by Jo Nesbo
“Strangled?” he asked.
Harry neither answered nor moved. One shoulder strap of the sky-blue dress had slipped down.
“Unusual to wear a summer dress in November,” Skarre said, mostly for the sake of conversation.
“She usually does,” Harry said in a voice that sounded as if it came from a long way away.
“Who does?” Skarre asked.
“Rakel.”
The policeman gave a start. He had seen Harry’s ex when she used to work for the police. “Is … is … that Rakel? But …”
“It’s her dress,” Harry said. “And her watch. He’s dressed her up as Rakel. But the woman sitting there is Birte Becker.”
Skarre eyed the corpse in silence. It didn’t look like any other corpse he had seen. This one was as white as chalk and bloated.
“Come with me,” Harry said, directing his attention to the two Delta officers before turning to Skarre. “You stay here and cordon off the apartment. Call the Crime Scene Unit in Tryvann and tell them they’ve got another job waiting for them.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Dance,” Harry said.
The apartment went quiet after the three men had clattered down the stairs at a run. But seconds later Skarre heard a car starting and the scream of tires on the pavement of Vogts Gate.
The blue light rotated and lit up the road. Harry was sitting in the front passenger seat and listening to the phone ringing at the other end. Hanging from the mirror, two miniature bikini-clad women danced to the despairing lament of the siren as the police car slalomed between vehicles on the Ring 3.
Please, he implored. Please pick up, Rakel.
He looked at the metal dancers beneath the mirror, thinking he was like them: someone who danced impotently to another’s tune, a comic figure in a farce in which he was always two steps behind events, always racing through doors a little too late and being met by the audience’s laughter.
Harry cracked. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” he yelled and slung the mobile phone at the windshield. It slid off the dashboard and down to the floor. The officer driving exchanged glances with the other officer in the mirror.
“Turn off the siren,” Harry said.
It went quiet.
And Harry’s attention was caught by a sound coming from the floor.
He picked up the phone.
“Hello!” he shouted. “Hello. Are you at home, Rakel?”
“Of course I am—you’re calling the landline.” It was her voice. A gentle, calm laugh. “Is something the matter?”
“Is Oleg at home, too?”
“Yes,” she said. “He’s sitting here in the kitchen eating. We’re waiting for Mathias. What’s up, Harry?”
“Listen to me carefully now, Rakel. Do you hear me?”
“You’re frightening me, Harry. What is it?”
“Put the safety chain on the door.”
“Why? It’s locked and—”
“Put the safety chain on, Rakel!” Harry yelled.
“OK, OK!”
He heard her say something to Oleg, then a chair scraped and he heard running feet. When the voice was back it was trembling.
“Now tell me what’s going on, Harry.”
“I will. First, though, you have to promise me you won’t let Mathias into the house under any circumstances.”
“Mathias? Are you drunk, Harry? You have no right—”
“Mathias is dangerous, Rakel. I’m sitting here in a police car with two other officers on our way up to you now. I’ll explain the rest later. Now I want you to look out of the window. Can you see anything?”
He heard her hesitate. But he said nothing further, just waited. For he knew with a sudden certainty that she trusted him, that she believed him, that she always had. They were approaching the tunnel by Nydalen. On the side of the road the snow lay like grayish-white wool. Then her voice was back.
“I can’t see anything. But I don’t know what I’m looking for, do I?”
“So you can’t see a snowman?” Harry asked quietly.
He could tell from the silence that the whole thing was becoming clear to her.
“Tell me this isn’t happening, Harry,” she whispered. “Tell me this is just a dream.”
He closed his eyes and considered whether she could be right. On his eyelids he saw Birte Becker in the chair. Of course it was a dream.
“I put your watch in the birdhouse,” he said.
“But it wasn’t there, it …,” she began, paused and let out a groan. “Oh, my God!”
35
DAY 21
Monster
From the kitchen Rakel had a view of all three sides from which a person might approach the house. At the back there was a short but precipitous rocky slope it was difficult to descend, especially now that the snow had settled. She went from window to window. Peered out and tested them to make sure they were firmly shut.
When her father had built the house after the war he had put the windows high in the wall, with iron bars covering them. She knew this had something to do with the war and a Russian who had sneaked into his bunker near Leningrad and shot all his sleeping comrades. Everyone apart from him, who had been asleep nearest the door, so exhausted that he hadn’t woken up until the alarm was sounded and discovered that his blanket was strewn with empty cartridges. That was the last night he’d slept properly, he had always said. But she’d always hated the iron bars. Until now.
“Can’t I go up to my room?” Oleg said, kicking the leg of the large kitchen table.
“No,” Rakel said. “You have to stay here.”
“What’s Mathias done?”
“Harry will explain everything when he comes. Are you sure you’ve attached the safety chain properly?”
“Yes, Mom. I wish Dad was here.”
“Dad?” She hadn’t heard him use that word before. Except for Harry, but that was several years ago. “Do you mean your father in Russia?”
“He’s not Dad.”
He said it with a conviction that made her shiver.
“The cellar door!” she screamed.
“What?”
“Mathias has the cellar-door key, too. What should we do?”
“Simple,” said Oleg, finishing his glass of water. “You put one of the garden chairs under the door handle. They’re just the right height. No chance anyone could get in.”
“Have you tried?” she asked, taken aback.
“Harry did it once when we were playing cowboys.”
“Sit here,” she said, heading for the hall and the cellar door.
“Wait.”
She stopped.
“I saw how he did it,” said Oleg, who had got to his feet. “Stay here, Mom.”
She looked at him. God, how he had grown in this last year; he would soon be taller than her. And in those dark eyes of his the childishness was giving way to what for the moment was youthful defiance, but would, she could already see, in time become adult determination.
She hesitated.
“Let me do it,” he said.
There was a plea in his tone. And she knew this was important for him; it was about bigger matters. About coming to terms with childish fears. About adult rituals. About becoming like his father. Whoever he thought that was.
“Hurry,” she whispered.
Oleg ran.
She stood by the window and stared out, listening for the sound of a car on the drive. She prayed that Harry would come first. Wondered about how quiet it was. And had no idea where the next thought came from: how quiet it would be.
But then she did hear a sound. A tiny sound. At first she assumed it came from outside. But then she was sure that it came from behind her. She turned. Saw nothing, just the empty kitchen. Then there was that sound again. Like the heavy tick of a clock. Or a finger tapping on a table. The table. She stared. That was where the sound was coming from. And then she saw it. A drop of water had landed on the table. She slowly raised her face to the cei
ling. In the middle of the white paneling a dark circle had formed. And from the middle of that circle hung a shiny drop. It let go and landed on the table. Rakel saw it happen, yet the sound made her jump, as if she had received an unexpected slap to the head.
My God, it must be from the bathroom! Had she really forgotten to turn off the shower again? She hadn’t been on the second floor since she came home; she had started cooking right away, so it must have been running since this morning. And it would have to happen now, in the midst of all this.
She went into the hall, dashed up the stairs and headed for the bathroom. She couldn’t hear the shower. She opened the door. Dry floor. No water running. She closed the bathroom door and stood outside for a couple of seconds. Glanced at the adjacent bedroom door. Slowly walked over. Rested her hand on the handle. Hesitated. Listened again for cars. Then she opened the door. She looked inside the room. She wanted to scream. But instinctively she knew that she mustn’t—she had to be quiet. Perfectly quiet.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Harry screamed and banged a fist onto the dashboard, making it quiver. “What’s going on?”
The traffic had ground to a halt in front of the tunnel. They had been there now for two long minutes.
The reason came over the police radio that second. “There’s been a collision on the Ring 3 by the exit of the westbound tunnel at Tåsen. No injuries. Tow truck’s on its way.”
On a sudden impulse Harry snatched the microphone. “Do you know who it is?”
“We know it’s two cars, both with summer tires,” the nasal radio voice drawled laconically.
“November snow always brings chaos,” the officer at the back said.
Harry didn’t answer, just drummed his fingers on the dashboard. He weighed the alternatives. There was a barricade of cars in front of and behind them; all the blue lights and sirens in the world could not get them through. He could jump out, run to the end of the tunnel and radio a patrol car to meet him there, but it was more than a mile.
It was quiet in the car now; all that could be heard was the low hum of idling car engines. The van in front of them nudged forward a yard and the police driver followed. Didn’t brake until he was almost on its rear bumper, as if afraid anything but aggressive driving would cause the inspector to explode again. The sudden braking made the two metal bikini-clad women jingle cheerfully in the silence that followed.
Harry thought about Jonas again. Why, though? What had made him think about Jonas when he was talking to Mathias on the phone? There was something about the sound. In the background.
Harry studied the two dancers under the mirror. And everything clicked into place.
He knew why he had thought about Jonas. He knew what the sound had been. And he knew there wasn’t a second to lose. Or—he tried to repress the thought—there was no need to hurry anymore. It was already too late.
Oleg hurried through the dark cellar corridor without looking left or right, knowing that the salt deposits on the brick walls were in the shape of white ghosts. He tried to concentrate on what he was going to do, tried not to think about anything else, not to let the wrong thoughts enter his mind. That was what Harry had said. It was possible to conquer the only monsters that existed, those inside your head. But you had to work at it. You had to confront them and fight them as often as you could. Minor skirmishes you could win. Then go home, bandage your wounds and try again. He had done it, he had been alone in the cellar many times, he had needed to be, of course, to make sure his skates were kept cold.
He grabbed the garden chair, dragged it after him for the noise to drown the silence. He checked that the cellar door was in fact locked. Then he wedged the chair under the handle and made sure it could not move. There we are. He stiffened. What was that? He looked up at the small window in the door. He couldn’t hold back the thoughts any longer—now they flooded in. Someone was standing outside. He wanted to run away, but forced himself to stand his ground. Fought against the thoughts with other thoughts. I’m on the inside, he told himself. I’m as secure here as up there. He breathed in, felt his heart pounding like a runaway bass drum. Then he leaned forward and peered at the window. He saw the reflection of his own face. But above that he saw another face, a distorted face that was not his. And he saw hands, monster hands being raised. Oleg backed away, terrified. Bumped into something and felt hands close around his face and mouth. He was unable to scream. For he wanted to scream. He wanted to scream that this was not in his mind, this was the monster, the monster was inside. And they were all going to die.
“He’s in the house,” Harry said.
The other officers looked at him with incomprehension as Harry pressed the redial button on the phone. “I thought it was Japanese music, but it was metal wind chimes. The kind Jonas has in his room. And that Oleg has, too. Mathias has been there all the time. He told me himself, didn’t he …?”
“What do you mean?” the officer in the back ventured to ask.
“He said he was at home. And that’s the house on Holmenkollveien now, of course. He even said he was on his way down to see Rakel and Oleg. I should have known. After all, Holmenkollen is up in relation to Torshov. He was on the second floor on Holmenkollveien. On his way down. We have to get them out of the house now. Answer, for Christ’s sake!”
“Perhaps she’s not near—”
“There are four telephones in the house. He’s just cut the connection now. I have to get there.”
“We can send another patrol car,” the driver said.
“No!” Harry snapped. “It’s too late anyway. He’s got them. And the only chance we have is the final pawn. Me.”
“You?”
“Yes. I’m part of his plan.”
“You’re not part of his plan, you mean, don’t you?”
“No. I am part. He’s waiting for me.”
The two policemen exchanged glances as they heard the bleat of a motorbike worming its way forward between the stationary cars behind them.
“You think he is?”
“Yes,” Harry said, catching sight of the bike in the side mirror. Thinking this was the only answer he could give. Because it was the only answer that offered any hope.
Oleg struggled with all his might, but went limp in the monster’s iron grip when he felt the cold steel on his throat.
“This is a scalpel, Oleg.” The monster had Mathias’s voice. “We use it to dissect people. And you wouldn’t believe how easy it is.”
Then the monster told him to open wide, shoved a filthy cloth in his mouth and ordered him to lie on his stomach with his arms behind his back. As Oleg didn’t obey at once, the steel was thrust in under his ear and he felt hot blood coursing over his shoulder and down the inside of his T-shirt. He lay on his stomach on the freezing cement floor, and the monster sat on top of him. A red box fell beside his face. He read the label. Plastic ties, the kind of thin ties you saw around cables and on toy packaging, which were so irritating because they could only be tightened, not loosened, and they couldn’t be pulled apart however thin they were. He felt the sharp plastic cut into the skin around his wrists and ankles.
Then he was lifted up and dropped and there was no time to wait for the pain as he landed with a crunch. He stared up. He was lying on his back in the freezer; he could feel the ice that had broken off burn the skin on his forearms and face. Above him stood the monster, with his head angled to one side.
“Good-bye,” he said. “We’ll meet on the other side before very long.”
The lid was slammed down and there was total darkness. Oleg could hear the key being turned in the lock and swift steps fading into the distance. He tried to lift his tongue, tried to get it behind the cloth, had to get it out. Had to breathe. Had to have air.
Rakel had stopped breathing. She stood in the bedroom doorway knowing that what she saw was insanity. An insanity that made her flesh creep, her mouth drop and her eyes bulge.
The bed and other furniture had been pushed against the walls, and the
floor was covered by an almost invisible surface of water that was only broken when a new drop fell on it. But Rakel didn’t notice; the only thing she saw was the enormous snowman dominating the center of the room.
The top hat above the grinning mouth almost touched the ceiling.
When she finally recovered her breathing and the oxygen rushed to her brain she recognized the smell of wet wool and wet wood and heard the sound of melting snow dripping. A wave of cold surged toward her, but this was not what gave her goose pimples. It was the body heat of the man standing behind her.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” Mathias said. “I’ve made it just for you.”
“Mathias …”
“Shh.” He placed a kind of protective arm around her throat. She looked down. The hand was holding a scalpel. “Don’t talk, my love. There’s so much to do and so little time.”
“Why? Why?”
“This is our day, Rakel. The rest of life is so unbelievably short, so let’s celebrate, not waste time explaining. Please put your arms behind your back.”
Rakel did as he said. She hadn’t heard Oleg come up from the cellar. Perhaps he was still in the cellar; perhaps he could get out if she could just detain Mathias. “I’d like to know why,” she said and could hear emotion tugging at her vocal cords.
“Because you’re a whore.”
She felt something thin and hard tighten around her wrists. Felt his warm breath on her neck. His lips. And then his tongue. She gritted her teeth, knowing that if she screamed he might stop and she wanted him to go on, to waste time. The tongue worked its way around and up to her ear. A little nibble.
“And the son from your whoring is in the freezer,” he whispered.
“Oleg?” she said, feeling herself lose control.
“Relax, my darling, he won’t die of cold.”
“Wo-won’t he?”
“Long before his body has cooled down the son of a whore will have died from asphyxiation. It’s simple mathematics.
“Mathema—”
