The Son

by Jo Nesbo

  ‘E-example?’

  ‘I’m reasonable man, Johnny. You keep one eye.’

  ‘But . . . Please, Coco . . .’

  ‘Don’t move or eye will be damaged when I take it out. I show it to the other scumbags so they know is real eye, OK?’

  Johnny started screaming, but was quickly stopped by a hand placed over his mouth.

  ‘Easy, Johnny. Not many nerves in eye, little pain, I promise.’

  Johnny knew that his fear was supposed to give him the strength to fight back, but it felt as if it had withered away. Johnny Puma, who had once lifted cars, stared apathetically at the point of the stiletto as it moved closer.

  ‘How much?’

  The voice sounded soft, almost like a whisper. They turned to the door. No one had heard him come in. His hair was wet and he was dressed only in his jeans.

  ‘Get out!’ Coco hissed.

  The boy stayed put. ‘How much does he owe?’

  ‘Now! You want to taste my knife?’

  The new arrival still didn’t move. The gofer who was covering Johnny’s mouth let go and walked up to him.

  ‘He . . . he nicked my earrings,’ Johnny said. ‘It’s true! They’re in his pocket. I was going to pay you with them, Coco. Search him and you’ll see! Please, please, Coco!’ Johnny heard the sobbing in his own voice, but he didn’t care. Besides, Coco didn’t appear to hear him, he was staring at the boy. Probably liked what he saw, the sick pig. Coco called off the gofer with a gesture and chuckled to himself.

  ‘Is Johnny boy telling the truth, handsome?’

  ‘You could try finding out,’ the boy said. ‘But if I were you, I would say how much he owes you and there’ll be less trouble. And less mess.’

  ‘Twelve thousand,’ Coco said. ‘Why—’

  He broke off when the boy stuffed his hand in his pocket, produced a small wad of notes and started counting out loud from the top. When he reached twelve, he handed them to Coco and stuffed the remaining notes back in his pocket.

  Coco hesitated. As if there had to be something wrong with the money. Then he laughed. Opened his mouth and revealed the gold teeth he had had fitted to replace perfectly healthy white ones.

  ‘I’ll be damned. I’ll be damned.’

  Then he counted the notes again. Looked up.

  ‘So are we done?’ the boy asked, and not with the stony face of a young drug dealer who had seen too many movies. On the contrary, he smiled. Like waiters used to smile at Johnny back in the days when he dined in fine restaurants and they would ask him if everything was OK with the meal.

  ‘We’re good,’ Coco grinned.

  Johnny lay down on the bed and closed his eyes. He could hear Coco laughing long after he and his gofers had closed the door and disappeared down the corridor.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ the boy said. Johnny could hear him even though he tried to shut out his voice. ‘I’d have done the same if I’d been you.’

  But you’re not me, Johnny thought and felt how the tears were still there, somewhere between his throat and chest. You haven’t been Johnny Puma. And then stopped being him.

  ‘Why don’t we go down to the cafe, Johnny?’

  The glare from the computer screen was the only light in the study. Any noise came from outside the door which Simon had left ajar. It was the sound of a radio at low volume in the kitchen downstairs and of Else pottering about. She came from farming stock; there was always something that needed clearing up, washing, sorting, moving, planting, sewing, baking. The work was never-ending. No matter how much you did today, tomorrow would be another full day. It meant working at a steady pace and not rushing so that you broke your back doing it. It was the soothing hum of someone who finds joy and purpose in their chores, the sound of a steady pulse and contentment. To some extent he envied her. But he was also listening out for other sounds; stumbling footsteps or things falling to the floor. If it happened, he would wait. Wait to hear if she had things under control. And if he could hear that she was OK, he wouldn’t ask about it later, but let her think that he hadn’t noticed.

  He had logged on to the Homicide Squad’s intranet and read the reports on Per Vollan. Kari had written an impressive amount, she was a hard worker. And yet when he read them, they seemed to be lacking something. Even the most bureaucratic, procedural police report couldn’t hide the passion of an enthusiastic investigator. Kari’s reports were a textbook example of how a police report should sound: objective and factual. No tendentious assertions or prejudices on behalf of the author. Lifeless and cold. He read the witness statements to see if any interesting names cropped up among the people Vollan had been in contact with. Nothing. He stared at the wall. Thought about two words. Nestor. Shelved. Then he googled Agnete Iversen.

  Headlines about the murder popped up.

  ‘WELL-KNOWN PROPERTY INVESTOR BRUTALLY SLAIN.’

  ‘SHOT AND ROBBED IN HER OWN HOME.’

  He clicked on one of the headlines. Inspector Åsmund Bjørnstad was quoted from the Kripos press conference in Bryn. ‘Kripos’s investigation team has discovered that even though Agnete Iversen was found in the kitchen, she was probably shot on the doorstep.’ And further down. ‘Several pieces of evidence suggest that this is a robbery, but we can’t rule out other motives for the time being.’

  Simon scrolled down to some older newspaper articles. They came almost exclusively from the financial papers. Agnete Iversen was the daughter of one of Oslo’s biggest property owners, she had an MBA in Economics from Wharton in Philadelphia and had at a relatively young age taken over the management of the family’s property portfolio. However, after marrying Iver Iversen, a fellow economist, she had retired. One of the financial journalists had described her as the administrator, the refiner, someone who had managed the portfolio in an effective and profitable manner. Her husband, by contrast, had pursued a more aggressive strategy, frequently buying and selling, which involved greater risk, but also greater gain. Another article, two years old, had a photo of their son, Iver Junior, under the headline ‘MILLIONAIRE HEIR LIVES JET-SET LIFE ON IBIZA’. Tanned, laughing, flashing a dazzling smile and red-eyed from the camera flash, sweaty after dancing with a champagne bottle in one hand and an equally sweaty blonde in the other. Three years ago, a page from the financial section, Iver Senior shaking hands with Oslo City Council’s Head of Finance when it was announced that Iversen Property had spent 1 billion kroner buying up council properties.

  Simon heard the door to his study being pushed open. A cup of steaming tea was set down in front of him.

  ‘Don’t you need some more light in here?’ Else said, putting her hands on his shoulders. To massage him. Or to support herself.

  ‘I’m still waiting for the next instalment,’ Simon said.

  ‘The next instalment of what?’

  ‘Of what the doctor said.’

  ‘But I called to tell you – are you getting forgetful, darling?’ she chuckled and pressed her lips against his head. Her soft lips on his scalp. He suspected that she loved him.

  ‘You said there wasn’t much he could do,’ Simon replied.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘I know you, Else. That wasn’t all he said.’

  She pulled away, leaving only one hand on his shoulder. He waited.

  ‘He said there’s a new kind of surgery in the US. It’ll help those who come after me.’

  ‘After?’

  ‘When the surgery and the equipment become standard procedure. But that could take years. Right now it’s a complicated operation that costs a fortune.’

  Simon spun round so quickly on the swivel chair that she had to take a step back. He clasped her hands. ‘But that’s brilliant news! How much?’

  ‘More than a woman on disability benefit and a man on a police salary can afford.’

  ‘Else, listen. We’ve no children. We own the house, we don’t spend money on anything else. We’re frugal—’


  ‘Stop it, Simon. You know very well we haven’t got any money. And the house is mortgaged to the hilt.’

  Simon swallowed. She hadn’t called it by its true name – his gambling debt. As always she had been too tactful to remind him that they were still paying off his past sins. He squeezed her hands.

  ‘I’ll think of something. I have friends who will lend us the money. Trust me. How much?’

  ‘You had friends, Simon. But you never speak to them these days. I keep telling you, you need to keep in touch or you’ll drift apart.’

  Simon sighed. He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I have you.’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m not enough, Simon.’

  ‘Yes, you are.’

  ‘I don’t want to be enough.’ She bent down and kissed him on the forehead. ‘I’m tired, I’ll go and lie down.’

  ‘OK, but how much does it cost . . .?’

  She had already left.

  Simon looked after her. Then he switched off the computer and took out his mobile. Scrolled down his contacts list. Old friends. Old enemies. Some of them useful, most of them not. He pressed the number of one of the latter. An enemy. But useful.

  Fredrik Ansgar was surprised to hear from him as Simon knew he would be, but feigned delight and agreed to meet; he didn’t even pretend to be busy. When he had ended the call, Simon sat in the darkness, staring at his phone. Thought about his dream. His sight. He would give her his eyes. Then he realised what he was looking at on the mobile. It was the photo of the shoeprint in the rose bed.

  ‘Good grub,’ Johnny said, wiping his mouth. ‘Aren’t you gonna eat something?’

  The boy smiled and shook his head.

  Johnny looked around. The cafe was a room with an open kitchen, serving counters, a self-service section and tables which were all fully occupied. The cafe usually closed after lunch, but since the Meeting Place, Bymisjonen’s cafe for drug addicts in Skippergata, was being renovated, they had extended their opening hours which meant that not everyone here was a resident. But most people had been at sometime or other, so Johnny recognised every face.

  He took another slurp of his coffee as he watched the scowling addicts. It was the usual, constant paranoia and prowling, heads whirring; the place was like a waterhole on the savannah where people took turns being prey and predator. Except for the boy. He had looked relaxed. Right until now. Johnny followed his gaze to the door at the back of the kitchen where Martha was emerging from the staffroom. She had put on her coat and was clearly on her way home. And Johnny saw the boy’s pupils dilate. Studying other people’s pupils was something an addict did almost automatically. Are they using? Are they high? Are they dangerous? In the same way he would watch what other people did with their hands. Hands that might steal from you or reach for a knife. Or, in threatening situations, instinctively cover and protect the place where someone kept their drugs or their money. And right now, the boy’s hands were in his pockets. The same pocket he had put the earrings. Johnny wasn’t stupid. Or, yes, he was, but not in every respect. Martha enters, boy’s pupils dilate. The earrings. The chair scraped against the floor as the boy got up with a feverish look that was fixed on her.

  Johnny cleared his throat. ‘Stig . . .’

  But it was too late, he had already turned his back on Johnny and started walking towards her.

  At the same moment the front door opened and in came a man who immediately stood out. Short black leather jacket, close-cropped dark hair. Broad shoulders and a determined expression. With an irritated movement he pushed aside a resident frozen in a crouching junkie position who was in his way. He gestured to Martha who waved back. And Johnny saw now that the boy had noticed. How he stopped as if he had lost his momentum, while Martha continued towards the door. He saw the man stick his hand in the pocket of his leather jacket and turn out his elbow, so that she could slip her hand under his arm. Which she did. It was the practised movement of two people who have been together for a while. Then they disappeared outside in the windy and suddenly chilly evening.

  The boy stood in the middle of the floor, stunned, as if he needed time to digest the information. Johnny saw every head in the room turn to size the boy up. He knew what they were thinking.

  Prey.

  Johnny was woken by the sound of crying.

  And, for a moment, he thought about the ghost. The baby. That it was here.

  But then he realised that the sound was coming from the top bunk. He turned over on his side. The bed started shaking. The crying turned into sobbing.

  Johnny got up and stood in front of the bunk bed. He put his hand on the shoulder of the boy who was trembling like a leaf. Johnny switched on the reading lamp on the wall above him. The first thing he saw were bared teeth biting into the pillow.

  ‘Does it hurt?’ Johnny said it as a statement rather than a question.

  A deathly pale, sweaty face with sunken eyes stared back at him.

  ‘Heroin?’ Johnny asked.

  The face nodded.

  ‘D’you want me to see if I can get you some?’

  A shaking of the head.

  ‘You know you’re in the wrong place if you’re trying to quit, don’t you?’ Johnny said.

  Nodding.

  ‘So what can I do for you?’

  The boy moistened his lips with a white tongue. He whispered something.

  ‘Eh?’ Johnny said, leaning in. He could smell the boy’s heavy, rotten breath. He could barely decipher the words. He straightened up and nodded.

  ‘As you wish.’

  Johnny went back to bed where he stared up at the underside of the mattress above him. It was covered with plastic to protect it against the residents’ bodily fluids. He listened to the constant noise from the centre, the sound of the endlessly hunted, running footsteps in the corridor, swearing, thumping music, laughter, knocking on doors, desperate screams and agitated dealing taking place right outside their door. But none of it could drown out the quiet sobbing and the words the boy had whispered:

  ‘Stop me if I try to get out.’

  19

  ‘SO YOU’RE WITH Homicide now,’ Fredrik said, smiling behind his sunglasses. The designer logo on the sidebar was so small that you needed Simon’s eagle eyes to see it, but someone with greater brand awareness than Simon to know just how exclusive it was. Still, Simon presumed that the sunglasses must be expensive, in line with Fredrik’s shirt, tie, manicure and haircut. But really, a light grey suit with brown shoes? Or maybe that passed for trendy these days.

  ‘Yes,’ Simon said and squinted. He had sat down with the wind and the sun to his back, but the sunbeams bounced off the glass surfaces of the newly constructed building across the canal. They were meeting at Simon’s request, but it was Fredrik who had suggested the Japanese restaurant on Tjuvholmen; Tjuvholmen meant ‘isle of thieves’ and Simon wondered if it was pertinent to all the investment companies which were located there, including Fredrik’s. ‘And you’re investing money for people who are so rich they no longer care what happens to it?’

  Fredrik laughed. ‘Something like that.’

  The waiter had placed a small plate in front of each of them with what looked like a tiny jellyfish. Simon suspected that it might actually be a tiny jellyfish. It was probably everyday fare on Tjuvholmen; sushi had become the pizza of the upper-middle class.

  ‘Do you ever miss the Serious Fraud Office?’ Simon said, sipping water from his glass. It purported to be glacial water from Voss that had been sent to the US and then imported back to Norway, stripped of essential minerals that the body needed and which you could get for free in clean and tasty Norwegian tap water. It cost sixty kroner per bottle. Simon had given up trying to understand market forces, their psychology, and the jostling for power. But Fredrik hadn’t. He understood. He played the game. Simon suspected he always had done. He had much in common with Kari; too well educated, too ambitious, and all too aware of his own value for the police to be able to keep him.

  ‘I miss my
colleagues and the excitement,’ Fredrik said. ‘But not the slow pace and the bureaucracy. Perhaps you quit for the same reason?’

  He raised his glass too quickly to his lips for Simon to read his face to determine if he genuinely didn’t know or was just pretending. After all, it was shortly after Fredrik had announced his departure to what many regarded as the dark side that the row over the money laundering case had erupted. Fredrik had even been one of the people working on the case. But perhaps he no longer had any police contacts.

  ‘Something like that,’ Simon muttered.

  ‘Murder is more up your street,’ Fredrik said and glanced with feigned discretion at his watch.

  ‘Talking about my street,’ Simon said, ‘I wanted to meet because I need a loan. It’s for my wife, she needs an eye operation. Else – do you remember her?’

  Fredrik chewed his jellyfish and made a sound that could mean both yes and no.

  Simon waited until he had finished.

  ‘I’m sorry, Simon, we only invest our clients’ money in blue-chip companies or in government-backed bonds, we never lend to the private market.’

  ‘I’m aware of that, but I’m asking you because I can’t go down the usual routes.’

  Fredrik carefully dabbed the corners of his mouth and put the napkin on his plate. ‘I’m sorry I can’t help you. An eye operation? That sounds serious.’

  The waiter arrived, took Fredrik’s plate, saw that Simon’s was untouched and looked quizzically at him. Simon gestured for him to take it away.

  ‘You didn’t like it?’ Fredrik said and asked for the bill in a few words which might be Japanese.

  ‘I don’t know, but I’m generally sceptical when it comes to invertebrates. They slip down too easily, if you know what I mean. I don’t like waste, but that particular animal looked as if it was still alive, so I’m hoping it might get a second chance in the aquarium.’

  Fredrik laughed unnecessarily heartily at his joke; relieved that the second part of their conversation appeared to be over. He grabbed the bill the moment it arrived.