Phantom

by Jo Nesbo

  She was pale. Withdrawal symptoms. It was going to be tough. But they would manage. They would manage between them.

  “Shall we …?”

  “Yes,” she said, opening the bedside-table drawer. Looking at the photograph. Pressing her lips against it and putting it in the drawer, facedown.

  HARRY HEARD THE door open.

  He was sitting motionless in the darkness. Listened to the footsteps cross the sitting-room floor. Saw the movements by the mattresses. Glimpsed the wire as it caught the street lamp outside. The steps went into the kitchen. And the light came on. Harry heard the stove being moved.

  He rose and followed.

  Harry stood in the doorway watching him on his knees in front of the rat hole, opening the bag with trembling hands. Placing objects beside each other. The syringe, the rubber tubing, the spoon, the lighter, the gun. The packages of violin.

  The threshold creaked as Harry shifted weight, but the boy didn’t notice, just carried on with his feverish activity.

  Harry knew it was the craving. The brain was focused on one thing. He coughed.

  The boy stiffened. The shoulders hunched, but he didn’t turn. Sat without moving, his head bowed, staring down at the stash. Didn’t turn.

  “I thought so,” Harry said. “That this is where you would come first. You figured the coast was clear now.”

  The boy still hadn’t moved.

  “Hans Christian told you we found her for you, didn’t he? Yet you had to come here first.”

  The boy got up. And again it struck Harry. How tall he’d become. A man, almost.

  “What do you want, Harry?”

  “I’ve come to arrest you, Oleg.”

  Oleg frowned. “For possession of a couple of bags of violin?”

  “Not for dope, Oleg. For the murder of Gusto.”

  “Don’t!” he shouted.

  But I had the needle deep into a vein, trembling with expectation.

  “I thought it would be Stein or Ibsen,” I said. “Not you.”

  I didn’t see his fricking foot coming. It hit the needle, which sailed through the air and landed at the back of the kitchen, by the sink full of dishes.

  “What the fuck, Oleg,” I said, looking up at him.

  OLEG STARED AT Harry for a long time.

  It was a serious, calm stare, without any real surprise. More like it was testing the lay of the land, trying to find its bearings.

  And when he did speak, Oleg sounded more curious than angry or confused.

  “But you believed me, Harry. When I told you it was someone else, someone with a balaclava, you believed me.”

  “Yes,” Harry said. “I did believe you. Because I so wanted to believe you.”

  “But, Harry,” Oleg said softly, gazing down at the bag of powder he had opened, “if you can’t believe your best friend, what can you believe?”

  “Evidence,” Harry said, feeling his throat thicken.

  “What evidence? We found explanations for the evidence, Harry. You and I, we crushed the evidence between us.”

  “The other evidence. The new stuff.”

  “Which new stuff?”

  Harry pointed to the floor by Oleg. “The gun there is an Odessa. It uses the same caliber as Gusto was shot with—Makarov, nine by eighteen millimeters. Whatever happens, the ballistics report will state with one hundred percent certainty that this gun is the murder weapon, Oleg. And it has your prints on it. Only yours. If anyone else used it and wiped their prints afterward, yours would have been removed as well.”

  Oleg touched the gun, as if to confirm it was the one they were talking about.

  “And then there’s the syringe,” Harry said. “There are lots of fingerprints on it, perhaps from two people. But it is definitely your thumbprint on the plunger. The plunger you have to press when you’re shooting up. And on that print there are particles of gunpowder, Oleg.”

  Oleg ran a finger along the syringe. “Why is there new evidence against me?”

  “Because you said in your statement you were high when you came into the room. But the gunpowder particles prove you injected the needle after because you had the particles on you. It proves you shot Gusto first and injected yourself afterward. You were not high at the moment of the act, Oleg. This was premeditated murder.”

  Oleg nodded slowly. “And you’ve checked my fingerprints on the gun and the syringe against the police database. So they already know that I—”

  “I haven’t contacted the police. I’m the only person who knows about this.”

  Oleg swallowed. Harry saw the tiny movements in his throat. “How do you know they’re my prints if you didn’t check with the police?”

  “I had other prints I could compare them with.”

  Harry took his hand from his coat pocket. Placed the Game Boy on the kitchen table.

  Oleg stared at the Game Boy. Blinked and blinked as though he had something in his eye.

  “What made you suspect me?” he whispered.

  “The hatred,” Harry said. “The old man, Rudolf Asayev, said I should follow the hatred.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “He’s the man you called Dubai. It took me a while to realize he was referring to his own hatred. Hatred for you. Hatred for the fact that you killed his son.”

  “Son?” Oleg raised his head and looked blankly at Harry.

  “Yes. Gusto was his son.”

  Oleg dropped his gaze, squatted and stared at the floor. “If …” He shook his head. Started afresh. “If it’s true Dubai was Gusto’s father and if he hated me so much why didn’t he make sure I was killed in prison right away?”

  “Because you were exactly where he wanted you. Because for him prison was worse than death. Prison eats your soul; death only liberates it. Prison was what he wished for those he hated most. You, Oleg. And he had total control over what you did there. It was only when you began to talk to me that you represented a danger, and he had to be content with killing you. But he didn’t manage that.”

  Oleg closed his eyes. Sat like that, still on his haunches. As though he had an important race in front of him, and now they just had to be quiet and concentrate.

  The town was playing its music outside: the cars, a distant foghorn, a halfhearted siren, noise as the sum of human activity, like the anthill’s perpetual, relentless rustle, monotonous, soporific, secure like a warm duvet.

  Oleg slowly leaned over without taking his eyes off Harry.

  Harry shook his head.

  But Oleg grabbed the gun. Carefully, as though afraid it would explode in his hands.

  Truls had fled to be alone on the terrace.

  He had stood on the periphery of a couple of conversations, sipping Champagne, eating from toothpicks and trying to look as if he belonged there. A few of these well-brought-up individuals had attempted to include him. Said hello, asked him who he was and what he did. Truls had given brief replies, and it had not occurred to him to return the favor. As though he weren’t in a position to do that. Or was afraid that he ought to know who they were and what kind of fucking important jobs they had.

  Ulla had been busy serving and smiling and chatting to these people, as if they were old acquaintances, and Truls had achieved eye contact with her only on a couple of occasions. And then, with a smile, she had mimed something he guessed was supposed to mean she would have liked to talk to him but a hostess’s duties called. It transpired that none of the other guys who had worked on the house had been able to come, and the Chief of Police hadn’t recognized Truls, nor had the unit heads. He almost felt like telling them that he was the officer who had punched the lights out of the boy.

  But the terrace was wonderful. Oslo lay glittering like a jewel beneath him.

  The autumn chill had come with the high pressure. Freezing temperatures had been forecast for the higher ground that night. He heard distant sirens. An ambulance. And at least one police vehicle. From somewhere downtown. Truls would have most liked to sneak away, switch on
the police radio. Hear what was going on. Feel the pulse of his town. Feel that he belonged.

  The terrace door opened, and Truls automatically took two steps back into the shadows, to avoid being drawn into a conversation where he would have to shrink still further.

  It was Mikael. And the politician woman. Isabelle Skøyen.

  She was clearly sloshed; at any rate, Mikael was supporting her. Big woman, she towered above him. They stood by the railing with their backs to Truls, in front of the windowless bay, so that they were hidden from the guests in the lounge.

  Mikael stood behind her, and Truls half-expected to see someone produce a Zippo and light a cigarette, but that didn’t happen. And when he heard the rustle of a dress and Isabelle Skøyen’s low, protesting laugh, it was already too late to make his presence known. He saw the flash of a white thigh before the hem was pulled down firmly. Instead she turned to him, and their heads merged into one silhouette against the town below. Truls could hear wet tongue noises. He turned toward the lounge. Saw Ulla smiling and running between people with a tray of new provisions. Truls couldn’t understand it. Couldn’t fucking understand it. Not that he was shocked—it wasn’t the first time Mikael had been involved with another woman—but he couldn’t understand how Mikael had the stomach for it. The heart for it. When you have a woman like Ulla, when you have such incredible good luck, when you’ve hit the jackpot, how could you want to risk everything for a fuck on the side? Is it because God, or whoever the hell it is, has given you the things women want in men—good looks, ambition, a smooth tongue that knows what to say—that you feel obliged to exercise your potential, as it were? Like people measuring over six feet thinking they have to play basketball. He didn’t know. All he knew was that Ulla deserved better. Someone to love her the way he had always loved her. And always would. The business with Martine had been a frivolous adventure, nothing serious, and it would never be repeated, anyway. Every so often he had thought that in some way or other he ought to let Ulla know that if she were ever to lose Mikael, he, Truls, would be there for her. But he had never found the right words to tell her. Truls pricked up his ears. They were talking.

  “I just know he’s gone,” Mikael said, and Truls could tell from the slightly slurred speech that he was not totally sober, either. “But they found the other two.”

  “His Cossacks?”

  “I still believe that all the stuff about them being Cossacks is bullshit. Anyway, Gunnar Hagen from Crime Squad contacted me and wondered if I could help. Tear gas and automatic weapons were used, so they have a theory it might have been the settling of an old score. He wondered if Orgkrim had any candidates. They were working in the dark, he said.”

  “And you answered?”

  “I answered that I had no idea who it could be, which is the truth. If it’s a gang they’ve managed to sail under the radar.”

  “Do you think the old man could have escaped?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “I think his body’s rotting somewhere down there.” Truls saw a hand point into the starry sky. “Maybe we’ll find it very soon; maybe we’ll never find it.”

  “Bodies always turn up, don’t they?”

  No, Truls thought. He stood with his weight distributed evenly across both feet, felt them press against the cement of the terrace, and vice versa. They don’t.

  “Nevertheless,” Mikael said, “someone has done it, and he’s new. We’ll soon see who is Oslo’s new king of the dope heap.”

  “And what do you think that will mean for us?”

  “Nothing, my love.” Truls could see Mikael Bellman place his hand behind Isabelle Skøyen’s neck. In silhouette, it looked as if he were about to strangle her. She lurched to the side. “We’re where we wanted to be. We jump off here. In fact, it couldn’t have had a better end than this. We didn’t need the old man anymore, and considering what he had on you and me in the course of … our cooperation, it’s …”

  “It’s?”

  “It’s …”

  “Remove your hand, Mikael.”

  Alcoholic laughter, as smooth as velvet. “If this new king hadn’t done the job for us I might have had to do it myself.”

  “Let Beavis do it, you mean?”

  Truls started at the sound of the hated nickname. Mikael had been the first person to use it. And it had stuck. People had caught on to the underbite and the grunted laugh. Mikael had even consoled him by saying he had been thinking more about the “anarchistic perception of reality” and the “nonconformist morality” of the cartoon character on MTV. Had made it sound as if he had awarded Truls a fucking honorary title.

  “No, I would never have let Truls know about my role in this.”

  “I still think it’s strange you don’t trust him. Aren’t you old friends? Didn’t he make this terrace for you?”

  “He did. In the middle of the night on his own. See what I mean? We’re talking about a man who’s not a hundred percent predictable. He’s prone to all sorts of weird and wonderful ideas.”

  “Yet you advised the old man to recruit Beavis as a burner?”

  “That’s because I’ve known Truls since childhood, and I know he’s corrupt through and through and easily bought.”

  Isabelle Skøyen screeched with laughter, and Mikael shushed her.

  Truls had stopped breathing. His throat tightened, and it was as if he had an animal in his stomach. A small roving animal searching for a way out. It tickled and quivered. It tried an upward route. It pressed against his chest.

  “By the way, you’ve never told me why you chose me as your business partner,” Mikael said.

  “Because you’ve got such a great cock, of course.”

  “No—be serious. If I hadn’t agreed to work with you and the old man, I would’ve had to arrest you.”

  “Arrest?” She snorted. “Everything I’ve done has been for the good of the town. Legalizing marijuana, distributing methadone, financing a room for fixes. Or clearing the way for a drug that results in fewer ODs. What’s the difference? Drug policies are pragmatism, Mikael.”

  “Relax—I agree, goes without saying. We’ve made Oslo a better place. Skål to that.”

  She ignored his raised glass. “You would never have arrested me anyway. Because if you had, I would’ve told anyone who wanted to listen that I was fucking you behind your sweet little wife’s back.” She giggled. “Right behind her back. Do you remember the first time we met at that premiere and I said you could fuck me? Your wife was standing right behind you, barely out of earshot, but you didn’t even blink. Just asked me for fifteen minutes to send her home.”

  “Shhh, you’re drunk,” Mikael said, placing a hand on her spine.

  “That was when I knew you were a man after my own heart. So when the old man said I should find myself an ally with the same ambitions as me, I knew exactly who to approach. Skål, Mikael.”

  “Speaking of which, we need to refresh our drinks. Perhaps we should go back and—”

  “Delete what I said about after my own heart. There are no men after my heart—they’re after my …” Deep rumble of laughter. Hers.

  “Come on—let’s go.”

  “Harry Hole!”

  “Shhh.”

  “There’s a man after my own heart. A little stupid, of course, but … hm. Where do you think he is?”

  “Having trawled the town for him for so long without success, I assume he’s left the country. He got Oleg acquitted—he won’t be back.”

  Isabelle swayed, but Mikael caught her.

  “You’re a bastard, Mikael, and we bastards deserve each other.”

  “Maybe, but we should go back in,” Mikael said, glancing at his watch.

  “Don’t look so stressed, big boy. I can handle a drink. See?”

  “I see, but you go in first, then it won’t look so …”

  “Mucky?”

  “Something like that.”

  Truls heard her hard laughter and watched her even har
der heels hitting the cement.

  She was gone and Mikael was left leaning against the railing.

  Truls waited for a few seconds. Then he stepped forward.

  “Hi, Mikael.”

  His childhood pal turned. His eyes were glazed, his face a little bloated. Truls presumed from the time it took him to react with a cheery smile that this was due to the booze.

  “There you are, Truls. I didn’t hear you come out here. Is there life inside?”

  “Shit, yes.”

  They looked at each other. And Truls asked himself exactly when and where they had forgotten how to talk to each other, what had happened to those carefree chats, the daydreaming they had done together, the days when it was OK to say anything and talk about everything. The days when the two of them had been as one. Like early in their careers, when they had smacked around the guy who had hit on Ulla. Or the queer who had worked in Kripos and made a move on Mikael, and whom they had taken to the boiler room in Bryn a few days later. The guy had blubbered and apologized, saying he had misinterpreted Mikael. They had avoided his face so that it wouldn’t be so obvious, but the fucking crybaby had made Truls so angry he had wielded the truncheon with more force than he had intended, and Mikael had only just been able to stop him. They weren’t what you might call good memories, but still, they were experiences that bound two people together.

  “Well, I’m standing here and admiring the terrace,” Mikael said.

  “Thanks.”

  “There was something that occurred to me, though. The night you poured the cement …”

  “Yes?”

  “You said, I think, that you were restless and couldn’t sleep. But it struck me that was the night we arrested Odin and raided Alnabru afterward. And he disappeared—what was his name?”

  “Tutu.”

  “Tutu, yes. You were supposed to have been with us that night, but you were ill, you told me. And then you mixed concrete instead?”

  Truls smirked. Looked at Mikael. At last he managed to catch his eye, and to keep it.