The boy had a bloody handkerchief tied around his head and was standing in a side doorway, the one that led from the living room and straight into the garage.
How the hell had he got in that way, when they had locked the garage? He must have come from behind, from the forest. Picking a locked garage door was surely one of the first things a clever junkie would have learned. But this wasn’t Bo’s most pressing problem. His most pressing problem was that the boy was holding something which had an unfortunate resemblance to an Uzi, the Israeli machine gun that spits out nine x 19mm bullets faster than your average execution squad.
‘You’re not Yngve Morsand,’ Sonny Lofthus said. ‘Where is he?’
‘He’s here,’ Bo said, turning his head to the microphone.
‘Where?’
‘He’s here,’ Bo repeated, a little louder this time. ‘In the living room.’
Sonny Lofthus looked around as he walked towards Bo with the machine gun raised and his finger on the trigger. The clip appear to hold thirty-six bullets. He stopped. Had he spotted the earpiece and the cable from the microphone?
‘You’re talking to someone,’ the boy said and had time to take a step backwards before the door to the hallway was flung open and Stan burst in with a pistol. Bo reached for his own Ruger as he heard the dry, crackling cough from the Uzi and a cascade of glass when the window behind him shattered. White stuffing spilled from the upholstered furniture and splinters flew from the parquet flooring. The guy splattered bullets generously with no particular target in mind. But it didn’t matter, an Uzi will always outgun two pistols. Bo and Stan took shelter behind the nearest sofa. It fell silent. Bo was lying on his back clutching his pistol with both hands in case the guy’s face appeared above the edge of the sofa.
‘Stan!’ he shouted. ‘Take him out!’
No reply.
‘Stan!’
‘You do it!’ Stan screamed from behind the sofa by the other wall. ‘He’s got a fucking Uzi, for fuck’s sake!’
There was a click in Bo’s earpiece: ‘What’s going on, boss?’
At the same moment Bo heard the sound of a car starting up and revving the engine loudly. Morsand had taken his stately Mercedes 280CE Coupe 1982 model to the Twin’s party in Oslo, but his wife’s run-around car – a cute little Honda Civic – was still there. Now that Morsand had killed her, he no longer had a wife who could run around in it, but the key must have been left in the ignition. It was probably what they did with wives and cars out here in the countryside, share them. He heard voices from his men outside.
‘He’s trying to get away!’
‘Someone is opening the garage door.’
Bo heard a grating sound when the Honda was put into gear. And a groan when the engine choked. Was the guy a total amateur? He couldn’t shoot and he couldn’t drive.
‘Get him!’
The car was started a second time.
‘We heard something about an Uzi . . .’
‘It’s the Uzi or the Twin,
your choice
!’
Bo scrambled to his feet and ran to the shattered window in time to see the car jump out of the garage. Nubbe and Evgeni had positioned themselves in front of the gate. Nubbe was firing away with his Beretta, bullet after bullet. Evgeni had a Remington 870 with the barrel sawn off at the clip raised to his cheek. He jerked as he pulled the trigger. Bo saw the windscreen explode, but the car continued to accelerate, the front bumper hitting Evgeni right above the knees, flipping him up, and Bo saw him somersault in the air before the windscreen-less Civic swallowed him like a killer whale gulps down a seal. The Civic took out the gate and a section of the fence, drove straight across the narrow gravel path and into the wheat field on the other side. And, without slowing down, it ploughed on, screeching in first gear, as it carved a path through the golden sheaves bathed in moonlight, turned in a wide curve before returning to the gravel path further down. The engine howled even louder – the driver was obviously pushing down the clutch without taking his foot off the accelerator. Then he got the car into second gear, the engine came close to cutting out again, but it recovered and the car continued down the gravel path where, because the driver hadn’t managed to switch on the headlights, it soon disappeared in the darkness.
‘To the car!’ Bo shouted. ‘We have to catch him before he gets to town!’
Pelle stared after the Honda in disbelief. He had heard the shots and seen in his rear-view mirror how the car had burst out through the gate, sending pieces of white picket fence flying. Seen the car plough its way across the field planted with heavily subsidised agricultural produce before it had rejoined the track and continued its dubious journey. The boy was no experienced driver, that was for sure, but Pelle had breathed a sigh of relief when in the moonlight he could make out the bloodstained handkerchief above the wheel behind the shattered windscreen. At least the boy was still alive.
He heard shouting coming from the house.
The sound of guns being loaded in the quiet summer night.
A car starting.
Pelle had no idea who they were. The boy had told him – whether it was true or false – that the man inside the house was a killer. A man, perhaps a drunk driver who had killed, and was now out of prison again. Pelle didn’t know. All he knew was that after months and years where he had made sure to spend most hours of the day and night behind the wheel of his cab, he was back there again. The place where he could react or freeze. Change the orbit of the stars – or not. A young man who couldn’t get the girl he wanted. He ran a finger over the photo beside the steering wheel. Then he put the car in gear and drove after the Honda. Drove down the hills and out onto the narrow bridge. Up on the ridge he could see a pair of headlights cut through the darkness. He accelerated, gained speed, turned the steering wheel slightly to the right, grabbed the handbrake, pressing and releasing the pedals quickly and musically like a church organist as he forced the steering wheel hard to the left. The rear of the car moved as expected as he executed the handbrake turn. And when the car stopped it was perfectly positioned diagonally across the bridge. Pelle nodded contentedly to himself; he hadn’t lost his touch. Then he turned off the ignition, put the car into first gear, shuffled across to the passenger side and got out of the car. Checked that there was a gap of a maximum twenty centimetres between the side wall of the bridge and the car on both sides. Locked all the doors with a simple key click and started walking towards the main road. He thought about her, all the time he thought about her. If only she could see him now. See that he was walking. He felt almost no pain in his foot, he was barely limping. Perhaps the doctors had been right. Perhaps it was time to ditch the crutches.
37
IT WAS TWO
o’clock in the morning and the summer night was at its darkest.
From the deserted viewpoint in the forest clearing above Oslo, Simon could see the fjord shimmer dully beneath the large yellow moon.
‘Well?’
Simon pulled his coat more tightly around him as if he was cold. ‘I used to bring the first girl I was in love with to this very spot. Just to look at the view. To make out. You know . . .’
He saw Kari shift her weight.
‘We had nowhere else to go. And many years later when Else and I got together, I would bring her here, too. Even though we had a flat and a double bed. It felt so . . . romantic and innocent. It was like being just as much in love as the first time.’
‘Simon . . .’
Simon turned round and viewed the scene again. The police cars with the flashing blue lights, the cordons and the blue Honda Civic with the broken windscreen and a dead man lying at an unnatural angle, to put it mildly, in the passenger seat. There were many police officers here. Too many. Panic many.
For once the medical examiner had beaten him to a crime scene and he surmised that the victim had broken both legs in a vehicle collision, been flung over the hood and into the car where he had broken his neck when he collided with the seat. However, the medical examiner had thought it was odd that the victim had sustained no facial injuries after his encounter with the windscreen, until Simon had picked a shot out of the seat upholstery. Simon had also requested an analysis of the blood found on the driver’s seat, as the pattern didn’t match the cuts to the victim’s legs.
‘So he specifically
asked
us to attend?’ Simon said, nodding towards Åsmund Bjørnstad, who was standing near a CSO and waving his hands as he spoke.
‘Yes,’ Kari said. ‘Because the car is registered to Kjersti Morsand, who is one of Lofthus’s victims, he wanted to—’
‘Suspected.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Lofthus is merely suspected of killing Kjersti Morsand. Has anyone talked to Yngve Morsand?’
‘He says he doesn’t know anything; he’s staying at a hotel in Oslo tonight, and the last time he saw the car it was in his garage. Police in Drammen say it looks as if there’s been a shooting at his house. Unfortunately the nearest neighbour is a long way away, so there are no witnesses.’
Åsmund Bjørnstad walked up to them. ‘We now know who the guy in the passenger seat is. Evgeni Zubov. A known offender. And police in Drammen say there are nine x 19mm Luger bullets in the floorboards of the house, spread in a fan formation.’
‘An Uzi?’ Simon said, raising an eyebrow.
‘What do you think I should say to the press?’ Åsmund said, gesticulating with a thumb over his shoulder. The first reporters were already hanging around the police tape by the road.
‘The usual,’ Simon said. ‘Tell them something, but don’t give them anything.’
Bjørnstad heaved a sigh. ‘They won’t leave us alone. When are we meant to get time to work? I hate them.’
‘They have a job to do as well,’ Simon said.
‘The papers are turning him into a celebrity, did you know that?’ Kari said as they watched the young inspector walk towards a sea of flashlights.
‘Well, he’s a talented investigator,’ Simon said.
‘Not Bjørnstad. Sonny Lofthus.’
Simon turned to her in surprise. ‘Are they?’
‘They call him a modern-day terrorist. They say he has declared war on organised crime and capitalism. That he’s ridding society of parasites.’
‘But he’s a criminal himself.’
‘It only makes the story even more juicy. Don’t you ever read the papers?’
‘No.’
‘And you don’t answer your phone, either. I’ve tried calling you.’
‘I’ve been busy.’
‘Busy? Oslo has been turned upside down by these murders, and you’re not in the office and you’re not in the field. You’re supposed to be my boss, Simon.’
‘Message received and understood. What was it?’
Kari took a deep breath. ‘I’ve been thinking: Lofthus is one of very few adults in this country who doesn’t have a bank account, a credit card or a registered address. But we know that he has enough cash from the Kalle Farrisen murder to stay in a hotel.’
‘He paid cash at the Plaza.’
‘Precisely. So I checked the hotels. Out of the 20,000 guests who stay in hotels in Oslo every night, on average only six hundred pay cash.’
Simon stared at her. ‘Can you find out how many of those six hundred are staying in Kvadraturen?’
‘Er, yes. Here’s the list of the hotels.’ She took a printout from her jacket pocket. ‘Why?’
Simon took the printout with one hand while putting on his reading glasses with the other, unfolded the sheets and skimmed them. Looked at the addresses. One hotel. Two. Three. Six. And several of them with guests who had paid cash, especially the cheap ones. There were still too many names. And he guessed that some of the cheapest ones weren’t even listed. Simon suddenly stopped reading.
Cheap
.
The woman who had tapped on his window. A lovers’ meeting in the car, at Akershus Fortress or . . . at the Bismarck. The hotel of choice for Oslo’s prostitutes. Right in the middle of Kvadraturen.
‘I asked you why.’
‘Keep following up that lead, I have to go.’ Simon started walking towards the car.
‘Wait!’ Kari called out and blocked his path. ‘Don’t you dare run off now. What’s going on?’
‘Going on?’
‘You’re on some sort of mission here. It’s not on.’ Kari brushed some strands of hair away from her face.
Simon could see it now; she was exhausted as well.
‘I don’t know what this is about,’ she said. ‘If you want to save the day, be a hero in the twilight of your career, prove Bjørnstad and Kripos wrong. But it’s unacceptable, Simon. This case is too big to be a pissing contest for a bunch of overgrown boys.’
Simon looked at her for a long time. And, finally, he nodded slowly. ‘You might be right. But my motives are not what you think.’
‘Then tell me what they are.’
‘I can’t, Kari. You’ll just have to trust me.’
‘When we went to see Iversen, you said I had to wait outside because you were thinking of breaking the rules. I don’t want to break the rules, Simon. I just want to do my job. So if you don’t tell me what this is about . . .’ Her voice was quivering. Definitely tired, Simon thought. ‘. . . then I’ll have to go to someone higher up and tell them what’s going on.’
Simon shook his head. ‘Don’t do it, Kari.’
‘And why not?’
‘Because,’ Simon said, found her gaze and fixed it. ‘The mole is still there. Give me twenty-four hours. Please.’
Simon didn’t wait for her reply. It wouldn’t make any difference. He walked past her and towards his car. He felt her eyes on his back.
On his way down the hills from Holmenkollåsen Simon played the soundtrack from the short phone conversation with Sonny. The rhythmic pounding. The exaggerated moaning. The thin walls in the Bismarck Hotel. How could he have failed to recognise that sound?
Simon looked down at the boy behind the reception counter who was studying his warrant card. So many years had passed and yet nothing had changed at the Bismarck. Apart from the boy; he hadn’t sat there back then. And that was all right with him.
‘Yes, I can see you’re a police officer, but I don’t really have a guestbook I can show you.’
‘He looks like this,’ Simon said, putting the photograph on the counter.