You (48 page)

Let’s put our cards on the table. Uncertainty has been gnawing away at you since you talked to each other in the office. Fact is, you don’t believe Ragnar, or rather you don’t want to believe him, because you’ve known Taja since she was a child and she isn’t capable of killing anyone, especially her father.
But why should Ragnar lie to me?
Your doubts trouble you. You can see what’s happening here. A man and his wounded pride. Your job is to be there and save what needs to be saved. One dead girl is one too many. And, damn it, you want to know what Ragnar’s hiding from you. You miss his rationality. Even though you’ve spoken out in favor, the trip to Hamburg was a step too far, and now there’s this. A goalkeeper is allowed to leave his goal, but he should know how far out he can go. Be prepared. You have an important job to do in this story, and you’ve got to do it or else everything’s going to get out of control. And you really don’t want to have that on your conscience.

Darian tells you that the Range Rover has left Kristiansand now and is on the 41, but that it stopped again ten miles later. You know the reason for the stop when you drive past Søre Herefoss and the rain comes crashing down on you. It feels as if you’re moving through a
wall of water from one moment to the next. Leo turns the fog lights on and leans forward slightly to get a better view. The street is an explosion of light reflections, and the rain hammers on the roof with blunt fingernails as if to drown out not only every word, but your thoughts as well. Leo keeps his foot down. You’re very glad you’re not at the wheel. Wet tarmac makes you nervous.

Thirty-nine minutes later.

“How does it look?”

You turn around. Ragnar doesn’t mean the road or the weather, he’s leaned over to Darian, they’re both studying the display of the notebook. Their faces are palely lit.

“They’re not moving from the spot.”

“How far still to go?”

Darian looks up.

“They must be right in front of us.”

You look forward, the tarmac steams with its stored heat, you can’t see ten yards in front of you, and as you stare into the darkness and try to make something out, a shimmering cloud of light materializes and grows bigger and bigger.

“Gas station,” says Leo.

“Another two hundred yards,” says Darian.

A car comes toward you, the high beams full on and dazzling, so that for several seconds Leo is driving blind. The car whooshes past you.

“What an asshole!”

Leo curses at length and pulls in at the gas station, which looks a lot like a carnival. People are dancing in the rain, someone has set up a grill under an awning and is turning sausages. Four gaily painted VW buses stand in a row, their side doors are open in spite of the rain. You can hear the music from inside. Teens cross the access road in front of you, holding a plastic sheet over their heads and looking like a walking tent. There are also tired faces staring out of the parked cars as if the rain was holding them prisoner. A dog barks at a puddle, then a flash of lightning splits the sky, thunder crashes and for a few seconds the rain is silent, then its rattle drowns every other sound again.

Leo drives at a walking pace. The restaurant and the gas station drift past like the languid longing of a hippie who’s dreaming of the sixties. The smokers under the awning retreat simultaneously when a gust of wind blows the rain in their direction. Everything here looks like a movie set that’ll soon be pulled down. The flickering neon light above the entrance to the restaurant makes you particularly nervous. You are tense, your left thumb is twitching. You tell yourself it’s the weather and keep a lookout for the Range Rover. The parking lot behind the restaurant is overflowing too. Leo notices that they’re already close to the exit.

“We’ve driven past them,” says Darian.

Leo brakes, looks in the rearview mirror, and turns. No one shouts at Darian, it’s not his fault. The GPS program works on a delay. They must be somewhere. Darian’s arm darts forward.

“There they are!”

You also spot the car well hidden in the shadow of a trailer opposite the restaurant, it’s no wonder you all failed to see it. Leo swings out and brakes right in front of the Range Rover. No more chance of escape. It’s over.

Nothing is happening in the car in front of you. The tinted windows are dull and dead. You expect the doors to fly open and the girls to come pouring out. That’s what you wish would happen.

What are they waiting for?

“I don’t see anything,” says Leo and turns off the engine.

Apart from the rain and swish of the windshield wipers the only sound is your breathing and the whir of the notebook, then there’s a soft click and the whir falls silent because Darian has shut it.

“Stay in the car,” says Ragnar.

You don’t think of leaving him alone, and get out too.

“For an old man you’re amazingly quick,” says Ragnar.

“Who are you calling an old man?”

The rain spits in your faces, both of you are pumped with adrenaline.

“I’ll sort this one out,” says Ragnar, pulling his weapon.

You look over at the restaurant. No one pays you any attention. Ragnar walks up to the Range Rover and stops by the driver’s door. He taps on the window and waits. You’re ready for anything. You think. You really think you are.

The guy has black, shoulder-length hair that encloses his head like a helmet and gleams with rain as if it were oiled. He must be drenched through and through, but the weather doesn’t seem to bother him, because he grins into your car as if he was standing at the beach buying an ice cream from the stall. You’re always suspicious about people who are so damned cheerful all the time. As if the food in your favorite restaurant always tastes good. That’s not possible. There are good and bad days. This guy’s probably never woken up and seen a bad day.

“I saw you were from Germany. Any problems?”

“What?”

“Your hazard lights are on, I thought you might be having problems with your car.”

“Stop the blinking,” you say and lean forward to get a better look at the guy. He’s older than you, but only by a few years. You like his eyes. No suspicion, just honest eyes. Nessi turns the hazards off. The guy doesn’t know who to look at, and turns back to Nessi because she’s right in front of his nose.

“Well?” he asks.

“We—”

“The engine keeps stalling,” you interrupt Nessi before she tells him her life story. The girls look at you as if you had farted. You ignore them and give the guy a smile. The guy smiles back; what else is he supposed to do?

“Open the hood,” he says.

Nessi raises her arms in the air as if to surrender, and says she has no idea how it works. The guy stretches his arm through the window, feels around under the steering wheel, and flips a lever. There’s a click. He goes to the front and opens the hood. When he’s disappeared from your field of vision, Taja hisses at you, “What are you doing?”

“I think it’s nice that someone wants to help us.”

“Are you crazy? The guy’s already drenched to the skin because of us, don’t mess with him more than you need to.”

“Who says I’m messing with him?”

The guy looks out from behind the hood and calls, “Start her up!”

Nessi starts the engine, which naturally fires up without any problems at all.

The hood comes down with a crash; the guy shows up cheerfully on the driver’s side.

“I jiggled the cables a bit, that always helps, you just have to be careful not to tug them out.”

You all nod as if this is a pearl of universal wisdom. It’s a good thing that your girls don’t know what’s going on in your crazy little head right now. You hold your hand out.

“Isabell,” you say.

“Marten,” he says.

His hand is warm and firm. You introduce your girls, and then you say he’s your savior and you’d like to invite him for a coffee, because it doesn’t look as if the rain’s going to let up and it would be stupid to just sit there in the car while it came battering down on you. Marten grins again. You’re not sure if he’s flirting or just a bit dense.

“There’s really no need,” he says.

“Of course there is,” says Taja and flutters her eyelashes.

No one says no to Taja.

“Okay, then,” the guy gives in and winks at Taja.

Definitely dense
, you think and get out first.

The restaurant is overflowing, you hear a murmur of voices, chairs scraping, a clattering of plates and laughter, a jukebox plays hits
from the seventies and as always there are a few drunks singing along. You squeeze into a table occupied by two rockers, who make room for you without complaint. You manage to grab the chair next to Marten. You sit down and stare at the tabletop, which is covered with empty beer bottles; cigarette butts are floating in the dregs though there is a clean ashtray in between. The two rockers tell you in broken English that they come from Sweden and that they’ve been waiting for their buddies for two days. Because it’s so cramped, one of them offers to let Schnappi slip onto his lap. Schnappi thanks him and says she’s sat on the toilet already today. The rockers laugh. A waitress comes with a green trash bag which she holds up to the edge of the table. The rockers know the drill, and push with their arms so that all the beer bottles fall tinkling into the bag. Only the clean ashtray remains behind.

“Öl!” shouts one rocker.

“Öl!” shouts the other rocker.

When you want the waitress to take your order, she shakes her head and moves on to the next table with her trash bag.

“Self-service,” says one rocker.

“Self-service this,” says the other one and grabs his balls.

Marten is shivering after the rain. He wants a cup of tea, your girls want coffee. Before anyone can move, you set off with Taja to get the drinks. It’s only when you’re in line that she asks you, “Since when are you calling yourself Isabell?”

“It’s only a disguise, he doesn’t need to know what I’m really called.”

“Disguise? Will you let me know what’s going on here?”

“Secret plan.”

“Stink, stop fucking with me. Why are we even having a coffee party?”

You look back at the table, you look at Taja again and ask her, “Have we found that tracker, by any chance?”

“Of course not, we …”

Taja breaks off. Her face lights up like a billboard. Even though Taja’s still unsteady on her feet, she can put two and two together.

“You’re such a bad, bad girl.”

“I know, that’s why we’re best friends.”

Marten tells you he turned eighteen two weeks ago, and that his father gave him the trip to Norway for his birthday. Including tickets for the festival. They are staying in an apartment hotel a few miles away, and Marten went to the gas station to get some dessert for their dinner.

“So that car outside isn’t yours,” you say.

“No, it belongs to my father.” Marten laughs. “I’m glad he lets me take the wheel. The car has less than a thousand on the odometer.”

You all look outside. The cars stand nose to nose like two dogs sniffing each other. If your car’s a bull mastiff, Marten’s father’s car is a collie.

“Cool car,” says Schnappi.

“It’s a Peugeot, my dad swears by French cars. He had a Nissan before.”

He notices you’re getting bored and changes the subject. He asks what concert you’re planning to go to.

“Chris Cornell,” you say quickly, and Nessi bursts out laughing.

Marten says he couldn’t bear it when Soundgarden split up. None of you have the faintest idea what he’s talking about, but your heads bob up and down, yeah, that was really shit when Soundgarden split up, you bet.

“And Michael Jackson’s dead, too,” says Schnappi.

You all look at her. Schnappi mumbles, suddenly unsure of herself.

“He is, isn’t he?”

“What’s that got to do with Chris Cornell?” you ask her.

“She’s talking about ‘Billie Jean,’ ” Marten says, coming to her aid. “Cornell covered ‘Billie Jean,’ probably the worst cover of all time. That’s what you meant, right?”

“That’s exactly what I meant,” Schnappi lies and grins at you and adds that it was no wonder poor Michael Jackson took an overdose when everybody and his dog was allowed to cover his songs. When nobody says anything, Schnappi raises her coffee and says loudly, “To Michael!”