by Headhunters
Praise for Jo Nesbø and
HEADHUNTERS
“Nesbø has a horrormeister’s flair for transforming natural scenes into ominous situations.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“Irresistibly addictive.… This is reading as you experienced it in childhood, without any gap between eye and mind, but with the added pleasures that adult plots and adult characters can bring.… Brilliantly conceived, carefully worked out, and complicatedly satisfying.”
—Slate
“Nesbø’s books have a serious, socially significant heft, as well as a confident (even cocky) narrative stride that is unmatched.”
—Richmond Times-Dispatch
“Nesbø’s pace is unerring, and the way he builds up suspense will incite Pavlovian page-turning.”
—Time Out New York
“With Henning Mankell having written his last Wallander novel and Stieg Larsson no longer with us, I have had to make the decision on whom to confer the title of best current Nordic writer of crime fiction.… I hesitate no longer. [Nesbø] wins.… This is crime writing of the highest order.”
—The Times (London)
“A mind-blowing story that captivates the reader from the very first page.… [Nesbø] has found a delightfully laconic, hard-boiled tone in Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett’s tracks, which triumphs exactly where it should: when circumstances are the worst, the bullets zing by and the corpses pile up.… Entertaining, sharp and suspenseful.”
—Dagens Nyheter (Sweden)
“This book is one you absolutely have to read.… The outrageous storytelling is so stimulating, it makes James Ellroy look like a Boy Scout and Bret Easton Ellis like a Sunday-school boy.”
—Helsingin Sanomat (Finland)
“A highly entertaining, first-rate crime novel, where Nesbø uses his entire register of narrative techniques and tricks to tell a story that is wilder and more zany than anything he has ever written before.”
—Dagbladet (Norway)
“Nesbø can out-write most of his Scandinavian colleagues.… Cleverly written and effectively composed, and you can easily devour it in one ravishing read.”
—Nordjyske Stiftstidende (Denmark)
“Headhunters has everything that makes a good crime novel: Strange murders, inventive disappearing acts and above all brilliant fraud for all you’re worth.”
—Bogrummet (Denmark)
“The reader is glued to the pages like gum to the street.… With Headhunters, Nesbø has accomplished [a] … brilliant and elegant thriller.”
—Dagsavisen (Norway)
Jo Nesbø
HEADHUNTERS
Jo Nesbø is a musician, songwriter, economist, and author. The first crime novel in his Inspector Harry Hole series was published in Norway in 1997, an instant hit, winning the Glass Key Award for best Nordic crime novel (an accolade shared with Stieg Larsson and Henning Mankell). He also established the Harry Hole Foundation, a charity to reduce illiteracy among children in the third world. He lives in Oslo.
www.jonesbo.com
ALSO BY JO NESBØ
The Snowman
The Devil’s Star
Nemesis
The Redbreast
A VINTAGE CRIME/BLACK LIZARD ORIGINAL, SEPTEMBER 2011
Translation copyright © 2011 by Don Bartlett
Excerpt from The Snowman copyright © 2010 by Don Bartlett
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Vintage Books,
a division of Random House, Inc., New York. Originally published by
agreement with the Salomonsson Agency in Norway as Hodejegerne by
H. Aschehoug & Co. (W. Nygaard), Oslo, in 2008. Copyright © 2008 by
Jo Nesbø. This translation originally published in trade paperback
in Great Britain by Harvill Secker, an imprint of
The Random House Group Limited, London.
Vintage is a registered trademark and Vintage Crime/Black Lizard and
colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either
are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events,
or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress.
eISBN: 978-0-307-94869-4
www.blacklizardcrime.com
Cover design by Peter Mendelsund
v3.1
Contents
Cover
About the Author
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Part One: First Interview
Chapter 1: Candidate
Chapter 2: Service Industry
Chapter 3: Private View
Chapter 4: Expropriation
Chapter 5: Confession
Part Two: Closing In
Chapter 6: Rubens
Chapter 7: Pregnant
Chapter 8: G11sus4
Part Three: Second Interview
Chapter 9: Second Interview
Chapter 10: Heart Condition
Chapter 11: Curacit
Chapter 12: Natasha
Chapter 13: Methane
Chapter 14: Massey Ferguson
Chapter 15: Visiting Time
Chapter 16: Patrol Car Zero One
Chapter 17: Sigdal Kitchens
Part Four: The Selection
Chapter 18: White Queen
Chapter 19: Premeditated Murder
Chapter 20: Resurrection
Chapter 21: Invitation
Chapter 22: Silent Film
Part Five: Last Interview One Month Later
Chapter 23: News Tonight
Epilogue
Excerpt from The Snowman
Also by Jo Nesbø
PROLOGUE
A COLLISION BETWEEN TWO vehicles is basic physics. It all comes down to chance, but chance phenomena can be explained by the equation Energy × Time = Mass × difference in Velocity. Add values to the chance variables and you have a story that is simple, true and remorseless. It tells you, for example, what happens when a fully loaded juggernaut weighing 25 tons and travelling at a speed of 80 kph hits a sedan weighing 1,800 kilos and moving at the same speed. Based on chance with respect to point of impact, construction of bodywork and the angle of the two bodies relative to one another, a multitude of variants to this story are possible, but they share two common features: they are tragedies. And it is the sedan which is in trouble.
It is strangely quiet; I can hear the wind rushing through the trees and the river shifting its water. My arm is numb and I am hanging upside down, trapped between flesh and steel. Above me, blood and petrol drip from the floor. Beneath me, on the chessboard ceiling, I can see a pair of nail scissors, a severed arm, two dead men and an open overnight bag. The white queen is broken, I am a killer and no one is breathing inside the car. Not even me. That is why I will die soon. Close my eyes and give up. Giving up is wonderful. I don’t want to wait any longer now. Hence the hurry to tell this story, this variant, this story about the angle of the bodies relative to one another.
PART ONE
First Interview
1
CANDIDATE
THE CANDIDATE WAS TERRIFIED.
He was dressed in Gunnar Øye attire: grey Ermenegildo Zegna suit, hand-sewn Borelli shirt and burgundy tie with sperm-cell pattern, I guessed Cerrutti 1881. However, I was certain about the shoes: hand-sewn Ferragamo. I once had a pair myself.
The papers in front of me revealed that the candidate came armed with excellent credentials from NHH – the Norwegian School of Ec
onomics and Business Administration, in Bergen – a spell in Stortinget for the Conservative Party and a four-year success story as the managing director of a medium-sized manufacturing company.
Nevertheless, Jeremias Lander was terrified. His upper lip glistened with sweat.
He raised the glass of water my secretary had placed on the low table between us.
‘I’d like …’ I said with a smile. Not the open, unconditional smile that invites a complete stranger to come in from the cold, not the frivolous one. But the courteous, semi-warm smile that, according to the literature, signals the interviewer’s professionalism, objectivity and analytical approach. Indeed, it is this lack of emotional commitment that causes the candidate to trust his interviewer’s integrity. And as a result the candidate will in turn – according to the aforementioned literature – provide more sober, objective information, as he has been made to feel that any pretence would be seen through, any exaggeration exposed and ploys punished. I don’t put on this smile because of the literature, though. I don’t give a damn about the literature; it is chock-a-block with various degrees of authoritative bullshit, and the only thing I need is Inbau, Reid and Buckley’s nine-step interrogation model. No, I put on this smile because I really am professional, objective and analytical. I am a headhunter. It is not that difficult, but I am king of the heap.
‘I’d like,’ I repeated, ‘I’d like you to tell me a little about your life, outside of work, that is.’
‘Is there any?’ His laughter was a tone and a half higher than it should have been. On top of that, when you deliver a so-called ‘dry’ joke at a job interview it is unwise both to laugh at it yourself and to watch your interlocutor to see whether it has hit home.
‘I would certainly hope so,’ I said, and his laughter morphed into a clearing of the throat. ‘I believe the management of this enterprise attaches great importance to their new chief executive leading a balanced life. They’re seeking someone who will stay with them for a number of years, a long-distance-runner type who knows how to pace himself. Not someone who is burnt out after four years.’
Jeremias Lander nodded while swallowing another mouthful of water.
He was approximately fourteen centimetres taller than me and three years older. Thirty-eight then. A bit young for the job. And he knew; that was why he had dyed the hair around his temples an almost imperceptible grey. I had seen this before. I had seen everything before. I had seen applicants afflicted with sweaty palms arrive with chalk in their right-hand jacket pocket so as to give me the driest and whitest handshake imaginable. Lander’s throat issued an involuntary clucking sound. I noted down on the interview feedback sheet: Motivated. Solution-orientated.
‘I see you live in Oslo,’ I said.
He nodded. ‘Skøyen.’
‘And married to …’ I flicked through his papers, assuming the irritated expression that makes candidates think I am expecting them to take the initiative.
‘Camilla. We’ve been married for ten years. Two children. School age.’
‘And how would you characterise your marriage?’ I asked without looking up. I gave him two drawn-out seconds and continued before he had collected himself enough to answer. ‘Do you think you will still be married in six years’ time after spending two-thirds of your waking life at work?’
I peered up. The confusion on his face was as expected. I had been inconsistent. Balanced life. Need for commitment. That didn’t add up. Four seconds passed before he answered. Which is at least one too many. ‘I would certainly hope so,’ he said.
Secure, practised smile. But not practised enough. Not for me. He had used my own words against me, and I would have registered that as a plus if there had been some intentional irony. In this case, unfortunately, it had merely been the unconscious aping of words used by someone considered superior in status. Poor self-image, I jotted down. And he ‘hoped’, he didn’t know, didn’t give voice to anything visionary, was not a crystal-ball reader, didn’t show that he was up to speed with the minimum requirement of every manager: that they must appear to be clairvoyant. Not an improviser. Not a chaos-pilot.
‘Does she work?’
‘Yes. In a law office in the city centre.’
‘Nine to four every day?’
‘Yes.’
‘And who stays at home if either of the children is ill?’
‘She does. But fortunately it’s very rare for Niclas and Anders to—’
‘So you don’t have a housekeeper or anyone at home during the day?’
He hesitated in the way that candidates do when they are unsure which answer puts them in the best light. All the same, they lie disappointingly seldom. Jeremias Lander shook his head.
‘You look like you keep yourself fit, Lander.’
‘Yes, I train regularly.’
No hesitation this time. Everyone knows that businesses want top executives who won’t fall victim to a heart attack at the first hurdle.
‘Running and cross-country skiing perhaps?’
‘Right. The whole family loves the outdoor life. And we have a mountain cabin on Norefjell.’
‘Uh-huh. Dog, too?’
He shook his head.
‘No? Allergic to them?’
Energetic shaking of the head. I wrote: Lacks sense of humour?
Then I leaned back in the chair and steepled my fingertips. An exaggerated, arrogant gesture, of course. What can I say? That’s the way I am. ‘How much would you say your reputation was worth, Lander? And how have you insured it?’
He furrowed his already sweaty brow as he struggled to give the matter some thought. Two seconds later, resigned, he said: ‘What do you mean?’
I sighed as if it ought to be obvious. Cast my eyes around the room as if searching for a pedagogical allegory I had not used before. And, as always, found it on the wall.
‘Are you interested in art, Lander?’
‘A bit. My wife is, at any rate.’
‘Mine, too. Can you see the picture I have over there?’ I pointed to Sara Gets Undressed, painted on vinyl, over two metres in height, a woman in a green skirt with her arms crossed, about to pull a red sweater over her head. ‘A present from my wife. The artist’s name is Julian Opie and the picture’s worth a quarter of a million kroner. Do you possess any art in that price range?’
‘As a matter of fact I do.’
‘Congratulations. Can you see how much it’s worth?’
‘When you know, you can.’
‘Yes, when you know, you can. The picture hanging there consists of a few lines, the woman’s head is a circle, a zero without a face, and the coloring is plain and lacks texture. In addition, it was done on a computer and millions of copies can be printed out at the mere press of a key.’
‘Goodness me.’
‘The only – and I do mean the only – thing that makes this picture worth a quarter of a million is the artist’s reputation. The buzz that he is good, the market’s faith in the fact that he is a genius. It’s difficult to put your finger on what constitutes genius, impossible to know for sure. It’s like that with top directors, too, Lander.’
‘I understand. Reputation. It’s about the confidence the director exudes.’
I jot down: Not an idiot.
‘Exactly,’ I continued. ‘Everything is about reputation. Not just the director’s salary, but also the company’s value on the stock exchange. What is, in fact, the work of art you own and how much is it valued at?’
‘It’s a lithograph by Edvard Munch. The Brooch. I don’t know what it’s worth, but …’
With a flourish of my hand I impatiently urged him on.
‘The last time it was up for auction the price bid was about 350,000 kroner,’ he said.
‘And what have you done to insure this valuable item against theft?’
‘The house has a good alarm system,’ he said. ‘Tripolis. Everyone in the neighbourhood uses them.’
‘Tripolis systems are good, though expensive. I us
e them myself,’ I said. ‘About eight grand a year. How much have you invested to protect your personal reputation?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Twenty thousand? Ten thousand? Less?’
He shrugged.
‘Not a cent,’ I said. ‘You have a CV and a career here which are worth ten times the lithograph you mentioned. A year. Nevertheless, you have no one to guard it, no custodian. Because you think it’s unnecessary. You think your success with the company you head up speaks for itself. Right?’
Lander didn’t answer.
‘Well,’ I said, leaning forward and lowering my voice as though about to impart a secret, ‘that’s not the way it works. Success is like Opie’s pictures, a few lines plus a few zeros, no face. Pictures are nothing, reputation is everything. And that is what we can offer.’
‘Reputation?’
‘You’re sitting in front of me as one of six good applicants for a director’s job. I don’t think you’ll get it. Because you lack the reputation for this kind of post.’
His mouth dropped as if in protest. The protest never materialised. I thrust myself against the high back of the chair, which gave a screech.
‘My God, man, you applied for this job! What you should have done was to set up a straw man to tip us off and then pretend you knew nothing about it when we contacted you. A top man has to be headhunted, not arrive ready-killed and all carved up.’
I saw that had the desired effect. He was rattled. This was not the usual interview format, this was not Cuté, Disc or any of the other stupid, useless questionnaires hatched up by a motley collection of, to varying extents, tone-deaf psychologists and human resource experts who themselves had nothing to offer. I lowered my voice again.
‘I hope your wife won’t be too disappointed when you tell her the news this afternoon. That you missed out on the dream job. That, career-wise, you’ll be on standby once again this year. Just like last year …’
