The Son

by Jo Nesbo

  The guy nodded.

  What Nestor didn’t mention, because it didn’t need saying, was that the girl wouldn’t be in the same car as the car that came to pick up the money. The money would have left the meeting place before the car with the girl arrived. Same principle as in a drug deal.

  ‘And the money . . .?’

  ‘Another 400,000,’ Nestor said.

  ‘Fine.’

  Bo entered from the bedroom and stopped to look at the screen. He appeared to enjoy it. Most people seemed to. Nestor only found porn useful because it offered a predictable and steady soundtrack of moaning that frustrated any possible bugging of the room.

  ‘Ingierstrand Lido tomorrow at midnight,’ Nestor repeated.

  ‘Let’s drink to it,’ the guy said, holding out two glasses.

  ‘Thanks, but I’m driving,’ Bo said.

  ‘Of course,’ the guy laughed and slapped his head. ‘Coke?’

  Bo shrugged and the guy opened a can of Coke, poured it into a glass and cut another slice of lemon.

  They toasted and sat down at the table. Nestor signalled to Bo who picked up the first bundle of banknotes from the briefcase and started counting out loud. He had brought a bag with him from the car into which he put the money. They never accepted the customer’s bags, they might contain sensors that could trace where the money was taken. It wasn’t until Nestor heard Bo miscount that he realised something was wrong. Only he didn’t know what. He looked around. Had the walls changed colour? He looked down at his empty glass. Looked at Bo’s empty glass. And the lawyer guy’s glass.

  ‘Why isn’t there any lemon in yours?’ Nestor asked. His voice sounded very far away. And the reply came from the same distant place.

  ‘Citrus fruit intolerance.’

  Bo had stopped counting; his head was slumped over the money.

  ‘You’ve drugged us,’ Nestor said and reached for the knife in his leg sheath. He had time to register that he was patting the wrong leg before he saw the base of the lamp coming towards him. Then everything went black.

  Hugo Nestor had always loved music. And he didn’t mean the kind of noise or childish series of notes which common people called music, but music for adults, thinking people. Richard Wagner. Chromatic scale. Twelve half-tones with frequency ratios based on the 12th root of 2. Clean, pure mathematics, harmony, German order. But the sound he was hearing now was the opposite of music. It was discordant, nothing related to anything else, it was chaos. When he had regained consciousness, he had realised he was in a car, in some sort of large bag. He had felt nauseous and dizzy; his hands and feet were tied together with something sharp that cut into his skin – plastic ties probably, he sometimes used them on the girls.

  When the car had stopped, he had been lifted out and realised he must be inside a soft case with wheels. Half lying down, half standing upright, he had been pushed and dragged across a rugged terrain. He had heard whoever was pulling the suitcase pant and wheeze. Nestor had called out to him, made financial offers in return for his release, but had got no response.

  The next sound he had heard was this unmusical, atonal hullabaloo which only rose in strength. And which he recognised the moment the suitcase was put down and he lay on his back, feeling the ground underneath him and knowing – because he had now worked out where he was – that the cold water seeping through the suitcase and then through his suit was marsh water. Dogs. The short, choppy barking of Argentine mastiffs.

  What he didn’t know was what it was all about. Who the guy was and why this was happening to him. Was it a turf war? Was the guy who had abducted him the same guy who had killed Kalle? But why go about it this way?

  The suitcase was unzipped and Nestor squinted, blinded by the light from the torch pointing straight at his face.

  A hand grabbed his neck and pulled him to his feet.

  Nestor opened his eyes and saw a pistol gleam dully in the light. The dogs’ barking had suddenly stopped.

  ‘Who was the mole?’ said the voice behind the torch.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Who was the mole? The police thought it was Ab Lofthus.’

  Hugo Nestor narrowed his eyes against the light. ‘I don’t know. You might as well shoot me, I don’t know.’

  ‘Who does know?’

  ‘No one. None of us. Perhaps someone in the police.’

  The torch was lowered and Nestor saw that it was the lawyer guy. He had taken off his glasses.

  ‘You need to be punished,’ he said. ‘Would you like to ease your conscience first?’

  What was he talking about? He sounded like a priest. Was this about that chaplain they had killed? But he was only a corrupt paedophile – surely no one would want to avenge him?

  ‘I’ve no regrets,’ Nestor said. ‘Just get it over with.’

  He felt strangely calm. Perhaps it was a side effect of the drug. Or that he had thought it through enough times already, accepted that his life would probably end like this, with a bullet to the brain.

  ‘Not even for that girl you allowed to get mauled before you cut her throat? With this knife . . .?’

  Nestor blinked as the torchlight bounced off the curved blade. His own Arabic knife.

  ‘Don’t . . .’

  ‘Where do you keep the girls, Nestor?’

  The girls? Was that what he wanted, to take over the trafficking? Nestor tried to concentrate. But it was difficult, his brain was foggy.

  ‘Do you promise not to shoot me if I tell you?’ he asked, even though he realised that a yes would have about as much credibility as the German mark did in 1923.

  ‘Yes,’ the guy said.

  So why did Nestor still believe him? Why did he believe the promise that he wouldn’t be shot from a guy who had done nothing but lie from the moment he appeared at Vermont? It had to be his crazy brain clinging to this last straw. Because there was nothing else, nothing but this foolish hope in a dog kennel in a forest at night: that the guy who had abducted him was telling the truth.

  ‘Enerhauggata 96.’

  ‘Thank you so much,’ the guy said and stuck the pistol into the waistband of his trousers.

  Thank you so much?

  The guy had taken out his mobile and was entering some information from a yellow Post-it note, a phone number, probably. The display lit up his face and it occurred to Nestor that he might be a priest after all. A priest who didn’t lie. A contradiction in terms, obviously, but he was convinced that such priests existed, who weren’t aware that they were lying. He carried on pressing keys. A text message. He sent it with a final push of the buttons. Then he slipped the mobile into his pocket and looked at Nestor.

  ‘You’ve done a good deed, Nestor, there is a chance they might be rescued now,’ he said. ‘I thought you would want to know that before you . . .’

  Before I what? Nestor gulped. The guy had promised not to kill him! Had . . . Wait. He had promised not to shoot him. The light from the torch was now pointing straight at the padlock to the enclosure. The guy inserted a key into the lock. Nestor could hear the dogs now. Not barking, only a barely audible, but harmonised bass. A muted growl that came from the pits of their stomachs and rose in volume, tone and pitch, hushed and controlled like Wagner’s contrapuntal music. And no drugs could suppress his fear now. Fear that felt like being hosed down with icy water. If only the pressure could have washed him away, but this man was on the inside, inside him, hosing down the inside of his head and body. There was no escape. It was Hugo Nestor himself who was holding the hose.

  Fidel Lae sat in the darkness, staring. He had stopped moving or making a sound. Only curled up in an attempt to keep warm and control his shaking. He recognised the two men’s voices. One was the man who had appeared out of nowhere and locked him up more than twenty-four hours ago. Fidel had barely eaten any of the dog food, only drunk the water. And shivered with cold. Even on a summer night the chill eats its way into your body, petrifies it, chases you around. He had screamed for help until his throat fel
t raw and he had no voice left, until blood and not saliva moistened his throat and the water he had drunk offered no relief, but stung and burned like alcohol. When he heard the car, he had tried screaming again, but started sobbing when his voice made no sound; it merely grated like a rusty engine.

  Then he could tell from the dogs that someone was approaching. He had hoped. And prayed. And finally seen the silhouette against the summer-night sky, seen that he was back. The man who had floated over the moor yesterday was now bent double as he dragged something along. A suitcase. With a living human being inside. A man who stood with his hands tied behind his back and his feet pressed so close together that he clearly had problems keeping his balance when he was put in front of the gate to the enclosure where Fidel was.

  Hugo Nestor.

  They were only four metres from Fidel’s cage, and yet he couldn’t hear what they were talking about. The man unlocked the padlock and put his hand on Nestor’s head as if blessing him. He said something. Then he gave Nestor’s head a little push. The plump man in the suit screamed briefly, then he fell backwards and hit the gate, which opened inwards. The dogs stirred. The man quickly pushed Nestor’s feet inside and closed the gate. The dogs hesitated. Then Ghostbuster seemed to jerk and started moving. Fidel watched the white dogs as they pounced on Nestor. Their movements were so silent that he could clearly hear the chomping jaws, the sound of flesh being torn, the almost ecstatic growling and then Nestor’s scream. A single, quivering, strangely pure note that rose towards the light Nordic sky where Fidel could see insects dance. Then the note was suddenly cut short and Fidel saw something else rise, it looked like a swarm coming towards him and he felt the spray of tiny warm droplets and knew what it was because he had himself cut the artery of a still living elk on a hunting trip. Fidel wiped his face with the sleeve of his jacket and looked away. He saw that the man outside the cage had also turned away. Saw his shoulders shake. As if he was crying.

  29

  ‘IT’S THE MIDDLE of the night,’ the doctor said, rubbing his eyes. ‘Why don’t you go home and get some sleep, Kefas, and we’ll do this tomorrow?’

  ‘No,’ Simon said.

  ‘As you wish,’ the doctor said, indicating to Simon to take a seat on one of the chairs along the wall of the bleak hospital corridor. When the doctor sat down next to him and paused before leaning towards him, Simon knew that it was bad news.

  ‘Your wife doesn’t have much time left. If she’s to have any chance of a successful operation, she needs to have surgery in a matter of days.’

  ‘And there’s nothing you can do?’

  The doctor sighed. ‘Normally we don’t advise patients to go abroad and subject themselves to expensive private treatment – especially when the outcome of surgery is relatively uncertain. But in this case . . .’

  ‘You’re saying I need to get her to the Howell Clinic now?’

  ‘I’m not saying you have to do anything. Many blind people live a full life with their handicap.’

  Simon nodded while his fingers stroked the stun grenade he still kept in his pocket. He tried to process the information, but it was as if his brain was trying to run away, seeking refuge by speculating if handicap wasn’t a non-PC word. He supposed they called it ‘differently abled’ now. Or had that – like hostel – also become non-PC? Things changed so quickly that he couldn’t keep up, and health and social care terminology seemed to go off faster than milk.

  The doctor cleared his throat.

  ‘I . . .’ Simon began and heard his mobile crackle. He grabbed it, grateful for some time out. He didn’t recognise the sender of the text message.

  You’ll find Nestor’s prisoners in Enerhauggata 96. Hurry. The Son.

  The Son.

  Simon pressed a number.

  ‘Listen, Simon,’ the doctor said, ‘I don’t have time to—’

  ‘That’s all good,’ Simon said and held up a hand to silence the doctor as he heard a sleepy voice answer the call: ‘Falkeid.’

  ‘Hi, Sivert, it’s Simon Kefas. I want you to dispatch Delta to raid the following address: Enerhauggata 96. How fast can you get there?’

  ‘It’s the middle of the night.’

  ‘That’s not what I was asking.’

  ‘Thirty-five minutes. Have you got authorisation from the Commissioner?’

  ‘Pontius isn’t available right now,’ Simon lied. ‘But relax, we’ve got grounds for the raid as far as the eye can see. Trafficking. And time is of the essence. Just do it, it’ll be on my head.’

  ‘I hope you know what you’re doing, Simon.’

  Simon hung up and looked at the doctor. ‘Thank you, Doctor, I’ll think about it. Now I’ve got to get back to work.’

  Betty heard the mating noises as soon as they exited the lift on the top floor.

  ‘Really.’ Betty frowned.

  ‘It’s pay-TV,’ said the security guard she had taken with her.

  They had received complaints from the neighbouring rooms and, as a matter of policy, Betty had made a note in the night log at reception. ‘02.13 a.m. noise complaint about Suite 4.’ She had called Suite 4, but got no reply. Then she had called security.

  They ignored the ‘Do Not Disturb’ request hanging on the door handle and knocked hard. Waited. Knocked again. Betty shifted her weight from one foot to another.

  ‘You look nervous,’ the security guard said.

  ‘I’ve a feeling that the guest is up to . . . something.’

  ‘Something?’

  ‘Drugs – what do I know?’

  The security guard released the button on his cosh and straightened up while Betty slipped the master key into the lock. Opened the door.

  ‘Mr Lae?’

  The living room was empty. The mating noises were coming from a woman in a red leather corset with a white cross that was supposed to indicate she was a nurse. Betty grabbed the remote control from the coffee table and turned off the TV while the security guard entered the bedroom. The briefcases had gone. Betty noticed empty glasses and half a lemon on the bar counter. The lemon had dried out and its flesh had a strange brown colour. Betty opened the wardrobe. The suit, the large suitcase and the red sports bag were gone. It was the oldest trick in the hotel fraud book, hanging a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign outside the door and turning on the TV so that it sounded as if the guest was still there. But Mr Lae had paid for the room in advance. And she had already checked that no charges from the restaurant or the bar had been made to the room.

  ‘There’s a guy in the bathroom.’

  She turned to the security guard who was standing in the doorway to the bedroom.

  She followed him inside.

  The man lying on the bathroom floor looked like he was hugging the lavatory. A closer inspection revealed that he was tied to it with strips around his wrists. He was wearing a black suit, had blond hair and didn’t look entirely sober. High on something. Or low. Heavy eyelids blinked sleepily at them.

  ‘Cut me loose,’ he said with an accent she couldn’t place anywhere on the globe.

  Betty nodded to the security guard who took out a Swiss army knife and cut the plastic strips.

  ‘What happened?’ she asked.

  The man staggered to his feet. Swayed slightly in front of them. He struggled to focus his swimming eyes. ‘We played some stupid game,’ he mumbled. ‘I’m going to go now . . .’

  The security guard positioned himself in the doorway and blocked his path.

  Betty looked around. Nothing had been damaged. The bill had been paid. All they had was a complaint about television noise. What they risked was trouble with the police, negative press coverage and a reputation for being a meeting place for unsavoury elements. Her boss had praised her for being discreet, for putting the hotel’s interests first. Said that she could go far, that reception was only a stepping stone for someone like her.

  ‘Let him go,’ she said.

  Lars Gilberg was woken up by a rustling from the bushes. He turned over. Saw the
contours of a figure among the branches and leaves. Someone was trying to steal the boy’s stuff. Lars wiggled out of the filthy sleeping bag and scrambled to his feet.

  ‘Oi, you!’

  The figure stopped. Turned round. The boy was transformed. It wasn’t just the suit. It was something about his face, it looked swollen somehow.

  ‘Thanks for looking after my stuff,’ the boy said, nodding to the bag he had tucked under his arm.

  ‘Hm,’ Lars said and moved his head closer to see if that made it easier to spot the change. ‘You’re not in trouble, are you, lad?’

  ‘Oh, yes, indeed I am,’ the boy smiled. But there was something about his smile. Something pale. His lips were trembling. He looked as if he had been crying.

  ‘Do you need help?’

  ‘No, but thanks for asking.’

  ‘Hm. I won’t see you again, will I?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. Live well, Lars.’

  ‘I will. And you . . .’ He took a step forward and placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Live long. Promise me that?’

  The boy nodded quickly. ‘Check under your pillow,’ he said.

  Lars automatically looked at his bedding under the arch. And when he turned round again, he just had time to see the back of the boy before he was swallowed up by the darkness.

  Lars returned to his sleeping bag. He spotted an envelope sticking out from under his pillow. He picked it up. ‘To Lars’ it said. He opened the envelope.

  Lars Gilberg had never seen so much money in his entire life.

  ‘Shouldn’t Delta be here by now?’ Kari asked, yawned and glanced at her watch.

  ‘Yes,’ Simon said and looked out. They had parked halfway up Enerhauggata and number 96 lay fifty metres in front of them, on the other side of the street. It was a white-painted, two-storey wooden house, one of those which had been reprieved when Enerhaugen’s picturesque buildings were demolished in 1960 to make way for four tower blocks. The small house lay so still and peaceful in the summer night that Simon found it hard to imagine that people could be kept prisoner inside it.