‘But we’ve got a tip-off about where the boy might be,’ Nestor said.
The big man raised one of his distinctive eyebrows. ‘Who from?’
‘Coco. A drug dealer who lived at the Ila Centre until recently.’
‘The psycho with the stiletto, yes?’
Nestor had never be able to establish exactly how his boss got his information. He was never seen in the streets. Nestor had never met anyone who claimed to have spoken to him, let alone seen him. And yet he knew everything and that was the way it had always been. In the day of the mole that was not surprising, then his boss would have had access to practically everything the police did. But after they had killed Ab Lofthus when he was about to expose him, the mole’s activities appeared to have ceased. This was almost fifteen years ago now, and Nestor had accepted that he would probably never know the identity of the mole.
‘He talked about a young guy at Ila who had so much money that he paid his room-mate’s debt,’ Nestor said in a carefully rehearsed tone of voice and with what he thought was an East Slavic ‘r’. ‘Twelve thousand kroner in cash.’
‘No one at Ila ever pays off another junkie’s debts,’ said the Wolf, an older man who was responsible for the trafficking of girls.
‘Quite,’ Nestor said. ‘But this young guy did – even though his room-mate accused him of stealing some earrings. So I thought—’
‘You’re thinking about the money in Kalle’s safe?’ the big man said. ‘And the jewellery that was stolen at Iversen’s, yes?’
‘Yes. So I went to see Coco and showed him a picture of the guy. And he confirmed it was him, Sonny Lofthus. I even know his room number. 323. The question is now how we . . .’ Nestor pressed his fingertips together and smacked his lips as if he could taste the synonyms for ‘kill him’.
‘We won’t be able to get in,’ the Wolf said. ‘Or at least not without getting noticed. The gate is locked, there are receptionists and CCTV everywhere.’
‘We could use one of the residents for the job,’ said Voss, formerly head of a security company who had been sacked after being involved in the importation and dealing of anabolic steroids.
‘We’re not going to leave this to a junkie,’ the Wolf said. ‘Not only has Lofthus eluded our own – presumably competent – people, he would also appear to have killed one of them.’
‘So what do we do?’ Nestor said. ‘Lie in wait for him outside the centre? Install a sniper in the building opposite? Set fire to the centre and jam the fire exits?’
‘This isn’t the time for jokes, Hugo,’ Voss said.
‘You ought to know that I never joke.’ Nestor felt his face getting hot. Hot, but not sweaty. ‘If we don’t get him before the police—’
‘Good idea.’ The two words were spoken so quietly, they were barely audible. And yet they sounded like thunder in the room.
Silence followed.
‘What is?’ Nestor asked eventually.
‘Not taking him before the police do,’ said the big man.
Nestor looked around the room to make sure that he wasn’t the only one who didn’t understand before he asked: ‘What do you mean?’
‘Exactly what I said,’ whispered the big man, smiling briefly and aiming his gaze at the only person in the room who had kept silent until now. ‘You know what I mean, don’t you?’
‘I do,’ the man replied. ‘The boy will end up back at Staten Prison. Perhaps he’ll take his own life – just like his father?’
‘Good.’
‘I’ll tip off the police about where they can find the boy,’ the man said, raising his chin and easing the skin of his neck away from the shirt collar of his green uniform.
‘That won’t be necessary. I’ll deal with the police,’ said the big man.
‘You will?’ Arild Franck said, sounding surprised.
The big man turned and addressed the whole table. ‘What about this witness in Drammen?’
‘He’s in hospital, in Cardiology,’ Hugo Nestor heard someone say while he himself stared at the painting.
‘And what do we do about that?’
He stared.
‘What we have to,’ the bass voice replied.
He stared at the Twin hanging from the crucifix.
Hanging.
Martha sat in the attic.
Staring at the beam.
She had told her colleagues that she wanted to check the filing had been done properly. It was bound to be, she didn’t care about that. She didn’t care about anything these days. She was thinking about him, Stig, all the time and it was just as banal as it was tragic. She was in love. She had always believed she didn’t have the capacity for strong emotions. She’d had crushes before, obviously, lots of them, but never like this. The other times there had been butterflies in her stomach, it had been an exciting game with heightened senses and flushed cheeks. But this was . . . a disease. Something had invaded her body and was controlling her every thought and action. She was love-struck. Struck down by an illness, or by malign fate. It was an apt expression. This was excessive. It was unwanted. It was tearing her apart.
The woman who had hanged herself up here in the attic – had it been the same with her? Had she, too, fallen in love with a man whom she knew, in her heart of hearts, was a wrong ’un? And had she, too, been so blinded by love that she had started debating right and wrong with herself, trying to carve out a new morality which was compatible with this wonderful disease? Or had she – like Martha – only found out when she was in much too deep? During breakfast Martha had returned to room 323. She had checked the trainers again. They smelled of detergent. Who washes the soles of a pair of practically brand-new trainers unless they have something to hide? And why had it filled her with such despair that she had gone up to the attic? Dear God, she didn’t even want him.
She stared at the beam.
But she wouldn’t do what the dead woman had done; report him. She couldn’t. There had to be a reason, something she didn’t know. He wasn’t like that. In her job she had heard so many lies, excuses and versions of reality that ultimately she no longer believed that anyone was who they said they were. But one thing she did know: Stig was no cold-blooded killer.
She knew it because she was in love.
Martha buried her face in her hands. Felt the tears well up. Sat there, shaking in the silence. He had wanted to kiss her. She had wanted to kiss him.
Still
wanted to kiss him. Here, now, forever! Lose herself in this vast, wonderful, warm ocean of emotions. Take the drug, surrender, press the plunger, feel the high, be grateful and damned.
She heard sobbing. And felt the hairs stand up on her arm. Stared at the walkie-talkie. The tender whimpering of a baby.
She wanted to switch off the walkie-talkie, but she didn’t. The crying sounded different this time. As if the child was scared and was calling out for her. But it was still the same child, always the same child. Her child. The lost child. Trapped in a vacuum, in a nothingness, trying to find its way home. And no one could or wanted to help it. No one dared. Because they didn’t know what it was and people fear the unknown. Martha listened to the crying. It rose in pitch and intensity. Then she heard a loud crackling and a hysterical voice:
‘Martha! Martha! Come in . . .’
Martha froze. What was that?
‘Martha! They’re raiding the centre! They’re armed! For God’s sake, where are you?’
Martha picked up the walkie-talkie and pressed the talk button. ‘What’s going on, Maria?’ She released the button.
‘They’re dressed in black and wearing masks, they have shields and guns and there are so many of them! You have to come downstairs!’
Martha got up and ran out of the door. She heard her own feet clatter down the steps. Flung open the door leading to the corridor to the second floor. Saw a man dressed in black spin round and point a shotgun or possibly a machine gun at her. Saw three others standing in front of the door to room 323. Two of them were swinging a short battering ram between them.
‘What—’ Martha began, but broke off when the man with the machine gun stepped in front of her and raised a finger to what she presumed were his lips under the black balaclava. She stiffened for a second before she realised that the only thing stopping her was his idiotic weapon.
‘I want to see a search warrant right now! You’ve no right to—’
There was a loud crash as the battering ram hit the door below the lock. The third man opened the door a fraction and tossed in something that looked like two hand grenades. Then the men turned away and covered their ears. Good God, were they . . .? The flash of light from the doorway was so bright that all three police officers cast shadows in the already well-lit corridor, and the explosion was so loud that Martha’s ears rang. Then they stormed into the room.
‘Get back, miss!’
The words coming from the policeman in front of her were muffled. He appeared to be shouting. Martha just looked at him. Like the others he was wearing Delta Force’s black uniform and bulletproof vest. Then she retreated back through the door, into the stairwell. Leaned against the wall. Checked her pockets. The card was still in her jacket pocket as if she had known all along that she would need it one day. She rang the number under the name.
‘Yes?’
The voice is a strangely accurate temperature gauge. Simon Kefas’s sounded tired and stressed, but lacking the excitement which a raid, a big arrest, should give it. From the acoustics she also deduced that he wasn’t in the street outside or in any of the rooms at the Ila Centre, but in a big space, surrounded by other people.
‘They’re here,’ she said. ‘They’re throwing grenades.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘This is Martha Lian from the Ila Centre. There’s an armed response unit here. We’re being raided.’
In the pause which followed she heard a voice in the background make an announcement, a name, a call for a doctor to attend the post-op ward. The Chief Inspector was in a hospital.
‘I’ll be over right away,’ he said.
Martha ended the call, opened the door and returned to the corridor. She could hear the crackling and hissing of police radios.
The police officer pointed his gun at her. ‘Hey, what did I just tell you?!’
A metallic voice in his radio said: ‘We’re bringing him out now.’
‘Go on, shoot me if you have to, but I’m in charge here, and I’ve yet to see a search warrant,’ Martha declared and marched past him.
And then she saw them emerge from room 323. He was handcuffed and being led out by two police officers. He was almost naked, wearing only a pair of slightly too big, white underpants and he looked oddly vulnerable. Despite his muscular torso he seemed skinny, sunken, finished. A trickle of blood was dripping from one ear.
He looked up. Met her eyes.
Then they walked past her and out of sight.
It was over.
Martha breathed a sigh of relief.
Having knocked on the door twice, Betty took out the master key and let herself into the suite. As usual she took longer than necessary so that even if the guest was in his room, he would have time to avoid a potentially embarrassing situation. This was the policy at the Plaza Hotel: the staff shouldn’t see or hear anything that shouldn’t be seen or heard. But this wasn’t Betty’s policy. Quite the opposite. Her mother had always said that Betty’s curiosity would get her into trouble one day. And, yes, it had done, and on more than one occasion. But as a receptionist it had also come in useful; no one else at the hotel had the same nose for con men as Betty. It had almost become her trademark, exposing people who intended to live, eat and dine at the hotel with no intention of paying their bills. And she was often proactive; Betty had never hidden her ambitions. During her last annual review, her boss had praised her for being vigilant, but discreet, and always putting the hotel’s interests first. Said that she could go far, that reception was just a stepping stone for someone like her. The suite was one of the biggest in the hotel with a panoramic view of Oslo. It had a bar, a kitchenette, a bathroom and the separate bedroom had an en suite bathroom. She could hear the shower running in the en suite.
According to guest registration his name was Fidel Lae and money was clearly no object. The suit she was bringing him was made by Tiger and had been bought in Bogstadveien earlier that day, sent to the tailor for alterations using their express service, and then delivered to the hotel by taxi. In the summer the hotel would usually employ a bellboy to take items to rooms, but this summer had been so quiet that the receptionists did it themselves. Betty had volunteered immediately. Not because she had any real grounds for suspicion. When she had checked him in, he had paid for two nights in advance and con men did
not
do that. But there was something about him that didn’t ring true. He hadn’t looked like the kind of guy who books the top-floor suite. More like someone who slept rough or would stay in a hostel for backpackers. He seemed so inexperienced and concentrated so hard during check-in as if he had never stayed in a hotel before, but had read about it in theory, and was now keen to get everything just right. Plus he had paid cash.
Betty opened the wardrobe and saw there was already a tie and two new shirts in there, also by Tiger and probably bought at the same shop. A pair of new, black shoes was on the floor. She read the name ‘Vass’ on the insole. She hung up the suit next to a long, soft suitcase with wheels. It was almost as tall as she was; she had seen cases like this before, they were used for transporting snowboards or surfboards. She was tempted to unzip it, but poked the suitcase instead. The fabric gave way. Empty – or at least there wasn’t a snowboard inside. Next to the suitcase stood the only item in the wardrobe which didn’t look new, a red sports bag with the words
Oslo Wrestling Club
.
She closed the doors to the wardrobe, walked over to the open bedroom door and called out towards the bathroom door: ‘Mr Lae! Excuse me, Mr Lae!’
She heard the tap turn off and shortly afterwards a man appeared with swept-back wet hair and shaving foam all over his face.
‘I’ve hung your suit in the wardrobe. I was told to pick up a letter, to be franked and posted?’
‘Oh, yes. Thank you so much. Could you hang on a minute?’