‘Curtains,’ she repeated. ‘Here in the living room. I just think the windows seem so big and dark in the winter.’
‘As long as I don’t have to choose them, go and buy them or hang them up.’
‘OK.’
They ought to get up. She ought to tidy all these papers. If the girls got up first tomorrow morning, as they usually did, things would be even more chaotic than they already were.
‘You smell so good,’ she whispered.
‘Everything about me is good,’ he said sleepily, and in his voice there was a feeling of security she hadn’t felt for a long time. ‘Besides which I am the best detective in the whole wide world.’
‘Police! Stop!
A young lad had just tumbled out of a dark green Volvo XC90. The number plates were so dirty they were illegible, despite the fact that the rest of the vehicle was quite clean. The oldest trick in the book, thought DC Knut Bork as he jumped out of the unmarked police car and set off in pursuit.
‘Stop that car!’ he yelled to his colleague, who was already striding across the carriageway.
For precisely five days it had been illegal to pay for sex in Norway. The new law had been passed by Stortinget without too much fuss, despite the fact that there was much to suggest that the new regulations would cause a significant setback for the sex industry. Open street prostitution had gone into hiding, presumably to wait and see what happened. However, there were still plenty of whores of both sexes in Oslo, and the punters hadn’t stayed away either. Everything was just a little bit trickier for them all. Perhaps that was the idea.
The boy was unsteady on his feet, but fast. However, it took Bork only fifty metres to catch up with him.
The punter in the expensive car was terrified. He was about thirty-five and had tried to cover up two child seats in the back of the car with an old blanket. His designer jeans were still open at the fly when the driver’s door was yanked open. He stepped out on to the pavement as requested, and began to cry.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ yelled the boy on the other side of the street. ‘You’re killing me!’
‘No, I’m not,’ said DC Bork. ‘And if you’re a good boy I won’t need to use the handcuffs, will I? OK? They’re not particularly comfortable, so if I were you…’
He could feel that the boy was reluctantly beginning to resign himself to the situation. The skinny body gradually relaxed. Bork slowly loosened his grip, and when the boy turned around he seemed younger than he had from a distance. His face was childish and his features soft, although he weighed no more than sixty kilos. A cold sore extended from his top lip right up into his left nostril, which was distended with scabs and pus. Bork felt sick, and was tempted to let the boy run away.
‘I haven’t fucking done anything!’ He wiped his nose with the sleeve of his padded jacket. ‘It’s not illegal to sell yourself. It’s that bastard who should go to jail!’
‘He’ll probably be fined. But since you’re our witness, that means we need to talk to you as well. Let’s go over to our car. Come on. What’s your name?’
The boy didn’t reply. He stubbornly refused to budge when Knut Bork indicated they should move.
‘Right,’ said Bork. ‘There are two ways of doing this. There’s the nice, easy way, and then there’s the way that isn’t cool at all. Not for either of us. But it’s your choice.’
No response.
‘What’s your name?’
Still nothing.
‘OK,’ said Knut Bork, getting out the handcuffs. ‘Hands behind your back, please.’
‘Martin. Martin Setre.’
‘Martin,’ Bork repeated, putting away the handcuffs. ‘Have you any form of ID on you?’
A slight shake of the head and a shrug.
‘How old are you?’
‘Eighteen.’
Knut Bork grinned.
‘Seventeen,’ said Martin Setre. ‘Almost. Almost seventeen.’
The punter’s sobs grew louder. It was nearly one o’clock in the morning, and there was very little traffic. They could hear the rattle of a tram from Prinsens Gate, and a taxi hooted angrily at the two badly parked cars as it whizzed past on the hunt for passengers, its FOR HIRE sign illuminated. The Christmas party season and the financial crisis had strangled the city’s night life in January, and the streets were more or less deserted.
‘Knut,’ his colleague shouted. ‘I think you should come over here for a minute.’
‘Come on,’ said Knut Bork, grabbing the boy by the upper arm, which was so thin he could easily get his hand around it.
The boy reluctantly went with him.
‘I think we need to take this guy in,’ said his colleague as they drew closer. ‘Look what we’ve got here!’
Bork peered into the car.
Between the seats the central console was open. Under the armrest, in the space meant for sweets and snacks, lay a bulging bag that only just fitted. Knut Bork pulled on a pair of plastic gloves and opened one corner.
‘Well, well,’ he said, smacking his lips appreciatively. ‘Well I never. Hash, I presume?’
The question was unnecessary, and went unanswered. Bork weighed the bag in his hand; he seemed to be thinking.
‘Exactly half a kilo,’ he said eventually. ‘Not bad.’
‘It’s not mine,’ sobbed the man. ‘It’s his!’
He pointed at Martin.
‘What?’ howled the boy. ‘Thanks for fucking nothing! I asked him for five grams for the job, and look what I got!’
He unzipped his jacket and fumbled for something in the inside pocket. Eventually he managed to get hold of something between his index and middle fingers and pulled it out.
‘Three grams max,’ he said, dangling the little ball wrapped in cling film in front of his face. ‘Max! As if I’d have got out of the car if that big bag was mine! As if I wouldn’t have taken it with me if it belonged to me! Are you fucking crazy?’
‘There’s something in what he says, don’t you think?’
The punter sobbed as Bork place a hand on his shoulder, demanding an answer.
‘Please! You can’t lock me up! I’ll do anything, I can’t… You can have whatever you-’
‘Hang on, hang on,’ warned Knut Bork, holding up a hand. ‘Don’t go making things worse for yourself. Let’s just calm down and-’
‘Can I go now?’ said Martin in a thin voice. ‘I mean, it’s not me you want. They’ll just send me to social services and it’ll mean a load of paperwork for you and-’
‘I thought you said you were an adult. Come on.’
A night bus came along. It had to zigzag between the two cars, each blocking one side of the carriageway. There was just one nocturnal passenger looking down with curiosity at the four men before the bus roared away and it was possible to talk once again.
‘My car,’ the man sobbed as he was led to the police car. ‘My wife needs it tomorrow morning! She has to take the kids to nursery!’
‘Let me put it this way,’ said Knut Bork as he helped the man into the back seat. ‘Your wife has far bigger problems than the fact that she hasn’t got transport tomorrow morning.’
Street Boy
The problem was that so many people had started to complain about the bad air. Quite frankly, there was a
