The Thirst: Harry Hole 11

by Jo Nesbo

  ‘There are various answers to that,’ Steffens said. ‘And one that’s true.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘That we don’t know.’

  ‘Like you don’t know what’s wrong with her.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hm. What do you know, really?’

  ‘If you’re asking in general terms, we know quite a lot. But if people knew how much we don’t know, they’d be scared, Harry. Needlessly scared. So we try to keep quiet about that.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘We say we’re in the repair business, but we’re actually in the consolation business.’

  ‘So why are you telling me this, Steffens? Why aren’t you consoling me?’

  ‘Because I’m pretty sure you know that consolation is an illusion. As a murder detective you’re also selling something more than you say you are. You give people a feeling of comforting justice, of order and security. But there’s no perfect, objective truth, and no true justice.’

  ‘Is she in any pain?’

  ‘No.’

  Harry nodded. ‘Can I smoke in here?’

  ‘In a doctor’s office in a public hospital?’

  ‘Sounds comforting, if smoking’s as dangerous as they say.’

  Steffens smiled. ‘A nurse told me that the cleaner found ash on the floor under the bed in room 301. I’d rather you did that outside. How’s your son dealing with this, by the way?’

  Harry shrugged. ‘Upset. Scared. Angry.’

  ‘I saw him earlier. His name’s Oleg, isn’t it? Has he stayed in 301 because he doesn’t want to be here?’

  ‘He didn’t want to come in with me. Or talk to me. He thinks I’m letting her down by continuing to work on the case while she’s lying here.’

  Steffens nodded. ‘Young people have always had an enviable confidence in their own moral judgements. But he may have a point, in that increased efforts by the police aren’t always the most effective way to fight crime.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Do you know what made crime rates go down in the USA in the nineties?’

  Harry shook his head, put his hands on the armrests and looked at the door.

  ‘Think of it as a break from all the other things going on in your mind,’ Steffens said. ‘Guess.’

  ‘I don’t know about guessing,’ Harry said. ‘It’s generally accepted that it was Mayor Giuliani’s zero-tolerance policy, and an increased police presence.’

  ‘And that’s wrong. Because crime rates didn’t just fall in New York, but right across the USA. The answer is actually the more liberal abortion laws that were introduced in the 1970s.’ Steffens leaned back in his chair and paused, as if to let Harry think it through for himself. ‘Single, dissolute women having sex with men who vanish the next morning, or at least as soon as they realise she’s pregnant. Pregnancies like that have been a conveyor belt producing criminal offspring for centuries. Children without fathers, without boundaries, without a mother with the money to give them an education or moral backbone or to teach them the ways of the Lord. These women would happily have taken their embryonic children’s lives if they hadn’t risked being punished for it. And then, in the 1970s, they got what they wanted. The USA harvested the fruits of the holocaust that was the result of liberal abortion laws fifteen, twenty years later.’

  ‘Hm. And what do the Mormons say about that? Unless you’re not a Mormon?’

  Steffens smiled and steepled his fingers. ‘I support the Church in much of what it says, Hole, but not in its opposition to abortion. In that instance I support the heathens. In the 1990s ordinary people could walk down the streets of American towns without having to be afraid of being robbed, raped and murdered. Because the man who would have murdered them had been scraped out of his mother’s womb, Harry. But where I don’t support liberal heathens is in their demands for so-called free abortions. A foetus’s potential for good or evil will, twenty years later, benefit or damage a society so much that the decision to abort ought to be taken by that society, not by an irresponsible woman roaming the streets for someone to sleep with that night.’

  Harry looked at the time. ‘You’re suggesting state-regulated abortion?’

  ‘Not a pleasant job, obviously. So anyone doing it would naturally have to regard it as … well, as a calling.’

  ‘You’re kidding, aren’t you?’

  Steffens held Harry’s gaze for a few seconds. Then he smiled again. ‘Of course. I believe firmly in the inviolability of the individual.’

  Harry got to his feet. ‘I’m assuming I’ll be informed of when you’re going to wake her. Presumably it would be good for her to see a familiar face when she comes round?’

  ‘That’s one consideration, Harry. And tell Oleg to look in if there’s anything he wants to know.’

  Harry made his way to the main entrance of the hospital. Shivering outside in the cold, he took two drags on his cigarette, realised that it didn’t taste of anything, stubbed it out and hurried back inside.

  ‘How’s it going, Antonsen?’ he asked the police guard outside room 301.

  ‘Fine, thanks,’ Antonsen said, looking up at him. ‘There’s a picture of you in VG.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Want to see?’ Antonsen took out his smartphone.

  ‘Not unless I look particularly good.’

  Antonsen chuckled. ‘Maybe you don’t want to see it, then. I have to say, it looks like you’re starting to lose it at Crime Squad. Pointing pistols at ninety-year-olds and using bartenders as spies.’

  Harry stopped abruptly with his hand on the door handle. ‘What was that last bit again?’

  Antonsen held his phone out in front of him and squinted, evidently long-sighted. He managed to read ‘Barten—’ before Harry snatched the phone from him.

  Harry stared at the screen. ‘Fuck, fuck. Have you got a car, Antonsen?’

  ‘No, I cycle. Oslo’s so small, and you get a bit of exercise, so—’

  Harry tossed the phone in Antonsen’s lap and yanked open the door of room 301. Oleg looked up just long enough to see it was Harry before looking down at his book again.

  ‘Oleg, you’ve got a car – you’ve got to drive me to Grünerløkka. Now.’

  Oleg snorted without raising his eyes. ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘That wasn’t a request, it was an order. Come on.’

  ‘An order?’ His face contorted in fury. ‘You’re not even my father. Thanks for that.’

  ‘You were right. You said grade trumps everything. Me, detective inspector, you, trainee police officer. So wipe your tears and shift your arse.’

  Oleg gawped at him, speechless.

  Harry turned and hurried off along the corridor.

  Mehmet Kalak had abandoned Coldplay and U2 and was trying out Ian Hunter on his clientele.

  ‘All the Young Dudes’ rang out from the speakers.

  ‘Well?’ Mehmet said.

  ‘Not bad, but David Bowie did it better,’ the clientele said. Or, more accurately, Øystein Eikeland, who had taken up position on the other side of the bar since his job had come to an end. And seeing as they had the place to themselves, Mehmet turned the volume up.

  ‘Doesn’t make any difference how loud you crank Hunter up!’ Øystein cried, and raised his daiquiri. It was his fifth. He claimed that because he had mixed them himself, they must therefore be counted as trial samples in conjunction with his apprenticeship as a bartender, and were an investment and thus tax-deductible. And because he was entitled to a staff discount, but intended to claim them back on his tax at full price, he was actually making a profit from his drinking.

  ‘I wish I could stop now, but I should probably mix myself one more if I’m going to have enough to pay the rent,’ he sniffled.

  ‘You make a better customer than a bartender,’ Mehmet said. ‘That’s not to say that you’re a useless bartender, just that you’re the best customer I’ve had—’

  ‘Thank you, dear Mehmet, I—’

 
‘—and now you’re going home.’

  ‘I am?’

  ‘You are.’ To show that he meant it, Mehmet turned the music off.

  Øystein opened his mouth, as if there was something he really wanted to say, something he assumed would form itself into words if he just opened his mouth, but that didn’t happen. He tried again, then closed his mouth and merely nodded. He did up his taxi driver’s jacket, slid off the bar stool, and walked rather unsteadily towards the door.

  ‘No tip?’ Mehmet called with a smile.

  ‘Tips aren’t tax-dec … deluct … are no good.’

  Mehmet picked up Øystein’s glass, squirted some washing-up liquid in it and rinsed it under the tap. There hadn’t been enough customers that evening to use the dishwasher. His phone lit up on the inside of the counter. It was Harry. And as he dried his hands to answer it, it struck him that there was something about the time. The time that had passed between Øystein opening the door and it closing again. It had taken slightly longer than usual. Someone had held the door open for a few seconds. He looked up.

  ‘Quiet night?’ the man standing at the bar asked.

  Mehmet tried to breathe so he could answer. But couldn’t.

  ‘Quiet is good,’ Valentin Gjertsen said. Because it was him. The man from the steam room.

  Mehmet silently reached his hand out towards his phone.

  ‘Please, don’t answer that, and I’ll do you a favour.’

  Mehmet wouldn’t have taken the offer if it hadn’t been for the large revolver that was pointing right at him.

  ‘Thanks, you’d only have regretted it.’ The man looked around. ‘A shame you don’t have any customers. For you, I mean. It suits me fine, it means I’ve got your full attention. Well, I suppose I’d have had that anyway, because you’re naturally curious about what I want. If I’ve come for a drink, or to kill you. Am I right?’

  Mehmet nodded slowly.

  ‘Yes, that’s a reasonable concern seeing as you’re the only person currently alive who can identify me. That’s a fact, by the way? Even the plastic surgeon who … well, enough of that. Anyway, I’m going to do you a favour, seeing as you didn’t take that call, and that business of shopping me to the police is no more than could be expected of a socially responsible person. Don’t you think?’

  Mehmet nodded again. And tried to fend off the unavoidable thought. That he was going to die. His brain tried desperately to find other possibilities, but just kept coming back to: you’re going to die. But, as if in answer to his thoughts, there was a knock on the window over by the door. Mehmet looked past Valentin. A pair of hands and a familiar face were pressed against the glass, trying to peer inside. Come in, for God’s sake, come in.

  ‘Don’t move,’ Valentin said calmly without turning round. His body was hiding the revolver, so the person at the window couldn’t see it.

  Why the hell didn’t he just come in?

  The answer came a moment later, with a loud banging on the door.

  Valentin had locked the door when he came in.

  The face was back at the window, and the man was waving his hands to get his attention, so he had evidently seen them inside.

  ‘Don’t move, just signal that you’re closed,’ Valentin said. There was no trace of stress in his voice.

  Mehmet stood still with his hands by his sides.

  ‘Now, or I’ll kill you.’

  ‘You’re going to do that anyway.’

  ‘You can’t know that with one hundred per cent certainty. But if you don’t do as I say, I promise I’ll kill you. And then the person outside. Look at me. I promise.’

  Mehmet looked at Valentin. Swallowed. Leaned slightly to one side, into the light, so that the man outside the window could see him more clearly, and shook his head.

  The face was there for a couple of seconds. A wave, not all that easy to see. Then Geir Sølle was gone.

  Valentin watched in the mirror.

  ‘There,’ he said. ‘Where were we? Oh yes, good and bad news. The bad news is that the obvious thought that I’m here to kill you is so obvious that … well, it’s correct. In other words, we’re now up to one hundred per cent certainty. I’m going to kill you.’ Valentin looked at Mehmet with a sad expression. Then he burst out laughing. ‘That’s the longest face I’ve seen today! And of course I can understand that, but don’t forget the good news. Which is that you get to choose how you die. Here are the options, so listen carefully. Are you with me? Good. Do you want to be shot in the head or have this drainage tube stuck in your neck?’ Valentin held up something that looked like a large drinking straw made of metal, one end of which was cut diagonally to form a sharp point.

  Mehmet just stared at Valentin. The whole thing was so absurd that he was starting to wonder if this was a dream he was about to wake up from. Or was the man in front of him dreaming all of this? But then Valentin jabbed the tube towards him and Mehmet automatically took a step back and hit the sink.

  Valentin snapped: ‘Not the drainage tube, then?’

  Mehmet nodded cautiously as he saw the sharpened metal point glint in the light from the mirror shelf. Needles. That had always been his greatest fear. Having things inserted into his body through his skin. That was why he ran away from home and hid in the forest as a child when they were going to vaccinate him.

  ‘An agreement is an agreement, so no tube.’ Valentin put the straw down on the bar and pulled a pair of black antique-looking handcuffs from his pocket, all without the barrel of the revolver moving an inch from Mehmet. ‘Pass one of them behind the metal bar on the mirror unit, fasten them round your wrists, and lay your head in the sink.’

  ‘I …’

  Mehmet didn’t see the blow coming. Just registered a crashing sound in his head, an instant of blackness, and the fact that he was facing a different direction when his vision returned. He realised he’d been hit with the revolver and that the barrel was now pressed to his temple.

  ‘The drainage tube,’ a voice whispered close to his ear. ‘Your choice.’

  Mehmet picked up the strange, heavy handcuffs and passed one behind the metal bar. He fastened them round his wrists. He felt something warm trickle down his nose and top lip. The sweet, metallic taste of blood.

  ‘Tasty?’ Valentin said in a high voice.

  Mehmet looked up and met his gaze in the mirror.

  ‘I can’t stand it myself,’ Valentin smiled. ‘It tastes of iron and beatings. Yes, iron and beatings. Your own blood, fine, but other people’s? And you can taste what they’ve been eating. Speaking of eating, does the condemned man have a last wish? Not that I’m thinking of serving a meal, I’m just curious.’

  Mehmet blinked. A last wish? The words found their way in, no more than that, but as if in a dream his mind couldn’t help considering the answer. He hoped that the Jealousy Bar would one day be the coolest in Oslo. That Galatasaray would win the league. That Paul Rodgers’ ‘Ready for Love’ would be played at his funeral. What else? He tried, but couldn’t think of anything. And felt sorrowful laughter welling up inside him.

  Harry saw a figure hurrying away from the Jealousy Bar as he approached. The light from the big window fell across the pavement, but he couldn’t hear any music from inside. He went over to the edge of the window and looked in. Saw the back of a figure behind the bar, but it was impossible to tell if it was Mehmet. It looked empty apart from that. Harry moved to the door and cautiously pushed the handle. Locked. The bar was open until midnight.

  Harry pulled out the key ring with the broken plastic heart. Slowly inserted the key in the lock. Drew his Glock 17 with his right hand as he turned the key and opened the door with his left. He stepped inside, holding the pistol in front of him with both hands as he used his foot to make sure that the door closed gently behind him. But the sounds of the evening in Grünerløkka had drifted in, and the figure behind the bar straightened up and looked in the mirror.

  ‘Police,’ Harry said. ‘Don’t move.’

  ‘Ha
rry Hole.’ The figure was wearing a peaked cap and the angle of the mirror meant Harry couldn’t see his face, but he didn’t need to. More than three years had passed since he had heard this high-pitched voice, but it was like yesterday.

  ‘Valentin Gjertsen,’ Harry said, and heard the tremble in his own voice.

  ‘At last we meet again, Harry. I’ve thought about you. Have you thought about me?’

  ‘Where’s Mehmet?’

  ‘You’re excited, you have thought about me.’ That high-pitched laugh. ‘Why? Because of my list of accomplishments? Or victims, as you call them. No, wait. It’s obviously because of your list of accomplishments. I’m the one you never caught, aren’t I?’

  Harry didn’t answer, just stood where he was by the door.

  ‘It’s unbearable, is that it? Good! That’s why you’re so good. You’re like me, Harry, you can’t bear it.’

  ‘I’m not like you, Valentin.’ Harry changed his grip on the pistol, aimed and wondered what was stopping him from going closer.

  ‘No? You don’t let yourself get distracted by any consideration of the people around you, do you? You keep your eyes on the prize, Harry. Look at yourself now. All you want is your trophy, no matter what the cost. Other people’s lives, your own … If you’re really honest, all of that comes second, doesn’t it? You and me, we ought to sit down and get to know each other better, Harry. Because we don’t meet many people like us.’

  ‘Shut up, Valentin. Stay where you are, put your hands up where I can see them, and tell me where Mehmet is.’

  ‘If Mehmet is the name of your spy, I shall have to move in order to show you. And then the situation we find ourselves in will also become much clearer.’

  Valentin Gjertsen took a step to one side. Mehmet was half standing, half hanging from his arms, which were tied to the metal bar that ran horizontally across the top of the mirror behind the bar. His head was bent forward, down into the sink, meaning that his long dark curls covered his face. Valentin was holding a long-barrelled revolver to the back of his head.

  ‘Stay where you are, Harry. As you can see, we have an interesting balance of terror here. From where you’re standing to here it’s – what? – eight to ten metres? The chances of your first shot putting me out of action so that I don’t have time to kill Mehmet are pretty slim, wouldn’t you agree? But if I shoot Mehmet first, you’d be able to fire at me at least twice before I manage to turn the revolver on you. Worse odds for me. In other words, we’ve got a lose-lose situation here, so it really boils down to this, Harry: are you prepared to sacrifice your spy in order to catch me now? Or shall we save him and you can catch me later? What do you say?’