The Son

by Jo Nesbo

  ‘I think you know what.’

  ‘You’re going to find and punish all the people responsible. The people you served time for. The people who killed your father. And then you want to find the mole.’

  ‘I don’t have very much time.’

  ‘But I can help you.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Simon, but the best thing you can do to help me is carry on doing what you’ve been doing so far.’

  ‘Oh? And what is that?’

  ‘Not try to stop me.’

  A pause followed. Simon listened out for any background noises that might reveal where the boy was. He heard a low, rhythmic pounding and sporadic shouting and screaming.

  ‘I think we want the same thing, Simon.’

  Simon gulped. ‘Do you remember me?’

  ‘I have to go now.’

  ‘Your father and I . . .’

  But the line had already gone dead.

  ‘Thank you for coming.’

  ‘Don’t mention it, mate,’ Pelle said, glancing up at the boy in the rear-view mirror. ‘A taxi driver’s meter runs less than thirty per cent of his working day so it’s nice, both for me and my business, that you called. Where are you off to tonight, mister?’

  ‘Ullern.’

  The boy had asked him for his card the last time Pelle drove him. Passengers tended to do that from time to time if they were satisfied, but they never called. It was too easy to get a cab by flagging one down in the street. So Pelle had no idea why the boy specifically wanted him to drive all the way from Gamlebyen to Kvadraturen to pick him up outside the dubious Bismarck Hotel.

  The boy was wearing a smart suit and Pelle hadn’t recognised him at first. Something was different. He carried the same red sports bag plus a briefcase. A sharp jangle of metal had come from the bag as the boy dumped it on the back seat.

  ‘You look happy in that photograph,’ the boy said. ‘You and your wife?’

  ‘Oh, that one,’ Pelle said and felt himself blushing. No one had ever commented on the picture before. He had stuck it low down on the left-hand side of the steering wheel, so that customers wouldn’t be able to see it. But he was touched that the boy could see from the picture that they were happy. That she was happy. He hadn’t selected the best picture of them, but the one where she looked happiest.

  ‘I think she’s cooking rissoles tonight,’ he said. ‘Later we might go for a walk in Kampen Park. The breeze up there will be very welcome on a hot day like this.’

  ‘That sounds nice,’ the boy said. ‘You’re lucky to have found a woman to share your life with.’

  ‘Indeed I am,’ Pelle said and looked up in the rear-view mirror. ‘You couldn’t be more right.’

  Pelle usually made sure the customer did the talking. He liked it, getting a snippet of someone’s life for the brief duration of a cab ride. Children and marriage. Jobs and mortgages. Sneak a peek at the trials and tribulations of family life for a short while. Not having to bring up the topics he knew so many taxi drivers enjoyed discussing. But a strange intimacy had grown between them; in fact, he quite simply enjoyed talking to this young man.

  ‘How about you?’ Pelle asked. ‘Found yourself a girlfriend yet?’

  The boy smiled as he shook his head.

  ‘No? No one who revs up the old engine?’

  The boy nodded.

  ‘Yeah? Good for you, mate. And her.’

  The boy’s head movements changed direction.

  ‘No? Don’t tell me she doesn’t fancy you? I admit you didn’t look like much of a catch when you were throwing up against the wall, but today, in that suit and everything . . .’

  ‘Thanks,’ the boy said. ‘But I’m afraid I can’t have her.’

  ‘Why not? Have you told her you love her?’

  ‘No. Should you do that?’

  ‘All the time, several times a day. Think of it as oxygen, you never stop needing it. I love you, I love you. Try it, then you’ll see what I mean.’

  There was silence in the back for a while. Then he heard a cough.

  ‘How . . . how do you know if someone loves you, Pelle?’

  ‘You just know. It’s the sum total of all the little things you can never really put your finger on. Love surrounds you like steam in the shower. You can’t see the individual drops, but you get warm. And wet. And clean.’ Pelle laughed, embarrassed and almost a little proud at his own words.

  ‘And you continue to bathe in her love and tell her that you love her every day?’

  Pelle got the feeling that the boy’s questions weren’t spontaneous, that it was a subject he had intended to ask Pelle about because of the picture of him and his wife, that the boy must have spotted it on one of the other two rides they had taken.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Pelle said and felt as if something was stuck in his throat, a crumb or something. He coughed hard and turned on the radio.

  The drive to Ullern took fifteen minutes. The boy gave Pelle an address in one of the roads which swung up towards Ullernåsen between gigantic wooden structures that looked more like fortifications than family homes. The tarmac had already dried after the rainfall earlier that day.

  ‘Pull over here for a moment, would you, please?’

  ‘But the gate is over there.’

  ‘This is fine.’

  Pelle pulled up along the kerb. The property was surrounded by a tall white wall with broken glass on the top. The vast, two-storey brick house lay at the top of a large garden. Music was coming from the terrace in front of the house and the light was on in every window. Floodlights in the garden. Two massive, broad-shouldered men in black suits were standing in front of the gate, one with a big white dog on a leash.

  ‘Are you going to a party?’ Pelle asked and massaged his bad foot. Now and then, the cramp came back like someone had thrown it at him.

  The boy shook his head. ‘I don’t think I’m invited.’

  ‘Do you know the people who live here?’

  ‘No, I got the address when I was in prison. The Twin. Ever heard of him?’

  ‘No,’ Pelle said. ‘But seeing as you don’t know him, I can tell you that it ain’t right for one person to have so much. Look at that house! This is Norway, not the US or Saudi Arabia. We’re just a freezing cold bit of rock up here in the north, but we always had one thing that the other countries didn’t have. A certain equality. A certain fairness. But now we’re busy wrecking it for ourselves.’

  They heard dogs barking in the garden.

  ‘I think you’re a wise man, Pelle.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not sure about that. Why were you inside?’

  ‘To find peace.’

  Pelle studied the boy’s face in the mirror. It was as if he had seen it somewhere else, and not just here in his cab.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ the boy said.

  When Pelle looked out of the windscreen again, he saw that the man with the white dog was coming towards them. Both of them had their eyes fixed on the car and had so much muscle packed inside their bodies that they waddled.

  ‘Right,’ Pelle said, flicking on the indicator. ‘Where to?’

  ‘Did you get to say goodbye to her?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your wife.’

  Pelle blinked. Watched the man and the dog getting closer. The question had hit him like a punch to the stomach. He looked at the boy in the mirror again. Where had he seen him before? He heard growling. The dog must be getting ready to attack. He had driven the boy before, it was that simple, that had to be the reason. The memory of a memory. Like she was now.

  ‘No,’ Pelle said, shaking his head.

  ‘An accident?’

  Pelle swallowed. ‘Yes. A car crash.’

  ‘Did she know that you loved her?’

  Pelle opened his mouth, but realised he wouldn’t be able to say anything, so all he did was nod.

  ‘I’m sorry she was taken from you, Pelle.’

  He felt the boy’s hand on his shoulder. And it was as if
heat exuded from it and spread to his chest, stomach, arms and legs.

  ‘We should probably get going now, Pelle.’

  It wasn’t until then that Pelle realised he had closed his eyes, and when he opened them again the man and the dog had come up alongside the car. Pelle revved the engine and released the clutch. He heard the dog barking furiously after them.

  ‘Where are we off to?’

  ‘To visit a man who is guilty of murder,’ the boy said, pulling the red sports bag closer. ‘But first we have to drop something off.’

  ‘Who to?’

  The boy smiled a strange, wistful smile. ‘To someone whose picture I’d like to have on my dashboard.’

  Martha was standing at the kitchen counter, pouring the coffee from the pot into a Thermos flask. She tried to shut out her future mother-in-law’s voice. She tried to focus on what the guests were talking about in the dining room. But it was impossible, her voice was so insistent, so demanding.

  ‘Anders is a sensitive boy, you understand. He’s much more sensitive than you. You’re the strong one. That’s why you have to take charge and . . .’

  A car pulled up and stopped in front of the gate. A taxi. A man in an elegant suit got out; he was carrying a briefcase.

  She thought her heart would stop. It was him.

  He opened the gate and started walking up the short gravel path to the front door.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Martha said, and slammed down the coffee pot in the sink with a bang and tried to look as if she wasn’t rushing out of the kitchen.

  It was a distance of only a few metres and yet she was breathless when she flung open the door before he had time to ring the bell.

  ‘We have company,’ she hissed, pulling the door behind her. ‘And the police are looking for you. What do you want?’

  He looked at her with those damned clear green eyes. He had shaved off his eyebrows.

  ‘I want to ask for forgiveness,’ he said. Quietly, calmly. ‘And then I want to give you this. It’s for the centre.’

  ‘What is it?’ she asked and looked at the briefcase he was holding out to her.

  ‘For that building work you can’t afford. Or some of it, at any rate . . .’

  ‘No!’ She glanced over her shoulder and lowered her voice. ‘What’s wrong with you? Do you really think I want your blood money. You kill people. The earrings you tried to give me . . .’ Martha swallowed, shook her head fiercely and felt tiny, angry tears flow. ‘They belonged . . . to a woman you murdered!’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Go away!’

  He nodded. Took a step down, backwards. ‘Why didn’t you tell the police about me?’

  ‘Who says I haven’t?’

  ‘Why haven’t you, Martha?’

  She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Heard a chair scrape across the dining-room floor. ‘Because I wanted to hear you tell me why you killed those people, perhaps?’

  ‘Would it make a difference if I did?’

  ‘I don’t know. Would it?’

  He shrugged. ‘If you want to call the police, I’ll be at my parents’ house tonight. After that I’ll disappear.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘Because I want you to come with me. Because I love you.’

  She blinked. What did he just say?

  ‘I love you,’ he repeated slowly and looked as if he was tasting his own words in surprise.

  ‘My God,’ she groaned in despair. ‘You’re mad!’

  ‘I’m going now.’ He turned towards the taxi which was waiting with its engine idling.

  ‘Wait! Where will you go?’

  He made a half-turn and smiled wryly. ‘Someone told me about a great city in Europe. It’s a long way to drive on your own, but . . .’ He looked as if he wanted to say something more and she waited. And waited, and prayed that he would say it. She didn’t know what it was, only that if he said the right thing, said the magic word, then it would set her free. But it was him who had to do it, he had to know what it was.

  But he bowed quickly to her, turned round and started walking towards the gate.

  Martha was tempted to call out after him, but what would she say? It was madness. A crazy infatuation. Something which didn’t exist, which couldn’t exist in the real world. Reality was in there, in the dining room behind her. She turned and went back inside. And looked straight into Anders’s furious face.

  ‘Move.’

  ‘Anders, don’t . . .’

  He pushed her over, tore open the door and stormed out.

  Martha got back on her feet and followed him out to the path in time to see Anders grab hold of Sonny and lash out at the back of his head. But Sonny must have heard Anders coming because he ducked, spun round in a kind of pirouette and wrapped his arms around Anders. Anders howled: ‘I’m going to kill you!’ and tried to free himself, but his arms were locked and he was helpless. Then, just as suddenly, Sonny let Anders go. At first Anders stared with astonishment at the man standing in front of him with his arms hanging passively by his sides. Then Anders raised his hand to strike. And punched him. He raised his fist ready for another blow. Landed it. It didn’t make much noise. A dead, thudding smack of knuckles against flesh and bone.

  ‘Anders,’ Martha screamed. ‘Anders, stop it!’

  On the fourth punch the skin on the boy’s cheekbone burst. On the fifth he sank to his knees.

  The door on the driver’s side of the taxi opened and the taxi driver made to get out, but the boy held up a hand to signal for him to keep out of it.

  ‘You cowardly bastard!’ Anders screamed. ‘Stay the hell away from my fiancée!’

  The boy raised his head as if to offer Anders a better angle, turning his undamaged cheek. Anders kicked him. The boy’s head was thrown backwards and he collapsed onto his knees and flung out his arms like a football player skidding across the pitch in triumph.

  The sharp sole of Anders’s shoe must have caught Sonny’s forehead because blood started pouring from a long cut right below the hairline. As Sonny’s shoulders brushed the gravel and his jacket fell open, Martha saw Anders freeze in the run-up to another kick. Saw him stare at Sonny’s belt and see what she saw. A pistol. A shiny pistol, whose barrel was buried in the trouser lining; it had been there all along, but Sonny hadn’t touched it.

  She put her hand on Anders’s shoulder and he jumped as if she had just woken him up.

  ‘Go inside,’ she ordered him. ‘Now!’

  He blinked at her in confusion. Then he did as he was told. Walked past her up to the steps where the other guests had now gathered.

  ‘Go inside!’ Martha called out to them. ‘He’s a resident from the Ila Centre, I’ll deal with it. All of you, go inside!’

  Martha squatted down next to Sonny. Blood was pouring from his forehead and down the bridge of his nose. He was breathing through his mouth.

  An insistent, demanding voice came from the steps: ‘But is that really necessary, Martha darling? After all, you’ll be leaving that place now that you and Anders are—’

  Martha closed her eyes and steeled herself. ‘And that goes for you, too. Shut up and get inside now!’

  When she opened her eyes again, she could see that he was smiling. And then he whispered with bloody lips, so quietly that she had to bend down to hear him:

  ‘He’s right, Martha. You really can feel how love washes you clean.’

  Then he got up, swayed for a moment before he staggered out of the gate and into the taxi.

  ‘Wait!’ she shouted and grabbed the briefcase which was still lying on the gravel path.

  But the taxi was already driving down the road towards the darkness at the end of the residential area.

  36

  IVER IVERSEN BOUNCED on his heels and twirled the stem of his empty Martini glass. He watched the guests gathered in clusters on the whitewashed terrace and in the living room inside. It was the size of a ballroom and furnished with the taste of someone who didn’t have
to live in it. ‘Interior designers with unlimited budgets and limited talent,’ as Agnete would have said. The men were wearing dinner jackets as the invitation had requested. The women were clearly outnumbered, but those who were there stood out even more. Blindingly beautiful, tantalisingly young and representing an interesting ethnic mix. High-slit dresses, naked backs and deep cleavages. Elegant, exotic and imported. True beauty is always rare. Iver Iversen wouldn’t have batted an eyelid if someone had led a snow leopard through the room.

  ‘It looks like every single financier in Oslo is here.’

  ‘Only those who aren’t particularly fastidious,’ Fredrik Ansgar said, adjusting his bow tie and sipping his gin and tonic. ‘Or are away at their holiday homes.’

  Wrong, Iver Iversen thought. If they do business with the Twin, they’ll have made the trip into town. They wouldn’t dare do otherwise. The Twin. He looked at the huge man standing by the piano. He could have been the model for the ideal worker on Soviet propaganda posters or the sculptures in Vigeland Park. Everything about him was solid, solid and chiselled: his head, arms, hands, calves. High forehead, solid chin, full lips. The person talking to him was heavily built and over 1.8 metres tall, but looked like a dwarf next to the Twin. Iver thought he vaguely recognised him. He had a patch over one eye. Probably some mogul he’d seen in the newspapers.

  Iversen grabbed himself another Martini from the tray being carried by one of the waiters who orbited the room. He knew that he shouldn’t, that he was already drunk. But he didn’t give a toss, after all he was a grieving widower. Still, he knew drinking was exactly what he shouldn’t be doing. He might end up saying something he would later regret.

  ‘Do you know how the Twin got his name?’

  ‘I’ve heard the story, yes,’ Fredrik Ansgar said.

  ‘I heard that his brother drowned, but that it was an accident.’

  ‘An accident? In a bucket of water?’

  Fredrik laughed and his gaze followed a dark-skinned beauty who glided past.

  ‘Look,’ Iver said. ‘There’s even a bishop here. I wonder how he got caught in the Twin’s net.’

  ‘Yes, it’s an impressive gathering. Is it true he also has a prison governor in his pocket?’