The Son

19

‘So you’re with Homicide now,’ Fredrik said, smiling behind his sunglasses. The designer logo on the sidebar was so small that you needed Simon’s eagle eyes to see it, but someone with greater brand awareness than Simon to know just how exclusive it was. Still, Simon presumed that the sunglasses must be expensive, in line with Fredrik’s shirt, tie, manicure and haircut. But really, a light grey suit with brown shoes? Or maybe that passed for trendy these days.

‘Yes,’ Simon said and squinted. He had sat down with the wind and the sun to his back, but the sunbeams bounced off the glass surfaces of the newly constructed building across the canal. They were meeting at Simon’s request, but it was Fredrik who had suggested the Japanese restaurant on Tjuvholmen; Tjuvholmen meant ‘isle of thieves’ and Simon wondered if it was pertinent to all the investment companies which were located there, including Fredrik’s. ‘And you’re investing money for people who are so rich they no longer care what happens to it?’

Fredrik laughed. ‘Something like that.’

The waiter had placed a small plate in front of each of them with what looked like a tiny jellyfish. Simon suspected that it might actually be a tiny jellyfish. It was probably everyday fare on Tjuvholmen; sushi had become the pizza of the upper-middle class.

‘Do you ever miss the Serious Fraud Office?’ Simon said, sipping water from his glass. It purported to be glacial water from Voss that had been sent to the US and then imported back to Norway, stripped of essential minerals that the body needed and which you could get for free in clean and tasty Norwegian tap water. It cost sixty kroner per bottle. Simon had given up trying to understand market forces, their psychology, and the jostling for power. But Fredrik hadn’t. He understood. He played the game. Simon suspected he always had done. He had much in common with Kari; too well educated, too ambitious, and all too aware of his own value for the police to be able to keep him.

‘I miss my colleagues and the excitement,’ Fredrik said. ‘But not the slow pace and the bureaucracy. Perhaps you quit for the same reason?’

He raised his glass too quickly to his lips for Simon to read his face to determine if he genuinely didn’t know or was just pretending. After all, it was shortly after Fredrik had announced his departure to what many regarded as the dark side that the row over the money laundering case had erupted. Fredrik had even been one of the people working on the case. But perhaps he no longer had any police contacts.

‘Something like that,’ Simon muttered.

‘Murder is more up your street,’ Fredrik said and glanced with feigned discretion at his watch.

‘Talking about my street,’ Simon said, ‘I wanted to meet because I need a loan. It’s for my wife, she needs an eye operation. Else — do you remember her?’

Fredrik chewed his jellyfish and made a sound that could mean both yes and no.

Simon waited until he had finished.

‘I’m sorry, Simon, we only invest our clients’ money in blue-chip companies or in government-backed bonds, we never lend to the private market.’

‘I’m aware of that, but I’m asking you because I can’t go down the usual routes.’

Fredrik carefully dabbed the corners of his mouth and put the napkin on his plate. ‘I’m sorry I can’t help you. An eye operation? That sounds serious.’

The waiter arrived, took Fredrik’s plate, saw that Simon’s was untouched and looked quizzically at him. Simon gestured for him to take it away.

‘You didn’t like it?’ Fredrik said and asked for the bill in a few words which might be Japanese.

‘I don’t know, but I’m generally sceptical when it comes to invertebrates. They slip down too easily, if you know what I mean. I don’t like waste, but that particular animal looked as if it was still alive, so I’m hoping it might get a second chance in the aquarium.’

Fredrik laughed unnecessarily heartily at his joke; relieved that the second part of their conversation appeared to be over. He grabbed the bill the moment it arrived.

‘Let me. .’ Simon began, but Fredrik had already slipped his credit card into the payment terminal the waiter had brought and was pressing the keypad.

‘It was good to see you again and I’m sorry I wasn’t able to help you,’ Fredrik said when the waiter had disappeared and Simon could sense that the pressure on the seat of Fredrik’s chair had already eased.

‘Did you read about the Iversen killing yesterday?’

‘Oh God, I did, yes.’ Fredrik shook his head, took off his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘Iver Iversen is one of our clients. A tragedy.’

‘He was already a client of yours when you worked for the Serious Fraud Office, I believe.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘A suspect, I mean. It’s a great shame that everyone with your qualifications quit. With people like you on the team we might have been able to bring the case to trial. The property business needs overhauling; we used to agree about that, don’t you remember, Fredrik?’

Fredrik put on his sunglasses again. ‘You always did gamble with high stakes, Simon.’

Simon nodded. So Fredrik did know why Simon had suddenly changed departments.

‘Talking of gambling,’ Simon said. ‘I’m only a stupid cop without a degree in finance, but whenever I read Iversen’s accounts, I always wondered how that company managed to stay afloat. It was hopeless at buying and selling property; most of the time it suffered considerable losses.’

‘Yes, but it was always good at managing property.’

‘Blessed be losses you can carry forward. Because of them Iversen has hardly paid any tax on his operating profits in the last few years.’

‘Good heavens, you sound as if you’re back with the Serious Fraud Office.’

‘My password still gets me access to the old files. I stayed up last night reading them on my computer.’

‘Did you? But there’s nothing illegal about that, those are the tax rules.’

‘Yes,’ Simon said, resting his chin on his hand and looking up at the blue sky. ‘And you would know; after all, you investigated Iversen. Perhaps Agnete Iversen was killed by an embittered tax collector.’

‘What?’

Simon laughed briefly and got up. ‘Just an old man winding you up. Thanks for lunch.’

‘Simon?’

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t want you to get your hopes up, but I’ll ask around about your loan.’

‘I appreciate that,’ Simon said and buttoned up his jacket. ‘Bye.’

He didn’t need to turn round; he knew that Fredrik was watching him pensively as he walked away.

Lars Gilberg put down the newspaper he had found in the rubbish bin outside 7-Eleven that would serve as tonight’s pillow. He saw that page after page was about the murder of this rich woman from the west side of Oslo. If the victim had been some poor sod who had died from a contaminated overdose down by the river or in Skippergata, he would barely have warranted a few lines. A hotshot from Kripos, a man called Bjornstad, announced that every available resource would be deployed in the investigation. Oh, really? How about first catching the mass murderers who mixed arsenic and rat poison in the drugs they sold? Gilberg peered out from his shadowland. The figure approaching him wore a hoodie and looked like one of the regular joggers who included the path along the river in their running route. But he had spotted Gilberg, was slowing down, and Lars Gilberg presumed him to be either a cop or a posh boy looking for speed. It wasn’t until he was under the bridge and had pulled back his hood that Gilberg recognised the boy. He was sweaty and out of breath.

Gilberg got up from his groundsheet, eager, happy almost. ‘Hello, lad. I’ve looked after your stuff, you know, it’s still there.’ He nodded towards the bushes.

‘Thank you,’ the boy said, squatting down and checking his pulse. ‘But I was wondering if you could do me another favour.’

‘Of course. Anything.’

‘Thank you. Which dealers sell Superboy?’

Lars Gilberg closed his eyes. Dammit. ‘Don’t do it, lad. Not Superboy.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I can name three people killed by that shit this summer alone.’

‘Who sells the purest goods?’

‘I don’t know about purity. It’s not my poison. But the dealer is easy, only one outlet in this town sells Superboy. The dealers always work in pairs. One has the drugs and the other takes the money. They hang out under Nybrua.’

‘What do they look like?’

‘It varies, but usually the money man is a stocky, acne-scarred guy with short hair. He’s the boss, but he likes being on the street and handling the money himself. He’s a suspicious bastard, doesn’t trust his dealers.’

‘Stocky and acne-scarred?’

‘Yes, he’s easy to recognise from his eyelids. It’s like they hang down over his eyes and make him look sleepy. You get me?’

‘Do you mean Kalle?’

‘Y’know ’im?’

The boy nodded slowly.

‘Then you know what happened to his eyelids?’

‘What are his opening hours, do you know?’ the boy asked.

‘They’re there from four o’clock to nine o’clock. I know this because the first customers start queuing half an hour before. And the last ones come racing, just before nine, like rats up a drainpipe, in case they miss him.’

The boy put his hood back up. ‘Thanks, mate.’

‘Lars. My name is Lars.’

‘Thanks, Lars. Do you need anything? Money?’

Lars always needed money. He shook his head. ‘What’s your name?’

The boy shrugged. The what-do-you-want-me-to-be-called? shrug. Then he continued his run.

Martha was sitting in reception when he came up the stairs and continued straight past her.

‘Stig!’ she called out.

It took a moment too long before he stopped. Now that could be down to his generally impaired reflexes. Or that his name wasn’t Stig. He was sweating; it looked as if he had been running. She hoped it wasn’t away from trouble.

‘I’ve got something for you,’ she said. ‘Wait!’

She picked up the box, told Maria she would be back in a couple of minutes and hurried after him. She touched his elbow lightly with her hand. ‘Come on, we’ll go up to yours and Johnny’s.’

When they entered the room, they were met by an unexpected sight. The curtains were drawn so that the room lay bathed in light, there was no Johnny and the air was fresh because one of the windows had been opened — as much as the window lock permitted. The council had told them to install window locks in every room after several incidents where pedestrians on the pavement below had come close to being hit by the large, heavy objects which were regularly hurled from the centre’s windows; radios, speakers, stereos and the occasional television. The centre’s residents got through a lot of electrical goods, but it was organic material which had triggered the order. Due to the extensive social phobia rampant among the residents, they were often reluctant to use the communal toilets. So a few had been given permission to keep a bucket in their room which they emptied at regular — though sadly sometimes irregular — intervals. One of the irregulars had kept his bucket on the windowsill so that he could open the window and get rid of the worst smells. One day, a staff member had opened the door to the room and the draught had blown over the bucket. It was during the renovation of the new patisserie and as fate would have it a painter was on a ladder directly below the window. The painter had escaped without permanent injury, but Martha — who had been the first person to arrive at the scene and come to the assistance of the shocked man — knew that the incident had left him mentally scarred.

‘Sit down,’ she said, pointing to the chair. ‘And take off your shoes.’

He did as he was told. She opened the box.

‘I didn’t want the others to see them,’ she said and took out a pair of soft, black leather shoes. ‘They were my father’s,’ she said, handing them to him. ‘You take about the same size.’

He looked so surprised that she felt herself blushing.

‘We can’t send you to a job interview in trainers,’ she added hastily.

She looked around the room while he put them on. She wasn’t sure, but thought she could smell detergent. The cleaners hadn’t been here today, as far as she knew. She walked up to a photograph attached to the wall with a drawing pin.

‘Who is that?’

‘My father,’ he said.

‘Really? A police officer?’

‘Yes. Look.’

She turned to him. He had got up and pressed first his right foot and then his left on the floor.

‘And?’

‘They’re a perfect fit,’ he smiled. ‘Thank you so much, Martha.’

She jumped when he said her name. It wasn’t that she wasn’t used to hearing it, the residents used their first names all the time. Surnames, home addresses and the names of family members were, however, confidential; after all, the staff witnessed drug dealing every day. But there was something about the way he said it. Like a touch. Careful and innocent, but just as tangible. She realised it was inappropriate for her to be alone with him in the room; her initial assumption had been that Johnny would be here as well. She wondered where he could be; the only things that could make Johnny get out of bed were drugs, the toilet or food. In that order. And yet she stayed where she was.

‘What kind of job are you looking for?’ she asked. She was aware she sounded slightly breathless.

‘Something in the judicial system,’ he said gravely. There was something very sweet about this earnestness. Almost precocious.

‘A bit like your father?’

‘No, police officers work for the executive power. I want to work for the judicial power.’

She smiled. He was so different. Perhaps that was the reason she had been thinking about him, because he was nothing like the other addicts. And he was so very different from Anders as well. Where Anders always had steely control, this guy seemed open and vulnerable. Where Anders was suspicious and dismissive of people he had yet to know and possibly give his seal of approval to, Stig seemed friendly, kind, naive almost.

‘I’ve got to go now,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ he said, leaning against the wall. He had unzipped his hoodie. The T-shirt underneath was soaked in sweat and stuck to his body.

He was about to say something when her walkie-talkie crackled.

She raised it to her ear.

She had a visitor.

‘What were you going to say?’ she asked when she had acknowledged the message.

‘It can wait,’ the boy said and smiled.

It was the older police officer again.

He was waiting for her at reception.

‘They let me in,’ he said apologetically.

Martha looked reproachfully at Maria, who held up her hands in a what’s-the-big-deal? gesture.

‘Do you have somewhere we can. .?’

Martha took him into the meeting room, but didn’t offer him coffee.

‘Do you know what this is?’ he asked, holding up his mobile phone so she could see the screen.

‘A picture of some soil?’

‘It’s a shoeprint. That probably doesn’t mean very much to you, but I’ve been wondering why I thought that shoeprint seemed so familiar. And then I realised it’s because I’ve seen it at so many potential crime scenes. You know, places where we find dead bodies. Mostly as tracks in the snow at a container port, in a drug den, near a drug dealer in a backyard, in a World War II bunker doubling up as a shooting gallery. In short. .’

‘In short, places frequented by the type of people who live here.’ Martha sighed.

‘Exactly. Death is usually self-inflicted, but whatever the cause, this shoeprint keeps reappearing. Those blue army trainers have become the most common footwear for drug addicts and homeless people across all of Norway because the Salvation Army and Bymisjonen hand them out. And therefore they are completely useless as evidence, there are too many of them on the feet of people with criminal records.’

‘So what are you doing here, Chief Inspector Kefas?’

‘They no longer make these trainers and those in use wear out. But if you look carefully at the picture, you’ll see that the shoeprint has a clear pattern, meaning these trainers are new. I checked with the Salvation Army and they told me that they sent their last batch of blue trainers to you in March of this year. So my question is simply: have you handed out any shoes like this since the spring? Size 8?.’

‘The answer is yes, of course.’

‘Who-’

‘Lots.’

‘Size-’

‘Size 8? is the most common shoe size for men in the Western world — also among drug users, as it happens. I’m not able or prepared to tell you anything more than that.’ Martha looked at him with tightened lips.

Now the police officer sighed. ‘I respect your loyalty to the residents. But we’re not talking about a gram of speed here, this is a murder inquiry. I found this shoeprint where that woman up at Holmenkollasen was shot and killed yesterday. Agnete Iversen.’

‘Iversen?’ Martha suddenly felt breathless again. How odd. But then again the therapist who had given her the diagnosis ‘compassion fatigue’ had told her to look out for signs of stress.

Chief Inspector Kefas tilted his head slightly to one side. ‘Yes, Iversen. It’s had a lot of press coverage. Shot on the doorstep of her home-’

‘Yes, yes, I saw some headlines. But I never read such stories, we have enough upset in this job. If you know what I mean.’

‘I do. Her name was Agnete Iversen. Forty-nine years old. Previously in business, now a housewife. Married with a twenty-year-old son. Chair of the local Women’s Institute. A generous donor to the Norwegian Tourist Association. So she probably qualifies as a pillar of the community.’

Martha coughed. ‘How can you be sure that the shoeprint belongs to the killer?’

‘We can’t. But we found a partial shoeprint with the victim’s blood in the bedroom, and that shoeprint could match this one.’

Martha coughed again. She ought to get it checked out by a doctor.

‘But suppose I could remember the name of anyone given size 8? trainers, how can you know which ones are from the crime scene?’

‘I’m not sure that we could, but it looks as if the killer stepped in the victim’s blood and it got into the sole pattern. And if it’s coagulated, there could still be blood traces left in the grooves.’

‘I understand,’ Martha said.

Chief Inspector Kefas waited.

She got up. ‘But I’m afraid I’m no use to you. Of course I can check with the other staff members, see if they remember a size 8?.’

The police officer stayed where he was as if to give her a chance to change her mind. And tell him something. Then he too got up and handed her his card.

‘Thank you, I appreciate that. Call me, day or night.’

Martha stayed in the meeting room after Chief Inspector Kefas had left. She bit her lower lip.

She had told him the truth. 8?. It was the most common shoe size for men.

‘Closing time,’ Kalle announced. It was nine o’clock and the sun was starting to set behind the buildings on the riverbank. He took the last hundred-krone notes and put them in his money belt. He had heard that in St Petersburg drug dealers carrying cash were robbed so often that the mafia had given them steel money belts that were welded around their waists. The belt had a thin slit into which you inserted the money and a code known only to the guy in the back office, so that dealers couldn’t be tortured into revealing it to any robbers or be tempted to steal the cash themselves. The dealer had to sleep, eat, crap and screw with the money belt in place, but even so Kalle had given the option serious consideration. He was bored out of his wits standing here evening after evening.

‘Please!’ It was one of those emaciated junkie bitches, all skin and bone, skin stretched across her skull Holocaust-style.

‘Tomorrow,’ Kalle said and started to walk away.

‘I have to have some!’

‘We’re all out,’ he lied and signalled to Pelvis, his dealer, to walk on.

She started crying. Kalle felt no compassion, these people just had to learn that the shop shut at nine o’clock and that it was no good turning up at two minutes past. Of course he could have hung around till ten past, quarter past even, to sell to those who managed to scrape together the money at the last minute. But ultimately it was about getting the work/life balance right, knowing when he could go home. Nor would staying open for longer improve his profit margin as they had the monopoly on Superboy; she would be back when they opened tomorrow.

She grabbed his arm, but Kalle shrugged her off. She stumbled onto the grass and fell to her knees.

‘It’s been a good day,’ Pelvis remarked as they walked briskly down the path. ‘How much, do you think?’

‘What do you think?’ Kalle snapped at him. Even multiplying the number of bags by the price was beyond this moron. You just couldn’t get the staff these days.

Before they crossed the bridge, he looked over his shoulder to check they weren’t being followed. It was a habit he had acquired long ago, the result of his dearly bought experience of being a drug dealer carrying too much cash, a robbery victim who would never report anything to the police. Dearly bought experience acquired on a summer’s day by the river when he hadn’t been able to keep his eyes open and had nodded off on a bench with 300,000 kroner’s worth of heroin he was going to sell for Nestor. When he woke up, the drugs were gone, obviously. Nestor had sought him out the next day and explained that the boss had been kind enough to give Kalle a choice. Both thumbs — because he had been so clumsy. Or both eyelids because he had fallen asleep on the job. Kalle had chosen the eyelids. Two men dressed in suits, one dark-haired and one blond, had pinned him down while Nestor pulled out his eyelids and sliced them off with his hideous, curved Arabic knife. Afterwards Nestor had — also on the boss’s instructions — given Kalle money for a taxi to the hospital. Surgeons had explained that in order to give him new eyelids, they would need to graft skin from another area of his body and that he was lucky he wasn’t Jewish and hadn’t been circumcised. It turned out that the foreskin was the type of skin whose properties most closely resembled those of eyelids. All things considered, the operation had been a success and Kalle’s standard answer to anyone who asked how he’d lost his eyelids was that he’d had an accident with some acid and that the new skin had been grafted from his thigh. Someone else’s thigh, he explained, if the person asking was a woman in his bed, who demanded to see the scar. And that he was a quarter Jewish, in case she was wondering about that as well.

For a long time he had believed that his secret was safe, right until the guy who had taken over his job with Nestor had come over to him in a bar and asked in a loud voice if he didn’t think it stank of dick curd when he rubbed his eyes in the morning. The guy and his friends had roared with laughter. Kalle had smashed a beer bottle against the bar and glassed him, pulling the bottle out and glassing him again and again until he was quite sure the guy had no eyes left to rub. The next day Nestor visited Kalle and told him that the boss had heard the news and that Kalle could have his old job back, seeing as it was now available and that he approved of his resourcefulness. Since that day Kalle never closed his eyes until he was absolutely certain that everything was under control. But all he could see now was the pleading woman on the grass and a solitary jogger with a hoodie.

‘Two hundred grand?’ Pelvis guessed.

Moron.

After walking through Oslo’s eastern centre and the more dubious but character-building streets of Gamlebyen for fifteen minutes, they entered an abandoned factory area through an open gate. Tallying up shouldn’t take them more than an hour. Apart from them there was only Enok and Syff, who sold speed by Elgen and Tollbugata, respectively. Afterwards they had to cut, mix and wrap new bags for tomorrow. Then he could finally go home to Vera. She had been sulking recently. The Barcelona trip he had promised her hadn’t happened because he had been busy dealing all spring, so he had promised her a trip to Los Angeles this August instead. Unfortunately his criminal record had led to his visa application being turned down. Kalle knew that women like Vera weren’t patient, they had options, so he had to screw her regularly and dangle trinkets in front of her greedy almond eyes to keep her. And that took time and energy. But also money, which meant more work. He was caught between a rock and a hard place.

They crossed an open area with oil-stained gravel, tall grass and two lorries with no tyres permanently parked on Leca blocks, and jumped up onto a loading ramp in front of a red-brick building. Kalle entered the four-digit code on the panel, heard the lock buzz and they opened the door. Drum and bass sounds pounded towards them. The council had converted the ground floor of the two-storey factory into rehearsal rooms for young bands. Kalle had hired a room on the first floor for a peppercorn rent under the pretext of running a band management and booking agency. They had yet to secure any band a single booking, but everyone knew these were difficult times for the arts.

Kalle and Pelvis walked down the corridor towards the lift while the front door slowly closed on stiff springs behind them. Through the noise Kalle thought for a moment that he could hear running footsteps on the gravel outside.

‘Three hundred?’ Pelvis volunteered.

Kalle shook his head and pressed the button for the lift.

Knut Schroder laid down his guitar on top of the amplifier.

‘Fag break,’ he said and headed for the door.

He knew that his fellow band members were rolling their eyes at each other. Another fag break? They had a gig at the youth club in three days and it was a sad fact that they had to rehearse like maniacs so as not to sound completely crap. Knut thought the other band members were a bunch of choirboys: they didn’t smoke, rarely drank alcohol and had never seen a joint let alone touched one. How could that ever be rock ’n’ roll? He closed the door behind him and heard them start the song from the top without him. It didn’t sound too bad, but was totally lacking in soul. Unlike him. He smiled at the thought while he passed the lift and the two empty rehearsal rooms along the corridor on his way to the exit.

It was exactly like the best bit in the Eagles DVD Hell Freezes Over — Knut’s secret guilty pleasure — when the band rehearses with the Burbank Philharmonic Orchestra and the orchestra plays ‘New York Minute’ frowning with concentration and Don Henley turns to the camera, wrinkles up his nose and whispers: ‘. . but they don’t have the blues. .’

Knut passed the rehearsal room whose door was always open because the lock was damaged and the hinges bent so that it was impossible to close it. He stopped. There was a man inside with his back to him. In the past vagrants looking for instruments or equipment that could readily be converted into cash constantly broke into the building, but that had stopped once the booking agency on the first floor had moved in and spent money on a new, solid front door with an entry-code lock.

‘Hey, you!’ Knut said.

The guy turned round. It was difficult to work out what he was. A jogger? No. Yes, he was wearing a hoodie and tracksuit bottoms, but he wore smart, black leather shoes. Only vagrants dressed that badly. But Knut wasn’t scared, why should he be? He was as tall as Joey Ramone and wore the same leather jacket. ‘What are you doing here, man?’

The guy smiled. Which meant he couldn’t be a member of a biker gang. ‘Just a bit of clearing up.’

That sounded plausible. It was what happened to the communal rehearsal rooms; everything was trashed or stolen and no one ever took responsibility for keeping them clean. The window was still covered by sound-insulating sheets, but the only remaining instrument was a shabby bass drum where someone had painted ‘The Young Hopeless’ in Gothic lettering on the drumhead. On the floor among cigarette butts, broken guitar strings, a solitary drumstick and some duct tape, was a desk fan which the drummer had presumably used to stop himself from overheating. Plus a long jack cable which Knut could have checked to see if it was working, but which was bound to be faulty. Fair enough, jack cables were unreliable consumables, the future was wireless and his mother had promised Knut that she would sponsor a wireless system for his guitar if he quit smoking, an incident which had inspired him to write the song ‘She Sure Drives a Hard Bargain’.

‘Isn’t it a bit late for a council worker to be still at it?’ Knut said.

‘We’re thinking of rehearsing again.’

‘We?’

‘The Young Hopeless.’

‘Ah, you’re with them?’

‘I used to be their drummer. I thought I saw the back of the other two guys when I came in, but they disappeared up in the lift.’

‘No, they’re with a band management and booking agency.’

‘Oh? Could they be useful to us?’

‘I don’t think they’re taking new clients. We knocked on their door and were told to fuck off.’ Knut grinned, took a cigarette from the packet and stuck it between his lips. Perhaps the guy was a smoker and would have a fag outside with him. They could chat about music. Or kit.

‘I’ll go and check anyway,’ the drummer said.

The guy looked more like a vocalist than a drummer. And it struck Knut that it might be a good idea if this guy were to talk to the booking people, he seemed to have something about him. . some charisma. And if they opened the door to him, perhaps Knut himself could stop by later.

‘I’ll come with you to show you where it is.’

The guy looked reluctant. Then he nodded. ‘Thank you.’

The big goods lift moved so slowly that Knut had enough time to explain in detail why the Mesa Boogie amplifier was awesome and delivered a proper rock sound.

They stepped out of the lift, Knut turned left and pointed to the blue metal door, the only door on the floor. The guy knocked. A few seconds later a small hatch at head height opened and a pair of bloodshot eyes appeared. Just like the time Knut had tried it.

‘What do you want?’

The guy leaned closer to the hatch, probably in an attempt to see what was behind the man in the door.

‘Would you consider booking gigs for the Young Hopeless? We’re one of the bands that rehearse downstairs.’

‘Fuck off and don’t show your face here again. Capisce?’

The guy, however, remained close to the hatch and Knut could see his eyes dart from side to side.

‘We’re quite good. Do you like Depeche Mode?’

A voice rang out from somewhere behind the bloodshot eyes. ‘Who is it, Pelvis?’

‘Some band.’

‘Get rid of them, for fuck’s sake! And get back to work, I wanna be home by eleven.’

‘You heard the boss.’

The hatch slammed shut.

Knut walked the four steps back to the lift and pressed the button. The doors opened reluctantly and he entered. But the guy had stayed put. He looked at the mirror the booking agency had put up at the top of the wall to the right when you exited the lift. It reflected their metal door, God only knew why. True, this wasn’t Oslo’s nicest neighbourhood, but for a booking agency they were remarkably paranoid. Perhaps they stored a lot of cash from gigs in their office? He had heard that well-known Norwegian bands were paid half a million for the biggest festival jobs. Another reason to keep rehearsing. If only he could get that wireless system. And a new band. With soul. Perhaps he and the new guy could join forces? The guy had finally returned to the lift, but was holding a hand in front of the sensors so the doors could not close. Then he withdrew his hand and studied the fluorescent lighting in the lift ceiling. On second thoughts, no. Knut had spent enough time working with psychos.

He went outside to smoke his cigarette while the guy returned to the rehearsal room to clear up. Knut was sitting on the flatbed of one of the rusted trucks when the guy came out.

‘I reckon the others are late, but I can’t get hold of them because my phone battery is dead,’ he said, holding up a mobile that looked very new. ‘So I’m off to get some cigarettes.’

‘Have one of mine,’ Knut said, holding out the packet. ‘What kind of drums have you got? No, let me guess! You look old-school. Ludwig?’

The guy smiled. ‘Thank you, that’s kind of you. But I only smoke Marlboro.’

Knut shrugged. He respected people who were loyal to their brand, be it drums or cigarettes. But Marlboro? That was like saying you would only ever drive a Toyota.

‘Peace, man,’ Knut said. ‘Laters.’

‘Thanks for your help.’

He watched the guy walk across the gravel towards the gate, before he turned round and came back.

‘I’ve just remembered the code to the door is on my mobile,’ he said with a slightly embarrassed smile. ‘And. .’

‘It’s gone dead. 666S. I thought of it myself. Do you know what it means?’

The guy nodded. ‘It’s the Arizona police code for suicide.’

Knut blinked several times. ‘Is it?’

‘Yep. The “S” stands for suicide. My dad taught me that.’

Knut saw the guy disappear out of the gate and into the light summer evening as a gust of wind caught the tall grass over by the gate and made it sway back and forth like a concert audience in response to some sentimental ballad. Suicide. Bloody hell, that was so much cooler than 666 Satan!

Pelle looked in the rear-view mirror and rubbed his bad foot. Everything was bad; business, his mood and the address which the customer in the back had just given him, the Ila Centre. So, for now, they were stationary in what was practically Pelle’s regular spot in the cab rank in Gamlebyen.

‘You mean the hostel?’ Pelle asked.

‘Yes. But now it’s called. . Yes, the hostel.’

‘I don’t drive anyone to the hostel without being paid up front. Sorry, but I’ve had some bad experiences.’

‘Of course. I hadn’t thought of that.’

Pelle watched as his customer or, more accurately, potential customer rummaged around his pocket. Pelle had been in his cab for thirteen hours straight, but it would be a few more hours before he would drive home to his flat in Schweigaards gate, park the cab, stagger up the stairs on the folding crutches he kept under the seat, collapse on his bed and fall asleep. Hopefully without dreaming. Though that depended on the dream. It could be heaven or hell, you never knew. The customer handed him a fifty-krone note and a handful of change.

‘This is just over a hundred, it’s not enough.’

‘A hundred isn’t enough?’ said the now not so potential customer apparently with genuine surprise.

‘Long time since you last took a cab?’

‘You could say that. It’s all I’ve got, but perhaps you could drive as far as that gets me?’

‘Sure,’ Pelle said, put the money in the glove compartment since the guy didn’t look like he would want a receipt, and hit the accelerator.

Martha was alone in room 323.

She had sat in reception and watched first Stig then Johnny go out. Stig had been wearing the black shoes she had given him.

The centre’s regulations allowed them to search a resident’s room without warning or permission if they suspected them of keeping weapons. But the rules also stated that searches should normally be carried out by two staff members. Normally. How do you define normal? Martha looked at the chest of drawers. And then at the wardrobe.

She started with the chest of drawers.

It contained clothes. Just Johnny’s clothes; she knew what clothes Stig owned.

She opened the door to the wardrobe.

The underwear she had given Stig lay neatly folded on one shelf. His coat was on a hanger. On the top shelf was the red sports bag she had seen him arrive with. She was reaching up to lift it down when she spotted the blue trainers at the bottom of the wardrobe. She let go of the bag, bent down and picked up the shoes. Took a deep breath. Held it. She was looking for coagulated blood. Then she turned them over.

She breathed a sigh of relief and felt her heart skip a beat.

The soles were completely clean. The pattern wasn’t even stained.

‘What are you doing?’

Martha spun round as her heart began beating wildly. She pressed her hand to her chest. ‘Anders!’ She bent double and laughed. ‘You scared me half to death.’

‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ he pouted and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. ‘It’s almost nine thirty.’

‘I’m sorry, I lost track of time. Someone said one of the residents might be keeping weapons in his room and it’s our duty to check.’ Martha was so flustered that the lie came effortlessly.

‘Duty?’ Anders snorted. ‘Perhaps it’s time you started thinking about what duty really means. Most people think of their family and home when they talk about duty, not working in a place like this.’

Martha sighed. ‘Anders, please don’t start. .’

But she already knew that he wasn’t going to give in, as usual it had taken him only seconds to get wound up. ‘There’s a job for you at my mother’s gallery whenever you want it. And I agree with her. It would be much better for your personal development to mix with more stimulating people there than the losers in this place.’

‘Anders!’ Martha raised her voice, but knew that she was too tired, she didn’t have the energy. So she walked up to him and put her hand on his arm. ‘Don’t call them losers. And I’ve told you before, your mother and her customers don’t need me.’

Anders snatched back his arm. ‘What people in this place need isn’t you, but for the state to stop bailing them out. Those bloody junkies are Norway’s pet project.’

‘I’m not prepared to have this discussion again. Why don’t you drive on without me and I’ll take a taxi when I’m done?’

But Anders folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the door frame. ‘So which discussion are you prepared to have, Martha? I’ve been trying to get you to set a date-’

‘Not now.’

‘Yes, now! My mother wants to plan her summer and-’

‘Not now, I said.’ She tried to push him aside, but he refused to budge. He stuck out his arm to block her path.

‘What kind of answer is that? If they’re paying for-’

Martha ducked under his arm, out into the corridor and started walking away.

‘Hey!’ She heard the door of the room slam shut and Anders’s footsteps behind her. He grabbed her arm, spun her round and pulled her close. She recognised the expensive aftershave his mother had given him for Christmas, but which Martha couldn’t stand. Her heart almost stopped when she saw the black emptiness in his eyes.

‘Don’t you dare walk away from me,’ he snarled.

She had automatically raised a hand to shield her face and now she saw the shock in his face.

‘What’s this?’ he whispered with steel in his voice. ‘You think I’m going to hit you?’

‘I. .’

‘Twice,’ he hissed and she felt his hot breath on her face. ‘Twice in nine years, Martha. And you treat me as if I was some bloody. . some bloody wife-beater.’

‘Anders, let go, you’re-’

She heard a cough behind her. Anders released his hold on her arm, stared furiously over her shoulder and spat out the words:

‘So, junkie, you want to get past or not?’

She turned round. It was him. Stig. He just stood there, waiting. He moved his calm gaze from Anders to her. It asked a question. Which she answered with a nod; everything was fine.

He nodded and stepped past them. The two men glowered at each other as he passed. They were the same height, but Anders was broader, more muscular.

Martha watched Stig as he continued down the corridor.

Then her gaze returned to Anders. He had tilted his head and was glaring at her with this hostile expression which he exhibited more and more often, but which she had decided was caused by the frustration he experienced at not getting the recognition he felt he deserved at work.

‘What the fuck was that?’ he said.

He didn’t used to swear, either.

‘What?’

‘It was like the two of you. . communicated. Who is that guy?’

She exhaled. Relieved, almost. At least this was familiar territory. Jealousy. It hadn’t changed since they were teenage sweethearts and she knew how to handle it. She put her hand on his shoulder.

‘Anders, don’t be so silly. Now come with me, we’ll go and get my jacket and then we’re going home. And we’re not going to argue tonight, we’re going to cook dinner.’

‘Martha, I-’

‘Shh,’ she said, but knew she already had the upper hand. ‘You cook dinner, while I take a shower. OK? And we’re going to talk about the wedding tomorrow. Is that all right?’

She could see that he wanted to protest, but she placed her finger on his lips. The full lips which she had fallen for. She traced her finger downwards, stroking the dark, carefully trimmed stubble. Or was it his jealousy that first attracted her? She could no longer remember.

By the time they got into his car, he had calmed down. It was a BMW. He had bought the car against her will, thinking she would grow to like it once she had experienced how comfortable it was, especially for long drives. And how reliable it was. When he started the car, she caught a glimpse of Stig again. He came out of the entrance, quickly crossed the street and headed eastwards. The red sports bag was slung over his shoulder.