Текст книги "Phantom"

Автор книги: Jo Nesbo

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

‘Maybe.’

‘Bullshit!’

‘Break the curse then, Oleg. Because you don’t really want to kill again, do you.’

‘Get out!’ Oleg screamed. The gun shook in his hand. ‘Go on! You’re not in the police any more!’

‘Correct,’ Harry said. ‘But I am, as I said…’ He clenched his lips around the black cigarette and inhaled deeply. Closed his eyes, and for two seconds he stood there looking as if he was relishing it. Then he let air and smoke wheeze out from his lungs. ‘… a policeman.’ He dropped the cigarette on the floor in front of him. Trod on it as he moved towards Oleg. Lifted his head. Oleg was almost as tall as he was. Harry met the boy’s eyes behind the sights of the raised gun. Saw him cock the gun. Already knew the outcome. He was in the way, the boy had no choice either; they were two unknowns in an equation without a solution, two heavenly bodies on course for an inevitable collision, a game of Tetris only one of them could win. Only one of them wanted to win. He hoped Oleg would have the gumption to get rid of the gun afterwards, that he would catch the plane to Bangkok, that he would never breathe a word to Rakel, that he wouldn’t wake up in the middle of the night screaming with the room full of ghosts from the past and that he would succeed in making himself a life worth living. For his own was not. Not any longer. He steeled himself and kept walking, felt the weight of his body, saw the black eye of the muzzle grow. One autumn day, Oleg, ten years old, his hair ruffled by the wind, Rakel, Harry, orange foliage, staring into the pocket camera, waiting for the click of the self-timer. Pictorial proof that they had made it, been there, reached the peak of happiness. Oleg’s index finger, white at the knuckle as it curled tighter round the trigger. There was no way back. There had never been time to catch the plane. There had never been any plane, no Hong Kong, just a notion of a life none of them had been in a position to live. Harry felt no fear. Only sorrow. The brief salvo sounded like a single shot and made the windows vibrate. He felt the physical pressure from the bullets hitting him in the middle of the chest. The recoil made the barrel jump and the third bullet hit him in the head. He fell. Beneath him, darkness. And he plunged into it. Until it swallowed him up and swept him into a cooling, painless nothing. At last, he thought. And that was Harry Hole’s final thought. That at long, long last he was free.

The mother rat listened. The screams of her young were even clearer now that the church bells had chimed ten and fallen silent and the police siren that had been approaching had faded into the distance again. Only the faint heartbeats were left. Somewhere in rat memory was stored the smell of gunpowder and another, younger human body lying here and bleeding on the same kitchen floor. But that had been in the summer, long before the young had been born. And the body had not blocked the way to the nest.

She had discovered that the man’s stomach was harder to get through than she thought and she had to find another option. So she returned to where she had started.

Bit once into the leather shoe.

Licked the metal again, the salty metal that protruded between two of the fingers on the right hand.

Scrabbled up the suit jacket that smelt of sweat, blood and food, so many types of food that the linen material must have been in a rubbish tip.

And there it was again, molecules of the unusually strong smell of smoke that had not been completely washed out. And even the few molecules stung her eyes, caused them to water and made it hard to breathe.

She ran up the arm, across the shoulder, found a bloodstained bandage around the neck, which distracted her for a moment. Then she heard the squeals of her young again and scuttled up the chest. There was still a strong smell coming from the two round holes in the suit jacket. Sulphur, gunpowder. One was right by the heart; at any rate the rat could sense the barely perceptible vibrations as it beat. It was still beating. She continued up to the forehead, licked the blood running in a single thin stream from the blond hair. Went down to the lips, nostrils, eyelids. There was a scar along the cheek. The rat brain worked as rat brains do in maze experiments, with astonishing rationality and efficiency. The cheek. The inside of the mouth. The neck directly below the head. Then it would be at the back. A rat’s life was hard and simple. You do what you have to do.

PART FIVE
44

The moonlight glistened on the River Akerselva, making the filthy little stream run through the town like a gold chain. There were not many women who chose to walk along the deserted paths by the water, but Martine did. It had been a long day at the Watchtower, and she was tired. But in a good way. It had been a good, long day. A boy approached her from the shadows, saw her face in the torch beam, mumbled a low ‘hi’ and retreated.

Rikard had asked, a couple of times, if she shouldn’t, now that she was pregnant as well, take a different way home, but she had responded it was the shortest way to Grunerlokka. And she refused to let anyone take her town from her. Besides, she knew so many of the people who lived under the bridges that she felt safer there than in some hip bar in Oslo West. She had walked past A amp;E, Schous plass and was heading for Bla when she heard the tarmac resound with the short, hard smack of shoes. A tall young man came running towards her. Glided through the darkness, shining a light along the path. She caught a glimpse of his face before he passed, and heard his panting breath fade into the distance behind her. It was a familiar face, one she had seen at the Watchtower. But there were so many, and sometimes she thought she had seen people whom colleagues told her the next day had been dead for months, years even. But for some reason the face made her think of Harry again. She never spoke about him with anyone, least of all Rikard, of course, but he had created a tiny little space inside her, a small room where she could occasionally go and visit him. Could that have been Oleg? Was that what had reminded her of Harry now? She turned. Saw the back of the boy who was running. As though he had the devil on his tail, as though he were trying to run away from something. But she couldn’t see anyone chasing him. He was getting smaller. And soon he was lost in the darkness.

Irene looked at her watch. Five past eleven. She leaned back in her seat and stared at the monitor above the desk. In a few minutes they would be allowing passengers to board the plane. Dad had texted that he would meet them at Frankfurt Airport. She was sweating and her body ached. It was not going to be easy. But it would be alright.

Stein squeezed her hand.

‘How’s it going, pumpkin?’

Irene smiled. Squeezed back.

It would be alright.

‘Do we know her?’ Irene whispered.

‘Who?’

‘The dark-haired one sitting over there on her own.’

She had been sitting there when they arrived as well, on a seat by the gate opposite them. She was reading a Lonely Planet book about Thailand. She was good-looking, the type of good looks that age never fades. And she radiated something, a kind of quiet happiness, as though she was laughing inside even if she was on her own.

‘I don’t. Who is she?’

‘I don’t know. She reminds me of someone.’

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know.’

Stein laughed. That secure, calm older-brother laugh. Squeezed her hand again.

There was a drawn-out pling, and a metallic voice announced that the flight to Frankfurt was ready for boarding. People got up and swarmed towards the desk. Irene held on to Stein, who also wanted to get up.

‘What is it, pumpkin?’

‘Let’s wait until the queue dies down.’

‘But it-’

‘I don’t feel like standing in the tunnel so close… to people.’

‘OK. Stupid of me. How’s it going?’

‘Still good.’

‘Good.’

‘She looks lonely.’

‘Lonely?’ Stein looked over at the woman. ‘I disagree. She looks happy.’

‘Yes, but lonely.’

‘Happy and lonely?’

Irene laughed. ‘No, I’m mistaken. Perhaps it’s the boy she resembles who is lonely.’

‘Irene?’

‘Yes?’

‘Do you remember what we agreed? Happy thoughts, OK?’

‘Right. The two of us aren’t lonely.’

‘No, we’re here for each other. For ever, right?’

‘For ever.’

Irene hooked her hand under her brother’s arm and rested her head on his shoulder. Thought about the policeman who had found her. Harry, he had said his name was. At first she had thought of the Harry Oleg had always gone on about. He was a policeman as well. But the way Oleg had talked she had always imagined him as taller, younger, perhaps better-looking than the somewhat ugly man who had freed her. But he had visited Stein too, and now she knew it was him. Harry Hole. And she knew she would remember him for the rest of her life. His scarred face, the wound across his chin and the big bandage around his neck. And the voice. Oleg hadn’t told her he’d had such a soothing voice. And all of a sudden she was sure, there was a certainty, where from, she had no idea, it was just there:

It was going to be alright.

Once she had left Oslo, she would be able to put everything behind her. She wasn’t to touch anything, neither alcohol nor dope, that was what Dad and the doctor she had consulted had explained to her. Violin would be there, it always would, but she would keep it at a distance. Just as the ghost of Gusto would always haunt her. The ghost of Ibsen. And all the poor souls she had sold death by powder. They would have to come when they came. And in a few years perhaps they would pale. And she would return to Oslo. The important thing was that she was going to be alright. She would manage to create a life that was worth living.

She watched the woman reading. And the woman looked up, as though she had noticed. She flashed her a brief but sparkly smile, then her nose was back in the travel guide.

‘We’re off,’ Stein said.

‘We’re off,’ Irene repeated.

Truls Berntsen drove through Kvadraturen. Trundled down towards Tollbugata. Up Prinsens gate. Down Radhusgata. He had left the party early, got into his car and driven wherever the whim took him. It was cold and clear and Kvadraturen was alive tonight. Prostitutes called after him – they must have scented the testosterone. Dope pushers were undercutting one another. The bass in a parked Corvette thudded, boom, boom, boom. A couple stood kissing by a tram stop. A man ran down the street laughing with glee, his suit jacket wide open and flapping; another man in an identical suit was running after him. On the corner of Dronningens gate one solitary Arsenal shirt. No one Truls had seen before, he must have been new. His police radio crackled. And Truls could feel a strange sense of well-being: the blood was streaming through his veins, the bass, the rhythm of everything that was happening, sitting here and watching, seeing all the small cogs that knew nothing of one another, yet made the others rotate. He was the only one to see, to see the totality. And that was precisely how it should be. For this was his town now.

The priest in Gamlebyen Church unlocked the door and came out. Listened to the swish of the treetops in the cemetery. Peered up at the moon. A beautiful evening. The concert had been successful and the turnout good. Better than it would be for tomorrow’s early-morning service. He sighed. The sermon he was going to deliver to the empty pews would deal with the forgiveness of sins. He walked down the steps. Proceeded through the cemetery. He had decided to use the same sermon he had used for the burial on Friday. The deceased, according to the next of kin – his ex-wife – had been involved in criminal dealings at the end and even before that had lived a life so full of sin it would be a mountain to climb for all those who made the journey. They hadn’t needed to worry. The only mourners present were the ex-wife with their children, plus a colleague who had snuffled loudly throughout. The ex had confided to him that the colleague was probably the only flight attendant at the airline the deceased hadn’t slept with.

The priest walked past a gravestone, saw on it the remains of something white in the moonlight, as if someone had written in chalk and then erased it. It was the gravestone of Askild Cato Rud. Also known as Askild Oregod. From time immemorial the rule had been that the lease of graves expired after a generation, unless an extension was paid for – a privilege reserved for the rich. But for reasons unknown the grave of the poverty-stricken Askild Cato Rud had been preserved. And once it was really old, it had been protected. Perhaps there had been an optimistic hope that it could become a site of special interest: a gravestone from Oslo East’s poorest district where the unfortunate’s relatives were able to afford only a small stone and – since the stonemason was paid per letter – only the initials before the surname and the dates, no text beneath. One authority had even insisted the correct surname was Ruud, and they had saved themselves a mite there as well. So there was this myth that Askild Oregod still walked abroad. But it had never had much wind in its sails. Askild Oregod had been forgotten and left – quite literally – to rest in peace.

As the priest went to close the cemetery gate behind him a figure slipped out of the shadows by the wall. The priest automatically stiffened.

‘Have mercy,’ rasped a voice. And a large, open hand was thrust forward.

The priest looked into the face beneath the hat. It was an old face with rutted landscape, a robust nose, large ears and two surprisingly clear, blue, innocent eyes. Yes, innocent. That was precisely what the priest thought after giving the poor man a twenty-krone coin and continuing on his way home. The innocent blue eyes of a newborn baby that needs no forgiveness for sins as yet. He could put that in tomorrow’s sermon.

I’ve come to the end now, Dad.

I’m sitting here, and Oleg is standing over me. He’s holding the Odessa shooter with both hands as if hanging on for dear life, a falling branch. Holding tight and shouting. He’s gone totally mental. ‘Where is she? Where’s Irene? Tell me, or else… or else…’

‘Or else what, dopehead? You aren’t capable of using the gun anyway. You haven’t got it in you, Oleg. You’re one of the good guys. Come on, relax and we’ll share the fix. OK?’

‘Like hell I will. Not until you’ve told me where she is.’

‘Will I get the whole fix then?’

‘Half. It’s my last.’

‘Deal. Put the gun down first.’

The idiot did as I said. Very flat learning curve. Tricked as easily as the first time on the way out of the Judas concert. He bent down, put the weird gun on the floor in front of him. I saw the lever on the side was set for C, which means it fired salvos. The slightest pressure on the trigger and…

‘So where is she?’ he asked, getting up.

And now, now that I didn’t have the muzzle pointing at me any longer, I could feel it coming. The fury. He had threatened me. Just like my foster-father had. And if there is one thing I can’t bear, it’s being threatened. So instead of peddling the nice version – she was at a secret rehab centre in Denmark, isolated, mustn’t be contacted by friends, who might get her back on drugs, blah, blah, blah – I twisted the knife. I had to twist the knife. Bad blood flows through my veins, Dad, so you keep your mouth shut. What’s left of my blood, that is, because most of it’s on the kitchen floor. But I twisted the knife round like the idiot I am.

‘I sold her,’ I said. ‘For a few grams of violin.’

‘What?’

‘I sold her to a German at Oslo Central. Don’t know what his name is or where he lives. Munich perhaps. Maybe he’s sitting in his flat in Munich with a pal and they’re both being sucked off by Irene, with her little mouth. And she’s as high as a kite and doesn’t know which dick is which because all she can think of is her true love. And his name is-’

Oleg stood open-mouthed, blinking and blinking. Looking as stupid as the time he gave me five hundred at the kebab shack. I spread my arms like some fricking magician.

‘-violin!’

Oleg kept blinking, so shocked that he didn’t react when I launched myself at the gun.

Or so I thought.

Because I’d forgotten something.

He’d followed me that time. He’d known he wasn’t going to get to taste any meth. He had certain skills. He could read people’s thoughts too. At any rate, a thief’s.

I should have known. I should have settled for half a dose. He reached the gun before me. May have just brushed the trigger. It was set on C. I saw his shocked face before I hit the floor. Heard everything go so quiet. Heard him stoop over me. Heard a low, whining drone, like an engine idling, as if he wanted to cry but couldn’t. Then he walked slowly to the end of the kitchen. A proper druggy does things in a prioritised sequence. He put the syringe next to me. Even asked if we should share. Sounded good, but I couldn’t talk any more. Only listen. And I listened to his slow, heavy footsteps on the stairs as he left. And I was alone. More alone than I have ever been.

The church bells have stopped chiming.

I suppose I’ve told the story.

It doesn’t hurt so much now.

Are you there, Dad?

Are you there, Rufus? Have you been waiting for me?

Anyway, I remember something the old boy said. Death sets the soul free. Sets the fricking soul free. Does it? Damned if I know. We’ll see.