Текст книги "Phantom"

Автор книги: Jo Nesbo

Соавторы: Jo Nesbo,Jo Nesbo
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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

13

It had rained all night, and from where Harry was standing, in front of Oslo District Prison, he could see a fresh layer of leaves lying like a wet yellow tarpaulin over the park. He had not slept much after he had gone straight from the airport to Rakel’s. Hans Christian had come, not protested too much and gone again. Afterwards Rakel and Harry drank tea and talked about Oleg. About how it had been before. About how it had been, but not about how it could have been. In the early hours Rakel had said Harry could sleep in Oleg’s room. Before Harry went to bed he had used Oleg’s computer to search for, and find, old articles about the police officer found dead beneath Alvsborg Bridge in Gothenburg. It confirmed what Cato had told him, and Harry also found a piece in the ever-sensationalist Goteborgstidningen leaking rumours about the dead man being a burner, which it defined as a person criminals used to destroy evidence against them. It was only two hours since Rakel had woken him with a steaming cup of coffee and a whisper. She had always done that, started the day with whispers, to him and Oleg, as if to soften the transition from dreams to reality.

Harry peered into the CCTV camera, heard the low buzz and pushed open the door. Then he entered quickly. Held the briefcase up in front of him for all to see and laid his ID card on the counter while turning his good cheek.

‘Hans Christian Simonsen…’ the prison officer mumbled without looking up, running her eye down the list in front of her. ‘There, yes. For Oleg Fauke.’

‘Correct,’ Harry said.

Another officer led him through the corridors and across the open gallery in the middle of the prison. The officer talked about how warm the autumn had been and rattled the huge bunch of keys whenever he opened a new door. They walked through the common room, and Harry saw a ping-pong table with two rackets and an open book on top, and a kitchenette, in which a wholemeal loaf and a bread knife had been left out along with spreads of various kinds. But no inmates.

They stopped by a white door and the officer unlocked it.

‘I thought cell doors were open at this time of day,’ Harry said.

‘The others are, but this prisoner’s doing a 171,’ the officer said. ‘He’s allowed out only one hour a day.’

‘Where are all the others then?’

‘God knows. Perhaps they’ve got the Hustler Channel on TV again.’

After the officer had let him in, Harry stood by the door until he heard the footsteps outside fading in the distance. The cell was the usual kind. Ten square metres. A bed, a cupboard, a desk and chair, bookshelves, a TV. Oleg sat at the desk and looked up in surprise.

‘You wanted to meet me,’ Harry said.

‘I thought I wasn’t allowed visitors,’ Oleg said.

‘This isn’t a visit. It’s a consultation with your defence counsel.’

‘Defence counsel?’

Harry nodded. And saw the light dawn in Oleg’s eyes. Smart boy.

‘How…?’

‘The type of murder you’re suspected of committing doesn’t qualify you for a high-security prison. It wasn’t so difficult.’ Harry opened the briefcase, took out the white Game Boy and passed it to Oleg. ‘Here you are. It’s for you.’

Oleg ran his fingers over the display. ‘Where did you find it?’

Harry thought he could see the suggestion of a smile on the boy’s serious face. ‘Vintage model with battery. I found it in Hong Kong. My plan was to crush you at Tetris the next time we met.’

‘Never!’ Oleg laughed. ‘Not at that, and not at underwater swimming.’

‘That time in Frogner Lido? Mm. I seem to recall I was a metre ahead of you-’

‘A metre behind more like! Mum was a witness.’

Harry sat still so as not to destroy anything, soaked up the happiness at seeing the pleasure in his face.

‘What did you want to talk to me about, Oleg?’

The clouds drew back over his face. He fidgeted with the Game Boy, turned it over and over as if looking for the start button.

‘Take all the time you need, Oleg, but it’s often easiest to start at the beginning.’

The boy raised his head and looked at Harry. ‘Can I trust you? No matter what?’

Harry was about to say something, but stopped. Just nodded.

‘You have to get something for me…’

It was like someone twisting a knife in Harry’s heart. He already knew how Oleg would continue.

‘They’ve only got boy and speed here, but I need violin. Can you help me, Harry?’

‘Was that why you asked me to come?’

‘You’re the only person who’s managed to get round the ban on visitors.’ Oleg stared at Harry with his solemn, dark eyes. A tiny twitch in the thin skin below one eye revealed the desperation.

‘You know I can’t, Oleg.’

‘Course you can!’ His voice sounded hard and metallic between the cell walls.

‘What about the people you sold for, can’t they supply you?’

‘Sold what?’

‘Don’t lie to me!’ Harry smacked his hand down on the briefcase lid. ‘I found an Arsenal shirt in your locker at Valle Hovin.’

‘Did you break in…?’

‘I found this as well.’ Harry slung the photograph of the family on the desk. ‘The girl in the picture, do you know where she is?’

‘Who…?’

‘Irene Hanssen. Your girlfriend.’

‘How…?’

‘You were seen together at the Watchtower. There’s a jumper smelling of wild flowers and a junkie kit for two in the locker. Sharing your stash is more intimate than sharing the marital bed, isn’t it. Plus your mother told me she saw you in town, looking like a happy idiot. My diagnosis: in love.’

Oleg’s Adam’s apple went up and down.

‘Well?’ Harry said.

‘I don’t know where she is! OK? She just disappeared. Perhaps her brother picked her up again. Perhaps she’s in rehab somewhere. Perhaps she caught a plane and buggered off from all this shit.’

‘Or perhaps the news is not so good,’ Harry said. ‘When did you last see her?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘You remember to the hour.’

Oleg closed his eyes. ‘One hundred and twenty-two days ago. Long before the stuff with Gusto, so what’s this got to do with the case?’

‘It all slots together, Oleg. A murder is a white whale. A missing person is a white whale. If you’ve seen a white whale twice it’s the same whale. What can you tell me about Dubai?’

‘It’s the biggest town, but not the capital, of the United Arab Emir-’

‘Why are you protecting them, Oleg? What is it you can’t tell me?’

Oleg had found the start button on the Game Boy and flicked it to and fro. Then he flipped off the battery cover at the back, raised the lid of the metal bin beside the desk and dropped the batteries inside before passing the toy back to Harry.

‘Dead.’

Harry looked at the Game Boy and slipped it into his pocket.

‘If you can’t get me violin, I’ll shoot up the diluted shit they’ve got here. Heard of fentanyl and heroin?’

‘Fentanyl is a recipe for an OD, Oleg.’

‘Right. So you can tell Mum afterwards it was your fault.’

Harry didn’t answer. Oleg’s pathetic attempt to manipulate him didn’t make him angry, it made him want to embrace the boy and hold him tight. Harry didn’t need to see the tears in Oleg’s eyes to know the struggle that was taking place in his body and head, he could feel the gnawing hunger in the boy, it was physical. And then there is nothing else, no morality, no love, no consideration, just the eternally pounding thought of the rush, the high, peace. Harry had once in his life been on the verge of accepting a heroin shot, but a chance second of clear-sightedness had made him decline. Perhaps it was the certainty that heroin would do what alcohol still had not been able to do: kill him. Perhaps it was the girl who had told him how she had been hooked from the first shot because nothing, nothing she had experienced or imagined, could surpass the ecstasy of it. Perhaps it was his pal from Oppsal who had gone to rehab to have his tolerance set to zero, because he hoped that when he injected himself afterwards it would be something like the first sweet shot. And who said that when he saw his three-month-old son’s vaccination mark in his thigh, he began to cry because it had triggered such a strong craving for dope that he had been willing to sacrifice everything, to go straight from the clinic to Plata.

‘Let’s make a deal,’ Harry said, conscious of his own thick voice. ‘I’ll get you what you ask and you tell me all you know.’

‘Great!’ Oleg said, and Harry saw his pupils widen. He had read somewhere that with heavy heroin users parts of their brains could be activated even before the syringe was inserted, that they were already physically high while the melted powder was being pumped up a vein. And Harry also knew it was these parts of Oleg’s brain that were speaking now, that there was no other answer than ‘Great!’, whether it was a lie or the truth.

‘But I don’t want to buy it on the street,’ Harry said. ‘Have you got any violin in your stash?’

Oleg seemed to hesitate for a second. ‘You’ve been to my stash.’

Harry remembered again that it was not true that nothing was sacred to a heroin user. The stash was sacred.

‘Come on, Oleg. You don’t keep dope where other junkies have access. Where’s your other stash, your reserves?’

‘I’ve only got one.’

‘I’m not going to steal anything from you.’

‘I haven’t got another stash, I’m telling you!’

Harry could hear he was lying. But that was not so important; it only meant presumably he didn’t have any violin there.

‘I’ll be back tomorrow,’ Harry said, getting up, knocking on the door and waiting. But no one came. In the end he wrenched the handle. The door opened. Definitely not a high-security prison.

Harry walked back the way he had come. There was no one in the corridor, nor in the common room where Harry noticed the food was still out, but the bread knife had been tidied away. He continued to the door leading out of the unit and into the gallery and discovered to his surprise that it was open, too.

Only at reception did he find locked doors. He mentioned the fact to the prison officer behind the glass, and she raised an eyebrow and glanced at the monitors above her. ‘No one will get any further than here anyway.’

‘Apart from me, I hope.’

‘Eh?’

‘Nothing.’

Harry had walked almost a hundred metres through the park down towards Gronlandsleiret when it struck him. The empty rooms, the open doors, the bread knife. He froze. His heart accelerated so fast he felt nauseous. He heard a bird singing. The smell of grass. Then he turned and sprinted back to the prison. Felt his mouth go dry with fear and his heart pound adrenalin around his body.

14

Violin hi tOslo like a fricking asteroid. Oleg had explained to me the difference between a meteorite and a meteoroid and all the other junk that could hit us on the head at any moment, and this was an asteroid, a huge ugly brute that could flatten the earth with… Shit, you know what I mean, Dad, don’t laugh. We stood selling eighths, quarters, whole grams and five grams all at once from morning to night. The city centre was turned upside down. And then we raised the price again. And the queues stretched even further. And then we put up the price again. And the queues were just as long. And then we put up the price again. And that was when all hell broke loose.

A gang of Kosovar Albanians robbed our team behind the Stock Exchange. There were two Estonian brothers operating without a scout, and the Kosovar Albanians used baseball bats and knuckledusters. Took the money and the dope and smashed their hips. Two nights later a Vietnamese gang struck in Prinsens gate, ten minutes before Andrey and Peter were due to collect the day’s takings. They attacked the dope man in the backyard without the money man or the scout noticing. It was a bit like: ‘What next?’

The question was answered two days later.

Oslo folk who were up early and on their way to work caught sight of a slit-eye dangling upside down from Sanner Bridge before the cops came. He was dressed as a lunatic, with a straitjacket and a gag in his mouth. The rope round his ankles was just long enough for him not to be able to hold his head above the water. At least after his stomach muscles failed him.

That same evening Oleg and I were given a shooter by Andrey. It was Russian, Andrey trusted only Russian things. He smoked black Russian cigarettes, used a Russian mobile phone (I’m not kidding, Dad. Gresso, expensive luxury number made from African blackwood, but apparently waterproof and didn’t send out signals when it was switched on, so the cops couldn’t trace it) and swore by Russian pistols. Andrey explained that the brand name of the shooter was Odessa, which was a cheap version of a Stechkin, as if we knew anything about either of them. Nonetheless, the Odessa’s speciality was that it could fire fricking salvos. It had a magazine capable of holding twenty rounds of Makarov, nine by eighteen millimetre calibre, the same as Andrey and Peter and some of the others used. We were given a box of bullets, and he showed us how to load, put on the safety catch and fire the strange, clumpy gun. He said we had to hold it tight and aim a bit lower than we thought in order to hit. And that we shouldn’t aim at the head, which was what we thought, but anywhere on the upper torso. If we twisted the little lever on the side to C it would fire salvos, and a little pressure on the trigger was enough to loose off three to four shots. But he assured us that nine times out of ten you just had to show the gun. After he had left, Oleg said it looked like the shooter on the cover of some Foo Fighters record, and he was buggered if he was going to shoot anyone, we should chuck it in the bin. So I said I would have it.

The newspapers ran riot. They screamed about gang warfare, blood in the streets, fricking LA, and so on. The opposition politicians went on about a failed crime policy, failed drug policy, failed chairman of the City Council, failed City Council. One Centre Party loony said Oslo was a failed town and should be wiped off the map, it was a disgrace to the country. The person who got the most stick was the Chief of Police, but as we know shit sinks, and after a Somali had shot dead two relatives in the tribe at point-blank range down by Plata, in broad daylight, and no one was arrested, the head of Orgkrim handed in his resignation. The Councillor for Social Services – who was also head of the Police Commission – said that crime, drugs and the police were primarily the state’s responsibility, but she saw it as her duty to ensure that Oslo’s citizens could walk through the streets in safety. That was kind of her. And behind her stood her secretary. It was my old friend. MILF without the M. She looked serious and businesslike. Though all I saw was a hot bitch with riding breeches round her knees.

One night Andrey came early, said we were finished for the day and I should go with him to Blindern.

When he drove straight past the old boy’s place I began to think very nasty thoughts. But then, fortunately, Andrey turned into the neighbour’s plot, which of course he also owned. Andrey escorted me in. The house was not as empty as it looked from the outside. Behind the peeling walls and cracked windowpanes it was furnished and heated. The old boy was sitting in a room with bookshelves from floor to ceiling, and some of that classical-type music was belting out of large speakers on the floor. I sat on the only other chair in the room, and Andrey closed the door as he left.

‘I’ve decided to ask you to do something for me, Gusto,’ said the old boy, placing a hand on my knee.

I glanced at the closed door.

‘We’re at war,’ he said, getting up. He went to the shelves and pulled out a thick book with a brown, stained cover. ‘This text is from six hundred years before Christ was born. I can’t read Chinese, so I have only this French translation, which was made more than two hundred years ago by a Jesuit named Jean Joseph Marie Amiot. I went to an auction and had my bid of one hundred and ninety thousand accepted. The book’s about how to fool the enemy in war and it’s the most quoted work on the subject. Stalin, Hitler and Bruce Lee had it as their bible. And do you know what?’ He replaced the book and pulled out another. ‘I prefer this one.’ He threw the book over to me.

It was a thin volume with a shiny, blue cover, evidently quite new. I read the title: Chess For Beginners.

‘Sixty kroner at a sale,’ the old boy said. ‘We’re going to perform a move called castling.’

‘Castling?’

‘A sideways switch of king and castle to provide a defence. We’re going to form an alliance.’

‘With a castle?’

‘Think City Hall castle.’

I thought.

‘City Council,’ said the old boy. ‘The Councillor for Social Services has a secretary called Isabelle Skoyen, who in effect runs the town’s drug policy. I’ve checked a source and she’s perfect. Intelligent, efficient and extremely ambitious. The reason she has not climbed higher, according to my source, is her lifestyle, which is bound to attract headlines. Just a question of time. She parties, speaks her mind and has lovers in Oslo East and Oslo West.’

‘Sounds absolutely dreadful,’ I said.

The old boy sent me an admonitory look before continuing. ‘Her father was spokesperson for the Centre Party, but was thrown out when he tried to enter national politics. And my source tells me Isabelle has inherited his dreams and since the odds are best for the Socialist Party she’s left her father’s little party of farmers. In short, everything about Isabelle Skoyen is flexible and can be adapted to suit her ambition. Furthermore, she is single with a not insubstantial debt on the family farm.’

‘So what are we going to do?’ I asked as if I were part of the violin administration.

The old boy smiled as though he considered the remark charming. ‘We’re going to threaten her to come to the negotiating table, where we will entice her into an alliance. And you’re in charge of the threats, Gusto. That’s why you’re here now.’

‘Me? Threaten a woman politician?’

‘Precisely. A woman politician you’ve copulated with, Gusto. A council employee who has used her position and status for sexual exploitation of a teenager with considerable social problems.’

At first I couldn’t believe my ears. Until he produced a photo from his jacket and placed it on the table in front of me. It looked as if it had been taken from behind a tinted car window. It was of Tollbugata and showed a young boy getting into a Land Rover. The number plate was visible. The boy was me. The car belonged to Isabelle Skoyen.

A cold shiver ran down my spine. ‘How do you know…?’

‘My dear Gusto, I told you I was keeping an eye on you. What I want you to do is to contact Isabelle Skoyen on the private number I am sure you have and tell her this story we have prepared for the press. And then ask for an extremely private meeting between the three of us.’

He walked over to the window and looked at the drab weather.

‘You’ll find she has a gap in her calendar.’

15

In the course of the last three years in Hong Kong Harry had done more running than in the whole of his former life. Yet in the thirteen seconds he spent covering the hundred metres to the prison entrance, his brain was playing various scenarios with a common theme: he was too late.

He rang and resisted the temptation to shake the door while waiting for it to open. At last there was a buzz, and he ran to reception.

‘Forgotten something?’ the officer asked.

‘Yes,’ Harry said and waited for her to let him through the locked door. ‘Sound the alarm!’ he shouted, dropped the briefcase and ran. ‘Oleg Fauke’s cell.’

His footsteps echoed through the empty gallery, the empty corridors and the much too empty common room. He was not out of breath, yet his breathing sounded like roaring inside his head.

Oleg’s scream reached him as he emerged from the last corridor. The door to his cell was half open, and seconds before he got there it felt like the nightmare, the avalanche, the feet that would not move fast enough.

Then he was inside and absorbing the scene.

The desk was on its side, paper and books were strewn across the floor. At the other end of the room, with his back to the cupboard, stood Oleg. The black Slayer T-shirt was drenched in blood. He was holding the metal lid of the waste-paper bin in front of him. His mouth was open, and he was screaming and screaming. Harry saw the back of a Gym Tech singlet, above it a broad, sweaty bull neck, above that a shiny skull and above that a raised hand holding a bread knife. Metal resounded against metal as the blade struck the bin lid. The man must have noticed the change of light in the room, for the next moment he whirled round. Lowered his head and held the knife low, pointing it towards Harry.

‘Out!’ he hissed.

Harry avoided the temptation of looking at the knife; instead he focused on the feet. He noted that behind the man Oleg had slid to the floor. Compared with martial arts practitioners Harry had a lamentably small repertoire of offensive moves. He had only two. And also only two rules. One: there are no rules. Two: attack first. And when Harry acted it was with the automatic movements of someone who has learned, practised and repeated only two methods of attack. Harry stepped towards the knife so that the man was forced to retreat in order to swing at him. And by the time the man had wound up his arm Harry had raised his right leg and angled his hip. As the knife was on its way forward, Harry’s foot was on its way down. It struck the man’s knee above the patella. And since the human anatomy is not very well protected against violence from that angle, the quadriceps immediately gave way, followed by the knee-joint ligaments and – as the kneecap was pressed down in front of the tibia – also the patellar tendon.

The man fell to the ground with a howl. The knife clattered to the floor as his hands groped for his kneecap. And his eyes saucered when he found it in a completely new position.

Harry kicked the knife away and raised his foot to finish off the attack as he had been taught: stamp on the opponent’s thigh muscles to cause such massive internal bleeding that he would not be able to get up again. But he saw that the job was already done and lowered his foot.

He heard the sound of running feet and the rattle of keys from outside in the corridor.

‘Over here!’ Harry shouted, stepping over the screaming man towards Oleg.

He heard panting from the door.

‘Get that man out and get hold of a doctor.’ Harry had to yell to drown the continuous screams.

‘Bloody hell, what-’

‘Never mind that now, get hold of the doctor.’ Harry tore the Slayer T-shirt and searched through the blood for the wound. ‘And the doctor should come here first. He’s only got a wonky knee.’

Harry held Oleg’s face between his bloodstained hands while listening to the screaming man being dragged away.

‘Oleg? Are you there? Oleg?’

The boy’s eyes rolled and the word that escaped his lips was so faint that Harry barely heard it. And felt his chest constrict.

‘Oleg, it’ll be alright. He hasn’t stabbed anything you really need.’

‘Harry-’

‘And soon it’ll be Christmas Eve. They’re going to give you morphine.’

‘Shut up, Harry.’

Harry shut up. Oleg opened his eyes. There was a feverish, desperate sheen to them. His voice was hoarse, but quite clear now.

‘You should have let him complete the job, Harry.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘You have to let me do this.’

‘Do what?’

No answer.

‘Do what, Oleg?’

Oleg placed a hand behind Harry’s head, pulled him down and whispered: ‘You can’t stop this, Harry. It’s all happened. It has to run its course. If you get in the way, more will die.’

‘Who’s going to die?’

‘It’s too big, Harry. It’ll swallow you up, swallow everyone up.’

‘Who’s going to die? Who are you protecting, Oleg? Is it Irene?’

Oleg closed his eyes. His lips barely moved. Then not at all. And Harry thought he looked like he had when he was eleven and had just fallen asleep after a long day. Then he spoke.

‘It’s you, Harry. They’re going to kill you.’

As Harry was leaving the prison the ambulances had arrived. He thought of how things used to be. The town as it used to be. His life as it used to be. While he had been using Oleg’s computer he had also looked for Sardines and Russian Amcar Club. He hadn’t found any signs to suggest they had been resurrected. Resurrection may be generally too much to hope for. Perhaps life doesn’t teach you much, apart from this one thing: there is no way back.

Harry lit a cigarette, and before he took the first drag, the brain already celebrating the fact that nicotine would accompany the blood, he heard the sound being played back, the sound he knew he would hear for the rest of the evening and night, the almost inaudible word that had first crossed Oleg’s lips in the cell:

‘Dad.’