maybe, or somewhere the animals could shelter from the rain.

Harry shone his phone towards the shack. He couldn’t hear anything but the storm, it was dark and he would hardly have been able to smell blood on a warm day with the wind in the right direction. All the same, he knew that Valentin was here. The way he just knew things at regular intervals, and kept getting them wrong.

He shone the light down at the ground again. There was less of a gap between the drops of blood. Valentin had slowed down here too. Because he wanted to evaluate the situation. Or because he was exhausted. Because he had to stop. And the blood – which had led in a straight line so far – turned off here. Towards the shack. He hadn’t been mistaken.

Harry set off towards the patch of woodland to the right of the shack. He ran in among the trees before he stopped, switched off the light on his phone, raised his Glock and walked in an arc so he could approach the shack from the other side. He lay down and snaked across the ground.

He had the wind in his face now, which lowered the chance of Valentin hearing him. It was carrying sounds towards him, and Harry could hear police sirens in the distance, rising and falling between the gusts.

Harry crept over a fallen tree. A silent flash of lightning. And there, a silhouette standing out against the shack. It was him. He was sitting between two trees with his back to Harry, only five or six metres ahead of him.

Harry aimed his pistol at the figure.

‘Valentin!’

His cry was partially drowned out by a delayed rumble of thunder, but he saw the figure before him stiffen.

‘I’ve got you in my sights, Valentin. Put your gun down.’