The Thirst: Harry Hole 11

by Jo Nesbo

  ‘So the payment doesn’t leave any electronic record. Bathrobe on underneath, so there’s no risk of anyone seeing the tattoo when he gets changed. How does he get from his home to the baths?’

  ‘If he has a car, he must have had the car keys in the pocket of his bathrobe. Or bus money. Because there was absolutely nothing on the clothes we found in the changing room, not even fluff in the pockets. We can probably find some DNA on them, but they smelt of detergent. I reckon even his coat had been recently washed in a machine.’

  ‘That fits with the obsessive cleanliness at the crime scenes. The fact that he takes his keys and money into a steam sauna suggests he’s ready for a quick escape.’

  ‘Yes. No witnesses who saw a man in a bathrobe on the streets of Sagene either, so he can’t have caught the bus this time, at least.’

  ‘He had his car parked near the back door. It’s no accident that he’s managed to stay hidden for four years, he’s smart.’ Harry rubbed the back of his neck. ‘OK. We chased him away. What now?’

  ‘We’re checking the security cameras in shops and petrol stations near the baths, looking for caps and maybe a bathrobe sticking out beneath a coat. By the way, I’m going to cut the coat open first thing tomorrow. There’s a tiny hole in the lining of one pocket, and it’s possible that something could have slipped in and got lost among the padding.’

  ‘He’s avoiding security cameras.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Yes. If we do see him, it will be because he wants to be seen.’

  ‘You’re probably right.’ Bjørn Holm unbuttoned his parka. His pale forehead was damp with sweat.

  Harry blew cigarette smoke towards Rakel. ‘What is it, Bjørn?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You didn’t have to come up here to give me that report.’

  Bjørn didn’t answer. Harry waited. The machine bleeped and bleeped.

  ‘It’s Katrine,’ Bjørn said. ‘I don’t understand. I saw from my call list that she tried to ring me last night, but when I called back she said her phone must have dialled me by accident.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘At three o’clock in the morning? She doesn’t sleep on top of her phone.’

  ‘So why didn’t you ask her?’

  ‘Because I didn’t want to nag. She needs time. Space. She’s a bit like you.’ Bjørn took the cigarette from Harry.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘A loner.’

  Harry snatched the cigarette back just as Bjørn was about to take a drag.

  ‘You are,’ Bjørn protested.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘It’s driving me mad, going round not knowing anything. So I was wondering …’ Bjørn scratched his beard hard. ‘You and Katrine are close. Could you …?’

  ‘Check the lie of the land?’

  ‘Something like that. I’ve got to get her back, Harry.’

  Harry stubbed the cigarette out on the leg of the chair. Looked at Rakel. ‘Sure. I’ll talk to Katrine.’

  ‘But without her …’

  ‘… knowing it’s come from you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Bjørn said. ‘You’re a good friend, Harry.’

  ‘Me?’ Harry put the butt back in the cigarette packet. ‘I’m a loner.’

  When Bjørn had gone Harry closed his eyes. Listened to the machine. The countdown.

  24

  TUESDAY EVENING

  HIS NAME WAS Olsen, and he ran Olsen’s, but the place had been called that when he took it over twenty years ago. Some people thought it was an unlikely coincidence, but how unlikely is it when unlikely things happen all the time, every day, every single second? Because someone has to win the lottery, that much is obvious. Even so, the person who wins it not only thinks that it’s unlikely, but that it’s a miracle. For this reason, Olsen didn’t believe in miracles. But this was a borderline case. Ulla Swart had just come in and sat down at Truls Berntsen’s table, where he had already been sitting for twenty minutes. The miracle was that it was an arranged meeting. Because Olsen was in no doubt that it was an arranged meeting, he had spent over twenty years standing here watching nervous men unable to stand still, or sitting drumming their fingers, waiting for the girl of their dreams. The miracle was that when she was young Ulla Swart had been the most beautiful girl in the whole of Manglerud, and Truls Berntsen the biggest pile of shit and loser in the gang that hung out in Manglerud shopping centre and went to Olsen’s. Truls, or Beavis, had been Mikael Bellman’s shadow, and Mikael hadn’t been top of the popularity lists either. But he had at least had his appearance and way with words on his side, and had managed to get the girl the hockey boys and bikers alike all drooled over. And then he went and became Chief of Police, so Mikael must have had something. Truls Berntsen, on the other hand: once a loser, always a loser.

  Olsen went over to the table to take their order and try to hear what they were saying during this unlikely meeting.

  ‘I got here a bit early,’ Truls said, nodding towards the almost empty glass of beer in front of him.

  ‘I’m late,’ Ulla said, pulling her handbag over her head and unbuttoning her coat. ‘I almost didn’t get away.’

  ‘Oh?’ Truls took a small, quick sip of beer to hide how shaky he was.

  ‘Yes, it … it’s not easy, this, Truls.’ She smiled briefly. Noticed Olsen, who had sailed up behind her without a sound.

  ‘I’ll wait a while,’ she said, and he vanished.

  Wait? Truls thought. Was she going to see how it went? Leave if she changed her mind? If he didn’t live up to expectations? And what expectations were they, given that they had practically grown up together?

  Ulla looked round. ‘God, the last time I was here was at that school reunion ten years ago, do you remember?’

  ‘No,’ Truls said. ‘I didn’t come.’

  She picked at the sleeves of her sweater.

  ‘That case you’re working on now is terrible. Shame you didn’t catch him today. Mikael told me what happened.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Truls said. Mikael. So the first thing she did was bring him up, and hold him in front of her like a shield. Was she just nervous, or did she not know what she wanted? ‘What did he say about it?’

  ‘That Harry Hole had used that bartender who saw the killer before the first murder. Mikael was very angry.’

  ‘The bartender at the Jealousy Bar?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Used him to do what?’

  ‘To sit in that Turkish bathhouse and keep an eye out for the murderer. Didn’t you know?’

  ‘I’ve been working with … some other murder cases today.’

  ‘Oh. Well, it’s nice to see you. I can’t stay long, but—’

  ‘Long enough for me to get another beer?’

  He saw her hesitate. Damn.

  ‘Is it the children?’ he asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Are they ill?’

  Truls saw Ulla’s brief confusion before she grabbed the lifebelt he was offering her. Offering them both.

  ‘The little one’s a bit poorly.’ She shivered under her thick sweater, and looked as if she was trying to curl up inside as she looked around. Only three of the other tables were occupied, and Truls assumed she didn’t know any of the other customers. She certainly looked a bit more relaxed after her scan. ‘Truls?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can I ask you an odd question?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What is it you want?’

  ‘Want?’ He took another sip to gain himself a timeout. ‘Now, you mean?’

  ‘I mean, what do you want for yourself? What does everyone want?’

  I want to take off your clothes, fuck you and hear you scream for more, Truls thought. And after that, I want you to go to the fridge, get me a cold beer, then lie in my arms and say that you’re giving it all up for me. The kids, Mikael, that fuck-off great house where I built the veranda, everything. All because I want to be with you, Truls Berntsen, be
cause now, after this, it’s impossible for me to go back to anyone but you, you, you. And then I want us to fuck some more.

  ‘It’s being liked, isn’t it?’

  Truls gulped. ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Being liked by the people we like. Other people aren’t as important, are they?’

  Truls felt his face make an expression, but didn’t know what it was supposed to mean.

  Ulla leaned forward and lowered her voice. ‘And from time to time, when we think we aren’t liked, when we get trampled on, we feel like trampling on them in return, don’t we?’

  ‘Yes,’ Truls said, nodding. ‘We feel like trampling on them in return.’

  ‘But that urge disappears as soon as we realise that we’re liked after all. And you know what? This evening Mikael said he likes me. In passing, and not directly, but …’ She bit her lower lip. That wonderful, blood-filled lower lip that Truls had been staring at since they were sixteen years old. ‘That’s all it takes, Truls. Isn’t that strange?’

  ‘Very strange,’ Truls said, looking down into his empty glass. And wondering how to formulate what he was thinking. That sometimes someone saying they like you doesn’t mean a damn thing. Especially when it’s Mikael fucking Bellman saying it.

  ‘I don’t think I ought to make the little one wait any longer.’

  Truls looked up and saw Ulla peering at her watch with an expression of deep concern. ‘Of course not,’ he said.

  ‘I hope we get longer next time.’

  Truls managed not to ask when that was going to be. He merely stood up, tried not to hug her longer than she hugged him. And sat down heavily on his chair when the door closed behind her. Felt rage building. Heavy, slow, painful, wonderful rage.

  ‘Another beer?’ Olsen had silently appeared again.

  ‘Yes. Actually, no. I need to make a call. Does that still work?’ He gestured towards the booth with the glass door where Mikael claimed to have fucked Stine Michaelsen during a student party when the place was so packed that no one could see what was going on below chest height. Least of all Ulla, who was standing in the queue at the bar to buy beer for them.

  ‘Sure.’

  Truls went inside and looked up the number on his own mobile phone.

  Tapped the payphone’s shiny square buttons.

  Waited. He had decided to wear a tight shirt to show off the fact that he had bigger pecs, bigger biceps and a narrower waist than Ulla probably remembered. But she had hardly looked at him. Truls puffed himself up and felt his shoulders touch both sides of the booth. It was even smaller than that fucking office they’d stuffed him in today.

  Bellman. Bratt. Wyller. Hole. They could all burn in hell.

  ‘Mona Daa.’

  ‘Berntsen. What will you pay to find out what really happened at the bathhouse today?’

  ‘Have you got a teaser?’

  ‘Yep. Oslo Police risk life of innocent bartender to catch Valentin.’

  ‘We can probably come to an arrangement.’

  He wiped the condensation from the bathroom mirror and looked at himself.

  ‘Who are you?’ he whispered. ‘Who are you?’

  He closed his eyes. Opened them again.

  ‘I’m Alexander Dreyer. But call me Alex.’

  From the living room behind him he heard insane laughter. Something that sounded like a machine or a helicopter, and then the terrified screams that marked the transition between ‘Speak to Me’ and ‘Breathe’. It was those screams he had tried to conjure up, but none of them had wanted to scream like that.

  The condensation was almost gone from the mirror. He was finally clean now. And he could see the tattoo. A lot of people, mostly women, had asked why he had chosen to have a demon engraved into the skin of his chest. As if he had chosen it. They knew nothing. Nothing about him.

  ‘Who are you, Alex? I’m a claims manager at Storebrand. No, I don’t want to talk about insurance, let’s talk about you instead. What do you do, Tone? Would you like to scream for me while I slice your nipples off and eat them?’

  He walked from the bathroom to the living room, and looked down at the picture lying on the desk, beside the white key. Tone. She had been on Tinder for two years, and lived on Professor Dahls gate. She worked in a horticultural nursery and wasn’t all that attractive. And she was a bit plump. He would have preferred her to be thinner. Marte was thin. He liked Marte. Her freckles suited her. But Tone. He ran his hand across the red hilt of the revolver.

  The plan hadn’t changed, even though it had come close to falling apart today. He didn’t recognise the guy who had come into the hararet, but it was obvious that the guy recognised him. His pupils had dilated, you could see his pulse rate rise, and he had stood paralysed in the thinner mist near the door before hurrying out. But not before the air was thick with the smell of his fear.

  As usual, the car had been parked by the pavement less than a hundred metres from the back door that opened onto a little-used street. Obviously he had never been a regular at any bathhouse that didn’t have an escape route of that sort. Or a bathhouse that wasn’t clean. And he never went into a bathhouse without having his keys in the pocket of his bathrobe.

  He wondered if he should shoot Tone after biting her. Just to create a bit of confusion. See what sort of headlines that led to. But that would be breaking the rules. And the other was already angry at him for breaking them with the waitress.

  He pressed the revolver against his stomach to feel the shock of cold steel before putting it down. How close were the police? VG had said that the police were hoping that some sort of legal process would force Facebook to surrender addresses. But he didn’t understand things like that, and wasn’t bothered by them. It didn’t trouble Alexander Dreyer or Valentin Gjertsen. His mother said she named him after Valentino, the first and greatest romantic lead in cinema history. So she only had herself to blame for giving him a name to live up to. At first it had been relatively risk-free. Because when you rape a girl before you’re sixteen, and the lucky girl is past the age of consent, she’s old enough to know that if the court concludes that it was consensual sex rather than rape, then she risks punishment for having sex with a minor. After you turn sixteen the risk of being reported is greater. Unless you rape the woman who named you Valentino. Mind you, was that really rape? When she’d started locking herself in her room, and he told her it was her or the girls in the neighbourhood, teachers, female relatives, or just random victims picked off the streets, and then she unlocked the door? The psychologists he had told that to hadn’t believed him. Well, after a while they had believed him. All of them.

  Pink Floyd moved on to ‘On the Run’. Agitated drums, pulsing synthesisers, the sound of feet running, fleeing. Fleeing from the police. From Harry Hole’s handcuffs. Wretched pervert.

  He picked up the glass of lemonade from the table. Took a little sip, looked at it. Then he threw it at the wall. The glass shattered and the yellow liquid ran down the white wallpaper. He heard swearing from the neighbouring flat.

  Then he went into the bedroom. Checked her ankles and wrists were securely tied to the bedposts. He looked down at the freckled waitress as she lay asleep in his bed. She was breathing evenly. The drug was working the way it should. Was she dreaming? About the blue-black man? Or was he the only one who did that? One of the psychologists had suggested that this recurring nightmare was a half-forgotten childhood memory, that it was his own father he had seen sitting on top of his mother. That was rubbish, obviously, he had never seen his father; according to his mother he had raped her once and then vanished. A bit like the Virgin Mary and the Holy Spirit. Which made him the Messiah. Why not? The one who would return in judgement.

  He stroked Marte’s cheek. It had been a long time since he’d had a real, live woman in his bed. And he definitely preferred Harry Hole’s waitress to his own usual, dead Japanese girlfriend. So yes, it was a great shame that he was going to have to give her up. A shame that he couldn’t follow the demon’s ins
tincts and had to listen to the other’s voice instead, the voice of reason. The voice of reason had been angry. Its instructions detailed. A forest beside a deserted road to the north-east of the city.

  He went back to the living room, sat down on the chair. The smooth leather felt good against his naked skin, which was still tingling with pain from the boiling hot shower. He switched on the new phone, into which he had already inserted the SIM card he had been given. Tinder and the VG app were next to each other. He clicked on VG first. Waited. Having to wait was part of the excitement. Was he still the lead story? He could understand the B-list celebrities who’d do anything to be seen. A singer preparing food with some clown of a television cook because – as she doubtless believed – she needed to stay current.

  Harry Hole stared gloomily at him.

  Elise Hermansen’s bartender exploited by police.

  He clicked on ‘Read more’ below the picture. Scrolled down.

  Sources say that that bartender was stationed in a Turkish bathhouse to spy for the police …

  The guy in the hararet. Working for the police. For Harry Hole.

  … because he’s the only person who can identify Valentin Gjertsen with any certainty.

  He stood up, felt the leather let go of his skin with a slurping sound, and went back to the bedroom.

  He looked in the mirror. Who are you? Who are you? You’re the only one. The only one who’s seen and knows the face I’m looking at now.

  There wasn’t any name or picture of the man. And he hadn’t looked at the bartender that evening in the Jealousy Bar. Because eye contact makes people remember. But now they had had eye contact. And he remembered. He ran his finger across the demon’s face. The face that wanted to get out, that had to get out.

  In the living room ‘On the Run’ came to an end with the roar of an aeroplane and a madman’s laughter, before the plane crashed in a violent, drawn-out explosion.

  Valentin Gjertsen closed his eyes and saw the flames in his mind’s eye.

  ‘What are the risks in waking her?’ Harry said, looking at the crucifix hanging above Dr Steffens’s head.