Police

22

Rico Herrem knew he was going to die. He had always known. What was new was that he knew he was going to die within the next thirty-six hours.

‘Anthrax,’ the Thai doctor repeated. With a proper ‘r’ and an American accent. The slit-eye must have studied medicine there. And qualified for a job at this private clinic which probably had only ex-pats and tourists as patients.

‘I’m so sorry.’

Rico breathed into the oxygen mask; even that was difficult. Thirty-six hours. He had said thirty-six hours. Had asked if Rico had wanted them to contact any next of kin. They might be able to make it to Thailand if they caught a plane right away. Or a priest. Was he Catholic?

The doctor must have seen from Rico’s bewildered expression that further explanation was necessary.

‘Anthrax is a disease caused by bacteria. It’s in your lungs. You probably inhaled it a few days ago.’

Rico still didn’t understand.

‘If you’d digested it or got it on your skin, we might have been able to save you. But in the lungs. .’

Bacteria? Was he going to die of bacteria? That he’d breathed in? Where could that have been?

The thought was repeated like an echo by the doctor.

‘Any idea where? The police will want to know to prevent other people from being exposed to the bacteria.’

Rico Herrem closed his eyes.

‘Mr Herrem, please try to think back. You might be able to save other people. .’

Other people. But not himself. Thirty-six hours.

‘Mr Herrem?’

Rico wanted to nod to show he’d heard, but he couldn’t. A door opened. Several pairs of shoes click-clacked in. A woman’s breathless voice, low.

‘Kari Farstad, Norwegian Embassy. We came as soon as we could. Is he. .?’

‘His blood’s stopped circulating. He’s going into shock now.’

Where? In the food he’d eaten when the taxi stopped at the lousy roadside restaurant between Bangkok and Pattaya? From the stinking hole in the ground they called a toilet? Or at the hotel? Wasn’t that how bacteria were often spread, through the air conditioning? But the doctor had said the initial symptoms were the same as with a cold, and he’d had those on the flight. But if these bacteria had been in the air on the plane, the other passengers would have been ill too. He heard the woman’s voice, lower and in Norwegian this time:

‘Anthrax. My God, I thought that only existed as a biological weapon.’

‘Not at all.’ Man’s voice. ‘I googled it on the way here. Bacillus anthracis. Can lie dormant for years. It’s a tough little bugger. Spreads by forming spores. Same spores as in the powder posted to the Americans, do you remember? Ten or so years ago.’

‘Do you think someone sent him a letter containing anthrax?’

‘He may have caught it anywhere, but the most common scenario is close contact with livestock. We’ll probably never find out.’

But Rico knew. Knew with a sudden clarity. He put a hand to his oxygen mask.

‘Did you track down his next of kin?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘And?’

‘They said he could rot.’

‘Right. Paedophile?’

‘No. But the list was long enough. Hey, he’s moving.’

Rico had managed to remove the mask and was trying to speak. But all that came out was a hoarse whisper. He tried again. Saw that the woman had blonde curls and was staring down at him with a mixture of concern and disgust.

‘Doctor, is it. .?’

‘No, it isn’t contagious between humans.’

Not contagious, so it was just him.

Her face came closer. And even dying — or perhaps precisely because he was — Rico Herrem greedily inhaled her perfume. Inhaled it the way he had inhaled that day in Fiskebutikken. From the woollen glove, smelling of wet wool and tasting of chalk. Powder. The man with a scarf in front of his nose and mouth. Not to hide his face. Tiny spores flying through the air. Might have been able to save you. But in the lungs. .’

He strained to speak, and with great difficulty pronounced the words. Three words. It flashed through his mind that they were his last. Then — like the curtain falling after a pathetic, tormented performance lasting forty-two years — a great darkness descended over Rico Herrem.

The intense, brutal rain hammered on the car roof, as if it were trying to get in, and Kari Farstad gave an involuntary shudder. Her skin was perpetually covered with a layer of sweat, but they said it would be better when the rainy season was over, sometime in November. She longed to be home in the embassy flat, she hated these trips to Pattaya, and this was not the first. She hadn’t chosen this career path to work with human detritus. The opposite, in fact. She had envisaged cocktail parties with interesting, intelligent people, lofty conversation about politics and culture; she had expected personal development and greater understanding of the big issues. Instead of this confusion surrounding the small issues. Like how to get a Norwegian sexual predator a good lawyer, possibly have him deported and sent to a Norwegian prison with the standards of a three-star hotel.

As suddenly as it had started, the rain stopped and they raced through the clouds of steam hovering above the hot tarmac.

‘What was it you said Herrem said again?’ the embassy secretary asked.

‘Valentin,’ Kari replied.

‘No, the rest.’

‘It was very unclear. A long word. May have been two. Sounded like something to do with a commode.’

‘Commode?’

‘Something like that.’

Kari stared at the rows of rubber trees planted alongside the motorway. She wanted to go home. Home as in home home.