Cockroaches

by Jo Nesbo

  This insanity was organized; they lay in rows, which were divided into squares so that there was room to walk in between, much like in cemeteries. Harry followed Maisan up and down the rows, looking at faces and trying to hold his breath.

  “Can you see your guy?” he asked.

  Harry shook his head. “It’s too bloody dark.”

  Maisan grinned. “They tried putting up neon lights for a while, to stop all the stealing. But people stopped coming.”

  Maisan ventured further into the darkness of the room. Soon he reappeared from the gloom and pointed to the exit. “I’ve been told the black kid occasionally goes to Yupa House, down the street. Some people take their opium away and smoke it there. The owner leaves them in peace.”

  Now that Harry’s pupils had widened to see in the dark, once again they were subjected to the big dentist’s lamp faithfully hanging in the sky outside. He grabbed his sunglasses and put them on.

  “Harry, I know a place where I can get you cheap—”

  “No thanks. These are fine.”

  They collected Nho. Yupa House would demand a Thai police ID for them to be able to see a guest book, and Maisan didn’t want to be identified in this neighborhood.

  “Thanks,” Harry said.

  “Take care,” Maisan said, merging into the shadows.

  The receptionist at Yupa House looked like a thin version of a distorted reflection in a fairground mirror. An oblong face sat on a condor neck above narrow, plunging shoulders. He had thinning hair and a stringy beard. He was formal, courteous and, as he was wearing a black suit, reminded Harry of a funeral director.

  He assured Harry and Nho that no one by the name of Jim Love was staying there. When they described him he smiled and he shook his head. Above the reception desk hung a sign declaring the basic house rules: no weapons, no odorous objects and no smoking in bed.

  “Excuse us a moment,” Harry said to the receptionist, pulling Nho toward the door. “Well, you’re so good at reading liars …”

  “Tricky,” Nho said. “He’s Vietnamese.”

  “So?”

  “Haven’t you heard what Nguyen Cao Ky said about his countrymen during the Vietnam War? He said the Vietnamese were born liars. It’s in their genes, having learned generation after generation that the truth brings nothing but bad luck.”

  “Are you saying he’s lying?”

  “I’m saying I have no idea. He’s good.”

  Harry turned, went back to the desk and asked for the master key. The receptionist smiled nervously.

  Harry raised his voice a tiny fraction, enunciated “master key” and smiled back at him through clenched teeth.

  “We’d like to go through this hotel room by room. Do you understand? If we find any irregularities we will of course be obliged to close the hotel for further examination, but I doubt there will be a problem.”

  The receptionist shook his head and suddenly seemed to have difficulty understanding English.

  “I said I doubt it will be a problem. I can see you have a sign expressly forbidding smoking in bed.”

  Harry took down the sign and banged it on the desk.

  The receptionist stared intently at the sign. Something was stirring beneath his condor neck.

  “In room number 304 there’s a man called Jones,” he said. “That might be him.”

  Harry turned and smiled to Nho, who shrugged.

  “Is Mr. Jones in?”

  “He’s been in his room ever since he checked in.”

  The receptionist led them upstairs. They knocked, but no one answered. Nho motioned to the receptionist to open up, and from a calf holster Nho drew a loaded black 35mm Beretta, with the safety catch off. The receptionist’s head began to twitch, like a chicken’s. He turned the key and took two hasty steps back. Harry carefully pushed the door open. The curtains were pulled tight, and the room was dark. He put a hand inside the door and switched on the light. On the bed lay Jim Love, unmoving with closed eyes and headphones on. A ceiling fan hummed and whirred, ruffling the curtains. The water pipe was on a low table beside his bed.

  “Jim!” Harry called, but Jim Love didn’t react.

  Either he was asleep or he had the Walkman on loud, Harry thought, surveying the room to make sure Jim didn’t have company. Then he saw an unhurried fly emerging from Jim’s right nostril. Harry walked over to the bed and laid a hand on his forehead. It was like touching cold marble.

  30

  Friday, January 17

  Everyone except Rangsan was assembled in Liz’s office later that evening.

  “Tell me we’ve got a lead,” she said menacingly.

  “The Forensics people found loads,” Nho said. “They had three men there and found a stack of fingerprints, hairs and fibers. They said it didn’t look as if Yupa House had been cleaned for six months.”

  Sunthorn and Harry laughed, but Liz just glared at them.

  “Any clues that could actually be linked to the murder?”

  “We don’t know if it is a murder yet,” Harry said.

  “Yes, we do,” Liz snapped. “Suspected accomplices in murder investigations don’t accidentally overdose a few hours before we arrest them.”

  “He who is destined for the gallows will not drown, as we say in Norwegian,” Harry said.

  “What?”

  “I agree.”

  Nho added that fatal overdoses were rare among opium smokers. As a rule they lost consciousness before they could inhale too much. The door opened and Rangsan walked in.

  “News,” he said, sitting down and picking up a newspaper. “They’ve found the cause of death.”

  “I didn’t think the autopsy result would be through until tomorrow,” Nho said.

  “Not necessary. The boys in Forensics found prussic acid on the opium, a thin layer. Guy must have died after the first drag.”

  For a moment the table was silent.

  “Get hold of Maisan.” Liz was back in the groove. “We have to find out where Love got his opium.”

  “I wouldn’t be too optimistic on that score,” Rangsan warned. “Maisan’s talked to Love’s main pusher, and he hadn’t seen him for a long time.”

  “Great,” Harry said. “But now at any rate we know someone has obviously tried to finger Brekke as the murderer.”

  “That doesn’t help us,” Liz said.

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Harry said. “We don’t know that Brekke was just a scapegoat chosen at random. Perhaps the murderer had a motive for pointing the finger at him, an unresolved grievance.”

  “And so?”

  “If we let Brekke go something might happen. Perhaps we can entice the murderer out of his corner.”

  “Sorry,” Liz said. She stared at the table. “We’re holding on to Brekke.”

  “What?” Harry couldn’t believe his ears.

  “Chief’s orders.”

  “But—”

  “That’s the way it is.”

  “Besides, we have a new clue which points to Norway,” Rangsan said. “Forensics sent the results of the tests on the knife grease to their Norwegian colleagues to see what they made of it. They discovered it was reindeer grease, and we don’t have a lot of that in Thailand. Someone in Forensics suggested we should arrest Father Christmas.”

  Nho and Sunthorn sniggered.

  “But then Oslo said reindeer fat was used by the Sami in Norway to protect their knives.”

  “A Thai knife and Norwegian grease. This is getting more and more interesting.” Liz stood up abruptly. “Goodnight, everyone. I hope you’ll all be well rested and ready to go tomorrow.”

  Harry stopped her by the lift and asked for an explanation.

  “Listen, Harry, this is Thailand and the rules are different. Our Police Chief has got involved and told the Commissioner in Oslo that we’ve found the murderer. He thinks it’s Brekke, and when I informed him of the latest developments he wasn’t exactly thrilled, and he insisted that Brekke be held in custody until at le
ast he has an alibi.”

  “But—”

  “Face, Harry, face. Don’t forget that in Thailand you’re brought up never to admit a mistake.”

  “And when everyone knows who made the mistake?”

  “Then everyone helps out and makes sure it doesn’t look like a mistake.”

  Fortuitously, the lift doors opened and closed behind Liz, thus saving her the benefit of Harry’s opinion on the matter. Harry thought about “All Along the Watchtower.” And now he remembered the line as well that there must be some way out of here.

  Was there?

  Outside his flat was a letter, and he saw Runa’s name on the back.

  He unbuttoned his shirt. Sweat lay like a fine layer of oil on his chest and stomach. He tried to remember what it was like being seventeen. Had he been in love? Probably.

  He put the letter on the bedside table, unopened, the way he was thinking of returning it. Then he reclined on the bed and half a million cars and an air-conditioning system tried to lull him to sleep.

  He thought about Birgitta, the Swedish girl he had met in Australia and who had said she loved him. What was it that Aune had said? That he was “frightened of committing to other people?” The last thought he remembered was that all redemption comes complete with a hangover. And vice versa.

  31

  Saturday, January 18

  Jens Brekke looked as if he hadn’t slept since Harry last saw him. His eyes were bloodshot and his hands fidgeted on the table.

  “So you don’t remember the car-park attendant with the Afro,” Harry said.

  Brekke shook his head. “As I said, I don’t use the car park myself.”

  “Let’s forget Jim Love for the time being,” Harry said. “Let’s concentrate on who’s trying to put you in the slammer.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Someone’s gone to an awful lot of trouble to destroy your alibi.”

  Jens arched his eyebrows so high they almost disappeared into his hairline.

  “On the thirteenth of January someone put the seventh of January video cassette into the recorder thereby deleting the hours when we would have seen the ambassador’s car and you accompanying him down to the car park.”

  Jen’s eyebrows came back down and knitted into an “M.” “Eh?”

  “Think about it.”

  “I have enemies, you mean?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe it was just convenient to have a scapegoat.”

  Jens rubbed the back of his neck. “Enemies? None that I can think of, not that sort.” His face brightened. “But that must mean you’re letting me go.”

  “Sorry, you’re still not out of the woods.”

  “But you just said that you—”

  “The Police Chief won’t let you go until we have an alibi. So I’m asking you to rack your brain. Was there anyone, anyone at all, who saw you after you said goodbye to the ambassador and before you arrived home? Was there anyone in reception when you left the office or when you caught the taxi? Did you stop by a kiosk, anything?”

  Jens rested his forehead on his fingertips. Harry lit a cigarette.

  “Hell, Harry! You’ve made my mind go blank with all that video stuff. I can’t think straight.” He groaned and slapped his hand on the table. “Do you know what happened last night? I dreamed that I killed the ambassador. That we walked out of the main entrance and drove to a motel where I stabbed him in the back with a big butcher’s knife. I tried to stop, but I wasn’t in control of my body, it was like I was trapped inside a robot and it kept stabbing, and I …”

  He paused.

  Harry said nothing and let him have all the time he needed.

  “The thing is I hate being locked up,” Jens said. “I’ve never been able to stand it. My father used to …”

  He swallowed and clenched his right hand. Harry saw his knuckles whiten. Jens was almost whispering as he went on.

  “If someone had come in with a confession saying I could leave if I signed it I’m hard put to know what I would have done.”

  Harry got up. “Keep trying to remember something. Now that we’ve sorted out the video evidence perhaps you can think a bit more clearly.”

  He went toward the door.

  “Harry?”

  Harry wondered what it was that made people so talkative when you turned your back on them.

  “Yeah?”

  “Why do you think I’m innocent when all the others appear to think the opposite?”

  Harry answered without turning. “First of all, because we don’t have anything like evidence against you, only a threadbare motive and the absence of an alibi.”

  “And second?”

  Harry smiled and twisted his head. “Because I thought you were a sack of shit the first time I clapped eyes on you.”

  “And?”

  “I’m crap at judging people. Have a nice day.”

  Bjarne Møller opened one eye, squinted at the clock on the bedside table and wondered who on earth would consider six o’clock in the morning a convenient time to ring.

  “I know what the time is,” Harry said before his boss had a chance. “Listen, there’s a guy you have to check out for me. No specifics right now, just gut instinct.”

  “Gut instinct?”

  “Yes, a hunch. I think we’re after a Norwegian, and so the selection is somewhat reduced.”

  Møller cleared his throat and brought up a mouthful of mucus. “Why a Norwegian?”

  “Well, on Molnes’s jacket and the knife that killed him we found some reindeer fat. And the angle of the stab wound suggests it was a relatively tall person. So not your typical Thai by the looks of things.”

  “OK, but couldn’t you have waited with this, Hole?”

  “Of course,” Harry said. There was a pause.

  “So why didn’t you?”

  “Because there are five detectives and a Police Chief here waiting for you to get your arse in gear, boss.”

  Møller rang back two hours later.

  “What was it exactly that made you ask us to check out this guy, Hole?”

  “Well, I reckoned that someone who used reindeer fat to protect the knife must have been in northern Norway. Then I remembered a couple of pals who came back from military service in Finnmark with these big Sami knives they’d bought themselves. Ivar Løken was in Defense for several years and he was stationed in Vardø. Furthermore, I have an idea he knows how to use a knife.”

  “That could be true,” Møller said. “What else do you know about him?”

  “Not a lot. Tonje Wiig thinks he’s been shunted into a siding until he retires.”

  “Well, there’s nothing on him in the criminal database, but …” Møller paused.

  “But?”

  “We had a file on him anyway.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “His name appeared on the screen, but I couldn’t get into his file. An hour later I had a phone call from the Defense High Command in Huseby wondering why I was trying to access his file.”

  “Wow.”

  “They told me to send a letter if I wanted any information about Ivar Løken.”

  “Forget it.”

  “I’ve already forgotten, Harry. We won’t get anywhere.”

  “Did you talk to Hammervoll in Vice?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Needless to say, there were no files on Norwegian pedophiles in Thailand.”

  “Thought so. Bloody data protection.”

  “It’s got nothing to do with that.”

  “Oh?”

  “We started a database a few years ago, but we didn’t have the resources to keep it up-to-date. Just too many of them.”

  When Harry had rung Tonje Wiig to arrange a meeting as swiftly as possible, she had insisted that they meet in the Authors’ Lounge at the Oriental Hotel for tea.

  “Everyone goes there,” she said.

  Harry discovered that “everyone” was white, wealthy and well dr
essed.

  “Welcome to the best hotel in the world, Harry,” Tonje chirruped from the depths of an armchair in the lobby.

  She was wearing a blue cotton skirt and holding a straw hat in her lap, which, along with all the other people in the lobby, lent the place a touch of old, carefree colonialism.

  They withdrew to the Authors’ Lounge, were served tea and nodded politely to the other white people, who seemed to think that being white was reason enough to greet one another. Harry clinked the porcelain nervously.

  “Not your style, Harry?” Tonje sipped her tea while mischievously peering over the top.

  “I’m trying to work out why I’m smiling at Americans in golf gear.”

  She laughed. “Oh, a slightly cultivated environment can’t hurt.”

  “When were checked trousers cultivated?”

  “Hm, cultivated people then.”

  Harry could hear that the rural town of Frederikstad hadn’t done much for the woman sitting opposite him. He thought of Sanphet, the old chauffeur who had changed into an ironed shirt and long trousers and had sat out in the boiling hot sun so that his visitors wouldn’t be embarrassed by how simply he lived. That was more cultivated than anything he had seen so far among the foreigners in Bangkok.

  Harry asked what Tonje knew about pedophiles in Thailand.

  “Only that Thailand attracts a lot of them. As I’m sure you remember, a Norwegian was caught literally with his trousers down in Pattaya last year. Norwegian newspapers published a charmingly arranged photo of three small boys pointing him out for the police. The man’s face was blanked out, not the boys’ faces though. In the English-language version of Pattaya Mail it was the other way around. And they used the man’s full name in the leader, after which they consistently called him “the Norwegian.” Tonje shook her head. “People here who hadn’t heard of Norway before suddenly knew that Oslo was the capital because it said that Norwegian authorities wanted him flown home to Oslo. Everyone wondered why on earth they wanted him back. Here, he would have been locked up for a long time.”