The Son

27

When Simon stepped out of the lift and into Homicide’s office at 8.08 on Monday morning, he had three things on his mind. That Else had been bathing her eyes in the en suite bathroom earlier, completely unaware that Simon had been watching her from the bedroom. That he had possibly given Kari too much work to do on a Sunday. And that he hated the office layout, especially after one of Else’s friends who was an architect had told him that it was a myth that open-plan offices save floor space per employee, that noise issues meant that so many meeting rooms and buffer zones had to be created that any gain was eaten up by the additional expenditure.

He went over to Kari’s desk.

‘You’re in early,’ he said.

A rather bleary face looked up. ‘Good morning to you too, Simon Kefas.’

‘Thank you. Found anything?’

Kari leaned back in her chair. Even though she was yawning, Simon thought he detected a certain satisfaction behind her expression.

‘First I looked for a connection between Iversen and Farrisen. Nothing. Then I looked up Sonny Lofthus’s convictions and any other potential suspects. Lofthus was convicted of the murder of an unidentified, possibly Vietnamese girl who died from a drug overdose, and at first the police had suspected Kalle Farrisen. But Lofthus was also doing time for another killing. That of Oliver Jovic, a drug dealer, a Kosovo Serb who was trying to butt into the market when he was found in Stensparken with a glass bottle of Coke down his throat.’

Simon pulled a face. ‘They slashed his throat?’

‘No, that’s not what I meant. A bottle of Coke had been rammed down his throat.’

‘Down his throat?’

‘The bottle neck first. Easier that way. Pushed right down so that the bottom presses against the back of the teeth.’

‘How do you know. .?’

‘I saw the photos. The Drug Squad thought it was a message to show potential competitors what would happen if you try to bite off more than you can chew in the coke market.’ She looked up quickly at Simon and added: ‘Coke bottle as in Coca-Cola.’

‘Yes, thank you, I get it.’

‘The police launched an investigation, but got nowhere. The case was never actually abandoned, but very little happened until Sonny Lofthus was arrested for the murder of the Asian girl. He confessed to murdering Jovic as well. In the interview records he states that he and Jovic had met in the park to settle a debt, that Lofthus didn’t have enough money and that Jovic had threatened him with a gun. Lofthus had attacked him and floored him. I guess the police thought it sounded reasonable, given that Lofthus used to wrestle.’

‘Hm.’

‘The interesting thing is that the police lifted a fingerprint from the bottle.’

‘And?’

‘And it didn’t belong to Lofthus.’

Simon nodded. ‘And how did Lofthus explain that?’

‘He said he’d found the empty bottle in a nearby bin. That junkies like him do this all the time to get the deposits on them back.’

‘But?’

‘Junkies don’t collect recyclables. It would take too long to get together enough money for that day’s fix. And the report stated that the fingerprint was a thumb and that it had been lifted from the bottom of the bottle.’

Simon could see where she was going with this, but didn’t want to spoil it by beating her to it.

‘I mean, who puts their thumb on the bottom of a bottle when they drink from it? If, however, you were forcing a bottle down someone’s throat. .’

‘And you don’t think the police considered that at the time?’

Kari shrugged. ‘I don’t think the police ever prioritise drug hits. They hadn’t found a match for the thumbprint in the database. So when someone offers them a confession to a case they’ve had lying around for a while. .’

‘Then they say thank you very much, mark the case as solved and move on?’

‘That’s how you work, isn’t it?’

Simon sighed. You. He had read in the newspapers that the police’s reputation among the public was starting to rise after the last few years’ scandals, but the force was only slightly more popular than the railways. You. He imagined she was thanking her lucky stars that she already had one foot out of this open-plan office.

‘So Sonny Lofthus was convicted of two murders, but in both cases suspicion pointed to drug dealers. Are you saying that he’s a professional scapegoat?’

‘Wouldn’t you?’

‘Perhaps. But there still isn’t anything that links him to either Farrisen or Agnete Iversen.’

‘There is a third murder,’ Kari said. ‘Kjersti Morsand.’

‘The shipping owner’s wife,’ Simon said, although his thoughts had now turned to coffee and the coffee machine. ‘That’s Buskerud Police’s case.’

‘That’s correct. Had the top of her head sawn off. Sonny Lofthus was also suspected of that killing.’

‘That can’t be right, surely? He was banged up when it happened.’

‘No, he was out on day release. He was in the area. They even found one of his hairs at the crime scene.’

‘You’re joking,’ said Simon, instantly forgetting all about coffee. ‘There would have been something about it in the papers. Notorious killer linked to crime scene — what could be more newsworthy than that?’

‘The Buskerud officer who is heading the investigation has chosen not to make it public,’ Kari said.

‘Why not?’

‘Ask him.’

Kari pointed and Simon noticed a tall, broad man walking towards them from the coffee machine with a mug in his hand. Despite the summer temperature he was wearing a thick woolly jumper.

‘Henrik Westad,’ the man said, holding out his hand. ‘I’m an inspector with Buskerud Police. I’m leading the Kjersti Morsand investigation.’

‘I asked Henrik to drive over here this morning for a chat,’ Kari said.

‘You drove all the way from Drammen in the morning rush hour?’ Simon said, shaking the man’s hand. ‘We’re very grateful.’

‘Before the morning rush hour,’ Westad said. ‘We’ve been here since six thirty. I didn’t think there was much more to be said about the investigation, but your colleague here is very thorough.’

He nodded to Kari and sat down in the chair opposite her.

‘So why didn’t you make it known that you had found a convicted killer’s hair at the scene?’ Simon said, looking enviously at the mug Westad was raising to his lips. ‘It’s as good as saying you’ve solved the case. The police don’t normally hold back good news.’

‘That’s true,’ Westad said. ‘Especially when the owner of that hair had confessed to the killing the first time we interviewed him.’

‘So what happened?’

‘Leif happened.’

‘Who’s Leif?’

Westad nodded slowly. ‘I could have issued a press release with what we had after the first interview, but something didn’t add up. Something about the suspect’s. . attitude. So I waited. And the second time we interviewed him, he retracted his confession and claimed that he had an alibi. A guy called Leif who drove a blue Volvo with an “I ¦ Drammen” sticker, and who Lofthus for some reason thought had heart problems. So I checked with the Volvo dealers in Drammen and the Cardiology Unit at Buskerud Central Hospital.’

‘Yes?’

‘Leif Krogn?ss, aged fifty-three. He lives in Konnerud in Drammen and he immediately recognised the suspect from the photo I showed him. He had seen him at a lay-by on the old main road that runs parallel to Drammensveien. You know, one of those areas with picnic benches and tables where you can enjoy being outside. Leif Krogn?ss had gone for a little drive in the sunshine, but had pulled over and sat in the lay-by for several hours because he felt strangely exhausted. I don’t believe it’s popular with motorists, they prefer the new road, and besides there’s a pond with midges. Anyway, on that day two men were sitting at another picnic table. They just sat there, without saying anything for hours as if they were waiting for something. Then one of the men glanced at his watch and said that it was time to go. As they passed Krogn?ss’s table, the other man bent down, asked Krogn?ss what his name was and then told him to see a doctor, that there was something wrong with his heart. Then the first man pulled the second man away; Krogn?ss assumed that he must be a psychiatric patient on an outing, and they had driven off.’

‘But he couldn’t shake off the episode,’ Kari said. ‘So he went to see his doctor. Who discovered that he did indeed have heart trouble and had him admitted to hospital immediately. And that’s why Leif Krogn?ss remembers a man he met only briefly at a lay-by on the old main road by the River Drammen.’

The River Drammen, Simon thought.

‘Yep,’ Westad said. ‘Leif Krogn?ss said the guy saved his life. But that’s not the point. The point is that the medical examiner’s report states that Kjersti Morsand was killed at the very time the men were sitting in the lay-by.’

Simon nodded. ‘And the strand of hair? You haven’t checked how it could have ended up at the crime scene?’

Westad shrugged. ‘Like I said, the suspect has an alibi.’

Simon was aware that Westad had yet to mention the boy’s name. He cleared his throat. ‘It could appear that the hair was planted. And if Sonny Lofthus was granted day release in order to make it look like he committed the murder, then one of the prison officers from Staten must be in on it. Is that why it’s been hushed up?’

Henrik Westad pushed his mug across Kari’s desk; perhaps the taste no longer appealed to him. ‘I’ve been told to hush it up,’ he said. ‘Someone higher up has made it very clear to my boss to leave the matter alone until they’ve had a chance to have another look at it.’

‘They want to double-check the facts before the scandal becomes public,’ Kari said.

‘Let’s hope that’s all it is,’ Simon said quietly. ‘So why are you talking to us if you’ve been told to keep quiet, Westad?’

Westad shrugged again. ‘It’s tough to be the only one who knows. And when Kari mentioned that she was working with Simon Kefas. . Well, people say you have integrity.’

Simon looked at Westad. ‘You know that’s just another word for troublemaker, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ Westad said. ‘I don’t want any trouble. I just don’t want to be the only one who knows.’

‘Because it feel safer that way?’

Westad shrugged a third time. He no longer seemed quite so tall and broad when he was sitting down. And despite the jumper he looked like he was cold.

There was complete silence in the rectangular boardroom.

Hugo Nestor’s attention was fixed on the chair at the head of the table.

The high-backed chair covered with white buffalo hide was facing away from them.

The man in the chair had demanded an explanation.

Nestor lifted his gaze to the painting on the wall above the chair. It depicted a crucifixion. Grotesque, bloody and excessive in rich detail. The man on the crucifix had two horns on his forehead and burning, red eyes. Apart from those details, the likeness was obvious. Rumour had it that the artist had painted the picture after the man in the high-backed chair had cut off two of his fingers because he owed him money. The bit about the fingers was true, Nestor had witnessed it himself. Rumour also had it that only twelve hours had passed between the artist exhibiting the painting in his gallery and the man in the chair removing it. That, along with the man’s liver. That rumour wasn’t true. It had taken eight hours, and they had taken his spleen.

As far as the buffalo hide was concerned, Nestor could neither confirm nor deny the story that the man in the chair had paid 13,500 dollars to hunt and kill a white buffalo, the most sacred animal for Lakota Sioux Indians, that he had shot it with a crossbow and when the animal had refused to die even after two arrows to its heart, the man in the chair had straddled the half-ton animal and used his thigh muscles to wring its neck. But Nestor saw no reason to doubt the story. The weight difference between the animal and the man was minimal.

Hugo Nestor shifted his eyes from the painting. There were three other people in the room apart from him and the man on the buffalo hide chair. Nestor rolled his shoulders and felt his shirt stick to his back under the suit jacket. He rarely sweated. Not only because he avoided the sun, poor-quality wool, exercise, lovemaking and other physical exertions, but because he — according to his doctor — had a fault in his inbuilt thermostat which would otherwise cause people to sweat. So even when he did exert himself, he never sweated, but he risked overheating. It was a genetic disposition which proved what he had always known: that his alleged parents weren’t his real parents, that his dreams about lying in a cradle in a place that looked like photographs he had seen of Kiev in the 1970s were more than just dreams, they were his earliest childhood memories.

But he was sweating now. Even though he was the bearer of good news, he was sweating.

The man in the chair hadn’t raged. Hadn’t fumed about the money and drugs that had been stolen from Kalle Farrisen’s office. Not screamed how was it possible that Sylvester had gone missing. Or roared why the hell hadn’t they found that Lofthus boy yet. Despite everyone knowing what was at stake. There were four scenarios and three of them were bad. Bad scenario number one: Sonny killed Agnete Iversen, Kalle and Sylvester and he would continue to kill anyone they work with. Bad scenario number two: Sonny is arrested, confesses and reveals the names of the real killers in the murders he has served time for. Bad scenario number three: in the absence of the boy’s confession, Yngve Morsand is arrested for his wife’s murder, can’t handle the pressure and tells the police what really happened.

When Morsand had first come to them and said that he wanted his unfaithful wife killed, Nestor had taken it to mean that he wanted to hire a hit man. But Morsand insisted on the pleasure of killing his wife himself, he just wanted them to arrange for someone else to take the fall since he, as the cuckolded husband, would automatically be the police’s prime suspect. And at the right price everything is for sale. In this case, three million kroner. A reasonable hourly rate for a life sentence, Nestor had argued, and Morsand had agreed. Afterwards when Morsand had explained how he wanted to tie up the unfaithful bitch, put the saw to her forehead and look her in the eyes while he cut off her head, Nestor had felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up in a mixture of horror and excitement. They had arranged everything with Arild Franck: the boy’s day release, his geographical location, and sent him off with one of Franck’s trusted, corrupt and well-paid prison officers, a hermit of a chubby chaser from Kaupang who spent his money on cocaine, paying off his debts and on hookers so fat and ugly, you would have thought the money would change hands in the opposite direction.

The fourth and only good scenario was very simple: find the boy and kill him. It should be straightforward. It should have been done long ago.

And yet the man spoke calmly in his deep, murmuring voice. And it was the voice that made Nestor sweat. From the tall white chair the voice had asked Nestor for an explanation. That was all. An explanation. Nestor cleared his throat, hoping that his voice wouldn’t betray his terror, which was always present when he was in the same room as his boss.

‘We went back to the house to look for Sylvester. All we found was an empty armchair with a bullet hole to the back. We’ve checked with our contact in Telenor’s operations centre, but none of their base stations has picked up a signal from Sylvester’s mobile since late last night. This means that either Lofthus destroyed his phone or his phone is somewhere with no coverage. In any case, I think there’s a real risk that Sylvester is no longer alive.’

The chair at the head of the table turned slowly and the man came into view. The bulging body, muscles that strained all the seams of his suit, the high forehead, the old-fashioned moustache, the dense eyebrows over a deceptively sleepy gaze.

Hugo Nestor tried to meet that gaze. Nestor had killed women, men and children, he had looked them in the eye while he did it, without even blinking. Quite the opposite, he had studied them to see if he could see it — mortal fear, the certain knowledge of what was about to happen, any insight the dying might gain at the threshold to the hereafter. Like that Belarus girl whose throat he had cut when the others were unwilling. He had stared into her pleading eyes. It was as if he got off on a mixture of his own feelings, his rage at the others’ and the woman’s capitulation and weakness. Got off on the excitement of holding a life in his hands and deciding whether — and indeed when — he would carry out the act that would end it. He could extend her life by a second, and then another second. And another one. Or not. It was entirely up to him. And it struck him that this was the closest he would ever come to the sexual ecstasy which people spoke about, a union which for him was only associated with mild discomfort and an embarrassing attempt at coming across as a so-called normal person. He had read somewhere that one individual in every hundred was asexual. It made him an exception. But it didn’t make him abnormal. On the contrary, he could concentrate on what really mattered, build his life, his reputation, enjoy the respect and fear of others without any distractions and the loss of energy that came from the sexual addiction other people were slaves to. Surely that was rational and — consequently — normal? He was a normal person who wasn’t frightened of, but, rather, curious about death. And, in addition, he had good news for his boss. But Nestor managed to hold his boss’s gaze for only five seconds before he had to look away. Because what he saw in it was colder and emptier than death and annihilation. It was perdition. The promise that you had a soul and that it would be taken from you.

‘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?’

Betty walked over to the living-room window, took in the view towards the new Opera House and the Oslo Fjord. The new high-rise buildings stood close together like pickets in a fence. Ekebergasen. The Post Office building. The town hall. The rail tracks which came in from the whole country and merged together in a nerve bundle below her at Oslo Central Station. She noticed the driving licence on the large desk. It wasn’t Lae’s. Next to it lay a pair of scissors and a passport-sized photo of Lae wearing the prominent, square glasses with the black frames she had seen him with when she had checked him in. Further along the desk lay two identical and clearly new briefcases. The corner of a plastic bag stuck out from under the lid of one of them. She stared. Matt, but transparent plastic. With the traces of something white on the inside.

She took two steps back so that she could look into the bedroom. The door to the bathroom was open and she could see the back of the guest in front of the mirror. He had a towel wrapped around his waist and was concentrating hard on shaving. It meant that she had a short window of opportunity.

She tried opening the briefcase containing the plastic bag. It was locked.

She looked at the code lock. The small metal wheels showed 0999. She looked at the other briefcase. 1999. Did the two briefcases have the same code? In which case 1999 looked like the code. A year. The year of someone’s birth, perhaps. Or the Prince song. In which case it wouldn’t be locked.

Betty heard the guest turn on the tap in the bathroom. He was splashing water on his face now. She knew she really shouldn’t.

She lifted the lid of the second briefcase. And gasped.

The briefcase was stuffed full with bundles of banknotes.

Then she heard footsteps coming from the bedroom and quickly shut the lid, took three brisk steps and stopped at the door to the corridor with her heart pounding.

He came out from the bedroom and looked at her with a smile. But something about him had changed. Perhaps it was just that he was no longer wearing his glasses. Or it was the bloody piece of tissue over one eye. At that moment she realised what was different. He had shaved off his eyebrows, that was it. Who on earth removes their eyebrows? Apart from Bob Geldof in The Wall, of course. But he was mad. Or pretending to be mad. Was the man in front of her insane? No, mad people didn’t have briefcases full of money, they only thought they did.

He opened the desk drawer, took out a brown envelope and handed it to Betty.

‘Please would you make sure that goes in today’s post?’

‘I’m sure we can manage that,’ she said, hoping he hadn’t detected her trepidation.

‘Thank you so much, Betty.’

She blinked twice. Of course — her name was on the hotel badge.

‘Have a nice day, Mr Lae,’ she smiled and put her hand on the door handle.

‘Wait, Betty. .’

She felt her smile congeal. He had seen her open the briefcase, he was about to-

‘Perhaps it’s. . eh, customary to tip for such services?’

She breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Not at all, Mr Lae.’

It wasn’t until she was in the lift that she realised she was sweating profusely. Why could she never rein in her curiosity? Nor could she very well tell anyone that she had been riffling through a guest’s property. Anyway, since when was it illegal to keep money in a briefcase? Especially if you worked for the police. Because that was what it said on the front of the brown envelope. Police HQ, Gronlandsleiret 44. For the attention of Simon Kefas.

Simon Kefas was standing inside room 323, looking around.

‘So Delta raided the room?’ he said. ‘And took away the guy in the bottom bunk? Johnny — what was his name?’

‘Puma,’ Martha said. ‘I called because I thought perhaps you had. .’

‘No, I had nothing to do with it. Who is Johnny’s room-mate?’

‘He calls himself Stig Berger.’

‘Hm. And where is he now?’

‘I don’t know. No one does. The police have asked everyone here. Listen, if it’s not you, then I want to know who ordered the raid.’

‘I don’t know,’ Simon said, opening the wardrobe. ‘Only the Commissioner can authorise a Delta deployment, check with him. Are these Stig Berger’s clothes?’

‘As far as I know.’

He had a hunch that she was lying, that she knew they belonged to him. He picked up the blue trainers at the bottom of the wardrobe. Size 8?. Put them back, closed the wardrobe and spotted the photo fixed to the wall next to the wardrobe. Any doubts he might have had until now evaporated.

‘His name is Sonny Lofthus,’ Simon said.

‘What?’

‘The other resident. His name is Sonny and this is a picture of his father, Ab Lofthus. His father was a police officer. His son became a killer. So far he has killed six people. You’re welcome to complain to the Commissioner, but I think we can safely say that Delta’s presence was justified.’

He saw how her face seemed to stiffen and the pupils contracted as if there was suddenly too much light. Staff here had seen a thing or two, but it was still a shock to learn that they had given shelter to a mass murderer.

He squatted down on his haunches, there was something under the bunk bed. He pulled it out.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘A stun grenade,’ he said, holding up the olive-green object which looked like the rubber grip on the handlebars of a bicycle. ‘It produces a powerful flash of light and a bang of around 170 dB. It’s not dangerous, but it leaves people so blind, deaf, dizzy and disorientated for a few seconds that Delta have time to do what they have to do. But they didn’t pull the pin out of this one, so it never went off. That’s how it is, people make mistakes under pressure. Don’t you agree?’

He glanced at the trainers and then looked up at her. But when she returned his gaze, it was steady and firm. He saw nothing there.

‘I have to get back to the hospital,’ Simon said. ‘Will you call me if he comes back again?’

‘Are you all right?’

‘Probably not,’ Simon said. ‘But the patient is my wife. She’s going blind.’

He looked down at his hands. He was tempted to add: just like me.