by Jo Nesbo
“First of all, he followed the ambassador down into the underground car park. The receptionist can vouch for that. Then, he took the lift back up. The girl who he asked out in the lift can vouch for that. Probably he killed the ambassador in the car park, stabbed him in the back with the Sami knife as the ambassador was getting into the car, took his keys and dumped him in the boot. Then he locked the car, went over to the lift and waited until someone pressed the button so that he could be sure to have another witness on his way back up.”
“He even asked her out so that she would remember him.”
“Right. If someone else had appeared he would have concocted some other plan. Then he blocked all incoming calls to make it look as if he was busy, took the lift down again and drove to Klipra’s in the ambassador’s car.”
“But if he killed the ambassador in the parking lot he would have been caught on camera.”
“Why do you think that CCTV tape went missing? Of course no one had tried to sabotage Brekke’s alibi. He made Jim Love give him the tape. The evening we met him at the boxing match he was in a rush to get back to the office. Not to talk to American clients but to meet Jim Love so that he could get in and record over him killing the ambassador. And reprogram the timer so that it would look as if someone was trying to sabotage his alibi.”
“Why didn’t he just remove the original tape?”
“He’s a perfectionist. He knew some bright young detective would realize sooner or later that the recording and the time didn’t match.”
“How?”
“Because he used another evening’s tape to record over the scene in question. Sooner or later the police would talk to employees in the building who could testify that they had driven past the camera between five o’clock and half past on the seventh of January. The proof that the tape has been tampered with is of course that they’re not on the recording. The rain and the wet tire tracks meant we clicked faster than we would otherwise have done.”
“So you were no smarter than he wanted you to be?”
Harry shrugged. “Nope. But I can live with that. Jim Love couldn’t. He received his payment in poisoned opium.”
“Because he was a witness?”
“As I said, Brekke doesn’t like taking risks.”
“But what about the motive?”
Harry puffed out his cheeks. It sounded like a juggernaut braking.
“Do you remember us wondering if the right to dispose of over fifty million kroner for six years was a good enough motive for killing the ambassador? It wasn’t. But to have it for the rest of his life was a good enough motive for Jens Brekke to kill three people. According to the will, Runa would inherit the money when she was of age, but as it doesn’t say anything about what happens if she dies, the money will obviously follow the line of inheritance. That is, the fortune will belong to Hilde Molnes. The will doesn’t prevent her from gaining access now.”
“How’s Brekke going to make her give him the money?”
“He doesn’t have to do a thing. Hilde Molnes has six months left to live. Long enough for her to marry him, and just long enough for Brekke to play the perfect gentleman.”
“So he got rid of the husband and the daughter so he can inherit the fortune when she dies?”
“Not only that,” Harry said. “He’s spent the money already.”
Liz furrowed her brow.
“He’s taken over an almost bankrupt company called Phuridell. If what Barclays Thailand thinks will happen happens, the company could be worth twenty times what he paid.”
“So why would the others sell?”
“According to George Walters, the boss of Phuridell, ‘the others’ are a couple of small-time shareholders who refused to sell their block of shares to Ove Klipra when he became the majority shareholder because they knew something big was brewing. But after Klipra disappeared off the scene they were informed the dollar debt could crack the company, so they happily accepted Brekke’s offer. The same is true of the firm of solicitors administering Klipra’s estate. The total purchase price is around a hundred million kroner.”
“But Brekke hasn’t got the money yet.”
“Walters says that half of the money is due on signature, the other half in six months. How he’s going to pay the first half, I don’t know. He must have scraped together the money some other way.”
“And what happens if she doesn’t die within six months?”
“For some reason I believe Brekke’s going to make sure it happens. He mixes her drinks …”
Liz gazed into the air thoughtfully. “Didn’t he think it would seem suspicious if he turned up as the new owner of Phuridell at this exact moment?”
“Yes, that’s why he bought the shares in the name of a company called Ellem Ltd.”
“Someone could have found out he was behind it.”
“He isn’t, on the surface. The company’s been set up in Hilde’s name. But of course he inherits it when she dies.”
Liz shaped her lips into a soundless “O.” “How did you work all this out?”
“With the help of Walters. But I had a suspicion when I saw Phuridell’s list of shareholders at Klipra’s house.”
“Really?”
“Ellem.” Harry smiled. “At first it made me suspect Ivar Løken. His nickname from the Vietnam War was LM. But the solution was even more banal.”
“I give up.”
“If you reverse Ellem it’s Melle. Hilde Molnes’s maiden name.”
Liz looked at Harry as if he were an attraction in the zoo.
“You’re not real,” she mumbled.
Jens looked at the papaya he was holding in his hand.
“Do you know what, Løken? When you take a bite from a papaya it tastes of vomit. Have you noticed that?”
He sank his teeth into the flesh. The juice ran down his cheek.
“And then it tastes of cunt.”
He leaned back and laughed.
“You know, a papaya costs five baht here in Chinatown—as good as nothing. Everyone can afford it. Eating a papaya is one of the so-called simple pleasures. And as with other simple pleasures you don’t appreciate them until they’re gone. It’s like …” Jens gesticulated as if he was searching for a suitable analogy. “Like being able to wipe your arse. Or have a wank. All that’s required is at least one hand.”
He lifted Løken’s severed hand by the middle finger and held it in front of his face.
“You’ve still got one. Think about it. And think about all the things you can’t do without hands. I’ve already given it some thought, so let me help. You can’t peel an orange, you can’t thread bait onto a fishhook, you can’t caress a woman’s body or button up your own trousers. Yes, you can’t even shoot yourself, in case you should be tempted to do that. You’ll need someone to help you with everything. Everything. Give it some thought.”
Blood dripped from the hand, bounced on the edge of the table and spattered Løken’s shirt with small red dots. Jens put the hand down. The fingers pointed to the ceiling.
“On the other hand, with both hands intact there is no limit to what one can do. You can strangle a person, roll a joint and hold a golf club. Do you know how far medical science has advanced today?”
Jens waited until he was sure Løken wasn’t going to answer.
“They can sew a hand back on without damaging so much as a nerve. They go up into your arm and pull down nerves like rubber bands. Within six months you’ll barely know that once it had been severed. Of course that depends on whether you can get to a doctor fast enough and you remember to take the hand with you.”
He passed behind Løken’s chair, rested his chin on his shoulder and whispered in his ear:
“Look what a nice hand. Beautiful, isn’t it? Almost like the hand in the Michelangelo painting. What’s it called?”
Løken didn’t answer.
“You know, the one they used in the Levi’s ad.”
Løken had fixed his gaze on a point in th
e air above him. Jens sighed.
“Obviously neither of us is an art connoisseur, eh? Well, perhaps I’ll buy a few famous pictures when this is over, see if that can stimulate some interest. By the way, how much time do you think we have before it’s too late to sew on the hand? Half an hour? An hour? Perhaps longer if we’d put it in ice, but I’m afraid we’ve run out today. Fortunately for you, it’s only a fifteen-minute drive from here to Answut Hospital.”
He took a deep breath, put his mouth close to Løken’s ear and yelled:
“WHERE ARE HOLE AND THE WOMAN?”
Løken gave a start and bared his teeth in a painful grin.
“Sorry,” Jens said. He picked a bit of papaya off Løken’s cheek. “It’s just that it’s rather important for me to get hold of them.”
A hoarse whisper stirred Løken’s lips. “You’re right …”
“What?” Jens said. He leaned close to his mouth. “What did you say? Speak up, man!”
“You’re right about papayas. They do stink of vomit.”
Liz folded her hands on top of her head.
“The Jim Love stuff. I can’t quite picture Brekke in the kitchen mixing prussic acid into opium.”
Harry smirked. “Brekke said the same about Klipra. You’re right. He had someone to help him, a pro.”
“You don’t exactly put out a want ad for people like that, do you.”
“Nope.”
“Maybe someone he just happened to meet? He goes to some pretty shady places. Or …” She paused when she saw him watching her. “Yes?” she said. “What is it?”
“Isn’t it obvious? It’s our old friend Woo. He and Jens have been working together all along. It was Jens who ordered him to bug my phone.”
“It seems like too much of a coincidence that the same guy who was working for Molnes’s creditors was also working for Brekke.”
“That’s because it’s not a coincidence. Hilde Molnes told me the loan shark’s thugs who had rung her after the ambassador’s death immediately stopped calling after she had spoken to Brekke on the phone. I doubt that he scared them, let’s put it like that. When we visited Thai Indo Travelers, Mr. Sorensen said they had no scores to settle with Molnes. He may have been telling the truth. My guess is Brekke paid off the ambassador’s debts. In exchange for other services, naturally.”
“Woo’s services.”
“Exactly.” Harry looked at his watch. “Bloody hell, what’s happened to Løken?”
Liz got up with a sigh. “Let’s try calling him. Maybe he’s fallen asleep.”
Harry scratched his chin, lost in thought. “Maybe.”
Løken felt a pain in his chest. He’d never had heart problems, but knew a little about the symptoms. If it was a heart attack he hoped it was powerful enough to kill him. He was going to die anyway, so it would be good if he could cheat Brekke of the pleasure. Although who knows, perhaps he didn’t get any pleasure out of it. Perhaps it was for Brekke as it had been for him—a job that had to be done. One shot, a man falls and that’s that. He looked at Brekke. He watched his mouth move and realized to his surprise that he couldn’t hear anything.
“So when Ove Klipra asked me to sort out Phuridell’s dollar debt he did it over lunch instead of on the phone,” Jens said. “I couldn’t believe my ears. An order of around half a billion and he gives it to me verbally without any traceable record! That’s the kind of chance you can wait half your life for in vain.”
Jens wiped his mouth with a serviette.
“When I returned to the office I did the dollar dealings in my own name. If the dollar went down I could just transfer the deal to Phuridell and say I was fixing the price of the dollar debt as we’d discussed. If it went up I could pocket the gain and flatly deny Klipra had asked me to buy the dollar rates. He couldn’t prove a thing. Guess what happened, Ivar. Is it all right if I call you Ivar?”
He scrunched up the serviette and aimed at a litter bin by the door.
“Yes, Klipra threatened to go to the management of Barclays Thailand with the case. I explained to him that if Barclays Thailand endorsed him, they would have to replace his loss. Plus they would lose their best broker. Put simply: they couldn’t afford to do anything but support me. So he threatened to use his political connections. You know what? He never got that far. I realized I could get rid of a problem, Ove Klipra, and at that same time take over his company, Phuridell, one that was going to take off like a rocket. And when I say that, it’s not because I hope and believe that, the way these pathetic share speculators do. I know it will. I’ll make sure it happens.” Jens’s eyes shone. “Just as I know this Harry Hole and the bald-headed woman are going to die tonight. It will happen.” He looked at his watch. “I apologize for the melodrama, but tempus fugit, Ivar. It’s time to consider your best interests, isn’t it?”
Løken started at him with vacant eyes.
“Not afraid, eh? The hard nut?” Slightly bemused, Brekke pulled a loose thread from a buttonhole. “Shall I tell you how they’ll be found, Ivar? Each tied to a post, somewhere in the river with a bullet in the bodies and faces like dropped meat pies. Heard that expression before, have you, Ivar? No? Perhaps they didn’t use it when you were young, eh? I’d never been able to picture it. Until my friend Woo here told me that a boat propeller can literally rip the skin off a man and show the flesh underneath. Do you get me? It’s a neat trick Woo picked up from the local mafia. Of course people might ask what the two of them had done to make the mafia so mad, but they’ll never find out, will they. Especially not from you, as you’ll be getting a free operation and five million dollars to tell me where they are. You’ve had a lot of practice disappearing, creating a new identity and all that, haven’t you.”
Ivar Løken watched Jens’s lips move and heard the echo of a voice in the distance. Words like boat propeller, five million and a new identity fluttered past. He had never been a hero in his own eyes and had never had an inordinate desire to die as one. But he knew the difference between right and wrong, and within reasonable bounds he had striven to do what was right. No one else but Brekke and Woo would ever know if he had met his death with his head held high or not, no one would talk about old Løken over a beer among vets in the intelligence service or at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and Løken wouldn’t have cared one way or the other anyhow. He didn’t need a reputation after his death. His life had been a well-kept secret, and so it was probably natural that his death would be the same. But if this situation was not the place for a grand gesture he also knew that all he would gain from giving Brekke what he wanted was a quicker death. And he no longer felt any pain. So it wasn’t worth it. If Løken had heard the details of Brekke’s suggestion it wouldn’t have made any difference. Nothing would make any difference. For at that moment the mobile phone attached to his belt began to beep.
49
Friday, January 24
As Harry was about to hang up he heard a click and a new tone, and he realized his call was being transferred from Løken’s home number to his mobile. He waited, let it ring seven times before he gave up and thanked the girl with the plaits behind the desk for letting him use the phone.
“We’ve got a problem,” he said as he returned to the room. Liz had taken off her shoes to inspect some dry skin.
“The traffic,” she said. “It’s always the traffic.”
“I was transferred to his mobile phone, but he didn’t answer that, either. I don’t like it.”
“Relax. What could happen to him here in peaceful Bangkok? He must have left his cell phone at home.”
“I made a mistake,” Harry said. “I told Brekke we were meeting tonight and asked him to find out who was behind Ellem Ltd.”
“You did what?” Liz took her feet off the table.
Harry thumped the table with his fist making the coffee cups jump. “Fuck, fuck, fuck! I wanted to see how he would react.”
“React? Harry, this isn’t a game!”
“I’m not playing a game. I a
rranged to ring him from the meeting so that we could catch up with him somewhere. My plan had been Lemon Grass.”
“The restaurant we went to before?”
“It’s close by and better than risking an ambush at his place. There are three of us, so I imagined an arrest à la Woo.”
“But then you scared him off by mentioning Ellem?” Liz groaned.
“Brekke’s not stupid. He could smell a rat long before then. He talked about the best-man nonsense again, to test me, to check if I had him in my sights.”
Liz snorted. “What a load of macho bullshit! If you two have anything personal invested in this, get it out of your system. For Christ’s sake, Harry, I thought you were too professional for that.”
Harry didn’t answer. He knew she was right: he’d behaved like an amateur. Why on earth had he mentioned Ellem Ltd? He could have invented a hundred other pretexts to meet. Perhaps there was something in what Jens had said, that some people like risk for risk’s sake. Perhaps he was one of the gamblers Brekke considered so pathetic. No, it wasn’t that. Not just that at any rate. His grandfather had once explained why he never shot grouse when they were on the ground: it’s not nice.
Was that why? A kind of inherited hunting ethic: you frightened the prey to shoot them in flight, to give them a symbolic chance of getting away.
Liz interrupted his train of thought.
“So what do we do now, Detective?”
“Wait,” Harry said. “We’ll give Løken half an hour. If he hasn’t turned up I’ll phone Brekke.”
“And if Brekke doesn’t answer?”
Harry drew a deep breath. “Then we phone the Chief of Police and mobilize the whole force.”
Liz swore through gritted teeth. “Did I tell you what it’s like to be a traffic cop?”
* * *
Jens looked at the display on Løken’s phone and chuckled. It had stopped beeping.
“Great phone you’ve got, Ivar,” he said. “Ericsson’s done a fine job, don’t you agree? You can see the caller’s number. So if it’s someone you don’t want to talk to, you don’t have to. Unless I’m much mistaken someone’s wondering why you haven’t turned up. Because you don’t have a lot of friends ringing you at this time of day, do you, Ivar.”
