by Jo Nesbo
‘You whore!’ she screamed.
‘Right first time,’ Sandra replied drily. She was taking the scene with a great deal more calm than the other two, but still heading for a sharp exit.
‘Grab your things and get out!’ Birgitta shouted in a strangulated voice, throwing the handbag on the chair at Sandra. It hit the bed and disgorged its contents. Harry stood in the middle of the floor, naked and uncertain on his feet, and saw to his surprise a Pekinese sitting on his bed. Beside the fluffy object was a hairbrush, cigarettes, keys, a lump of shimmering, green kryptonite and the biggest selection of condoms Harry had ever seen. Sandra rolled her eyes, grabbed the Pekinese by the scruff of the neck and stuffed it back in the bag.
‘What about the wonga, sweetie?’ she said.
Harry didn’t move, so she picked up his trousers and took out the wallet. Birgitta had collapsed on a chair and for a moment all that could be heard was Sandra’s low, concentrated counting and Birgitta’s half-stifled sobs.
‘I’m outta here,’ Sandra said when she was happy and on her way.
‘Wait!’ Harry said, but it was too late. The door was slammed shut.
‘Wait?!’ Birgitta said. ‘Did you say wait?’ she screamed, getting out of the chair. ‘You whoremonger, you bloody piss-artist. You’ve no right—’
Harry tried to put his arm round her, but she punched him away. They faced each other like two wrestlers. Birgitta seemed to be in some kind of trance; her eyes were glazed and blind with hatred and her mouth trembling with fury. It occurred to Harry that if she’d ever wanted to kill him she would have done it there and then, without any hesitation.
‘Birgitta, I—’
‘Drink yourself to death and get out of my life!’ She turned on her heel and stormed out. The whole room shook as she slammed the door.
The phone rang. It was reception. ‘What’s going on, Mr Holy? The lady in the adjacent room to you has rung and—’
Harry cradled the receiver. A sudden, uncontrollable fury rose in him, and he cast around for something to smash. He snatched the whiskey bottle from the table and was about to launch it at the wall, but changed his mind at the last moment.
Lifelong training in self-control, he thought, opening the bottle and putting it to his mouth.
36
Room Service
THERE WAS A rattle of keys and Harry was woken by the door opening.
‘No room service now. Please come back later!’ Harry shouted into the pillow.
‘Mr Holy, I represent the management of this hotel.’
Harry turned over. Two besuited individuals had entered the room. They stood at a respectful distance from the bed, but seemed very determined nonetheless. Harry recognised one as the receptionist from the previous night. The other continued.
‘You have breached hotel rules, and I regret to say we are obliged to ask you to settle your account as soon as possible and leave the premises, Mr Holy.’
‘Hotel rules?’ Harry could feel he was about to spew.
The suit coughed. ‘You brought into your room a woman who, we suspect, was a . . . well, a prostitute. Not only that, you woke half the residents on this floor with your commotion. We are a respectable hotel and cannot condone this sort of behaviour. I’m sure you understand, Mr Holy.’
Harry grunted by way of answer and turned his back on them.
‘Fine, Mr Management Representative. I’m leaving today anyway. Let me sleep in peace until I check out.’
‘You should already have checked out, Mr Holy,’ said the receptionist.
Harry squinted at his watch. It was a quarter past two.
‘We have been trying to wake you.’
‘My plane . . .’ Harry said, bundling his legs out of the bed. After two attempts he had terra firma beneath his feet and stood up. He had forgotten he was naked, and the receptionist and the manager retreated in fright. Harry felt dizzy, the ceiling did a couple of circuits and he had to sit down on the edge of the bed again. Then he threw up.
BUBBUR
37
Two Bouncers
THE WAITER AT Bourbon & Beef removed his untouched Eggs Benedict and sent the customer sympathetic looks. He had come here every morning for a week, read the paper and eaten his breakfast. Some days he had looked tired, true enough, but the waiter had never seen him in such a state as today. Furthermore, it had been almost half past two when he arrived.
‘Hard night, sir?’
The customer sat with his suitcase beside him at the table staring into the middle distance, red-eyed and unshaven.
‘Yeah. Yup, it was a hard night. I did . . . a lot.’
‘Good on ya. That’s what King’s Cross is for. Anything else, sir?’
‘No thanks. I’ve got a plane to catch . . .’
The waiter listened with regret. He had begun to like the calm Norwegian who seemed a little lonely, but was friendly and gave handsome tips.
‘Yes, I can see the suitcase. If that means it’s the last time you’ll be in for a while, this one’s on me. Are you sure I can’t offer you a bourbon, a Jack Daniel’s? One for the road, as it were?’
The Norwegian looked up at him in surprise. As though the waiter had just suggested something the customer had not managed to think of himself and which had been the obvious move all along.
‘Make it a double, please.’
Kristin had moved back to Oslo a few years later. Via friends Harry had gathered that she had a little girl of two, but that the English guy had been left in London. Then one evening he saw her at Sardines. Moving closer, he saw how changed she was. Her skin was pale and her hair hung limp. When she noticed him her face cracked into a kind of terror-stricken smile. He said hi to Kjartan beside her, a ‘musician friend’ he thought he recognised. She spoke quickly and nervously about all sorts of inconsequential things, not letting Harry slip in the questions she knew he had. Then she talked about her future plans, but her eyes had no spark and the wildly gesticulating arms of the Kristin he remembered were replaced with slow, apathetic movements.
At one point Harry thought she was crying, but by then he was so drunk that he couldn’t say for certain.
Kjartan had gone, returned and mumbled something in her ear, freeing himself from her embrace with a condescending smile to Harry. Then everyone had gone, and Harry and Kristin were left sitting in the empty room among cigarette packets and shards of glass until they were thrown out. It is not easy to say who supported whom through the door or who had suggested a hotel, but at any rate they ended up in the Savoy, where they made short work of the minibar and crawled into bed. Harry had dutifully made an ineffectual attempt to penetrate her, but it was too late. Of course it was too late. Kristin lay with her head buried in the pillow and wept. Harry had sneaked out when he woke and caught a taxi to the Postcafé, which opened an hour earlier than the other waterholes. Where he sat musing on just how late it was.
The owner of Springfield Lodge was called Joe, an overweight, easy-going guy who with thrift and prudence had run his small, slightly down-at-heel establishment in King’s Cross for nearly twenty years. It was neither better nor worse than any other hotel at the lower end of the price range in this district, and he had few, if any, complaints. One of the reasons for this was that, as mentioned before, Joe was an easy-going guy. Another was that he always insisted on guests viewing the room first and he knocked off five dollars if they paid for more than one night. A third and perhaps conclusive reason was that he managed to keep the place fairly free of backpackers, drunks, drug addicts and prostitutes . . .
Even those turned away found it difficult not to like Joe. For at Springfield Lodge no one was met with glares or orders to get out; there was no more than a regretful smile and an apology that the hotel was full, there might be a cancellation in the following week and they were welcome to drop by again. Thanks to Joe’s considerable ability to read faces and his swift, sure categorisation of applicants, he performed this task without a moment’s hesitation
, and therefore seldom had any bother with argumentative types. Only on very rare occasions had Joe committed a blunder sizing up a potential customer, and he bitterly regretted it.
He recalled a couple of these incidents as he quickly summed up the contradictory impressions given by the tall, blond man before him. His plain quality clothing suggested he had money but didn’t feel forced to part with it. The fact that he was a foreigner was a big plus; it was usually Australians who created problems. Backpackers with sleeping bags often meant wild parties and missing towels, but this man had a suitcase, and it seemed in good condition, which suggested he wasn’t constantly on the move. True, he hadn’t shaved but then it wasn’t so long since his hair had seen the insides of a barber’s shop. Moreover, his nails were clean and manicured, and his pupils were of relatively normal dimensions.
The upshot of all these impressions and the fact that the man had just placed a VISA card on the counter together with ID as a Norwegian policeman was that his usual ‘I’m sorry but’ got stuck in his throat.
For there was no doubt the man was drunk. Smashed, even.
‘I know you know I’ve had a few,’ said the man in surprisingly good, slurred English when he noticed Joe’s hesitation. ‘Let’s assume I go crazy in the room. Let’s assume that. Break the TV and the bathroom mirror and throw up over the carpet. That sort of thing’s happened before. Would a deposit of a thousand dollars cover it? In any case, I intend to keep myself so drunk I’ll hardly be able to make much noise, annoy other guests or show my face in the corridors or reception.’
‘I’m afraid we’re fully booked this week. Maybe—’
‘Greg at Bourbon & Beef recommended this place and told me to pass on his regards to Joe. Is that you?’
Joe studied the man.
‘Don’t you make me regret this,’ he said, giving him the key to Room 73.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi, Birgitta, this is Harry. I—’
‘I’ve got a visitor, Harry. Not a good time.’
‘I just wanted to say I didn’t mean to—’
‘Listen, Harry. I’m not angry and there’s no damage done. Fortunately, hurt is limited when you’ve known a guy for scarcely a week, but I’d rather you didn’t contact me any more. OK?’
‘Well, no, actually it isn’t—’
‘As I said, I’ve got a visitor, so I wish you luck with the rest of your stay and hope you return to Norway safe and sound. Bye.’
. . .
‘Bye.’
Teddy Mongabi hadn’t liked Sandra spending the night with the Scandinavian policeman. He thought it reeked of trouble. When he saw the man walking up Darlinghurst Road with rubber knees and drooping arms, his first instinct had been to step back and melt into the crowd. However, his curiosity overcame him and he crossed his arms and barred the way for the crazy Norwegian. The man tried to move past him, but Teddy grabbed his shoulder and spun him round.
‘Don’t you say hello to old friends, mate?’
The mate regarded him through dulled eyes. ‘The pimp . . .’
‘I hope Sandra lived up to expectations, Officer.’
‘Sandra? Now let me see . . . Sandra was good. Where is she?’
‘She’s off this evening. But perhaps I can tempt the officer with something else?’
Harry lurched to find his balance.
‘Right. Right. Come on, pimp. Tempt me.’
Teddy laughed. ‘This way, Officer.’ He supported the drunken policeman down the stairs to the club and sat him at a table with a view of the stage. Teddy flicked his fingers and a scantily clad lady appeared straight away.
‘Two beers please, Amy. And ask Peri to dance for us.’
‘Next performance isn’t until eight, Mr Mongabi.’
‘Call it an extra performance. Now, Amy!’
‘Right, Mr Mongabi.’
The police officer had a foolish grin on his face. ‘I know who’s coming,’ he said. ‘The murderer. The murderer’s coming.’
‘Who?’
‘Nick Cave.’
‘Nick Who?’
‘And the blonde singer. She probably wears a wig as well. Listen . . .’
The pounding disco music had been switched off and the policeman held both forefingers in the air ready to conduct a symphony orchestra, but no sound came.
‘I heard about Andrew,’ Teddy said. ‘Too awful for words. Just awful. My understanding was that he hanged himself. Why on earth would such a cheerful man—’
‘Sandra wears a wig,’ the policeman said. ‘It fell out of her bag. That was why I didn’t recognise her when I met her. Right here! Andrew and I were sitting over there. I’d seen her a couple of times in Darlinghurst before, but then she was wearing a wig. A blonde wig. Why doesn’t she wear it any more?’
‘Aha, the police officer prefers blondes. Then I think I may have something you’ll like . . .’
‘Why?’
Teddy shrugged. ‘Sandra? Well, she was given a bit of a shaking by some bloke recently. Sandra maintained it was something to do with the wig and decided to give it a miss for a while. In case he showed up again.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know, Officer. And if I did, I wouldn’t say. In our line of work discretion is a virtue. Which I’m sure you also appreciate. I’m so bad at names, but isn’t your name Ronny?’
‘Harry. I have to talk to Sandra.’ He struggled to his feet and almost knocked over the tray of beer Amy was carrying. He slumped across the table. ‘Have you got a phone number, pimp?’
Teddy waved Amy away. ‘On principle we don’t give clients the addresses or phone numbers of our girls. For safety reasons. You understand, don’t you?’ Teddy was regretting not following his first instincts – he should have kept away from the drunken and difficult Norwegian.
‘I understand. Gimme the number.’
Teddy smiled. ‘As I said, we don’t give—’
‘Now!’ Harry grabbed the lapels of the shiny grey suit jacket and blew a mixture of whiskey breath and vomit stench into Teddy’s face. An ingratiating string arrangement oozed from the speakers.
‘I’ll count to three, Officer. If you haven’t let go by then I’ll call for Ivan and Geoff. That will mean an aerial exit through the back door. Outside the back door there’s a flight of steps. Twenty steep concrete steps.’
Harry grinned and tightened his grip. ‘Is that supposed to frighten me, you bloody pimp bastard? Look at me. I’m so pissed I can’t feel a thing. I’m fuckin’ indestructible, man. Geoff! Ivan!’
Shadows stirred behind the bar. As he turned his head to look, Teddy jerked himself free from Harry’s grip. He shoved and Harry reeled backwards. He took his chair and the table with him as he crashed to the floor. Instead of getting up he stayed where he was, chuckling, until Geoff and Ivan arrived and sent Teddy an enquiring look.
‘Get him out the back door,’ Teddy said, watching as the policeman was picked up like a rag doll and thrown over the shoulder of a black bruiser in a dinner jacket.
‘I don’t bloody know what’s wrong with people today,’ Teddy said, straightening his crease-free suit jacket.
Ivan led the way and opened the door.
‘What the hell’s this bloke had?’ Geoff said. ‘He’s laughing so much he’s shaking.’
‘Have to see how long he laughs then,’ Ivan said. ‘Put him down here.’
Geoff lowered Harry to his feet, and he stood swaying in front of the two men.
‘Can you keep a secret, mister?’ Ivan said with a bashful smile. ‘I know this is a gangster cliché, but I hate violence.’
Geoff sniggered.
‘Cut it out, Geoff. I really do. Just ask anyone who knows me. He can’t stand it, they’ll tell you. Ivan can’t sleep, gets depressed. The world is a tough enough place for any poor sod without us making things worse by breaking arms and legs, isn’t it. So. So just go home, and we won’t make any more trouble here. OK?’
Harry nodded and fumbled in his po
ckets for something.
‘Even though you’re the gangster this evening,’ Ivan said. ‘You!’
He poked a forefinger in Harry’s chest.
‘You!’ Ivan repeated and shoved a bit harder. The blond police officer teetered perilously.
‘You!’
Harry stood rocking on his heels and waving his arms. He hadn’t turned to see what was behind him, he seemed to know already. A smile spread across his face as his glazed eyes met Ivan’s. He fell backwards and groaned as he hit the first steps. Not a sound emerged the rest of the way down.
38
A Bloke Called Speedy
JOE HEARD THE scratching at the front door, and peering through the glass at the new guest, bent double, he knew he’d made one of his rare mistakes. When he opened the door the guest collapsed against him. Had it not been for Joe’s low centre of gravity they both would have taken a tumble. Joe managed to get Harry’s arm across his shoulder and drag him to a chair in reception where he could examine him closer. Not that the blond drunk had been a pretty sight when he checked in, but now he really did look bad. He had a deep gash on one elbow – Joe could see red flesh gleaming through – one cheek was swollen and blood was dripping from his nose onto filthy trousers. His shirt was torn and his chest rattled whenever he breathed. But at least he did – breathe.
‘What happened?’ Joe said.
‘Fell down some stairs. No damage done, just need to rest a bit.’
Joe was no doctor, but judging from the breathing sounds he reckoned a rib or two had gone. He found some antiseptic ointment and plasters, patched up the guest as best he could and finally pushed some cotton wool up one nostril. Harry shook his head when Joe tried to give him a painkiller.
‘Painkiller stuff in my room,’ he gasped.
‘You need a doctor,’ Joe said. ‘I’ll—’
‘No doctor. I’ll be fine in a couple of hours.’
‘Your breathing doesn’t sound good.’
‘Never has. Asthma. Give me a couple of hours in bed and I’ll be out of your hair.’
