The Son (6 page)

Martha noticed her accent and concluded a strict mother had corrected her daughter’s language at the dinner table. A mother who had told her she would never find a decent husband if she spoke like a shop girl.

The Chief Inspector tilted his head. ‘What do you think, Martha?’

She liked him. He looked like someone who cared.

‘I think he knew he was going to die.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Why?’

‘Because he wrote me a letter.’

Martha walked around the table in the meeting room which lay opposite the reception area on the first floor. They had managed to retain the Gothic style and it was easily the most beautiful room in the building. Not that there was much competition. She poured a cup of coffee for the Chief Inspector who sat down while he read the letter that Per Vollan had left for her at reception. His partner perched on the edge of a chair next to him, texting on her mobile. She had politely declined Martha’s offer of coffee, tea and water as if she suspected even the tap water here to be contaminated with undesirable microbes. Kefas pushed the letter across to her. ‘It says here he leaves everything he owns to the hostel.’

His colleague sent her text message and cleared her throat. The Chief Inspector turned to her. ‘Yes, Adel?’

‘You’re not allowed to say a hostel any more; it’s called a residential centre.’

Kefas looked genuinely surprised. ‘Why?’

‘Because we have social workers and a sickbay here,’ Martha explained. ‘That makes it more than just a hostel. Of course the real reason is that the word “hostel” now has unfortunate connotations. Drinking, brawling and squalid living conditions. So they slap some paint on the rust by renaming it.’

‘But even so . . .’ the Chief Inspector said. ‘Was Vollan really going to leave everything he owned to this place?’

Martha shrugged. ‘I doubt he had much to leave. Did you notice the date under his signature?’

‘He wrote the letter yesterday. And you think he did that because he knew he was going to die? Are you saying he killed himself?’

Martha thought about it. ‘I don’t know.’

The tall, thin woman cleared her throat again. ‘Marital breakdown is not, as far as I know, an uncommon reason for suicide in men over forty.’

Martha got the feeling that the quiet woman more than just knew it; she had the exact statistics at her fingertips.

‘Did he seem depressed?’ Simon asked.

‘More low than depressed, I’d say.’

‘It’s not uncommon for a suicidal person to kill themselves as they come out of their depression,’ the woman said and sounded as if she was reading from a book. The other two looked at her. ‘The depression itself is often characterised by apathy and it takes a certain amount of initiative to commit suicide.’ A beep indicated that she had received a text message.

Kefas turned to Martha. ‘A middle-aged man is thrown out by his wife and writes something that could be seen as a farewell note to you. So why isn’t it suicide?’

‘I didn’t say that it wasn’t.’

‘But?’

‘He seemed scared.’

‘Scared of what?’

Martha shrugged. She wondered if she was creating unnecessary trouble for herself.

‘Per was a man with a dark side. He was very open about it. He said he became a chaplain because he needed forgiveness more than most.’

‘You’re saying he had done things not everyone would forgive him for?’

‘Things that
no one
would forgive him for.’

‘I see. Are we talking about the type of sins where the clergy seems to be over-represented?’

Martha didn’t reply.

‘Is that why his wife threw him out?’

Martha hesitated. This man was sharper than the other police officers she had met. But could she trust him?

‘In my job you learn the art of forgiving the unforgivable, Chief Inspector. Of course it’s possible that Per ultimately couldn’t forgive himself and that’s why he chose this way out. But it’s also possible that—’

‘—someone, let’s say the father of a child who had been abused, wanted to avoid pressing charges that would also stigmatise the victim. And, besides, the someone couldn’t be sure that Per Vollan would be punished and, in any case, whatever sentence he got wouldn’t be enough. So the someone decided to be judge, jury and executioner.’

Martha nodded. ‘It’s only human if someone hurts your child, I guess. Haven’t you ever come across cases in your work where the law is inadequate?’

Simon Kefas shook his head. ‘If police officers gave in to that kind of temptation, the law would be pointless. And I actually believe in the rule of law. Justice must be blind. Do you suspect anyone in particular?’

‘No.’

‘Drug debt?’ Kari Adel asked.

Martha shook her head. ‘I would have known if he was using.’

‘I’m asking because I’ve just texted an officer from the Drug Squad about Per Vollan. And he replied . . .’ She took her mobile out of her tight jacket pocket and there was a clunk when a marble came out with it, hit the floor and started rolling eastwards. ‘
Seen him talking to one of Nestor’s dealers sometimes
,’ she read out loud while she rose and started looking for the marble. ‘
Seen him buy a wrap, but not pay
.’ Kari Adel put the phone back in her pocket and caught the marble before it reached the wall.

‘And what do you make of that?’ Simon asked.

‘That this building slopes towards Alexander Kiellands Plass. Probably more blue clay and less granite on that side.’

Martha chuckled.

The tall, thin woman smiled briefly. ‘And that Vollan owed money to someone. A wrap of heroin costs three hundred kroner. And that’s not even a full wrap, that’s just 0.2 gram. Two bags a day—’

‘Not so fast,’ Simon interrupted her. ‘Junkies don’t get credit, do they?’

‘Not usually, no. Perhaps he was doing favours for someone and was paid in heroin.’

Martha threw up her hands. ‘He wasn’t using, I keep telling you! Half my job is knowing if people are clean, OK?’

‘You’re right, of course, Miss Lian,’ Simon said, rubbing his chin. ‘Perhaps the heroin wasn’t for him.’ He got up. ‘Anyway, we’ll have to wait and see what the medical examiner says.’

‘Good idea of yours to text the Drug Squad,’ Simon said as he drove them down Uelandsgate towards the city centre.

‘Thank you,’ Kari said.

‘Nice girl, that Martha Lian. Have you come across her before?’

‘No, but I wouldn’t have kicked her out of bed if I had.’

‘What?’

‘Sorry, bad joke. You meant if I knew her from my time with the Drug Squad. I do. She’s lovely and I’ve always wondered why she works at the Ila Centre.’

‘Because she’s pretty?’

‘It’s a well-known fact that good looks improve the career prospects of people with only average intelligence and ability. Working at the Ila Centre isn’t a springboard for anything as far as I can see.’

‘Perhaps she thinks it’s a worthwhile job.’

‘Worthwhile? Have you any idea what they pay—’

‘Worth doing. Police work doesn’t pay very well, either.’

‘True.’

‘But it’s a good place to start your career if you combine it with a law degree,’ Simon said. ‘When will you finish the second level?’

Again he detected a hint of reddening on Kari’s neck and knew he had touched a nerve.

‘Right,’ Simon said. ‘Nice to have the use of your services. I expect you’ll be my boss soon. Or you’ll get a job in the private sector where salaries are on average one and a half times more for people with skills like ours.’

‘Perhaps,’ Kari said. ‘But I don’t think I’ll ever be your boss. You’re due to retire next March.’

Simon didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He turned left at Grønlandsleiret, towards Police HQ.

‘One and a half times your salary would come in very handy if you’re doing up a property. Flat or house?’

‘House,’ Kari said. ‘We plan on having two children and we need more room. Given the cost per square metre in central Oslo, you have to buy a place that needs doing up unless you inherit money. Both mine and Sam’s parents are alive and well; and besides, Sam and I agree that subsidy corrupts.’

‘Corrupts? Really?’

‘Yes.’

Simon looked at the Pakistani shop owners who had left their overheated shops and come out into the street where they chatted, smoked cigarettes and watched the traffic.

‘Aren’t you curious how I knew that you’re house-hunting?’

‘The marble,’ Kari said. ‘Adults with no children only have one of those in their pocket if they’re viewing old houses or flats and want to check if the floors are sloping due to subsidence so badly they’ll have to be taken up.’

She really was clever.

‘Just bear this in mind,’ Simon said. ‘If a house has been standing for 120 years, the floors should be a little crooked.’

‘Perhaps so,’ Kari said, leaning forward to look at the spire of Grønland Church. ‘But I like it when the floors are level.’

Simon started to laugh. He might grow to like this girl. He liked the floors level, too.

7

‘
I KNEW YOUR
father,’ Johannes Halden said.

It was raining outside. It had been a warm, sunny day; the clouds had built up on the horizon and the light summer drizzle fell across the city. Johannes remembered what it felt like before he was banged up. How the little drops of rain warmed up the moment they hit your sun-kissed skin. How it made the smell of dust rise from the tarmac. The scent of flowers, grass and leaves would make him wild, dizzy and frisky. Ah, to be young again.

‘I was his confidential informant,’ Johannes said.

Sonny sat in darkness close to the wall and it was impossible to see his face. Johannes didn’t have very much time; the cells would soon be locked up for the night. He took a deep breath. Here it came. The sentence he needed to say, but dreaded the consequences. Uttering the words that had sat in his chest for so long he was afraid that they had taken root.

‘It’s not true that he shot himself, Sonny.’

There. He had finally told him.

Silence.

‘You’re not asleep, are you, Sonny?’

Johannes could see the body shift in the shadow.

‘I know what it must have been like for you and your mother. Finding your father dead. Reading the note where he claimed he was the mole in the police who had helped drug dealers and traffickers. That he had told them about raids, evidence, suspects . . .’

He saw the white in a pair of blinking eyes.

‘But it was the other way round, Sonny. Your father suspected who the mole was. I overheard Nestor talk on the phone to his boss about how they had to get rid of a policeman called Lofthus before he ruined everything for them. I told your father about that conversation, that he was in danger, that the police had to move quickly. But your father said that he couldn’t involve other people, that he had to go it alone because he knew there were other police officers in hock to Nestor. So he got me to swear to keep my mouth shut and never breathe a word of it to a living soul. And I’ve kept that promise right up until now.’

Had Sonny understood? Possibly not, but the most important thing wasn’t that Sonny had listened or the consequences, but that Johannes had got it off his chest. Finally told him. Delivered the message to its rightful owner.

‘Your father was alone that weekend; you and your mother were at a wrestling competition out of town. He knew they were coming for him so he barricaded himself inside that yellow house of yours up in Berg.’

Johannes thought he could feel something in the darkness. A change in pulse and breathing.

‘Even so, Nestor and his people still managed to get in. They didn’t want the fallout that would come from shooting a police officer so they forced your father to write that suicide note.’ Johannes swallowed. ‘In return for a promise to spare you and your mother. Afterwards they shot him point-blank with his own gun.’

Johannes closed his eyes. It was very quiet and yet it felt as if someone was shouting into his ear. And there was a tightness in his chest and throat that he hadn’t felt for many, many years. Dear God, when did he last cry? When his daughter was born? But he couldn’t stop now; he had to finish what he had started.

‘I guess you’re wondering how Nestor got into the house?’

Johannes held his breath. It sounded as if the boy had also stopped breathing; all he could hear was the roar of blood in his ears.

‘Someone had seen me talk to your father, and Nestor thought the police had been a little too lucky with the trucks they had stopped recently. I denied that it was me, said that I knew your father a bit and that he was trying to get information from me. So Nestor said that if your father believed I might become his confidential informant, I would be able to walk up to the front door and make him open it. That way I could prove where my loyalties lay, he said . . .’

Johannes could hear that the other had started breathing again. Quickly. Hard.

‘Your father opened the door. Because you trust your informant, don’t you?’

He sensed movement, but he didn’t hear or see anything before the punch hit him. And while he lay on the floor tasting the metallic blood, feeling the tooth glide down his throat, hearing the boy scream and scream, the cell door opening, the officers’ shouting and then the boy being restrained and handcuffed, he thought about the astonishing physical speed, accuracy and force in the blow from this junkie. And about forgiveness. The forgiveness which he hadn’t got. And about time. About the passing seconds. About the approaching night.

8

WHAT ARILD FRANCK
liked most about his Porsche Cayenne was the sound. Or rather the absence of sound. The hum of the 4.8-litre V8 engine reminded him of his mother’s sewing machine when he was growing up in Stange outside of Hamar. That, too, had been the sound of silence. Of silence, calm and concentration.

The door on the passenger side opened and Einar Harnes got in. Franck didn’t know where young lawyers in Oslo bought their suits; he just knew it wasn’t the same shops he frequented. Nor had he ever seen the point of buying light-coloured suits. Suits were dark. And cost less than five thousand kroner. The difference in price between his suits and Harnes’s ought to be paid into a savings account for future generations who had families of their own to support and who would continue the work of building Norway. Or fund an early and comfortable retirement. Or a Porsche Cayenne.