Killing Moon

6 Saturday

Life on Mars

‘“Life on Mars”?’ Prim said.

The girl on the other side of the table looked at him with incomprehension.

Prim burst into laughter. ‘No, the song, I mean. It’s called “Life on Mars”.’

He nodded in the direction of the TV where David Bowie’s voice emanated from the sound bar below it into the large loft. From the windows he had a view over Oslo’s central west side and towards Holmenkollen Ridge, glittering like a chandelier out there in the night. But right now he only had eyes for his dinner guest. ‘A lot of people don’t like the song, they think it’s a little odd. The BBC called it a cross between a Broadway musical and a Salvador Dalí painting. Perhaps. But I agree with the Daily Telegraph who named it the best song of all time. Imagine! The best. Everybody loved Bowie, not because he was a lovable person, but because he was the best. That’s why people who haven’t been loved are willing to kill to be the best. They know that will change everything.’

Prim took hold of the wine bottle standing on the table between them, but instead of pouring from where he sat, he got up and walked around to her side.

‘Did you know that David Bowie was a stage name, that his real name was Jones? I’m not actually called Prim, it’s just a nickname, but only my family call me that. But I’d like to think that when I get married my wife will also call me Prim.’

He was standing directly behind her and, while filling her glass, he stroked her long, fine hair with his free hand. Had it been a couple of years ago, even a couple of months ago, he would not have dared touch a woman like this for fear of rejection. Now he had no such doubts, he was in total control. Having his teeth fixed had helped, of course, as well as starting to go to a proper hairdresser and taking advice on which clothes to buy. But it wasn’t that. It was something he exuded, something they were unable to resist, and knowing that endowed him with a confidence which was in itself such a strong aphrodisiac it alone could have carried him, that placebo effect that was self-perpetuating with every turn as long as he kept the cycle going.

‘I’m probably old-fashioned and naive,’ he said, walking back to his side of the table. ‘But I believe in marriage, that there’s a person out there who’s the right one for each of us, I really do. I was at the National Theatre recently seeing Romeo and Juliet, and it was so beautiful I cried. Two souls nature intended to be inextricably linked. Just look at Boss over there.’

He pointed to an aquarium atop a low bookshelf. A single shimmering gold-and-green fish was swimming within. ‘He has his Lisa. You can’t see her, but she’s there, the two of them are one and will be until they both die. Yes, one will die because the other dies. Like in Romeo and Juliet. Isn’t that beautiful?’

Prim sat down and slid his hand across the table towards her. She seemed weary tonight, empty, off. But he knew how to brighten her up, all he had to do was flick a switch.

‘I could fall in love with someone like you,’ he said.

Her eyes lit up immediately, and he could feel the warmth from them. But he also felt a little pang of guilt. Not in manipulating her in this way but because he was lying. He might fall in love, but not with her. She was not the one, the Woman who was meant for him. She was a stand-in, someone he could use to practise on, test approaches out on, say the right things to, in the right tone of voice. Trial and error. Erring now didn’t really matter, it was on the day he would declare his love to the Woman that everything had to be properly in tune, perfect.

He had also used her to rehearse the act itself. Well, used might not be the right word — she had been the more active of the two. He had met her at a party where there were so many others above him in the pecking order that, upon seeing her peering over his shoulder, he realised he would only get the chance to say a few words before she was gone. He had, however, been effective, had complimented her on her body, and asked which gym she went to. When she answered tersely SATS in Bislett, he said it was strange he hadn’t seen her as he went there himself three days a week, but perhaps they went on different days? She made a curt reply about going there in the mornings, and looked annoyed when he said he did too, so on which days did she train?

‘Tuesdays and Thursdays,’ she replied, as though to conclude the conversation, and turned her attention to a man in a tight-fitting black shirt who had wandered over in their direction.

The following Tuesday, he had been standing outside the gym when she came out. Pretended he happened to be passing and had recognised her from the party. She didn’t remember him, had smiled and was about to be on her way. But then she stopped, turned right round to face him, giving him her full attention as they stood there on the street. Looked at him as though only now really becoming aware of him, no doubt wondering how it could have escaped her notice at the party. He did the talking, she wasn’t exactly the most communicative. Not verbally, at least — her body language told him what he needed to know. It was only when he said they should meet up that she spoke.

‘When?’ she said. ‘Where?’

And when he told her, she just nodded in response. It was that simple.

She came as arranged. He had been nervous. So much could go wrong. But she was the one who took the initiative, who unbuttoned his clothes, fortunately without saying too much.

He knew this could happen, and even though he and the Woman he loved had not exchanged any promises, this was a form of infidelity, was it not? A betrayal of love, at least. But he had convinced himself that it was a sacrifice on the altar of love, something he did for Her, that he performed the deed because he needed all the practice he could get, so that on the day it counted he would meet the requirements She demanded of a lover.

But now the woman on the other side of the table had served her purpose.

Not that he hadn’t enjoyed making love to her. But any repeat of it was out of the question. And — if he was being honest — he didn’t like her smell or her taste. Should he say it out loud? Tell her this was where they would part ways? He stared down at his plate in silence. When he looked up again she had tilted her head a little to the side, still with that inscrutable smile in place, as though she were viewing his monologue as an amusing performance. And suddenly he felt like a prisoner. A prisoner in his own home. Because he couldn’t just get up and leave, he had nowhere else to go. And he couldn’t very well ask her to leave, could he? She didn’t look like she was planning on going anywhere just yet, not at all, and the almost unnatural intensity of the gleam in her eyes dazzled him, made him lose perspective. It occurred to him there was something warped and confused about the entire situation. She had taken control, and without uttering a single word. What was it she actually wanted?

‘What...’ he began. Cleared his throat. ‘What is it you actually want?’

She made no reply, just tilted her head slightly more to the side. Looked like she was emitting silent laughter, with teeth shining blue-white in that beautiful mouth of hers. And then Prim noticed something he hadn’t seen until now. That she had the mouth of a predator. And it struck him: this was a game of cat and mouse. And it was he, not she, who was the mouse.

Where had that absurd thought come from?

Nowhere. Or, the place where all his crazy thoughts came from.

He was frightened, but knew he mustn’t show it. He tried to breathe calmly. He had to go. She had to go.

‘This was nice,’ he said, folding his napkin and putting it on the plate. ‘Let’s do it again sometime.’

Johan Krohn had just sat down at the dining table with his wife Alise when the phone rang. He had yet to call Markus Røed with the bad news that Harry Hole had declined their generous offer. That’s to say, Harry had already declined before Krohn had time to mention the fee. And he hadn’t changed his mind after Krohn had presented the conditions to him and told him they had booked him a business-class seat on the 09.55 flight to Oslo via Copenhagen.

He saw by the number that the incoming call was from Harry’s old phone, the one he had only got messages from saying ‘unavailable’ when he had tried to call. So perhaps his saying no had merely been a negotiating tactic. That was fine, Røed had given him carte blanche to raise the amount.

Krohn stood up from the table, gave his wife an apologetic look, and went into the living room. ‘Hello again, Harry,’ he said cheerfully.

Hole’s voice sounded hoarse. ‘Nine hundred and sixty thousand dollars.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘If I solve the case, I want nine hundred and sixty thousand dollars.’

‘Nine hundred and...?’

‘Yes.’

‘You are aware—’

‘I’m aware that I’m not worth it. But if your client is as wealthy and as innocent as you say, then the truth is worth that to him. So my suggestion is that I work for free, have my expenses covered and only receive payment if I solve the case.’

‘But—’

‘It’s not that much. But, Krohn, I’ll need an answer within the next five minutes. In English, on an email from your address and with your signature. Understand?’

‘Yes, but Christ, Harry, that’s—’

‘There are people here who need to make a decision right this minute. So I sort of have a gun to my head.’

‘But two hundred thousand dollars ought to be more than—’

‘Sorry, it’s the amount I said or nothing at all, Krohn.’

Krohn sighed. ‘It’s an insane sum, Harry, but all right, I’ll call my client. I’ll get back to you.’

‘Five minutes,’ came the hoarse reply. Krohn heard another voice say something in the background.

‘Four and a half,’ Harry said.

‘I’ll do my best to get hold of him,’ Krohn said.

Harry put the phone on the kitchen table and looked up at the man with the shotgun, which was still pointed at him. The other man was speaking Spanish into another mobile.

‘It’s going to be all right,’ whispered Lucille, sitting next to Harry.

Harry patted her hand. ‘That’s my line.’

‘No, it’s mine,’ she said. ‘I’m the one who got you mixed up in this. And anyway, it’s not true, is it? It won’t be all right.’

‘Define all right,’ Harry said.

Lucille smiled faintly. ‘Well, at least I had a wonderful final evening yesterday, that’s something. You know, everybody at Dan Tana’s was convinced we were a couple.’

‘You think?’

‘Oh, I saw it in their faces when you walked in with me on your arm. There’s Lucille Owens with a tall, blond and much younger man, they thought. And wished they were movie stars themselves. And then you took my coat and gave me a kiss on the cheek. Thank you, Harry.’

Harry was about to point out that he had only done as he had been instructed beforehand, including removing his wedding ring, but refrained.

‘Dos minutos,’ the man with the phone said, and Harry felt Lucille’s hand squeeze harder on his.

‘What’s el jefe in the car saying?’ Harry asked.

The man with the shotgun didn’t answer.

‘Has he killed as many people as you?’

The man gave a brief laugh. ‘No one knows how many he’s killed. All I know is that if you don’t pay you’ll be the next two on his list. He likes to take care of things personally. And I mean likes.’

Harry nodded. ‘He the one who gave her the loan or did he just buy the debt?’

‘We don’t loan money, we just collect it. And he’s the best. He can spot the losers, the ones in debt.’ He hesitated for a moment, then leaned forward a little and lowered his voice: ‘He says it’s in their eyes and in the way they carry themselves, but mostly in their body odour. You can see it when you get onto a bus — the ones weighed down by debt are the ones with a seat free next to them. He said you’re in debt too, el rubio.’

‘Me?’

‘He was in that bar looking for the lady one day and saw you sitting there.’

‘He’s wrong, I’m not in debt.’

‘He’s never wrong. You owe somebody something. That was how he found my father.’

‘Your father?’

The man nodded. Harry looked at him. Swallowed. Tried to picture the man in the car. Harry’s phone had been lying on the kitchen table on speaker while Harry had put forward his proposal, but the man on the other end had not uttered a single word.

‘Un minuto.’ The man with the mobile released the safety catch on the pistol.

‘Our Father,’ Lucille mumbled, ‘who art in heaven...’

‘How could you spend so much money on a movie that never materialised?’ Harry asked.

Lucille looked at him in surprise at first. Before perhaps realising that he was offering her some distraction prior to their stepping over the threshold.

‘You know,’ she said, ‘that’s the most frequently asked question in this town.’

‘Cinco segundos.’

Harry stared at his phone. ‘And the most frequent answer given?’

‘Bad luck and lousy scripts.’

‘Mm. Sounds like my life.’

The display lit up. Krohn’s number. Harry pressed Accept.

‘Talk to me. Quickly, and just the conclusion.’

‘Røed says yes.’

‘You’re going to get the email address.’ Harry handed the phone to the guy who was talking to el jefe. The guy stuck the pistol in the shoulder holster inside his bomber jacket and put the two phones against one another. Harry heard the low buzz of voices. When it went quiet, he gave the phone back to Harry. Krohn had hung up. The guy put his own phone to his ear and listened. Lowered it.

‘You’re lucky, el rubio. You have ten days. From now.’ He pointed to his watch. ‘After that, we shoot her.’ He pointed to Lucille. ‘And then we come for you. She’s coming with us now, and you’re not to try to contact her. If you tell anyone about this, you die, along with whoever you talked to. That’s the way we do things here, how we do things in Mexico and how we’ll do things where you’re going. Don’t think you’re beyond our reach.’

‘OK,’ Harry said, and swallowed. ‘Anything else I should know?’

The guy rubbed his scorpion tattoo and smiled. ‘That we won’t shoot you. We’ll strip the skin from your back and leave you lying in the sun. It’ll only take a few hours before you’re parched and die of thirst. Believe me, you’ll be grateful it doesn’t take longer.’

Harry felt like saying something about Norway and the sun in September but held back. The clock was already ticking. Not just on the ten days, but on the flight he had a ticket for. He checked his watch. One and a half hours. It was Saturday and not many kilometres from here to LAX, but this was Los Angeles. He was already behind schedule. Hopelessly behind.

He looked one last time at Lucille. Yes, that was how she would have looked, his own mother, had she lived longer.

Harry Hole leaned over, kissed Lucille on the forehead, stood up and strode towards the door.