Harry Hole 02 - Cockroaches (39 page)

‘Famous last words.’

Jens sat up with an apologetic expression on his face and pulled the trigger. The click was deafening. Jens’s moue was replaced with disbelief.

‘It’s only in shit action movies that all the guns have six bullets, Jens. That one’s a Ruger SP
101
. Five.’

‘Five?’ Jens glared at the gun. ‘Five? How do you know?’

‘Knowing that kind of thing is how I make my living.’

Harry could see the blue lights on the road beneath them. ‘Best if you give it to me, Jens. The police have a tendency to shoot on sight if they see a gun.’

Confusion was written all over Jens’s face as he passed the gun to Harry, who stuffed it into his waistband. Perhaps it was because the belt wasn’t there and the gun fell down his trouser leg, perhaps it was because he was tired, perhaps it was because he relaxed when he saw what he thought was capitulation in Jens’s eyes. He lurched backwards as the punch struck him, caught unawares by how fast Jens moved. He felt his left leg buckle beneath him, then his head hit the concrete with a crunch.

He was out for a second. Mustn’t lose consciousness. The radio searched desperately for the station. The first thing he saw was a gold tooth glinting. Harry blinked. It wasn’t a gold tooth; it was the moon reflecting on the blade of a Sami knife. Then the hungry steel arced down towards him.

Harry would never know if he had acted instinctively or if there had been a mental process behind what he did. His left hand rose with fingers spread, straight towards the shiny steel. The knife breached his palm with consummate ease. When the knife was through to the handle, Harry pulled his hand away and kicked with his good leg. He hit his target somewhere in the black blood, Jens folded, groaned and fell sideways into the sand. Harry struggled to his knees. Jens had crawled into the foetal position and was holding both hands to his stomach. He was screaming. With laughter or pain, it was hard to say.

‘Fuck, Harry. It hurts so much it’s just fantastic.’ He gasped, grunted and laughed in turn.

Harry got to his feet. He looked at the knife protruding through both sides of his hand, unsure what the wisest course of action would be: pull it out or leave it in to stop the blood? He heard something shouted through a megaphone from the street below.

‘Do you know what’s going to happen now, Harry?’ Jens had closed his eyes.

‘Not really.’

Jens paused to collect himself. ‘Let me explain then. This is going to be a big pay day for a whole stack of policemen, lawyers and judges. You bastard, Harry, this is going to cost me.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What do I mean? Are you playing the Norwegian Boy Scout again now? Everything can be bought. If you have money. I’ve got money. Besides . . .’ He coughed. ‘There are a couple of politicians with vested interests in the building industry who do not want to see BERTS go down the pan.’

Harry shook his head. ‘Not this time, Jens. Not this time.’

Jens bared his teeth in a pained blend of a smile and a grimace. ‘Want to bet?’

Come on, Harry thought. Don’t do anything you’ll regret, Hole. He looked at his watch, a reflex action in his profession. Time of arrest for the report.

‘There’s one thing I was wondering about, Jens. Inspector Crumley thought I was giving too much away when I asked you about Ellem Ltd. Perhaps I was. But you’ve known for a long time that I knew it was you, haven’t you?’

Jens tried to focus on Harry. ‘A while. That’s why I never understood why you worked so hard to release me from remand. Why, Harry?’

Harry felt dizzy and sat down on one of the toolboxes.

‘Well, perhaps it hadn’t occurred to me yet that I knew it was you. Perhaps I wanted to see what card you were going to play next. Perhaps I just wanted to flush you out. I don’t know. What made you think I knew?’

‘Someone said.’

‘Impossible. I haven’t said a word about it until tonight.’

‘Someone knew without you saying.’

‘Runa?’

Jens’s cheek was trembling and he had white saliva at the corners of his mouth. ‘Do you know what, Harry? Runa had what some call intuition. I call it observational prowess. You have to learn to hide your thoughts better, Harry. Don’t open up to the enemy. It’s incredible what a woman is willing to tell you if you threaten to cut off what makes her a woman. You—’

‘How did you threaten her?’

‘Nipples. I threatened to cut off her nipples. What do you think about that, Harry?’

Harry had lifted his face to the sky and closed his eyes, as though expecting rain.

‘Did I say something wrong, Harry?’

Harry felt hot air streaming through his nostrils.

‘She was waiting for you, Harry.’

‘Which hotel do you stay at when you’re in Oslo?’ Harry whispered.

‘Runa said you would come and save her, she said you knew who had kidnapped her. She cried like a baby and hit out with her prosthesis. It was quite funny. So—’

The sound of vibrating metal. Clang, clang, clang. They were on their way up the ladder. Harry looked at the knife still in his hand. No. He glanced around. Jens’s voice grated in his ear. A sweet tingle started somewhere down in his stomach, a light hiss in his head, like getting drunk on champagne. Don’t do it, Hole, hold on tight. But he could already feel the ecstasy of free fall. He let go.

The lock on the toolbox gave at the second kick. The pneumatic drill was a Wacker, light, probably no more than twenty kilos, and started at the first press of the button. Jens shut his mouth at once and his eyes widened as his brain gradually grasped what was going to happen.

‘Harry, you can’t—’

‘Open wide,’ Harry said.

The roar of the juddering machine drowned the traffic beneath them, the yapping megaphone and the sound of the vibrating iron ladder. Harry leaned over Jens with his legs apart, his face still raised towards the sky and his eyes closed. It was raining.

Harry slumped into the sand. Lay on his back and gazed up at the sky; he was on the beach, she asked if he would put some cream on her back, she had such sensitive skin. Didn’t want to get burnt. Not burnt. Then they were there, loud voices, boots on the concrete and the greased click of guns being cocked. He opened his eyes and was blinded by a light on his face. Then the torch moved on and he glimpsed the outline of Rangsan.

Harry caught the smell of his own gall before the contents of his stomach filled his mouth and nose.

EPILOGUE

51

LIZ WOKE UP
knowing she would see the yellow ceiling with the T-shaped crack in the plaster. For two weeks she had been staring at it. She wasn’t allowed to read or watch TV because of a fractured skull, only listen to the radio. The bullet wound would heal quickly, they said, no vital organs had been damaged.

Not vital to her anyway.

A doctor had been to see her and asked if she had any plans to have children. She had shaken her head and didn’t want to hear the rest, and he had acquiesced. There was time enough for bad news later; now she was trying to concentrate on the good news. Such as not having to direct the traffic for the next few years. And the Police Chief dropping by to say she could have a few weeks off.

Her eyes wandered to the windowsill. She tried to turn her head, but they had built an apparatus like an oil rig over her head, making it impossible to move.

She didn’t like being alone, had never liked it. Tonje Wiig had visited her the day before and asked if she knew what had happened to Harry. As though he had contacted her telepathically while she had been lying in a coma. But Liz had realised that Wiig’s concern wasn’t merely professional and she hadn’t commented. She only said he would turn up soon enough.

Tonje Wiig had looked so lonely and dejected. Well, she would survive. She was the type. She had been informed that she was the new ambassador, taking up the post in May.

Someone coughed. She opened her eyes.

‘How’s it going?’ a hoarse voice said.

‘Harry?’

A lighter clicked and she smelt cigarette smoke.

‘You’re back then?’ she said.

‘Just keeping my head above water.’

‘What are you doing?’

‘Experimenting,’ he said. ‘Trying to find the ultimate way of losing consciousness.’

‘They say you walked out of the hospital.’

‘There wasn’t any more they could do for me.’

She laughed carefully, letting the air out in small bursts.

‘What did he say?’ Harry asked.

‘Bjarne Møller? It’s raining in Oslo. Looks like spring will be early this year. Otherwise nothing new. Told me to say hello and tell you everyone’s sighing with relief on both sides. Director General Torhus popped by with flowers and asked after you. He told me to congratulate you.’

‘What did Møller say?’ Harry repeated.

Liz sighed. ‘OK, I gave him your message and he checked it out.’

‘And?’

‘You know how unlikely it is that Brekke would’ve had anything to do with your sister’s assault, don’t you.’

‘Yes.’

She could hear the crackle of the tobacco as he inhaled.

‘Perhaps you should let it go, Harry.’

‘Why?’

‘Brekke’s ex-wife didn’t understand the questions. She’d dumped him because she thought he was
boring
, not for any other reason. And . . .’ She breathed in. ‘And he wasn’t even in Oslo when your sister was assaulted.’

She tried to hear how he was taking this.

‘Sorry,’ she said.

She heard the cigarette fall and a rubber heel grind it into the stone tiles.

‘Well, I just wanted to see how you were,’ he said. Chair legs scraped on the floor.

‘Harry?’

‘I’m here.’

‘Just one thing. Come back. Promise me you will. Don’t stay out there.’

She could hear his breathing.

‘I’ll come back,’ he said without any intonation, as though sick of this refrain.

52

HE WATCHED THE
dust dance in a solitary beam of light intruding through a crack in the wooden floor above them. His shirt clung to him like a terrified woman, the sweat smarted on his lips and the stench of the earth floor made him feel sick. But then he was passed the pipe, one hand gripped the needle and spread the black tar over the hole; he held the pipe still over the flame and life was mellow again. After the second drag they appeared: Ivar Løken, Jim Love and Hilde Molnes. After the third, the rest appeared. Apart from one. He drew the smoke down into his lungs, held it there until he thought he would explode and then at last she was there. She was standing in the veranda doorway with the sun on one side of her face. Two steps, then she floated through the air, black and arched from the soles of her feet to the tips of her fingers, a gentle arc, endlessly slow, breaking the surface with a soft kiss, diving deeper and deeper into the water until it closed behind her. It bubbled; a wave lapped against the side of the pool. Then it was still, and the green water reflected the sky again as though she had never existed. He inhaled for a last time, lay back on the bamboo mat and closed his eyes. Then he heard the soft splashes of swimming strokes.

Now read on for the first chapter from the next
Harry Hole thriller.

The Redbreast

Available now in Vintage paperback and ebook

1

Toll Barrier at Alnabru
1 November 1999

A GREY BIRD
glided in and out of Harry’s field of vision. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Slow time. Somebody had been talking about ‘slow time’ on TV yesterday. This was slow time. Like on Christmas Eve before Father Christmas came. Or sitting in the electric chair before the current was turned on.

He drummed harder.

They were parked in the open area behind the ticket booths at the toll gate. Ellen turned up the radio a notch. The commentator spoke with reverence and solemnity.

‘The plane landed fifty minutes ago, and at exactly 6.38 a.m. the President set foot on Norwegian soil. He was welcomed by the Mayor of Ullensaker. It is a wonderful autumn day here in Oslo: a splendid Norwegian backdrop to this summit meeting. Let us hear again what the President said at the press conference half an hour ago.’

It was the third time. Again Harry saw the screaming press corps thronging against the barrier. The men in grey suits on the other side, who made only a half-hearted attempt not to look like Secret Service agents, hunched their shoulders and then relaxed them as they scanned the crowd, checked for the twelfth time that their earpieces were correctly positioned, scanned the crowd, dwelled for a few seconds on a photographer whose telephoto lens was a little too long, continued scanning, checked for the thirteenth time that their earpieces were in position. Someone welcomed the President in English, everything went quiet. Then a scratching noise in a microphone.

‘First, let me say I’m delighted to be here . . .’ the President said for the fourth time in husky, broad American-English.

‘I read that a well-known American psychologist thinks the President has an MPD,’ Ellen said.

‘MPD?’

‘Multiple Personality Disorder. Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. The psychologist thought his normal personality was not aware that the other one, the sex beast, was having relations with all these women. And that was why a Court of Impeachment couldn’t accuse him of having lied under oath about it.’

‘Jesus,’ Harry said, looking up at the helicopter hovering high above them.

On the radio, someone speaking with a Norwegian accent asked, ‘Mr President, this is the fourth visit to Norway by a sitting US President. How does it feel?’

Pause.

‘It’s really nice to be back here. And I see it as even more important that the leaders of the state of Israel and of the Palestinian people can meet here. The key to—’

‘Can you remember anything from your previous visit to Norway, Mr President?’

‘Yes, of course. In today’s talks I hope that we can—’

‘What significance have Oslo and Norway had for world peace, Mr President?’

‘Norway has played an important role.’