torch.
‘Irene?’ Harry asked tentatively.
At that moment the phone in Harry’s pocket began to vibrate.
37
I looked at my watch. I had searched the whole flat and still hadn’t found Oleg’s stash. And Ibsen should have been here twenty minutes ago. Just let him try not turning up, the perv! It was life for kidnapping and rape. The day Irene came to Oslo Central I had taken her to the rehearsal room, where I said Oleg was waiting for her. He wasn’t, of course. But Ibsen was. He held her while I gave her a shot. I thought about Rufus. About how it was for the best. Then she calmed right down, and all we had to do was drag her into his car. He had my half-kilo in the boot. Did I have any regrets? Yes, I regretted I hadn’t asked for a kilo! No, of course I had some regrets. I’m not entirely without feeling. But when I came over all ‘Fuck, I shouldn’t have done that’ I told myself that Ibsen would take good care of her. He must love her, in his own warped way. Anyway it was too late, now the main thing was to get some medicine and to be healthy again.
This was new ground for me, this was, not getting what the body needed. I’d always got what I wanted, I realised that now. And if that wasn’t the way it was going to be in the future I would rather have dropped dead on the spot. Died young and beautiful, with my teeth more or less intact. Ibsen wasn’t coming. I knew that now. I stood by the kitchen window looking out onto the street, but the fricking limp-dick was nowhere to be seen. Neither him nor Oleg.
I’d tried them all. There was only one left.
I’d shut out this option for a long time. I was frightened. Yes, I was. But I knew he was in town. He’d been here from the day he found out she had disappeared. Stein. My foster-brother.
I looked down the street again.
No. Sooner die than ring him.
The seconds passed. Ibsen wasn’t coming.
Hell! Better to die than be so ill.
I pinched my eyes again, but insects were crawling out of the cavities, darting under my eyelids, scrabbling all over my face.
Dying had lost out.
The finale awaited.
Ring him or die?
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
Harry switched off the torch when the phone began to ring. Saw from the number that it was Hans Christian.
‘Someone’s coming,’ his voice, hoarse with anxiety, whispered in Harry’s ear. ‘He parked outside the gate, and now he’s heading for the house.’
‘OK,’ Harry said. ‘Take it easy. Text me if you see anything. And clear off if-’
‘Clear off?’ Hans Christian sounded genuinely indignant.
‘If you can see this is going down the tube, OK?’
‘Why should I-’
Harry rang off, switched the torch back on and shone it at the wire. ‘Irene?’
The girl blinked at the light with saucer eyes.
‘Listen to me. My name’s Harry. I’m a policeman and I’m here to get you out. But someone’s coming. If he comes down here act as if nothing’s happened, OK? I’ll soon have you out of here, Irene. I promise.’
‘Have you…?’ she mumbled, but Harry didn’t catch the rest.
‘Have I what?’
‘Have you got any… violin?’
Harry gritted his teeth. ‘Hold out for a bit longer,’ he whispered.
Harry ran to the top of the stairs and turned off the light. Pushed the door ajar and peered out. He had a clear view of the front door. He heard a shuffling gait on the shingle outside. One foot being dragged after the other. Club foot. And then the door opened.
The light came on.
And there he was. Big, round and plump.
Stig Nybakk.
The department head at the Radium Hospital. The one who remembered Harry from school. Who knew Tresko. Who had a wedding ring with a black nick. Who had a bachelor flat in which it was impossible to find anything out of the ordinary. But also a house left by his parents he hadn’t sold.
He hung his coat on the stand and walked towards Harry with his hand outstretched. Stopped suddenly. Fluttered his hand in front of him. A deep furrow in his brow. Stood listening. And now Harry knew why. The thread he had felt on his face when he entered, which he had taken to be a spider’s web, must have been something else. Some invisible fibre Nybakk had wound across the hall to indicate whether he had had any unwelcome visitors.
Nybakk moved with surprising speed and agility towards a cupboard. Stuck his hand in. Pulled at something and the matt metal gleamed. A shotgun.
Shit, shit, shit. Harry hated shotguns.
Nybakk took out a box of cartridges, which was already open. Removed two large, red cartridges, held them between first and middle finger.
Harry’s brain whirred and whirred, but failed to come up with any good ideas, so he chose the bad one. Took his phone and began to press.
H-o-o-t a-n-d w-a-j-p
Shit! Wrong!
He heard the metallic click as Nybakk broke the gun.
Delete. Where are you? Out with ‘j’ and ‘p’ and in with ‘i’ and ‘t’.
Heard him loading the cartridges. w-a-i-t t-i-l-l h-e i-s
Tiny bloody keys! Come on!
Heard the barrel click into place. i-n t-h-e w-i-n-c
Wrong! Harry heard Nybakk’s shuffling gait come closer. Not enough time. Would have to hope Hans Christian could use his imagination. l-i-g-h-t-s!
He pressed ‘send’.
Harry could see Nybakk had raised the shotgun to his shoulder. And it struck him that the pharmacist had noticed the cellar door was ajar.
At that moment a car horn hooted. Loud and insistent. Nybakk flinched. Looked to the sitting room, which faced the road. Hesitated. Then went into the room.
The horn hooted again, and this time it didn’t stop.
Harry opened the cellar door and then followed Nybakk, didn’t need to tiptoe, knew the hooting would drown his footsteps. From the door he watched Nybakk as he drew the curtains aside. The room was filled with blinding light from the powerful xenon headlamps on Hans Christian’s estate car.
Harry took four long strides, and Stig Nybakk neither saw nor heard him approach. He was holding one hand in front of his face to shield it from the light as Harry reached both arms round Stig Nybakk’s shoulders, grabbed the gun, pulled the barrel into his fleshy neck. Dug his knees into the back of Nybakk’s legs, forcing both of them down as Nybakk desperately fought for air.
Hans Christian must have realised the hooting had done its job, because it stopped, but Harry continued to apply pressure. Until Nybakk’s movements slowed, lost energy and he seemed to wilt.
Harry knew Nybakk was losing consciousness. After a few seconds without oxygen the brain would be damaged and after a few more Stig Nybakk, the kidnapper and brain behind violin, would be dead.
Harry took stock. Counted to three and allowed one hand to let go of the gun. Nybakk slid to the floor without a noise.
