The Son

by Jo Nesbo

  Simon saw movement in the gap in the curtain, the hand being raised. A gold-plated pistol lighter. And Simon knew immediately that there wasn’t enough time. Not enough time to warn Sonny and for him to react, not enough time to pull out his own gun from the shoulder holster, not enough time to give Else what she deserved. He was standing on the railings of the bridge across the Aker and the river was raging under him.

  So Simon dived.

  He dived out of life and into the wonderful, spinning roulette wheel. It didn’t take intelligence or courage, only the folly of a doomed man who is willing to gamble a future he doesn’t value highly, who knows he has less to lose than others. He dived into the open cubicle between the son and the perforated wooden board. He heard the bang. Felt the bite, the paralysing sting of ice or heat tearing his body in two, connections being severed.

  And then came another sound. The Uzi. Simon’s head was on the floor in the cubicle and he felt wooden splinters from the board rain down on his face. He heard a scream; he lifted his head and saw the Twin stagger out of the confessional and stumble between the pews, saw the bullets nip at the back of his suit like a swarm of angry bees. Empty shells from the Uzi – still red hot – cascaded onto Simon, scorching his forehead. The Twin knocked over pews, sank down on his knees, but he kept moving. He was refusing to die. It wasn’t natural. Many years ago, when Simon had learned that the mother of one of Norway’s most wanted men was working inside the police station as a cleaner and had sought her out, that had been the first thing she had said: that Levi wasn’t natural. She was his mother and she loved him, obviously, but he had terrified her from the moment he was born, and not just because of his size.

  And she told him about that time when her young but already gigantic son had come to work with her because there was no one at home to look after him, and he had stared at his reflection in a bucket of water on the cleaning trolley and said that there was someone in there, someone who looked just like him. Sissel had suggested that perhaps they could play together and gone to empty the waste-paper baskets. When she came back Levi had stuck his head in the bucket and was desperately kicking his legs in the air. His shoulders had become lodged inside the bucket so that she had to use all her strength to pull him out. He had been soaking wet and his face had gone all blue. But instead of crying like most children would have done, he had laughed. And said that the Twin had been bad, had tried to kill him. From that moment on she had wondered where he had come from and she hadn’t felt free until the day he moved out.

  The Twin.

  Two holes appeared right above the fat folds between his broad neck and mighty back and the movements abruptly stopped.

  Of course, Simon thought. A perfectly normal only child.

  And he knew that the big man was dead even before he tottered forward and his forehead hit the stone floor with a thud.

  Simon closed his eyes.

  ‘Simon, where . . .?’

  ‘My chest,’ Simon said and coughed. He could tell from the consistency on his skin that it was blood.

  ‘I’ll get you an ambulance.’

  Simon opened his eyes. He looked down at himself. Saw the deep red stain spread on his shirt front.

  ‘I won’t make it, don’t bother.’

  ‘Yes, you will—’

  ‘Listen.’ Sonny had taken out his mobile, but Simon covered it with his hand. ‘I know a little too much about gunshot wounds, all right?’

  Sonny put his hand on Simon’s chest.

  ‘It’s no good,’ Simon said. ‘You run along now. You’re free, you’ve done what you had to do.’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘Run for my sake,’ Simon said, grabbing the boy’s hand. It felt so warm and familiar, as if it were his own. ‘Your job is done now.’

  ‘Lie still.’

  ‘I said the mole would be there today, and he was. And now he’s dead. So run.’

  ‘The ambulance will be here soon.’

  ‘Why won’t you listen—’

  ‘If you’d just stop talking—’

  ‘It was me, Sonny.’ Simon looked up into the boy’s clear, mild eyes. ‘I was the mole.’

  Simon waited for the boy’s pupils to expand in shock, for black to displace the bright green iris. But it didn’t happen. And he understood.

  ‘You knew, Sonny.’ Simon tried to swallow, but had to cough again. ‘You knew it was me. How?’

  Sonny wiped the blood from Simon’s mouth with his shirtsleeve. ‘Arild Franck.’

  ‘Franck?’

  ‘After I cut off his finger, he started talking.’

  ‘Talking? He knew nothing about me. No one knew that Ab and I were the moles, Sonny, no one.’

  ‘No, but Franck told me what he did know. That the mole had a code name.’

  ‘He told you that?’

  ‘Yes. The code name was the Diver.’

  ‘The Diver, yes. That was the name I used when I contacted the Twin. Back then one person used to call me that, you see. Just one person. So how did you know . . .?’

  Sonny took something out of his jacket pocket. Held it up in front of Simon. It was a photograph. It had dried specks of blood on it and showed two men and a woman by a cairn, all three of them young and laughing.

  ‘When I was a boy I’d often look through our photo album and that was where I saw this picture taken in the mountains. And I asked my mother who he was, this mysterious photographer with the exciting nickname, the Diver. And she told me. That it was Simon, the third of three best friends. That she had nicknamed him the Diver, because he dived in where no one else dared.’

  ‘So you put two and two—’

  ‘Franck didn’t know there were two moles. But what he did tell me made everything add up. That my father was about to expose you. So you killed him before he could do it.’

  Simon blinked, but the darkness continued to creep in from the outer edges of his field of vision. Even so, he could see more clearly than ever. ‘So you decided to kill me. That was why you contacted me. You wanted to be sure that I would find you. You were just waiting for me.’

  ‘Yes,’ Sonny said. ‘Right until I found the diary and understood that my father was in on it. That there were two of you. Two traitors.’

  ‘Then your world fell apart and you abandoned your mission. There was no longer any reason to kill.’

  Sonny nodded.

  ‘So what made you change your mind?’

  Sonny looked at him for a long time. ‘Something you said. That a son’s responsibility isn’t to be like his father, but to be . . .’

  ‘. . . better than him.’ Simon could hear police sirens in the distance. He felt Sonny’s hand on his forehead. ‘So be that, Sonny. Be better than your father.’

  ‘Simon?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You’re dying. Is there anything you want?’

  ‘I want to give her the gift of sight.’

  ‘And forgiveness, do you want that?’

  Simon closed his eyes again, hard, and shook his head. ‘I can’t . . . I don’t deserve it.’

  ‘None of us does. To err is human, to forgive is divine.’

  ‘But I’m nothing to you, I’m a stranger who took away the people you loved.’

  ‘You are someone, you’re the Diver, who was always with them, but you weren’t in the picture.’ The boy lifted up Simon’s jacket and slipped the photograph into his inside pocket. ‘Take it with you on your journey, they’re your friends.’

  Simon closed his eyes. He thought: That’s all right with me.

  The son’s words echoed in the space of the empty church:

  ‘All earthly and heavenly gods have mercy on you and forgive your sins . . .’

  Simon looked at a drop of blood that had just dripped from inside the boy’s jacket and onto the church floor. He moved a finger down to the drop’s golden-red surface. Saw how the blood seemed to stick to his fingertip; he raised the finger to his lips and closed his eyes. Stared into the f
oaming, white waterfall. The water. An icy embrace. Silence, solitude. And peace. And this time he wouldn’t resurface.

  In the silence that followed the second playing of the recording, Kari could hear birds chirping undisturbed outside the half-open window at the far end of the steak restaurant.

  The Commissioner stared at the laptop in disbelief.

  ‘Yes?’ Øhre asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Parr said.

  The lawyer pulled out the memory stick and handed it to Parr. ‘Did you recognise that voice?’

  ‘Yes,’ Parr said. ‘His name is Arild Franck, and he’s the man who really runs Staten Maximum Security Prison. Adel, check if that account he mentions in the Cayman Islands really exists, will you? If what he says is true, we’re facing a huge scandal.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Øhre said.

  ‘Not at all,’ Parr said. ‘I’ve had my suspicions for years. We were recently given information by a courageous police officer in Drammen which suggested that Lofthus was granted day release from Staten so that he could take the fall for the Morsand murder. We’ve been keeping this to ourselves until we were sure we had a solid case before we went after Franck, but with this we ought to have more than enough ammunition. One last thing before we go . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Did Chief Inspector Kefas say why he wanted you to meet with us, rather than meet you himself?’

  Iversen exchanged glances with Øhre before he shrugged. ‘He said he was busy with other things. And that you were the only two colleagues he trusted one hundred per cent.’

  ‘I understand,’ Parr said and got up to leave.

  ‘There is one more thing . . .’ Øhre said and picked up his phone. ‘My client mentioned my name to Chief Inspector Kefas who contacted me to ask if I could organise transport and the payment for an eye operation he has arranged at the Howell Clinic in Baltimore tomorrow. I said I would. And I have a message from our receptionist who informs me that a woman arrived at our office an hour ago and handed over a red sports bag. The bag contains a considerable amount of cash. I just want to know if this is something the police would like to follow up?’

  Kari was aware that the birdsong outside the window had stopped and been replaced by distant sirens. Several of them. Police cars.

  Parr cleared his throat. ‘I don’t see how this information could be relevant to the police. And since the person who made the request must now be regarded as your client, then you have, as far as I’m concerned, attorney–client privilege and you would be unable to give me any more information were I to ask.’

  ‘Excellent. Then we have the same understanding of the situation,’ Øhre said and closed his briefcase.

  Kari felt her mobile vibrate in her pocket, got up quickly, stepped away from the table and took out the phone. The marble came out with the phone and hit the wooden floor with a soft thud.

  ‘Adel.’

  She stared at the marble which seemed to hesitate, not knowing whether to move or stay where it was. But after a little quivering, it wobbled unsteadily in a southern direction.

  ‘Thank you,’ Kari said and put the phone back in her pocket. She turned to Parr who was about to get up. ‘There are four dead bodies at a fish restaurant called Nautilus.’

  Parr blinked four times behind his glasses and Kari wondered whether it was some kind of compulsive reaction, to blink once for every new body on his patch.

  ‘Where is that?’

  ‘Here.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Here on Aker Brygge. It’s just a couple of hundred metres away.’ Kari’s eyes had found the marble again.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  She wanted to run over and pick up the marble.

  ‘What are you waiting for, Adel? Come on!’

  The marble had acquired a steady course and was gaining speed; if she didn’t make up her mind quickly, she would lose it.

  ‘OK,’ she said and rushed after Parr. The police sirens were louder now, the noise rose and sank, cut through the air like a scythe.

  They ran outside, out into the white sunshine, into a morning full of promise, into the blue city. They kept running and the morning rush of people parted in front of them. Faces flickered in and out of Kari’s field of vision. And something at the back of her brain reacted to one of them. Sunglasses and a pale grey suit. Parr was aiming for the alleyway where they had seen several uniformed police officers hurry inside. Kari stopped, turned round and saw the back of the grey suit board the ferry to Nesoddtangen which was about to sail. Then she turned back and ran on.

  Martha had put down the hood of the convertible and was leaning her head against the neck rest. She looked at a seagull hovering in the wind between the blue sky and the blue fjord. Balancing the forces, its own and the external ones, as it scouted for food. Her breathing was deep and steady, but her heart was pounding because the ferry was about to dock. Not many people sailed from Oslo to Nesoddtangen this early in the morning, so he wouldn’t be difficult to spot. If he had pulled it off. If. She muttered the prayer she had repeated ever since leaving Tomte & Øhre one and a half hours ago. He hadn’t been on the previous ferry thirty minutes ago, but she had told herself that would have been too much to hope for. But if he wasn’t on this one . . . Yes, then what? She had no plan B. Hadn’t wanted one.

  The passengers appeared. Yes, she was right, they weren’t many, people tended to travel into the city in the morning, not out. She took off her tortoiseshell sunglasses. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw the pale grey suit. But it wasn’t him.

  Her heart sank.

  Then another grey suit appeared.

  He was stooping slightly as if he had taken in water and was listing.

  She felt her heart swell in her chest and force sobs up her throat. Perhaps it was just the slanted morning light on his pale grey suit, but he looked as if he was glowing.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘Thank you, thank you.’

  She looked in the rear-view mirror, dried her tears and straightened her headscarf. Then she waved. And he waved back.

  And as he walked up the hill to where she was parked, a thought occurred to her: that it was too good to be true. That she was looking at a mirage, a ghost, that he was dead, shot, that right now he was hanging from a lighthouse, crucified, and that she was looking at his soul.

  He got into the car with great care and took off his sunglasses. He was pale. And she could tell from his red eyes that he had been crying. Then he flung his arms around her and pulled her close. At first she thought it must be her before she realised that the trembling was coming from his body.

  ‘How—?’

  ‘Fine,’ he said, without letting go of her. ‘Everything went fine.’

  They sat in silence, clinging together like two people whose only fixed point is the other. She wanted to ask questions, but not now. There would be plenty of time for that later.

  ‘Now what?’ she whispered.

  ‘Now,’ he said, gently releasing her and sitting upright with a low groan. ‘Now it starts. That’s a big suitcase.’ He nodded to the back seat.

  ‘Only the bare essentials,’ she smiled, pushed the CD into the CD player and handed him the mobile. ‘I’ll drive the first stretch. Will you be map reader?’

  He looked at the display on the mobile as the flat, robotic voice started chanting: ‘Your own . . . personal . . .’

  ‘1,030 kilometres,’ he said. ‘Estimated driving time twelve hours and fifty-one minutes.’

  EPILOGUE

  THE SNOWFLAKES SEEMED to rise from a colourless, bottomless sky and stick to a roof of tarmac, pavement, cars and houses.

  Kari was bending down on the steps and had just laced up her ankle boots so she got an upside-down view of the street between her legs. Simon had been right. You saw things differently when you changed your perspective and location. All blind spots could be compensated for. It had taken her time to realise it. To realise that Simon Kefas had been right about so m
any things. Not everything. But to an irritatingly high degree.

  She straightened up.

  ‘Have a great day, darling,’ said the girl in the doorway and gave Kari a kiss on the lips.

  ‘You too.’

  ‘Sanding down floors probably isn’t compatible with having a great day. But I’ll try. When will you be home?’

  ‘Dinner time, unless something happens.’

  ‘Fine, though it looks as if something just did.’

  Kari turned in the direction Sam was pointing. The car that had pulled up outside the gate was familiar and the face above the lowered side window even more so.

  ‘What’s up, Åsmund?’ Sam called out.

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt your DIY, but I need to borrow your lady,’ the inspector called back to her. ‘Something’s happened.’

  Kari looked at Sam who slapped the back pocket of her jeans. Kari had hung up her skirt and suit jacket in the wardrobe back in the autumn and, for some reason, there they had stayed.

  ‘Off you go and serve the public, girl.’

  As they drove east on the E18, Kari stared at the snow-covered landscape. Thought about how the first snow always marked a dividing line, hiding everything that had been there before and changing the world you looked at. The months that followed the shootings at Aker Brygge and the Catholic church had been chaotic. Criticism had, not unexpectedly, been levelled at the police, charges of brutality and one man’s insane mission. But, even so, Simon had been given a hero’s funeral, he was the people’s policeman, someone who had fought the city’s criminals, laid down his life in the service of justice. As Commissioner Parr had said in his eulogy the public was prepared to overlook the fact that he hadn’t followed the rule book down to the last detail. Or Norwegian law, for that matter. Parr could afford a certain moral flexibility given that he himself had pushed the boundaries of Norwegian tax legislation by placing some of his own money in anonymous trusts registered to the Cayman Islands. Kari had confronted Parr at the wake because her investigation into who paid the utility bills for Lofthus’s house had led eventually her to him. And Parr had confessed to it on the spot, adding only that no laws had been broken and that his motive had been purely altruistic; to ease his own conscience for not taking care of Sonny and his mother after Ab’s suicide. Parr said that it hadn’t been cheap, but it meant that the boy would have a habitable house to live in once he had finished serving his sentence.