Phantom

by Jo Nesbo

  “A hundred thousand.”

  No answer.

  “Hello?”

  But all that could be heard was the whisper of the morning congestion.

  Berntsen sat still. Glanced to the side. No one there. Felt the sun beginning to warm him again. And sixty thousand was good. It was.

  IT WAS TEN in the morning and there was still mist on the ground as Harry pulled up in front of the main building on the Skøyen farm. Isabelle Skøyen stood on the steps, smiling and slapping a little riding whip against the thigh of her black jodhpurs. While Harry was getting out of the car he heard the gravel crunch under her boots.

  “Morning, Harry. What do you know about horses?”

  Harry slammed the car door. “I’ve lost a lot of money on them. Does that help?”

  “So you’re a gambler as well?”

  “As well?”

  “I’ve done a bit of detective work, too. Your achievements are offset by your vices. That, at least, is what your colleagues claim. Did you lose the money in Hong Kong?”

  “Happy Valley Racecourse. It happened only once.”

  She began to walk toward a low red building, and he had to quicken his pace to keep up with her. “Have you ever done any riding, Harry?”

  “My grandfather had a sturdy old horse in Åndalsnes.”

  “Experienced rider, then.”

  “Another one-off. My grandfather said horses weren’t toys. He said riding for pleasure showed a lack of respect for working animals.”

  She stopped in front of a wooden stand holding two narrow leather saddles. “Not a single one of my horses has ever seen or will ever see a cart or plow. While I saddle up I suggest you head over there …” She pointed to the farmhouse. “You’ll find some suitable clothes belonging to my ex-husband in the hall closet. We don’t want to ruin your elegant suit, do we?”

  In the closet Harry found a sweater and a pair of jeans that were in fact big enough. The ex-husband must have had smaller feet, though, because he couldn’t get any of the shoes on, until he found a pair of used blue Norwegian Army sneakers at the back.

  When he re-emerged in the yard, Isabelle was ready and waiting with two saddled horses. Harry opened the passenger door of the rental car, sat inside with his legs out, changed shoes, removed the insoles, left them on the car floor and reached for his sunglasses from the glove compartment. “Ready.”

  “This is Medusa,” Isabelle said, patting a large sorrel on the muzzle. “She’s an Oldenburg from Denmark, perfect breed for dressage. Ten years old and the boss of the herd. And this is Balder. He’s five years old, so he’ll follow Medusa.”

  She passed him Balder’s reins and swung herself up on Medusa.

  Harry put his left foot in the left stirrup and rose into the saddle. Without waiting for a command the horse began to walk briskly after Medusa.

  Harry had understated the case when he said he had ridden only once, but this was quite different from his grandfather’s steadfast battleship of a nag. He had to balance in the saddle, and when he squeezed his knees against the slim horse’s sides he could feel its ribs and the movement of its muscles. And when Medusa accelerated on the path across the field and Balder responded, even this minor increase in pace made Harry feel he had a Formula One animal between his legs. At the end of the field they joined a path that disappeared into the forest and onto the ridge. Where the path forked around a tree Harry tried to steer Balder to the left, but the horse ignored him and followed in Medusa’s hoofprints to the right.

  “I thought stallions were the leaders of a herd,” Harry said.

  “As a rule they are,” Isabelle said over her shoulder. “But it’s all about character. A strong, ambitious and smart mare can outcompete all of them if she wants.”

  “And you want.”

  Isabelle Skøyen laughed. “Of course. If you want something you have to be willing to compete. Politics is all about acquiring power.”

  “And you like competing?”

  He saw her shrug her shoulders in front of him. “Competition is healthy. It means the strongest and the best make the decisions, and that’s to the benefit of the whole herd.”

  “And she can also mate with whomever she likes?”

  Isabelle didn’t answer. Harry watched her. Her back was willowy and her firm buttocks appeared to be massaging the horse, moving from side to side with gentle hip movements. They came into a clearing. The sun was shining, and beneath them lay scattered puffs of mist across the countryside.

  “We’ll let them have a rest,” Isabelle Skøyen said, dismounting. After they had tethered the horses to a tree, Isabelle lay down on the grass and waved for Harry to follow. He sat beside her and adjusted his sunglasses.

  “Are those glasses for men?” she teased.

  “They protect against the sun,” Harry said, taking out a pack of cigarettes.

  “I like that.”

  “What do you like?”

  “I like men who are secure in their masculinity.”

  Harry looked at her. She was leaning on her elbows and had undone a button on her blouse. He hoped his sunglasses were dark enough. She smiled.

  “So, what can you tell me about Gusto?” Harry said.

  “I like men who are genuine,” she said. The smile broadened.

  A brown dragonfly whizzed past on the last flight of the autumn. Harry didn’t like what he saw in her eyes. What he had seen ever since he arrived. Expectant relish. And none of the tormented unease there ought to be in someone facing a career-threatening scandal.

  “I don’t like falseness,” she said. “Such as bluffing, for example.”

  Triumph shone from her blue-mascara-wreathed eyes.

  “I called a police contact, you see. And apart from telling me a little about the legendary detective Harry Hole, he was able to tell me that no blood had been analyzed in the Gusto Hanssen case. The sample had apparently been destroyed. There are no nails with my blood type under them. You were bluffing, Harry.”

  Harry lit a cigarette. No blood in his cheeks or ears. He wondered if he had become too old to blush.

  “Mm. If all the contact you had with Gusto was some innocent interviews, why were you so frightened I would send the blood to be tested?”

  She chuckled. “Who says I was frightened? Perhaps I just wanted you to come out here. Enjoy the nature and so on.”

  Confirming that he was not too old to blush, Harry lay down and blew smoke up into the ludicrously blue sky. Closed his eyes and tried to find some good reasons not to fuck Isabelle Skøyen. There were many.

  “Was that wrong?” she asked. “All I’m saying is that I’m a single adult woman with natural needs. That doesn’t mean I’m not serious. I would never get involved with anyone I didn’t consider my equal, such as Gusto.” He heard her voice coming closer. “With a tall adult man, on the other hand …” She laid a hot hand on his stomach.

  “Did you and Gusto lie where we’re lying now?” Harry asked softly.

  “What?”

  He wriggled up onto his elbows and nodded toward the blue sneakers. “Your wardrobe was full of exclusive men’s shoes, size forty-two. These barges were the only forty-fives.”

  “So what? I can’t guarantee that I haven’t had a male visitor who wears size forty-five at some point.” Her hand stroked backward and forward.

  “This sneaker was made a while ago for the Armed Services, and when they changed the model, the surplus stock was given to charitable organizations, who then distributed them to the needy. The police call them junkie shoes, since they were doled out by the Salvation Army at the Watchtower. The question, of course, is why a casual visitor, a size forty-five, would leave behind a pair of shoes. The obvious explanation is that he probably acquired a new pair.”

  Isabelle Skøyen’s hand stopped moving. So Harry continued.

  “I’ve seen a picture of the crime scene. When Gusto died he was wearing a cheap pair of trousers, but a very expensive pair of shoes. Alberto Fasciani, unl
ess I’m much mistaken. A generous gift. How much did you pay for them? Five thousand?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She pulled her hand away.

  Harry regarded his erection with disapproval; it was already pressing against the inside of the borrowed trousers. He stretched his feet.

  “I left the insoles in the car. Did you know that foot sweat is excellent for DNA testing? We’ll probably find some microscopic remains of skin, too. And there can’t be that many shops in Oslo that sell Alberto Fasciani shoes. One, two? Anyway, it’ll be a simple job to cross-check against your credit card.”

  Isabelle Skøyen had sat up. She stared into the distance.

  “Can you see the farms?” she asked. “Aren’t they beautiful? I love cultivated landscapes. And I hate forests. Apart from planted ones. I hate chaos.”

  Harry studied her profile. The ax nose looked downright dangerous.

  “Tell me about Gusto Hanssen.”

  She shrugged. “Why? You’ve obviously worked most of it out.”

  “Who do you want questioning you? Me or Verdens Gang?”

  She gave a short laugh. “Gusto was young and good-looking. That kind of stallion is great to look at, but it has dubious genes. Biological father’s a criminal and mother’s a drug addict, according to the foster father. Not a horse you breed, but one that’s fun to ride if you …” She took a deep breath. “He came here and we had sex. Now and then I gave him money. He met other people as well—it was nothing special.”

  “Did that make you jealous?”

  “Jealous?” Isabelle shook her head. “Sex has never made me jealous. I met other people, too. And after a while someone special. Then I dropped Gusto. Or maybe he had already dropped me. He no longer seemed to need the pocket money anyway. But then he contacted me again. He became a nuisance. I think he had financial problems. And also a drug problem.”

  “What was he like?”

  “He was selfish, unreliable, charming. A self-confident bastard.”

  “And what did he want?”

  “Do I look like a psychologist, Harry?”

  “No.”

  “No. People don’t interest me that much.”

  “Really?”

  Isabelle Skøyen shook her head. Looked into the distance. Her eyes glistened.

  “Gusto was lonely,” she said.

  “How do you know?”

  “I know what loneliness is, OK? And he was full of self-loathing.”

  “Self-confidence and self-loathing?”

  “It’s not a contradiction. You know what you can achieve, but that doesn’t mean you see yourself as someone others can love.”

  “And what’s that due to?”

  “I told you—I’m not a psychologist.”

  “No, that’s right.”

  Harry waited.

  She cleared her throat.

  “His parents had given him away. What do you think that does to a boy? Behind all the gestures and the hard face he was someone who didn’t think he was worth much. Just as little as those who had given up on him. Isn’t it simple logic, Herr Quasi Policeman?”

  Harry looked at her. Nodded. Noticed his gaze made her uncomfortable. But he refrained from asking her the questions she obviously knew were on his lips: What was her story? How lonely, how self-loathing was she behind the façade?

  “How about Oleg? Did you meet him?”

  “The one who was arrested for the murder? Never. But Gusto mentioned an Oleg a couple of times, said he was his best friend. I think he was his only friend.”

  “What about Irene?”

  “He mentioned her, too. She was like a sister.”

  “She was a sister.”

  “Not by blood, Harry. It’s never the same.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “People are naïve and believe they are capable of selfless love. But it’s all about passing on genes that are as close as possible to your own. I see this in horse breeding every day, believe me. And, yes, people are like horses—we’re herd animals. A father will protect his biological son, a brother his biological sister. In any conflict we instinctively take the side of those who look most like us. Imagine you’re in the jungle and walk around a corner and suddenly see another white man, dressed like you, grappling with a semi-naked black man in warpaint. They’ve both got knives and are fighting to the death. You’ve got a gun. What’s your first instinct? To shoot the white man to save the black man? It’s not, is it.”

  “Mm. And what’s your proof?”

  “The proof is that our loyalty is biologically determined. Circles that spread out from the center, which is ourselves and our genes.”

  “So you’d shoot one of them to protect your genes?”

  “Without a second thought.”

  “What about killing both to be on the safe side?”

  She looked at him. “What do you mean?”

  “What were you doing the night Gusto was killed?”

  “What?” She scrunched up one eye in the sun and beamed at him. “Do you suspect me of killing Gusto, Harry? And that I was after this … Oleg?”

  “Just answer me.”

  “I remember where I was because it was in my mind when I was reading about the murder in the paper. I was sitting in a meeting with representatives of the police Narcotics Unit. They should be reliable witnesses. Do you want names?”

  Harry shook his head.

  “Anything else?”

  “Well, this Dubai. What do you know about him?”

  “Dubai, hm. As little as everyone else. There’s talk, but the police aren’t making any headway. It’s typical; the professionals behind the scams always get away.” Harry looked for a change in the size of pupils, the color of her cheeks. If Isabelle Skøyen was lying, she was good.

  “I ask because you’ve cleared the streets of all the dope dealers apart from Dubai and a couple of minor gangs.”

  “Not me, Harry. I’m just a council secretary following the orders of the Social Services Committee and the council’s policies. And what you call clearing the streets, strictly speaking, is a police job.”

  “Mm. Norway is a little fairy-tale land. But I’ve spent the last few years in the real world, Skøyen. And the real world is driven by two types of people. Those who want power and those who want money. The first want a statue, the second enjoyment. And the currency they use when negotiating with each other to get what they want is called corruption.”

  “I’ve got things to do, Hole. Where do you want this to go?”

  “Where others have obviously lacked the courage or the imagination to go. If you live in a town for a long time you usually see the situation as a mosaic of details you know well. But someone who returns to the town and doesn’t know the details only sees the picture. And the picture is that the situation in Oslo is favorable for two groups: the dealers who have the market to themselves and the politicians who are credited with having cleaned up.”

  “Are you saying I’m corrupt?”

  “Are you?”

  He saw the fury flash into her eyes. Genuine, without a doubt. He wondered only whether it was the anger of the just or that of the ensnared. Then, out of the blue, she laughed. A trilled, surprisingly girlish laugh.

  “I like you, Harry.” She got up. “I know men, and they’re wimps when it comes to the crunch. But I think you might be an exception.”

  “Well,” Harry said, “at least you know where you are with me.”

  “Reality calls, my dear.”

  Harry turned to see the roll of Isabelle Skøyen’s voluminous rear end as she headed for the horses.

  He followed. Got his feet in the stirrups. Mounted Balder. Looked up and met Isabelle’s eyes. There was a small, provocative smile in the middle of that hard, handsomely chiseled face. She pouted a kiss. Made an obscene sucking sound and dug her heels into Medusa’s sides. And her back swayed as the great beast leaped forward.

  Balder reacted without warning, but Harry managed to h
old on tight.

  Isabelle led again, and wet clods of earth from Medusa’s hooves rained down. Then the mare upped her pace, and Harry saw Isabelle’s ponytail standing upright as she disappeared around a bend. He gripped the reins farther up, the way his grandfather had taught him, without tightening them. The path was so narrow that branches whipped at him, but he crouched down in the saddle and squeezed his knees hard against the horse. He knew he would not be able to stop, so he concentrated on keeping his feet in the stirrups and his head low. At the margins of his vision, trees flashed past in yellow and red stripes. Automatically he rose in the saddle and put his weight on his knees and the stirrups. Beneath him muscles rippled and undulated. He had the feeling he was sitting on a boa constrictor. And now they had slipped into a kind of rhythm, accompanied by the thunderous drumming of the hooves on the ground. A sense of horror competed with a sense of obsession. The path straightened, and fifty yards in front of them Harry saw Medusa and Isabelle. For a moment it was as if the image were freeze-framed, as if they had stopped, as if horse and rider were floating above the ground. Then Medusa resumed her gallop. Another second passed before Harry realized.

  And it had been a valuable second.

  At police college he had read scientific reports showing that in catastrophes the human brain tries to process enormous quantities of data in seconds. For some officers this can lead to a paralysis, for others to a feeling that time is going slower, that life passes before them, and they manage to make an astonishing number of observations about and evaluations of the situation. Such as that at a speed of roughly forty miles an hour they had covered two-thirds of a mile and there was only one mile and some ninety seconds left to the chasm that Medusa had just crossed.

  That it was impossible to see how wide it was.

  That Medusa was a trained, fully grown dressage horse with an experienced dressage rider while Balder was younger and smaller and had a nearly two-hundred-pound novice on his back.

  That Balder was a herd animal, and of course Isabelle Skøyen knew that.

  That it was too late to stop.

  Harry relaxed his hands on the reins and dug his heels into Balder’s sides. Felt a last surge of pace. Then all went still. The drumming stopped. They were floating. Far beneath them he saw a treetop and a stream. Then he was thrust forward and banged his head against the horse’s neck. They fell.