The Bat

by Jo Nesbo

  Joe sighed. He knew he was about to make mistake number two.

  ‘Forget it,’ he said. ‘You need more than a couple of hours. Anyway, it’s not your fault that steps are so bloody steep in Sydney. I’ll pop up in the morning.’

  He helped the guest to his room, settled him on the bed and removed his shoes. On the table there were three empty and two unopened bottles of Jim Beam. Joe was teetotal, but had lived long enough to know that you couldn’t discuss anything with an alcoholic. He opened one of the bottles and put it on the bedside table. The bloke would be feeling awful when he woke up at all events.

  ‘Crystal Castle. Hello.’

  ‘Hello, may I speak to Margaret Dawson?’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘I can help your son if you tell me he killed Inger Holter.’

  ‘What?! Who is this?’

  ‘A friend. You have to trust me, Mrs Dawson. If not, your son’s lost. Do you understand? Did he kill Inger Holter?’

  ‘What is this? Is this supposed to be a joke? Who is Inger Holter?’

  ‘You’re Evans’s mother, Mrs Dawson. Inger Holter also had a mother. You and I are the only ones who can help your son. Tell me he killed Inger Holter! Do you hear me?!’

  ‘I can hear you’ve been drinking. Now I’m going to ring the police.’

  ‘Say it!’

  ‘I’m putting the phone down now.’

  ‘Say it . . . Bloody cow!’

  Alex Tomaros put his arms behind his head and leaned back in the chair as Birgitta came into the office.

  ‘Sit down, Birgitta.’

  She sat on the chair in front of Tomaros’s modest desk, and Alex used the opportunity to study her more closely. He thought she looked tired. She had black bags under her eyes, seemed irritated and was even paler than normal.

  ‘I was interviewed by a policeman a few days ago, Birgitta. A certain Mr Holy, a foreigner. In the course of the conversation it emerged that he’d been speaking to some of the staff here and had information of . . . er, an indiscreet kind. We’re all interested, natur-ally, in the person who killed Inger Holter being found, but I would just like to draw your attention to the fact that any similar statements in the future will be interpreted as . . . disloyal. And I don’t need to tell you that, trade being tough right now, we cannot afford to pay people we don’t feel we can trust.’

  Birgitta said nothing.

  ‘A man rang earlier today and I happened to pick up the phone. He did try to distort his voice by slurring, but I recognised the accent. It was Mr Holy again, and he asked to speak to you, Birgitta.’

  Birgitta’s head shot up. ‘Harry? Today?’

  Alex took off his glasses. ‘You know I have a soft spot for you, Birgitta, and I admit I’ve taken this . . . er, leak a bit personally. I had hoped that in time we might become good friends. So, don’t be stupid and destroy everything.’

  ‘Did he ring from Norway?’

  ‘I wish I could confirm that he had, but sad to say it sounded like an extremely local line. You know very well that I have nothing to hide, Birgitta, nothing with any relevance for this case at any rate. And that’s what they’re after, isn’t it? It won’t help Inger if you blab about all the other stuff. So, can I rely on you, my dear Birgitta?’

  ‘What is all the other stuff, Alex?’

  He appeared surprised. ‘I thought Inger might have told you. About the drive.’

  ‘What drive?’

  ‘After work. I thought Inger was giving me quite a lot of encouragement and things got somewhat out of hand. All I was going to do was drive her home and I didn’t mean to frighten her, but she took my little joke a bit too literally, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about, Alex, and I’m not sure I want to, either. Did Harry say where he was? Was he going to ring back?’

  ‘Hey, hey, wait a moment. You’re on first-name terms with the man and your cheeks colour up whenever I mention him. What’s actually going on here? Is there something between you two, or what?’

  Birgitta rubbed her hands in anguish.

  He leaned across the desk and put out a hand to pat her on the head, but she slapped it away with an irritated gesture.

  ‘Cut that out, Alex. You’re an idiot, and I’ve told you that before. Be less of an idiot the next time he calls, please. And ask where I can get hold of him, right?’ She got up and stomped out.

  Speedy could scarcely believe his eyes when he entered the Cricket. Borroughs, behind the bar, shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘He’s been sitting there for two hours,’ he said. ‘He’s seriously tanked.’

  Right in the corner at their regular table sat the man who was the indirect cause of two of his pals ending up in hospital. Speedy felt the new HK .45 ACP pistol in his calf holster and walked over to the table. The man’s chin had fallen onto his chest and he seemed to be asleep. A half-empty whiskey bottle was on the table in front of him.

  ‘Hi,’ Speedy shouted.

  The man slowly raised his head and sent him an imbecilic smile.

  ‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ he slurred.

  ‘You’re sitting at the wrong table,’ said Speedy, and stood his ground. He had a busy evening ahead of him and couldn’t risk being delayed by this idiot. Customers could come in at any moment.

  ‘I want you to tell me something first,’ said the man.

  ‘Why should I?’ Speedy felt the pistol pressing against his trouser leg.

  ‘Because this is where you keep shop, because you just came in the door and therefore this is the time of the day when you’re at your most vulnerable because you have the goods on you and because you don’t want me to search you in front of all these witnesses. Stay where you are.’

  It was only now that Speedy saw the muzzle of the Hi-Power which the man was holding in his lap and nonchalantly pointing straight at him.

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘I want to know how often Andrew Kensington bought off you and when he made his last purchase.’

  ‘Have you got a tape recorder on you, cop?’

  The cop smiled. ‘Relax. Testimonies made under threat of a gun don’t count. The worst that can happen is that I shoot you.’

  ‘OK, OK.’

  Speedy could feel himself beginning to sweat. He weighed up the distance to his calf holster.

  ‘Unless what I’ve heard is lies, he’s dead. So it can’t hurt, can it. He was cautious, he didn’t want too much. He bought twice a week, one bag each time. Fixed routine.’

  ‘When was the last time he bought before playing cricket here?’

  ‘Three days before. He was going to buy the next day.’

  ‘Did he ever buy from others?’

  ‘Never. That I do know. This kind of thing is personal – a confidential matter, so to speak. Besides, he was a policeman and could hardly risk exposure.’

  ‘So when he was here he was almost out of junk? Yet several days later he had enough for an overdose that would probably have killed him if a cable hadn’t done it for him. How do you get that to tally?’

  ‘He ended up in hospital. It was the need for junk that made him leg it. Who knows, maybe he had some in reserve anyway.’

  The cop sighed, exhausted. ‘You’re right,’ he said, putting the pistol in the inside pocket of his jacket and grabbing the glass in front of him. ‘Everything in this world is permeated with these maybes. Why can’t someone just cut through the crap and say this is how it is, full stop, two and two are whatever they are and that’s that. It would make life easier for a whole lot of people, believe me.’

  Speedy started to raise his trouser leg, but changed his mind.

  ‘And what happened to the syringe?’ the cop mumbled as though to himself.

  ‘What?’ said Speedy.

  ‘We never found a syringe at the crime scene. Maybe he flushed it down the toilet. As you said – a cautious man. Even when he was about to die.’

  ‘Are you sharing?’ Speedy
asked, taking a seat.

  ‘It’s your liver,’ the cop said, sliding the bottle over.

  39

  The Lucky Country

  HARRY RAN THROUGH the smoke into the tight passage. The band was playing so loud everything around him was vibrating. There was a sour smell of sulphur, and the clouds were hanging so low that he was banging into them with his head. Through the wall of noise one sound could still be heard, an intense grinding which had found an unoccupied frequency. It was the grinding of teeth on teeth and chains being dragged along the tarmac. A pack of dogs bayed behind him.

  The passage became narrower and narrower, and in the end he had to run with his arms out in front so as not to get wedged between the high red walls. He looked up. From windows way above the brick walls small heads protruded. They were waving green and gold flags and singing to the deafening music.

  ‘This is the lucky country, this is the lucky country, we live in the lucky country.’

  Harry heard gnashing behind him. He screamed and fell. To his surprise everything around him was dark, and instead of a rough landing on tarmac he continued to fall. He must have tumbled into a pit. And either Harry was moving very slowly or the pit was very deep because he was still in motion. The music at the surface became more and more distant, and as his eyes adapted to the darkness he saw that the sides of the pit had windows through which he could see into other people.

  Jeez, am I going to fall right the way through the earth? Harry wondered.

  ‘You’re Swedish,’ said a woman’s voice.

  Harry looked around, and as he did so, the light and the music returned. He was standing in an open square, it was night, and a band was playing on a stage behind him. He was facing a shop window, a TV shop window, to be more precise, with a dozen different sets tuned to a variety of channels.

  ‘So you’re out celebrating Australia Day as well, are you?’ said another voice, a man’s this time, in a familiar language.

  Harry turned. A couple were smiling encouragement. He ordered his mouth to maintain the smile, hoping the order would be obeyed. A certain facial tension suggested he still had control over this bodily function. Others he had had to give up on. His subconscious had rebelled and at this very moment there was a battle for his sight and hearing. His brain was working at full capacity to find out what was happening, but it wasn’t easy, because it was being bombarded all the time by distorted and sometimes absurd information.

  ‘We’re Danish, by the way. My name’s Poul and this is my wife, Gina.’

  ‘Why do you think I’m Swedish?’ Harry heard himself say. The Danish couple looked at each other.

  ‘You were talking to yourself. Weren’t you aware of that? You were watching TV and wondering whether Alice would fall right the way through the earth. And she did, didn’t she? Ha ha!’

  ‘Oh yes, she did,’ Harry said, completely baffled.

  ‘It’s not like a Scandinavian midsummer’s night, is it. This is just laughable. You can hear rockets going off, but you can’t see a thing because of the mist. For all we know, the rockets might have set fire to some of the skyscrapers. Ha ha! Can you smell the powder? It’s the dampness that causes it to settle on the ground. Are you a tourist here as well?’

  Harry had a think. It must have been a really good think, because when he was ready to answer the Danes had gone.

  He redirected his attention to the TV screens. Burning trees on one screen and tennis on another. In a news programme they were showing pictures of windsurfers, a woman weeping and parts of a yellow wetsuit with massive bite marks. On the adjacent TV set blue-and-white police tape fluttered in the wind at the edge of the forest as uniformed officers went back and forth with bags. Then a large, pale face filled the screen. It was a bad photo of an unattractive, young blonde girl. There was a sad expression in her eyes as though she were upset she wasn’t more attractive.

  ‘Attractive,’ Harry said. ‘Strange business. Did you know that . . .?’

  Lebie passed behind a police officer who was being interviewed on camera.

  ‘Shit,’ Harry shouted. ‘Bloody hell!’ He banged his palm on the shop window. ‘Turn up the sound! Turn up the volume in there! Someone . . .’

  The picture had changed to a weather map of the east coast of Australia. Harry pressed his nose against the glass until it was squashed, and in the reflection of one unused screen he saw the face of John Belushi.

  ‘Was that something I was imagining, John? Remember I’m under the influence of a very strong hallucinogenic drug right now.’

  ‘Let me in! I have to talk to her.’

  ‘Go home and sleep it off. We don’t let drunks . . . Hey!’

  ‘Let me in! I’m telling you I’m a friend of Birgitta’s. She works at the bar.’

  ‘We know that, but our job is to keep people like you out, do you understand, blondie?’

  ‘Ow!’

  ‘Go quietly now, or I’ll be forced to break your arm, you . . . Ow! Bob! Bob!’

  ‘Sorry, but I’m sick of being manhandled. Have a nice evening.’

  ‘What is it, Nicky? Is it him over there?’

  ‘Let him go. Shit! He just wriggled out of my hold and punched me in the guts. Give me a hand, will you?’

  ‘This town’s falling apart at the seams. Think I’m gonna move back to bloody Melbourne. Did you see the news? Another girl raped and strangled. They found her this afternoon in Centennial Park.’

  40

  Skydiving

  HARRY WOKE WITH a splitting headache. The light hurt his eyes, and no sooner had he registered that he was lying under a blanket than he had to throw himself to the side. The vomit came in quick spurts and the contents of his stomach splashed on the stone floor. He fell back on the bench and felt the gall sting his nose as he asked himself the classic question: where on earth am I?

  The last thing he could remember was that he had gone into Green Park, and the stork had looked accusingly at him. Now he seemed to be in a circular room with some benches and a couple of big wooden tables. Along the walls hung tools, spades, rakes and a garden hose, and in the middle of the floor there was a drain.

  ‘Good morning, white brother,’ said a deep voice he recognised. ‘Very white brother,’ he said as he approached. ‘Stay where you are.’

  It was Joseph, the grey Aboriginal man from the Crow people.

  He turned on a tap by the wall, took the hose and sprayed the vomit down the drain.

  ‘Where am I?’ Harry asked, to start somewhere.

  ‘In Green Park.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Relax. I’ve got the keys here. This is my second home.’ He peered through a window. ‘It’s a nice day outside. What’s left of it.’

  Harry looked up at Joseph. He seemed to be in a sensationally good mood for a bum.

  ‘The parkie and I have known each other a while, and we have a kind of special arrangement,’ Joseph explained. ‘Sometimes he pulls a sickie and I take care of what has to be done – pick up litter, empty bins, cut the grass, that sort of thing. In return I can kip here now and again. Sometimes he leaves me some tucker as well, but not today, I’m afraid.’

  Harry tried to think of something other than ‘but’ to say, but gave up. Joseph, on the other hand, was in a talkative mood.

  ‘If I’m honest, what I like best about this deal is that it gives me something to do. It fills the day and makes me think about other things, kind of. Sometimes I even think I’m making myself useful.’

  Joseph beamed and waggled his head. Harry couldn’t comprehend that this was the same person who’d been sitting in a comatose state on the bench just a short time ago and with whom he had been vainly trying to communicate.

  ‘I couldn’t believe it when I saw you yesterday,’ Joseph said. ‘That you were the same person who’d been sitting so sober and upright and I had bummed ciggies off a few days before. And yesterday it was bloody impossible to talk to you. Ha ha!’

  ‘Touché,’ Harry said.


  Joseph left and returned with a bag of hot chips and a cup of Coke. He watched Harry gingerly consuming the simple but astonishingly effective meal.

  ‘The precursor to Coca-Cola was discovered by an American chemist who wanted to concoct a remedy for hangovers,’ Joseph said. ‘But he reckoned he’d failed and sold the recipe on for eight dollars. If you ask me no one has found anything better.’

  ‘Jim Beam,’ Harry answered between mouthfuls.

  ‘Yes, apart from Jim. And Jack and Johnnie and a couple of other blokes. Ha ha. How do you feel?’

  ‘Better.’

  Joseph put two bottles on the table. ‘Hunter Valley’s cheapest red wine,’ he said. ‘Will you have a glass with me, whitie?’

  ‘Thanks, Joseph, but red wine’s not my . . . Have you got anything else? A brown something, for example?’

  ‘Think I keep a stock, do you?’

  Joseph seemed a bit affronted that Harry had refused his generous offer.

  Harry got up with difficulty. He attempted to reconstruct the gap in his memory between pointing his gun at Rod Stewart and their literally falling around each other’s necks and sharing some acid. He was unable to pinpoint what had led to such utter bliss and mutual attraction, except the self-explanatory – Jim Beam. However, he was able to remember that he had punched the bouncer at the Albury.

  ‘Harry Hole, you are a pathetic piss-artist,’ he muttered.

  They went outside and flopped down on the grass. The sun stung his eyes and the alcohol from the previous day stung in the pores of his skin, but otherwise it was in fact not bad at all. A light breeze was blowing, and they lay on their backs gazing at the white puffs of cloud drifting across the sky.

  ‘It’s jumping weather today,’ Joseph said.

  ‘I have no intention of jumping,’ Harry said. ‘I’m going to lie perfectly still or tiptoe around at the very worst.’

  Joseph squinted into the light. ‘I wasn’t thinking of that kind of jumping, I was thinking of sky-jumping, skydiving.’

  ‘Wow, are you a skydiver?’

  Joseph nodded.

  Harry shielded his eyes and looked up at the sky. ‘What about the clouds? Aren’t they a problem?’