‘Shut up!’ It was Oleg. We stared at him.
‘It’s simple logic. If Tutu isn’t in the boot before the police come we lose both the dope and our freedom. If Tutu, but not the dope, is in the boot we lose only the money.’
Berntsen turned to me. ‘Sounds like Boris agrees with me, Wussto. Two against one.’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘You carry the body and I’ll search for the dope.’
‘Wrong,’ Berntsen said. ‘We carry the body and you wash up the gunge after us.’ He pointed to the sink on the wall beside the bar.
I poured water into a bucket while Oleg and Berntsen grabbed a leg each and dragged Tutu towards the door, leaving a thin trail of blood. Under Karen McDougal’s provocative gaze I scrubbed brain and blood off the wall and then the floor. I had just finished and was about to start searching for dope when I heard a sound from the door that opened onto the E6. A sound I tried to persuade myself was going somewhere else. The fact that the sound was getting louder and louder could be a figment of my imagination. Police sirens.
I checked the bar, the office and the toilet. It was a simple room, no second storey, no cellar, not many places to hide twenty kilos of horse. Then my eyes fell on the toolbox. On the padlock. Which had not been there before.
Oleg shouted something from the door.
‘Give me the jemmy,’ I shouted back.
‘We’ve got to get out now! They’re down the road!’
‘Jemmy!’
‘Now, Gusto!’
I knew it was in there. Twenty-five million kroner, right in front of me, in a shitty wooden box. I started kicking the lock.
‘I’ll shoot, Gusto!’
I turned to Oleg. He was pointing the bloody Odessa at me. Not that I thought he would hit me from that range, it was well over ten metres, but just the idea that he would train a weapon on me.
‘If they catch you, they’ll catch us!’ he shouted with tears in his throat.
‘Come on!’
I battered away at the lock again. The sirens were getting louder and louder. The thing about sirens, though, is that they always sound closer than they are.
I heard a crack like a whip above me on the wall. I looked back at the door, and my blood ran cold. It was Berntsen. He was standing there with a smoking police shooter in his hand.
‘Next one won’t miss,’ he said calmly.
I gave the box one last kick. Then I ran.
We had hardly clambered over the fence and removed the stockings when we found ourselves looking into the headlights of the police cars. We walked casually towards them.
Then they sped past us and turned in front of the clubhouse.
We continued up the hill to where Berntsen had parked his car. Got in and drove off. As we passed the clubhouse I turned and looked at Oleg on the rear seat. Blue light swept across his face, inflamed from the tears and the tight stocking. He looked completely drained, staring into the darkness as if ready to die.
Neither of us said anything until Berntsen pulled in at a bus stop in Sinsen.
‘You screwed up, Wussto,’ he said.
‘I couldn’t know about the locks,’ I said.
‘It’s called preparation,’ Berntsen said. ‘Casing the joint. Sound familiar? We’re going to find an open door with a lock that’s been unscrewed.’
I realised that by ‘we’ he meant the cops. Odd fish.
‘I took the lock and the hinges,’ Oleg sniffled. ‘It’s going to look as though Tutu ran hell for leather when he heard the sirens, didn’t even have time to lock up. And the screw marks could be after a break-in at any point over the last year, right?’
Berntsen looked at Oleg in the mirror. ‘Learn from your pal, Wussto. Actually, don’t. Oslo doesn’t need any more smart thieves.’
‘Right,’ I said. ‘But perhaps it’s not such a bloody smart idea to park on double yellow lines at a bus stop with a body in the back, either.’
‘Agreed,’ Berntsen said. ‘Off you go then.’
‘The body…’
‘I’ll sort Drillo out.’
‘Where…?’
‘None of your business. Out!’
We got out and watched Berntsen’s Saab spin off.
‘From now on, we’ve got to keep away from that guy,’ I said.
‘Why?’
‘He’s killed a man, Oleg. He has to remove all the physical evidence. First he’ll have to find a place to hide the body. But after that…’
‘He’ll have to remove the witnesses.’
I nodded. Felt as depressed as fuck. Then I ventured an optimistic thought: ‘Sounded like he had a great stash in mind for Tutu, didn’t it?’
‘I was going to spend the money on moving to Bergen with Irene,’ Oleg said.
I looked at him.
‘I’ve got a place to do law at uni there. Irene’s in Trondheim with Stein. I was thinking of going up there and persuading her to join me.’
We caught the bus to town. I couldn’t stand Oleg’s blank gaze any longer, it had to be filled with something.
‘Come on,’ I said.
While I fixed him a shot in the rehearsal room I saw him sending me impatient glances, as if he wanted to take over, as if he thought I was clumsy. And when he rolled up his sleeve I knew why. The boy had needle marks all over his forearm.
‘Just until Irene comes back,’ he said.
‘Have you got your own stash as well?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘It’s been stolen.’
That was the night I taught him where and how to make a proper stash.
Truls Berntsen had been waiting for more than an hour at the multi-storey car park when a vehicle finally turned into the vacant spot with a sign showing it was reserved for the firm of solicitors Bach amp; Simonsen. He had decided this was the right place; only two cars had come to this part of the car park in the hour he had been here, and there were no surveillance cameras. Truls checked the number plate was the same as he had found on AUTOSYS. Hans Christian Simonsen had long lie-ins. Or perhaps he wasn’t asleep, perhaps he had some woman or other. The man getting out had a blond, boyish fringe, the kind Oslo West prats used to have when he was growing up.
Truls Berntsen put on his sunglasses, stuffed his hands in his coat pockets and squeezed the grip of the gun, a Steyr, Austrian, semi-automatic. He had left behind the standard police revolver so that the solicitor wouldn’t have any unnecessary leads. He walked quickly to cut off Simonsen while he was still standing between the cars. A threat works best if it’s fast and aggressive. If the victim has no time to mobilise any other thoughts than fear of life and limb, you will get what you want straight away.
It was as if he had fizz powder in his blood — there was a hiss and a pounding in his ears, groin and throat. He visualised what was going to happen. The gun in Simonsen’s face, so close that the barrel would be all he remembered. ‘Where’s Oleg Fauke? Answer me, quick and precise, or else I’ll kill you right now.’ The reply. Then: ‘If you warn anyone or say this conversation has taken place we’ll be back to kill you. Got that?’ Yes. Or numb nods. Maybe involuntary urination. Truls smiled at the thought. Increased his pace. The pounding had spread to his stomach.
‘Simonsen!’
The solicitor looked up. And his face brightened. ‘Oh, hi there! Berntsen. Truls Berntsen, isn’t it?’
