by Jo Nesbo
She watched the woman reading. And the woman looked up, as though she had noticed. She flashed her a brief but sparkly smile, then her nose was back in the travel guide.
‘We’re off,’ Stein said.
‘We’re off,’ Irene repeated.
Truls Berntsen drove through Kvadraturen. Trundled down towards Tollbugata. Up Prinsens gate. Down Rådhusgata. He had left the party early, got into his car and driven wherever the whim took him. It was cold and clear and Kvadraturen was alive tonight. Prostitutes called after him – they must have scented the testosterone. Dope pushers were undercutting one another. The bass in a parked Corvette thudded, boom, boom, boom. A couple stood kissing by a tram stop. A man ran down the street laughing with glee, his suit jacket wide open and flapping; another man in an identical suit was running after him. On the corner of Dronningens gate one solitary Arsenal shirt. No one Truls had seen before, he must have been new. His police radio crackled. And Truls could feel a strange sense of well-being: the blood was streaming through his veins, the bass, the rhythm of everything that was happening, sitting here and watching, seeing all the small cogs that knew nothing of one another, yet made the others rotate. He was the only one to see, to see the totality. And that was precisely how it should be. For this was his town now.
* * *
The priest in Gamlebyen Church unlocked the door and came out. Listened to the swish of the treetops in the cemetery. Peered up at the moon. A beautiful evening. The concert had been successful and the turnout good. Better than it would be for tomorrow’s early-morning service. He sighed. The sermon he was going to deliver to the empty pews would deal with the forgiveness of sins. He walked down the steps. Proceeded through the cemetery. He had decided to use the same sermon he had used for the burial on Friday. The deceased, according to the next of kin – his ex-wife – had been involved in criminal dealings at the end and even before that had lived a life so full of sin it would be a mountain to climb for all those who made the journey. They hadn’t needed to worry. The only mourners present were the ex-wife with their children, plus a colleague who had snuffled loudly throughout. The ex had confided to him that the colleague was probably the only flight attendant at the airline the deceased hadn’t slept with.
The priest walked past a gravestone, saw on it the remains of something white in the moonlight, as if someone had written in chalk and then erased it. It was the gravestone of Askild Cato Rud. Also known as Askild Øregod. From time immemorial the rule had been that the lease of graves expired after a generation, unless an extension was paid for – a privilege reserved for the rich. But for reasons unknown the grave of the poverty-stricken Askild Cato Rud had been preserved. And once it was really old, it had been protected. Perhaps there had been an optimistic hope that it could become a site of special interest: a gravestone from Oslo East’s poorest district where the unfortunate’s relatives were able to afford only a small stone and – since the stonemason was paid per letter – only the initials before the surname and the dates, no text beneath. One authority had even insisted the correct surname was Ruud, and they had saved themselves a mite there as well. So there was this myth that Askild Øregod still walked abroad. But it had never had much wind in its sails. Askild Øregod had been forgotten and left – quite literally – to rest in peace.
As the priest went to close the cemetery gate behind him a figure slipped out of the shadows by the wall. The priest automatically stiffened.
‘Have mercy,’ rasped a voice. And a large, open hand was thrust forward.
The priest looked into the face beneath the hat. It was an old face with rutted landscape, a robust nose, large ears and two surprisingly clear, blue, innocent eyes. Yes, innocent. That was precisely what the priest thought after giving the poor man a twenty-krone coin and continuing on his way home. The innocent blue eyes of a newborn baby that needs no forgiveness for sins as yet. He could put that in tomorrow’s sermon.
I’ve come to the end now, Dad.
I’m sitting here, and Oleg is standing over me. He’s holding the Odessa shooter with both hands as if hanging on for dear life, a falling branch. Holding tight and shouting. He’s gone totally mental. ‘Where is she? Where’s Irene? Tell me, or else … or else …’
‘Or else what, dopehead? You aren’t capable of using the gun anyway. You haven’t got it in you, Oleg. You’re one of the good guys. Come on, relax and we’ll share the fix. OK?’
‘Like hell I will. Not until you’ve told me where she is.’
‘Will I get the whole fix then?’
‘Half. It’s my last.’
‘Deal. Put the gun down first.’
The idiot did as I said. Very flat learning curve. Tricked as easily as the first time on the way out of the Judas concert. He bent down, put the weird gun on the floor in front of him. I saw the lever on the side was set for C, which means it fired salvos. The slightest pressure on the trigger and …
‘So where is she?’ he asked, getting up.
And now, now that I didn’t have the muzzle pointing at me any longer, I could feel it coming. The fury. He had threatened me. Just like my foster-father had. And if there is one thing I can’t bear, it’s being threatened. So instead of peddling the nice version – she was at a secret rehab centre in Denmark, isolated, mustn’t be contacted by friends, who might get her back on drugs, blah, blah, blah – I twisted the knife. I had to twist the knife. Bad blood flows through my veins, Dad, so you keep your mouth shut. What’s left of my blood, that is, because most of it’s on the kitchen floor. But I twisted the knife round like the idiot I am.
‘I sold her,’ I said. ‘For a few grams of violin.’
‘What?’
‘I sold her to a German at Oslo Central. Don’t know what his name is or where he lives. Munich perhaps. Maybe he’s sitting in his flat in Munich with a pal and they’re both being sucked off by Irene, with her little mouth. And she’s as high as a kite and doesn’t know which dick is which because all she can think of is her true love. And his name is—’
Oleg stood open-mouthed, blinking and blinking. Looking as stupid as the time he gave me five hundred at the kebab shack. I spread my arms like some fricking magician.
‘—violin!’
Oleg kept blinking, so shocked that he didn’t react when I launched myself at the gun. Or so I thought.
Because I’d forgotten something.
He’d followed me that time. He’d known he wasn’t going to get to taste any meth. He had certain skills. He could read people’s thoughts too. At any rate, a thief’s.
I should have known. I should have settled for half a dose. He reached the gun before me. May have just brushed the trigger. It was set on C. I saw his shocked face before I hit the floor. Heard everything go so quiet. Heard him stoop over me. Heard a low, whining drone, like an engine idling, as if he wanted to cry but couldn’t. Then he walked slowly to the end of the kitchen. A proper druggy does things in a prioritised sequence. He put the syringe next to me. Even asked if we should share. Sounded good, but I couldn’t talk any more. Only listen. And I listened to his slow, heavy footsteps on the stairs as he left. And I was alone. More alone than I have ever been.
The church bells have stopped chiming.
I suppose I’ve told the story.
It doesn’t hurt so much now.
Are you there, Dad?
Are you there, Rufus? Have you been waiting for me?
Anyway, I remember something the old boy said. Death sets the soul free. Sets the fricking soul free. Does it? Damned if I know. We’ll see.
SOURCES & ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
AUDUN BECKSTRØM AND CURT A. LIER for help with general police work. Torgeir Eira, EB Marine with diving. Are Myklebust and Orgkrim Oslo with narcotics. Pål Kolstø Russia. Ole Thomas Bjerknes and Ann Kristin Hoff Johansen Investigative Methods. Nicolai Lilin Siberian Upbringing. Berit Nøkleby Karl A. Martinsen’s Life and Career. Dag Fjeldstad with Russian. Eva Stenlund with Swedish. Lars Petter Sveen with dialect.
Kjell Erik Strømslag with pharmacy. Tor Honningsvåg with aviation. Jørgen Vik with cemeteries. Morten Gåskjønli with anatomy. Øystein Eikeland and Thomas Halle-Velle with medicine. Birgitta Blomen with psychology. Odd Cato Kristiansen with Oslo by night. Kristin Clemet with Oslo City Council. Kristin Gjerde with horses. Julie Simonsen with typing. Thanks to everyone at Aschehoug Publishing House and Salomonsson Agency.
Jo Nesbo is a musician, songwriter, economist and author. His first crime novel featuring Harry Hole was published in Norway in 1997 and was an instant hit, winning the Glass Key Award for Best Nordic Crime Novel (an accolade shared with Peter Høeg, Henning Mankell and Stieg Larsson). www.jonesbo.com
Don Bartlett lives in Norfolk and works as a freelance translator of Scandinavian literature. He has translated, or co-translated, Norwegian novels by Lars Saabye Christensen, Roy Jacobsen, Ingvar Ambjørnsen, Kjell Ola Dahl, Gunnar Staalesen and Pernille Rygg.
