The Son

32

‘Two,’ Goldsrud whispered.

The men stood with their weapons at the ready, listening to the silence behind the door to the assistant prison governor’s office.

Morgan exhaled. Now, it was about to happen now. This was the moment where he might finally get to take part in something he had dreamt about ever since he was a little boy. He would catch someone. Perhaps even. .

‘Three,’ Goldsrud whispered.

Then he swung the sledgehammer. It hit the lock on the door and splinters flew from the frame as Harald, the tallest of them, forced his way through the door. Morgan entered with a rifle held at chest height and took two steps to the left like Goldsrud had instructed him to. There was only one person in the room. Morgan stared at the man in the chair with blood on his chest, his throat and his chin. Christ, there was so much blood! Morgan felt his knees weakening as if some kind of drug had been injected into them. He mustn’t! But there was so much blood! And the man in the chair was shaking, convulsing as if he were being electrocuted. And his eyes stared at them, frantic, bulging as if he were a deep-sea fish.

Goldsrud took two steps forward and ripped the tape off the man’s mouth.

‘Where are you hurt, boss?’

The man opened his mouth wide, but no sound came out. Goldsrud stuck in two fingers and pulled out a black sock. Saliva poured from the man’s mouth and Morgan recognised the voice of assistant prison governor Arild Franck as he screamed: ‘Go after him! Don’t let him get away!’

‘We need to find out where he’s injured and stop the-’ Goldsrud was about to rip open his boss’s shirt, but Franck yelled: ‘Lock the bloody doors, he’s going to get away! He has my car key! And my uniform cap!’

‘Calm down, boss,’ Goldsrud said as he cut the tape off one armrest. ‘He’s trapped; he won’t get past the fingerprint sensors.’

Franck glared at him furiously and held up his now free hand. ‘Oh yes, he will!’

Morgan stumbled backwards and had to lean against the wall for support. He tried, but failed to avert his eyes from the blood pouring from the place where the assistant prison governor Arild Franck should have had a forefinger.

Kari followed Simon out of the lift and down the corridor to the open-plan office.

‘So,’ she said, trying to digest the information. ‘Three toothbrushes were sent to you by post with a note from someone called “S” who said they ought to be checked for DNA?’

‘Yes,’ Simon said as he pressed the buttons on his phone.

‘And two of the toothbrushes had DNA material that proves a family relationship to an unborn child? An unborn child who is registered as a murder victim?’

Simon nodded while holding a finger to his lips to indicate that he had re-established the connection. When he spoke, it was in a loud and clear voice and he had set the phone to loudspeaker mode.

‘It’s Kefas again. Who was the child, how did it die, and what was the family relationship?’

He held up his mobile between them so Kari could listen in.

‘We don’t know who the mother or the baby was, all we know is that the mother died — or was killed — by an overdose in the centre of Oslo. In the register she’s just down as “unidentified”.’

‘We know about the case,’ Simon said, swearing silently to himself. ‘Asian, probably Vietnamese. And probably a victim of trafficking.’

‘That’s your department, Kefas. The baby, or the foetus, died because its mother died.’

‘I understand. And who is the father?’

‘The red toothbrush.’

‘The. . red one?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thank you,’ Simon said and ended the call.

Kari went over to the coffee machine to fetch coffee for them both. When she came back, Simon was on another call which she guessed from his soft voice to be with Else. When he hung up, he had on this expression which some people over a certain age suddenly display for a few seconds, as if something has passed them by, as if they have the potential to crumble into dust on the spot. Kari had been about to ask how things were, but decided to let it lie.

‘So. .’ Simon said, trying to sound cheerful. ‘Who do we think is the daddy? Iver Senior or Junior?’

‘We don’t think,’ Kari said. ‘We know.’

Simon looked at her for a moment in surprise. Saw her slowly shake her head. Then he narrowed his eyes, bowed his head and ran his hand across it as if to smooth what little hair he had left.

‘Of course,’ he said quietly. ‘Two toothbrushes. I must be getting old.’

‘I’ll go check to see what we have on Iver,’ Kari said.

When she had gone, Simon turned on his computer and opened his mailbox.

Someone had sent him a sound file. Sent it from a mobile, it would appear.

No one ever sent him sound files.

He opened the file and pressed play.

Morgan looked at the incandescent assistant prison governor who was standing in the middle of the control room. He had wrapped gauze around the stump on his hand, but had dismissed the medical orderly’s urgent requests to lie down.

‘So you raised the barrier and just let the killer drive straight out?!’ Franck thundered.

‘He was driving your car,’ the guard said, wiping sweat off his forehead. ‘He was wearing your uniform cap.’

‘But it wasn’t me!’ Franck roared.

Morgan didn’t know if it was because Franck had high blood pressure, but the red, nauseating substance was seeping through the white gauze and Morgan was starting to feel faint again.

One of the telephones next to the monitors rang. Goldsrud picked it up and listened.

‘They’ve found the finger,’ he said, covering the mouthpiece with his hand. ‘We’ll drive you up to Ulleval Hospital for surgery, so they can-’

‘Where?’ Franck interrupted him. ‘Where did they find it?’

‘In plain sight on the dashboard of your Porsche. It was double-parked down in Gronland.’

‘Find him! Find him!’

Tor Jonasson hung from the strap attached to the bar in the metro train. Mumbled an apology as he bumped into one of the other sleepy morning commuters. He had to sell five mobile phones today. That was his target. And when he stood — or hopefully sat — on the train later this afternoon, he would know if he had succeeded. And that would bring him. . happiness. Maybe.

Tor sighed.

He looked at the uniformed man standing with his back to him. Music was coming from the earphones he was wearing. The cable went to his hand which was holding a mobile that bore the tiny label of the shop where Tor worked on the back. Tor changed position so that he could study the man in profile. Tried to get a good look at him. Wasn’t he the guy who wanted to buy batteries for that museum piece? The Discman. Tor had been intrigued enough to look it up on the Net. They had made Discmans up until 2000, when a Walkman that was compatible with MP3 had been invented. Tor stood so close behind him that he could hear the sound from the earphones over the carriage’s rattling steel wheels, but it disappeared when the train went round a bend and the carriage creaked.

It had sounded like a lone female voice. But he had recognised the tune:

‘That you’ve always been her lover. .’ Leonard Cohen.

Simon stared at the sound file icon in disbelief. It had taken him only a few seconds to play it. He pressed play again.

There was no doubt, it was the voice he had initially thought it was. But he didn’t understand what it was about.

‘What are you doing? Picking your lottery numbers?’

Simon turned round. Sissel Thou was doing her morning round and emptying the waste-paper bins.

‘Something like that,’ Simon said and pressed the stop button while she grabbed the bin from under his desk and tipped it into the trolley.

‘You’re throwing your money away, Simon, the lottery is for the lucky ones.’

‘And you don’t think that’s us?’ Simon said as he stared at the computer screen.

‘Look at the world we’ve created,’ she said.

Simon leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. ‘Sissel?’

‘Yes?’

‘A young woman was murdered and now it turns out she was pregnant. But I don’t think the killer was scared of her, I think he was scared of her baby.’

‘Uh-huh.’

Silence.

‘Is that a question, Simon?’

Simon leaned his head against the neck rest. ‘If you knew you were carrying the devil’s son, would you still give birth to him, Sissel?’

‘We’ve had this conversation before, Simon.’

‘I know, but what did you say?’

She gave him a reproachful look. ‘I said that nature sadly doesn’t give the poor mother any choice, Simon. Or the father, for that matter.’

‘I thought Mr Thou abandoned you?’

‘I’m talking about you, Simon.’

Simon closed his eyes again. He nodded slowly. ‘So we’re slaves to love. And who we’re given to love, that’s a lottery too. Is that what you’re saying?’

‘It’s brutal, but that’s how it is,’ Sissel declared.

‘And the gods laugh,’ Simon said.

‘Probably, but meanwhile someone has to clear up the mess down here.’

Simon heard her footsteps fade away. Then he forwarded the sound file from his computer to his mobile, went to the Gents, entered one of the cubicles and played the recording again.

After playing it twice he finally understood what the numbers meant.