The Son

by Jo Nesbo

  ‘We feel a dash of guilt,’ Simon said. ‘But I think that glass and concrete are more suitable for people today.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m quoting the CEO of OBOS Building Society, in 1960.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Kari said and yawned again. Simon wondered if she hoped he would feel a dash of guilt for dragging her out of bed in the middle of the night. It could be argued that her presence wasn’t strictly necessary for such a raid. ‘Why isn’t Delta here?’ she asked again.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Simon said, and at that moment the inside of the car was lit up by the display on his phone which lay between the seats. He looked at the number.

  ‘But we soon will,’ he said, slowly lifting the mobile to his ear. ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s me, Simon. No one is coming.’

  Simon adjusted the rear-view mirror. A psychologist might be able to explain why Simon did that, but it had become an automatic response to the other man’s voice. Simon focused on the mirror to see what was behind him.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because the grounds for the raid haven’t been properly justified, its necessity explained and you’ve made no attempt to go through the proper channels to authorise Delta.’

  ‘You can authorise it, Pontius.’

  ‘Yes. And I said no.’

  Simon swore silently. ‘Listen, it—’

  ‘No, you listen to me. I’ve ordered Falkeid to stand down and told him and his men to go back to bed. Just what are you up to, Simon?’

  ‘I have reason to believe that people are being held against their will at Enerhauggata 96. Honestly, Pontius, it—’

  ‘Honesty is good, Simon. Remember that the next time you ring the head of Delta.’

  ‘There was no time to explain. There is no time, dammit. You used to trust my judgement.’

  ‘Your use of past tense is correct, Simon.’

  ‘So you don’t trust me now, is that it?’

  ‘You gambled away all your money, remember? Including your wife’s. What does that tell me about your judgement, in your opinion?’

  Simon clenched his teeth. There had been a time when it wouldn’t have been so easy to predict which one of them would win an argument or who would get the best grades, run the fastest or get the prettiest girl. The only certainty was that they would unite behind the third man in the troika. But he was dead now. And though he had been the best thinker and the strongest of the three, Pontius Parr had always had one advantage: he thought further than either of the other two.

  ‘We’ll do it early tomorrow morning,’ the Commissioner said with the easy self-confidence which these days made people believe that Pontius Parr knew best. Including Pontius himself. ‘If you’ve got a tip-off about suspected trafficking at the address then it won’t disappear overnight. Go home and get some sleep now.’

  Simon opened the car door and got out while indicating to Kari to stay where she was. He closed the door and walked a few metres down the road. He spoke quietly into the mobile.

  ‘It can’t wait. This is urgent, Pontius.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘The tip-off.’

  ‘And how did you come by it?’

  ‘A text message from someone . . . anonymous. I’ll go in on my own.’

  ‘What? Don’t even think about it! Stop, Simon. Do you hear me? Are you there?’

  Simon looked at his mobile. Pressed it to his ear again. ‘An assessment carried out by the officer at the scene. Do you remember learning that, Pontius? Do you remember them teaching us that it always trumped orders from officers remote from the scene?’

  ‘Simon! Oslo is in chaos as it is. The City Council and the media are on our backs over these killings. Don’t jump off the deep end this time. Simon!’

  Simon hung up, turned off his mobile and opened the boot of his car. Unlocked the gun box. Took out his shotgun, his pistol and some boxes of ammunition. Took out the two bulletproof vests lying loose in the boot and got into the car.

  ‘We’re going in,’ he said, handing the shotgun and one vest to Kari.

  She looked at him. ‘Was that the Commissioner you were just talking to?’

  ‘It was,’ Simon said, checking that the cartridge clip on the Glock 17 pistol was full. Slotted it back into the handle. ‘Pass me the handcuffs and the stun grenade in the glove compartment, would you?’

  ‘You’ve got a stun grenade?’

  ‘By-product of the raid at the Ila Centre.’

  She handed Simon his Peerless handcuffs and the grenade. ‘Has he given us permission to go in?’

  ‘He has been informed,’ Simon said, putting on the bulletproof vest.

  Kari cocked the shotgun and loaded it with cartridges with swift, familiar movements.

  ‘Grouse hunting since I was nine,’ she said by way of explanation, having noticed Simon’s look. ‘But I prefer rifles. How do we do this?’

  ‘On three,’ Simon said.

  ‘I mean, how do we approach—’

  ‘Three,’ Simon said and opened the car door.

  The Bismarck Hotel was located in the centre of Oslo, that much was true. The small hotel lay in the middle of Kvadraturen where the city had been founded, at the point where the drugs market met the red-light district. And true to its location, it rented out rooms by the hour with towels that were stiff from boil washing. The rooms hadn’t been redecorated since the hotel was taken over by its current owner sixteen years ago, but the beds had to be replaced every two years as a result of wear and tear.

  So when Ola, who was the owner’s son and had worked in reception since he was sixteen years old, looked up from his PC at 03.02 a.m. and saw a man standing in front of the counter, it was natural for Ola to assume that the man was in the wrong place. Not only was he wearing a nice suit and carrying two briefcases and a red sports bag, but he was without a female or male companion. The man, however, insisted on paying up front for a room for one week, and accepted the towel with an almost humble thank-you before he disappeared up to the second floor. Ola went back to reading Aftenposten’s web page about a wave of murders in Oslo, speculations as to whether a gang war had broken out and how it might be connected to the killer who had absconded from Staten. He studied the photo for a while. Then he clicked on another page.

  Simon stopped in front of the steps leading to the house and gestured to Kari to have her weapon ready and watch the first-floor windows. Then he walked up the three steps and tapped a knuckle softly against the door. He whispered ‘Police’. Looked at Kari to assure himself that she could testify that he had followed the correct, official procedure. Another tap. He whispered ‘Police’ again. Then he grabbed the barrel of his pistol and leaned to the side to smash the glass in the window next to the door. He had the stun grenade ready in his other hand. He had a plan. Of course he had a plan. Kind of. As they say, the element of surprise is everything. Putting all his eggs in one basket. He always had. And that, as the young psychologist had explained, was his disease. Research proved that people constantly exaggerated the likelihood of something improbable happening to them, such as dying in a plane crash, their child being raped or abducted on their way to school, or that the horse on which you bet your wife’s savings would stay the distance for the first time in its racing career. The psychologist had said that there was something in Simon’s subconscious that was stronger than common sense, that it was a matter of identifying and starting a dialogue with this sick, crazy tyrant who terrorised and ruined his life. That he had to ask himself if there was something more important in his life. More important than the tyrant. Something he loved more than gambling. And there was. It was Else. And he had done it. He had talked to the beast, tamed it. He hadn’t relapsed once. Not until now.

  He took a deep breath. He was about to bash the pistol against the glass when the door opened.

  Simon spun round with the pistol in front of him, but he wasn’t as quick as he once was. Not even close. He wouldn’t have h
ad a chance if the man in the doorway had been armed.

  ‘Hello,’ was all the man said.

  ‘Good evening,’ Simon said, trying to regain his composure. ‘Police.’

  ‘How can I help you?’ The man opened the door fully. He was dressed. Tight jeans. T-shirt. Bare feet. Nowhere to conceal a pistol.

  Simon stuffed the stun grenade into his pocket and held out his warrant card. ‘I’ll have to ask you to come outside and stand up against this wall. Now.’

  The man calmly shrugged his shoulders and did as he was told.

  ‘Apart from the girls, how many people are in the house?’ Simon asked while a quick frisking confirmed that the man was unarmed.

  ‘Girls? I’m the only one here. What do you want?’

  ‘Show me where they are,’ Simon said, handcuffed the man, shoved him in front of him and indicated to Kari to follow. The man said something.

  ‘What?’ Simon said.

  ‘I’m telling your colleague that she’s welcome to come in as well. I’ve got nothing to hide.’

  Simon remained standing behind the man. Stared at his neck. Saw his skin twitch slightly, like on a nervous horse.

  ‘Kari?’ Simon called out.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I want you to stay outside. I’m going in alone.’

  ‘OK.’

  Simon put a hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘Start walking and no sudden movements, I’ve got my pistol against your back.’

  ‘What are—’

  ‘Accept that for the time being I regard you as a criminal and I might shoot you; you can always get an unreserved apology afterwards.’

  Without further protest the man entered the hallway. Simon automatically looked out for any evidence of what to expect inside. Four pairs of shoes on the floor. The man didn’t live alone. A plastic bowl of water and a rug by the door to the kitchen.

  ‘What happened to your dog?’ Simon asked.

  ‘What dog?’

  ‘Do you drink from that bowl?’

  The man made no reply.

  ‘Dogs tend to bark when strangers approach the house. So either it’s a rubbish guard dog or—’

  ‘It’s at the kennel. Where are we going?’

  Simon looked around. There were no bars on the windows, the front door had a single lock with a turnkey on the inside. They weren’t being held here.

  ‘The basement,’ Simon said.

  The man shrugged and continued down the hallway. And Simon knew that he had hit the jackpot when he saw the man unlock the door to the basement. The door had two locks.

  Simon recognised the smell as soon as they walked down the stairs and it confirmed his suspicions. That people were being kept there. Lots of people. He gripped the pistol more tightly.

  But no one was there.

  ‘What do you use these for?’ asked Simon as they passed some lock-ups, which were separated by steel mesh rather than walls.

  ‘Not much,’ the man said. ‘The dog lives here. And I store mattresses, as you can see.’

  The smell was even more pungent now. The girls must have been kept here until very recently. Dammit, they were too late. But surely they would be able to pull DNA from the mattresses. Though what did that prove? That someone had been in contact with a mattress which was now in a basement. It would be more unusual if they didn’t find DNA on old mattresses. They had nothing. Only an unauthorised raid. Damn, damn.

  Simon noticed a small trainer with no laces lying on the floor near a door.

  ‘Where does that door lead to?’

  ‘Only to the driveway.’

  Only. He was trying to play down the significance of the door. Just like he had stressed how much he wanted Kari to come inside the house.

  Simon opened it and found himself looking straight at the side of a white van parked on the tarmac that had been laid between this house and the fence to the neighbouring house.

  ‘What do you use the van for?’ Simon asked.

  ‘I’m an electrician,’ the man said.

  Simon took a few steps back. Crouched down and picked up the trainer from the basement floor. Size 5, possibly. Smaller than Else’s shoes. He stuck his hand inside. It was still warm. It could be no more than a few minutes since the owner had lost it. At that moment he heard a sound. Muffled, trapped, but unmistakable. A yelp. Simon stared at the van and was about to stand up again when he received a kick to his side and fell as he heard the man scream: ‘Drive! Drive!’

  Simon managed to roll over and aim his pistol at the man, but the man had already slumped to his knees and folded his hands behind his head in total surrender. The engine started, the revs so high that it squealed. Simon rolled over onto his other side and could now see heads in the front of the van; the girls had clearly been hiding in the back.

  ‘Stop! Police!’ Simon tried to get to his feet, but it hurt like hell, the guy must have broken one of his ribs. And before Simon could point his pistol, the van was in motion and out of his firing range. Dammit!

  There was a bang followed by glass shattering.

  The squeal of an engine falling silent.

  ‘Stay where you are,’ Simon said and groaned as he scrambled to his feet and staggered out of the door.

  The van had come to a standstill. Loud screaming and frantic barking could be heard coming from the inside.

  But it was the scene in front of the van which Simon took a mental photograph of for his scrapbook. Kari Adel in a long, black leather coat standing in the beam from the headlights of the van which was now relieved of its windscreen. The stock of the shotgun in her shoulder and an underhand grip on the still smoking barrel.

  Simon walked up to the side of the van and slid open the door on the driver’s side. ‘Police!’

  The man inside didn’t respond, he just continued to stare straight ahead as if in shock, with blood dripping from his hairline. His lap was filled with broken glass. Simon ignored the pain in his side, dragged the man out and down on the ground. ‘Nose to the tarmac and hands behind your head! Now!’

  Then he walked round the van and subjected the equally apathetic passenger to the same treatment.

  Simon and Kari walked up to the side door in the body of the van. They could hear the dog yelp and bark from the inside. Simon grabbed the door handle and Kari positioned herself right in front of it with the shotgun at the ready.

  ‘It sounds big,’ Simon said. ‘Perhaps you should take another step back?’

  She nodded and did as he had suggested. Then he slid the door open.

  A white monster shot out of the van and flew right at Kari with its jaws snarling and open. It happened so quickly that she didn’t have time to fire her weapon. The animal slammed into the ground in front of her and stayed there.

  Simon stared at his own smoking pistol in astonishment.

  ‘Thank you,’ Kari said.

  They turned back to the van. Terrified, wide-eyed faces stared out at them from inside it.

  ‘Police,’ Simon said. And added when he saw from the expressions that this might not be considered universally good news: ‘Good police. We’re on your side.’

  Then he took out his mobile and rang a number. Put the mobile to his ear and looked up at Kari.

  ‘Do you think you could call the station and ask them to dispatch a couple of patrol cars?’

  ‘So who are you ringing then?’

  ‘The press.’

  30

  DAWN WAS STARTING to break over Enerhaugen, but the press hadn’t finished taking pictures and interviewing the girls who had been given woollen blankets and tea which Kari had made in the kitchen. Three of the reporters were crowding around Simon in an attempt to milk him for even more details.

  ‘No, we don’t know if there are more people behind this than those we arrested here tonight,’ Simon repeated. ‘And, yes, it’s correct that we raided this address following an anonymous tip-off.’

  ‘Did you really have to kill an innocent animal?’ asked a female journal
ist, nodding towards the dead dog which Kari had covered with a blanket from the house.

  ‘It attacked us,’ Simon said.

  ‘Attacked you?’ She snorted. ‘Two adults against one small dog? Surely you could have found a way to restrain it.’

  ‘The loss of life is always sad,’ Simon said and knew that he shouldn’t, but couldn’t help himself and continued, ‘but given that the life expectancy of a dog is in inverse proportion to its size, you will – if you take a look under the blanket – realise that this dog didn’t have long to live, anyway.’

  Stalsberg, a senior crime reporter who was the first person Simon had called, grinned.

  A police SUV had appeared over the hill and parked behind the patrol car, which – to Simon’s irritation – still had its blue light flashing on its roof.

  ‘But rather than ask me any more questions, I suggest that you speak to the boss himself.’

  Simon nodded towards the SUV and the journalists turned round. The man who emerged from the car was tall and slender with thin hair swept back and rectangular, frameless glasses. He straightened up and looked astonished as the journalists raced towards him.

  ‘Congratulations on the arrests, Commissioner Parr,’ Stalsberg said. ‘Would you like to comment on how it looks as if you’re finally making progress with the trafficking problem? Would you call this a breakthrough?’

  Simon folded his arms across his chest and met Pontius Parr’s icy stare. The Commissioner nodded almost imperceptibly, then he looked at the reporter who had asked the question. ‘It’s certainly an important step in the police’s fight against trafficking. Before this current incident we’ve stressed that this issue must be given priority, and this prioritising has – as you can see – borne fruit. So we would like to congratulate Chief Inspector Kefas and his colleagues.’

  Parr grabbed Simon as he headed back to his car.