The Son

by Jo Nesbo

  Simon Kefas, tel. 550106573, simon.kefas@oslopol.no

  Then she rushed after him.

  Markus Engseth heard the car start and breathed a sigh of relief. He was squatting under the clothes on the hangers with his back pressed against the back of the wardrobe. He had never been so scared in his whole life; he could smell his T-shirt which was so wet with sweat that it was sticking to his body. And yet it had also been exhilarating. Like when he was in free fall from the ten-metre board at Frognerbadet’s diving pool, thinking that the worst that could happen was that he might die. And that it wouldn’t be that terrible, really.

  15

  ‘AND HOW MAY I help Sir today?’ Tor Jonasson said.

  It was how he usually addressed his customers. Tor was twenty years old, the average age of his customers twenty-five and the goods in the shop less than five. And that was why the archaic form of address was funny, in Tor Jonasson’s opinion. However, it looked like his humour had gone way over his customer’s head – though it was hard to tell since the guy’s hood was pulled so far down that his face was basically in the shade. Words emerged from the land of shadows.

  ‘I want one of those mobiles where you can’t trace the caller.’

  A drug dealer. Of course. They were the only customers who ever asked for such a phone.

  ‘On this iPhone you can block the sender details,’ Tor said and picked up a white phone from a shelf in the small shop. ‘Your number won’t show up on the display of the person you’re calling. It’s a great contract.’

  The potential customer shifted his weight. Adjusted the strap of the red sports bag on his shoulder. Tor decided not to take his eyes off him until he was well outside the shop.

  ‘No, I don’t want a contract phone,’ the guy said. ‘I want one that can’t be traced. Not even by the provider.’

  Or the police, Tor Jonasson thought. ‘You’re thinking of a burner phone. Like they use in The Wire,’ he said out loud.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The Wire. The TV series. So the Drug Squad can’t trace the phone back to its owner.’

  Tor realised that his customer had no idea what he was talking about. God Almighty. A drug dealer who said sorry and who had never seen The Wire.

  ‘That’s in the US; we don’t have those in Norway. Since 2005 you need to show ID even if you buy a phone with a prepaid SIM card. It needs to be registered to someone.’

  ‘Someone?’

  ‘Yes, it needs to be registered in your name. Or your parents’ name if, say, you were getting them a phone.’

  ‘OK,’ the man said. ‘Give me the cheapest phone you have. With a prepaid SIM card.’

  ‘Certainly,’ the shop assistant said, leaving out the Sir, putting the iPhone back and taking down a smaller mobile. ‘This isn’t the very, very cheapest, but it has Internet access. It’s 1,200 kroner with the SIM card.’

  ‘Internet access?’

  Tor looked at the man again. He couldn’t be much older than him, but he seemed genuinely confused. With two fingers Tor pushed his shoulder-length hair behind his ear. It was a mannerism he had adopted after watching Season One of Sons of Anarchy.

  ‘The SIM card lets you surf the Net on your mobile.’

  ‘Can’t I do that in an Internet cafe?’

  Tor Jonasson laughed. Perhaps they did share a sense of humour after all. ‘My boss was just telling me that this shop used to be an Internet cafe a few years ago. Probably the last one in Oslo . . .’

  The man appeared to be in two minds. Then he nodded. ‘I’ll take it.’ He put a pile of banknotes on the counter.

  Tor picked them up. The banknotes were stiff and dusty as if they had been stored somewhere for a long time. ‘Like I said, I need to see some ID.’

  The man produced an ID card from his pocket and handed it over. Tor looked at it and realised that he had been wrong. Completely wrong. There was no way this man was a drug dealer; quite the opposite. He entered the name into his computer. Helge Sørensen. Found the address. Returned the card with the change to the man he now knew was a prison officer.

  ‘Do you sell batteries for this?’ the man said, holding up a silver-coloured device.

  ‘What is it?’ Tor asked.

  ‘It’s a Discman,’ the man replied. ‘I can see that you sell headphones for it.’

  Tor stared blankly at the display of headsets and earphones above the iPods. ‘Do I?’

  Tor opened the back of the museum piece and took out the old batteries. He found two rechargeable Sanyo AA batteries which he inserted and pressed play. A shrill hum could be heard coming from the headphones.

  ‘These batteries are rechargeable.’

  ‘So they won’t die like the old ones?’

  ‘Oh yes, but they’ll rise again from the dead.’

  Tor thought he saw a smile in the shadows. Then the man pushed back his hood and put on the earphones.

  ‘Depeche Mode,’ he said with a broad smile and paid for the batteries.

  Then he turned round and left the shop.

  It struck Tor Jonasson that he was surprised by the appealing face under the hood. He walked up to a new customer and asked how he could help Sir today. It wasn’t until his lunch break that Tor realised why the face had struck a chord with him. It wasn’t because it was appealing. It was because it looked nothing like the photo on the ID card.

  Just what made a face appealing? Martha asked herself as she looked at the young man behind the reception hatch. Perhaps it was simply the words he had uttered. Most people came to reception for a sandwich, a cup of coffee or a chat about their real or imagined problems. And if it wasn’t that, then they would turn up with a container full of used syringes which they had to hand over in exchange for sterile ones. But this new resident had just told her that he had been pondering her question from their introductory talk: Did he have any plans for the future? And, yes, now he did. He was going to look for a job. But in order to do that he needed a professional appearance, a suit. And he had seen some in the clothing storeroom. Could he possibly borrow—

  ‘Of course,’ Martha said, getting up and leading the way. Her footsteps felt lighter than they had for a long time. True, it might be just a whim, a project he would abandon at the first hurdle, but at least it was something, it was hope, a temporary break from the relentless one-way traffic to rock bottom.

  She sat on a chair by the door to the narrow storeroom and watched as he put on the suit trousers in front of a mirror leaning against the wall. This was the third suit he was trying on. Once a group of politicians from the City Council had visited the centre. They were there to reassure themselves that living standards in Oslo’s residential facilities were more than just adequate. In the storeroom one of them had questioned why the centre had so many suits in stock, suggesting that this type of garment was surely inappropriate for its clientele. The politicians had exercised themselves about this until a smiling Martha replied: ‘Because our residents attend many more funerals than you do.’

  The young man was skinny, but not as frail as she had first thought. She saw muscles ripple under his skin when he raised his arms to put on one of the shirts she had found. He had no tattoos, but his pale skin was riddled with needle marks. On the back of his knees, his inner thighs, on his lower legs, on the side of his neck.

  He put on the jacket and looked at himself before turning to her. It was a pinstriped suit whose previous owner had barely worn it before fashion changed and he – out of the kindness of his heart and good taste – had donated it to the centre together with the rest of last year’s wardrobe. It was only slightly too big for the young man.

  ‘Perfect,’ she laughed and clapped her hands.

  He smiled. And when the smile reached his eyes, it was as if an electric heater had been turned on. It was the kind of smile that softened stiff muscles and soothed hurt feelings. A smile someone suffering from compassion fatigue was sorely in need of. But – and the thought hadn’t occurred to her until now – could
not allow herself. She broke away from his gaze and looked him up and down.

  ‘It’s a shame I haven’t got any smart shoes for you.’

  ‘These are fine.’ He tapped the floor with the heel of his blue trainer.

  She smiled, but without looking up this time. ‘And you need a haircut. Come on.’

  She followed him up the stairs and back to reception, sat him down on a chair, covered him with two towels and found a pair of kitchen scissors. She wet his hair with water from the kitchen tap and combed his hair with her own comb. And while the other girls at reception commented and offered suggestions, tufts of hair fell to the floor. A couple of residents stopped outside the reception hatch and complained that they had never been offered a haircut, so why was the newcomer getting special treatment?

  Martha waved them away and concentrated on the job in hand.

  ‘Where will you try to get work?’ she said and looked at the fine white hairs at the back of his neck. She needed an electric shaver for them. Or a disposable razor.

  ‘I have some contacts, but I don’t know where they live so I thought I would look them up in the phone book.’

  ‘The phone book?’ one of the girls snorted. ‘You can just look them up on the Net.’

  ‘I can do that?’ the young man said.

  ‘Are you for real?!’ she laughed. A little too loud. And her eyes sparkled, Martha noticed.

  ‘I’ve bought a mobile with Internet,’ he said. ‘But I don’t know how you—’

  ‘I’ll show you!’ The girl walked up to him and held out her hand.

  He took out his mobile and handed it to her. She pressed the keys with easy familiarity. ‘You just google them. What’s the name?’

  ‘The name?’

  ‘Yes. Their name. My name is Maria, for example.’

  Martha sent her a gentle warning look. The girl was young and had just started working with them. She had studied social science, but had little practical experience. The kind of experience that means you know exactly where the invisible line between professional concern and socialising with the residents is drawn.

  ‘Iversen,’ he said.

  ‘That’s going to result in too many hits. Do you know their first name?’

  ‘Just show me how to search and I’ll do the rest myself,’ the young man said.

  ‘OK.’ Maria pressed some buttons and handed him the mobile. ‘Just type in their name there.’

  ‘Thank you so much.’

  Martha had finished, only the fine hairs on his neck remained and she had just remembered that she had found a razor blade stuck to a window in a room she had cleared out earlier today. She had put the razor blade – which had undoubtedly been used to chop coke for sniffing – on the kitchen counter in order to dispose of it safely in the next syringe container that came in. She lit a match and held the razor blade over the flame for a few seconds. Then she rinsed it under the tap and pinched it between her thumb and index finger.

  ‘You need to sit very still now,’ she said.

  ‘Mm,’ said the young man who was busy pressing buttons on his mobile.

  She shuddered as she watched the thin steel blade glide across the soft skin on his neck. She watched as the hairs were cut and fell. The thought announced itself spontaneously: How little it took. How little separated life from death. Happiness from tragedy. The meaningful from the meaningless. She finished and looked over his shoulder. Saw the name he had entered, the white tails of the searching symbol spinning.

  ‘Done,’ she said.

  He leaned his head backwards and looked up at her.

  ‘Thank you.’

  She took the towels and walked quickly to the laundry room so as not to scatter loose hairs everywhere.

  Johnny Puma was lying in the darkness with his face to the wall when he heard his room enemy come in and close the door silently behind him. Tiptoe across the floor. But Johnny was on his guard. The guy would get a taste of Puma’s iron fist if he tried to nick his stash.

  His room enemy, however, made no attempt to approach him; instead Johnny heard the wardrobe door open.

  He turned over in his bed. It was his room enemy’s wardrobe. That was all right; Johnny assumed that the guy must already have searched Johnny’s own wardrobe while he was asleep and discovered that nothing of value was stored there.

  A beam of sunlight fell in between the curtains and on the young man. Puma flinched.

  The boy had taken something out of a red sports bag and now Johnny could see what it was. The boy slipped the object into the empty box from the trainers which was then placed on the top shelf.

  When he closed the wardrobe and turned round, Johnny quickly shut his eyes.

  Bloody hell, he thought. And made sure to keep his eyes shut. But he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep.

  Markus yawned. He pressed his eyes against the binoculars and studied the moon that hung above the yellow house. Then he aimed the binoculars at the house itself. It was completely still now. Nothing more had happened. But would the son return? Markus hoped so. Perhaps he would find out what he wanted to do with it, the old ‘thing’ that had been lying in the drawer, gleaming, smelling of oil and metal, and might be the one that the father had used when he . . .

  Markus yawned again. It had been an eventful day. He knew he would sleep like a log tonight.

  16

  AGNETE IVERSEN WAS forty-nine years old, but if you judged her by her smooth skin, bright eyes and slim figure, she looked thirty-five. Most people, however, took her to be older than she was due to her greying hair, the conservative, classic and timeless way she dressed and her educated speech which bordered on the dated. And, of course, the life the Iversen family lived high up on Holmenkollåsen. They seemed to belong to a different, an older generation, with Agnete as the stay-at-home wife with two domestics who helped her manage the house and garden as well as service every need of Agnete herself, her husband Iver and their son Iver Junior.

  Even compared to the other imposing houses in the neighbourhood, the Iversen home was impressive. Nevertheless, the domestic tasks were still suitably manageable so that the help (or ‘the staff’ as Iver Junior liked to refer to them with a hint of sarcasm since he had finished his final school exams and developed a new and more social democratic frame of reference) didn’t start work until twelve noon. This meant that Agnete Iversen could be the first person to rise, go for a little early-morning walk in the forest which bordered their property and pick a bouquet of ox-eye daisies before making breakfast for her two men. She sat with her teacup as she watched them consume the healthy and nutritious meal she had prepared for them as the start to a long and demanding day at the office. When they had finished eating and Iver Junior had thanked her for the meal with a handshake as had been the tradition in the Iversen household for several generations, she wiped the table and dried her hands on a white apron she would shortly drop into the laundry basket. Then she followed them out onto the front steps, gave them each a peck on the cheek and watched them get into the elderly, well-maintained Mercedes in the double garage and drive out into the bright sunshine. Iver Junior spent his school holidays at the family’s property company in the hope that it would teach him the meaning of hard work, that nothing is for free, and to appreciate that controlling a family fortune entails as many obligations as privileges.

  The gravel on the drive crunched as father and son drove up to the road while she waved to them from the steps. And if anyone had told her that the whole scene looked like a 1950s commercial, she would have laughed, agreed with them and then given the matter very little thought. Because Agnete Iversen lived the life she wanted. She spent her days taking care of the two men she loved so they in turn could manage assets in the best interests of the family and society – what could possibly be more rewarding?

  From the radio in the kitchen she could just about make out the newsreader’s voice say something about a spike in the number of fatal drugs overdoses in Oslo, a rise in prostitutio
n and an escaped prisoner who had been at large for the last two days. There was so much unpleasantness in the world down below her. So many things which didn’t work, which lacked the balance and the order one should always strive for. And while she stood there contemplating the perfect harmony of her own life – her family, her household, this day – she became aware that the side gate in the neatly trimmed, two-metre-tall hedge, which was used mostly by the domestic staff, had opened.

  She raised her hand to shield her eyes from the sun.

  The boy walking down the narrow flagstone path looked like he might be the same age as Iver Junior and her initial thought was that he must be a friend of his. She smoothed her apron. But as he came closer, she realised that he was probably some years older than her son and wearing clothes that neither Iver Junior nor any of his friends would ever wear: an unfashionable, brown pinstriped suit and a pair of blue trainers. He had a red sports bag slung over his shoulder and Agnete Iversen wondered if he was from the Jehovah’s Witnesses before she remembered that they always came in pairs. Nor did he look like a door-to-door salesman. He had reached the foot of the steps.

  ‘How can I help you?’ she said obligingly.

  ‘Is this where the Iversen family lives?’

  ‘It is. But if you want to talk to Iver Junior or my husband then you’ve just missed them.’ She pointed across the garden in the direction of the road.

  The boy nodded, stuck his left hand into the sports bag and pulled something out. He aimed it at her while he took a small step to the left. Agnete had never experienced anything like it, not in real life. But there was nothing wrong with her eyesight, never had been, all the family had perfect sight. So she didn’t doubt her eyes for one moment, just gasped for air and automatically retreated one step to the open door behind her.

  It was a handgun.

  She continued her retreat while she looked at the boy, but she couldn’t catch his eye behind the weapon.