Phantom hh-9 Page 27

  Inside his room, he took the sewing kit from the bedside table to the bathroom, undressed and leaned over the washbasin, which was soon red from blood. He soaked a hand towel and washed his chin and neck, but the cuts to his neck soon filled up with more blood. In the cold, white light he managed to thread the cotton through the eye of the needle and put the needle through the white flaps of skin on his neck, first underneath and then above the wound. Sewed his way along, stopped to wipe away blood and carried on. The thread broke as he was almost finished. He swore, pulled the ends out and started again with the thread doubled. Afterwards he sewed the wound on his chin, which was easier. He washed the blood from his upper torso and took a clean shirt from his suitcase. Then he sat down on the bed. He was dizzy. But he was in a hurry, he doubted they would be far away, he had to act now before they found out he was alive. He called Hans Christian Simonsen’s number and after the fourth ring he heard a sleepy: ‘Hans Christian.’

  ‘Harry. Where’s Gusto buried?’

  ‘Vestre Cemetery.’

  ‘Have you got the gear ready?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’ll do it tonight. Meet me on the pathway on the eastern side in an hour.’

  ‘ Now? ’

  ‘Yes. And bring some plasters.’

  ‘Plasters?’

  ‘A clumsy barber, that’s all. Sixty minutes from now, OK?’

  A slight pause. A sigh. And then: ‘OK.’

  As Harry was about to ring off he thought he heard a sleepy voice, someone else’s voice. But by the time he had dressed he had already convinced himself that he had misheard.

  29

  Harry was standing beneath a lone street lamp. He had been waiting for twenty minutes when Hans Christian, wearing a black tracksuit, came barrelling up the footpath.

  ‘I parked in Monolittveien,’ he said, out of breath. ‘Is a linen suit standard garb for desecrating a grave?’

  Harry raised his head, and Hans Christian’s eyes widened. ‘Good God, what do you look like? That barber-’

  ‘Isn’t recommended,’ Harry said. ‘Come on, let’s get out of the light.’

  Once they were in the darkness, Harry stopped. ‘Plasters?’

  ‘Here.’

  Hans Christian studied the unlit houses on the hill behind them while Harry carefully placed plasters over the stitches on his neck and chin.

  ‘Relax, no one can see us,’ Harry said, grabbing one of the spades and setting off. Hans Christian hurried after him, pulled out a torch and clicked it on.

  ‘Now they can see us,’ Harry said.

  Hans Christian clicked it off.

  They strode through the war memorial grove, past the British sailors’ graves and continued along the gravel paths. Harry established that death was not a great leveller; the headstones in this West Oslo cemetery were bigger and brighter than in the east of town. The gravel crunched whenever their feet hit it, they were walking faster and faster and in the end it sounded like one continuous noise.

  They stopped at the gypsy’s grave.

  ‘It’s second left,’ Hans Christian whispered and tried to angle the map he had printed into the sparse moonlight.

  Harry stared into the darkness behind them.

  ‘Something up?’ Hans Christian whispered.

  ‘Just thought I heard footsteps. They stopped when we stopped.’

  Harry raised his head, as if scenting the air.

  ‘Echo,’ he said. ‘Come on.’

  Two minutes later they were standing by a modest, black stone. Harry held the torch close to the stone before switching it on. The letters had been engraved and painted in gold.

  Gusto Hanssen

  14.03.1992 — 12.07.2011

  Rest in Peace

  ‘Bingo,’ Harry whispered without ceremony.

  ‘How are we-’ Hans Christian began, but was interrupted by the sigh of Harry’s spade entering the soft earth. He grabbed his own and got stuck in.

  It was half past three, and the moon had gone behind a cloud when Harry’s spade hit something hard.

  Fifteen minutes later the white coffin was revealed.

  They both grabbed a screwdriver, knelt down on the coffin and began to loosen the six screws in the lid.

  ‘We won’t get the lid off with both of us on top,’ Harry said. ‘One of us has to go up so the other can open the coffin. Volunteers?’

  Hans Christian had already half crawled out.

  Harry put one foot down beside the coffin and the other against the earth wall and squeezed his fingers under the lid. Then he exerted pressure and from force of habit began to breathe through his mouth. Before he even looked down he could feel the heat rising from the coffin. He knew the process of decomposition produced energy, but what made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck was the sound.

  The rustle of fly larvae in flesh. He kneed the coffin lid to the side of the grave.

  ‘Shine here,’ he said.

  White slithering larvae glistened in and around the corpse’s mouth and nose. The eyelids had sunk as the eyeballs were the first parts to be consumed.

  Harry shut out the sounds of Hans Christian being sick and switched on his analytical faculties: face discoloured, dark, impossible to determine whether the owner was Gusto Hanssen, but the hair colour and shape of face suggested it was.

  But there was something that caught Harry’s attention and caused him to stop breathing.

  Gusto was bleeding.

  Red roses were growing on the white shroud, roses of blood that were spreading.

  Two seconds passed before Harry realised that the blood was coming from him. He clutched his neck. His fingers felt thick blood. The stitches had come undone.

  ‘Your T-shirt,’ Harry said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I need some patching-up here.’

  Harry heard the brief song of a zip, and a few seconds later a T-shirt floated down into the light. He grabbed it, saw the logo. Free Legal Aid. Christ, an idealist. Harry wound the T-shirt round his neck with no clear idea of how this would help, but it was all he could do for now. Then he bent over Gusto, grabbed the shroud with both hands and tore it open. The body was dark, slightly bloated and larvae were crawling out from the bullet holes in the chest.

  Harry could see the wounds tallied with the report.

  ‘Give me the scissors.’

  ‘The scissors.’

  ‘The nail scissors.’

  ‘Damn,’ Hans Christian coughed. ‘I forgot them. Perhaps I’ve got something in the car. Shall I-’

  ‘No need,’ Harry said, taking the long flick knife from his jacket pocket. Undid the safety catch and pressed the release button. The blade shot out with a brutal power, so fierce it made the handle vibrate. He could feel the perfect balance of the weapon.

  ‘I can hear something,’ Hans Christian said.

  ‘It’s a Slipknot song,’ Harry said. ‘“Pulse of the Maggots”.’ He was humming softly.

  ‘No, damn it. Someone’s coming!’

  ‘Angle the torch so that I can see, and run for it,’ Harry said, lifting up Gusto’s hands and studying the nails on the right hand.

  ‘But you-’

  ‘Run for it,’ Harry said. ‘Now.’

  Harry heard Hans Christian’s steps fade into the distance. The nail on Gusto’s middle finger was cut shorter. He examined the first finger and the third. Said calmly: ‘I’m from the funeral home. We’re doing a bit of after-hours.’

  Then he turned his face up to the very young, uniform-clad guard standing by the edge of the grave looking down at him.

  ‘The family wasn’t very happy with the manicure.’

  ‘Out you get!’ the guard ordered with only a slight tremble in his voice.

  ‘Why?’ Harry said, taking a little plastic bag from his jacket pocket and holding it under the third finger while sedulously cutting. The blade sliced through the nail as if it were butter. Indeed a fantastic instrument. ‘Unfortunately for you, your instr
uctions state that you mustn’t tackle intruders head-on.’

  Harry used the tip of the blade to winkle out the dry remains of blood from under the short nail.

  ‘If you do, you’ll get the boot and Police College will reject you, and you won’t be allowed to carry a big gun and shoot someone in self-defence.’

  Harry turned his attention to the first finger.

  ‘Do what your instructions tell you, ring an adult in the police. If you’re lucky they’ll be here in half an hour. But if we’re realistic we’ll probably have to wait for office hours tomorrow. There we are!’

  Harry closed the bags, put them in his jacket pocket, replaced the coffin lid and clambered out of the grave. He brushed the soil off his suit and bent down to pick up the spade and torch.

  Saw the headlamps of a car turning into the chapel.

  ‘In fact they said they would come straight away,’ said the young guard, retreating to a safe distance. ‘I told them it was the grave of the guy who was shot, you see. Who are you?’

  Harry switched off the torch and it was pitch black.

  ‘I’m the one you should be rooting for.’

  Then Harry set off at a run. He headed east, away from the chapel, back along the route they had come.

  He took his bearings from a bright light he assumed was a lamp post in Frogner Park. If he could make it to the park he knew, in his current form, he could outrun most of them. He only hoped they didn’t have any dogs. He hated dogs. Best to keep to the gravel paths so as not to stumble over headstones and bunches of flowers, but the crunching made it more difficult to hear any potential pursuers. By the war memorial Harry moved onto the grass. He couldn’t hear anyone behind him. But then he saw it. A quivering beam of light on the treetops above. Someone was chasing him with a torch.

  Harry emerged onto the path and headed for the park. Tried to shut out the pain round his neck and run in a relaxed, efficient way, concentrating on technique and breathing. Told himself he was pulling away. He ran towards the Monolith, knowing they would see him under the lamps on the pathway that continued over the hill and it would look as if he was making for the park’s main gate on the eastern side.

  Harry waited until he had topped the crest and was out of sight before heading south-west towards Madserud alle. Adrenalin had kept him going, but now he could feel his muscles stiffening. For a second, things went black and he thought he had lost consciousness. But then he was back, and a sudden feeling of nausea engulfed him, followed by overwhelming giddiness. He looked down. Blood was oozing from under his jacket sleeve and dripping between his fingers, like strawberry jam off a slice of bread at his grandfather’s house. He wasn’t going to last the distance.

  He craned his head. Saw a figure pass through the light under the lamp at the top of the hill. A big man, but with a light running style. Tight-fitting black clothes. Not a police uniform. Could it be a Delta guy? In the middle of the night at such short notice? Because someone was digging in a cemetery?

  Harry swayed but managed to steady himself. He had no hope of outrunning anyone in this state. He had to find a place to hide.

  Harry aimed for one of the houses in Madserud alle. Left the path, sprinted down a grass slope, had to stretch out his arms so as not to fall, continued across the tarmac road, jumped over the low picket fence, carried on into the apple trees and round the back of the house. Where he threw himself into the long, wet grass. Took a deep breath, felt his stomach constrict, braced himself to vomit. Concentrated on breathing as he listened.

  Nothing.

  But it was just a matter of time before they would be here. And he needed a decent bandage for his neck. Harry got to his feet and walked to the terrace of the house. Peered through the glass in the door. Dark living room.

  He kicked in the glass and slipped his hand inside. Good old naive Norway. The key was in the door. He slid into the gloom.

  Held his breath. The bedrooms were probably on the first floor.

  He switched on a table lamp.

  Plush chairs. Cabinet TV. Encyclopedia. A table covered with family photographs. Knitting. So elderly occupants. And old people sleep well. Or was it badly?

  Harry found the kitchen, switched on the light. Searched the drawers. Cutlery, cloths. Tried to remember where they had always kept that kind of thing when he was small. Opened the second-bottom drawer. And there it was. Standard tape, parcel tape, gaffer tape. He grabbed the roll of gaffer tape and opened two doors before he found the bathroom. Pulled off his jacket and shirt, held his head over the bath and the hand-held shower over his neck. Watched the white enamel gain a red filter in a second. Then he dried himself with the T-shirt and squeezed the edges of the wound together with his fingers while winding the silver tape round his neck several times. Tested to make sure it wasn’t too tight. After all he needed some blood to go to the brain. Put on his shirt. Another attack of dizziness. He sat down on the edge of the bath.

  He noticed a movement. Raised his head.

  From the doorway an elderly woman’s pale face was staring at him with enlarged, frightened eyes. Over her nightdress she was wearing a red, quilted dressing gown. It gave off a strange sheen and electric static whenever she moved. Harry guessed it was made of some synthetic material that no longer existed, was banned, carcinogenic, asbestos or something.

  ‘I’m a police officer,’ Harry said. Coughed. ‘Ex-police officer. And in a bit of trouble right now.’

  She said nothing, just stood there.

  ‘Of course I’ll pay for the broken glass.’ Harry lifted his jacket off the bathroom floor and took out his wallet. Put some notes on the sink. ‘Hong Kong dollars. They’re… better than they sound.’

  He essayed a smile and saw a tear running down wrinkled cheeks.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Harry said, feeling panic, a sense that he was on the slide, losing control. ‘Don’t be frightened. I really won’t do anything to you. I’ll leave this minute, OK?’

  He forced his arm into the jacket sleeve and walked towards her. She backed away, taking tiny, shuffling steps, but not releasing him from her gaze. Harry held up the palms of his hands and made swiftly for the terrace door.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘And sorry.’

  Then he pushed open the door and went onto the terrace.

  The power of the explosion suggested it was a heavy-calibre weapon. Then came the sound of the shot, the primer blast, and that was the confirmation. Harry fell to his knees as the next bullet splintered the back of the garden chair beside him.

  A very heavy calibre.

  Harry scrabbled back into the living room.

  ‘Keep down!’ he shouted as the living-room window shattered. Glass tinkled onto the parquet floor, the TV and the table covered with family photographs.

  Bent double, Harry ran through the living room, the hall, to the front door. Opened it. Saw the muzzle of flame from the open door of a black limousine under a street lamp. He felt a stinging pain on his face, and a high-pitched, piercing metallic sound rang out. Harry turned automatically and saw that the wall-mounted doorbell had been shot to pieces. Large white splinters of wood stuck out.

  Harry retreated. Lay down on the floor.

  A heavier calibre than any of the police weapons. Harry thought of the tall figure he had seen running across the ridge. That had not been a police officer.

  ‘You’ve got something in your cheek…’

  It was the woman; she had to shout over the shrill ringing of the bell that had got stuck. She was standing behind him, at the back of the hall. Harry groped with his fingers. It was a splinter of wood. He pulled it out. Had time to think it was lucky it was on the same side as the scar: it shouldn’t reduce his market value to any dramatic extent. Then there was another bang. This time it was the kitchen window. He was running out of Hong Kong dollars.

  Over the ringing he could hear sirens in the distance. Harry raised his head. Through the hallway and living room he saw that lights had come on in the surrounding ho
uses. The street was illuminated like a Christmas tree. He was going to be a floodlit moving target whichever route he took. The options were being shot or arrested. No, not even that. They heard the sirens as well, and knew time was running out for them. And he hadn’t returned fire, so they must have assumed he was unarmed. They would follow him. He had to get away. He pulled out his mobile. Shit, why hadn’t he taken the trouble to file his number under T? It wasn’t as if his contacts list was exactly full.

  ‘What’s the number of directory enquiries again?’ he shouted.

  ‘The number… for… directory enquiries?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well.’ She stuck a pensive finger in her mouth, tucked the red asbestos gown underneath her as she sat down on a wooden chair. ‘There’s 1880. But I think they’re nicer on 1881. They’re not as quick or stressed. They take their time and have a chat if you’ve-’

  ‘Enquiries 1880,’ said a nasal voice in Harry’s ear.

  ‘Asbjorn Treschow,’ Harry said. ‘With a c and an h.’

  ‘We’ve got an Asbjorn Berthold Treschow in Oppsal, Oslo, and an Asbjo-’

  ‘That’s him! Could you give me his mobile number?’

  Three seconds of an eternity later a familiar crabby voice answered.

  ‘I don’t want any.’

  ‘Tresko?’

  Protracted pause without an answer. Harry visualised his fat friend’s astonished face.

  ‘Harry? Long time-’

  ‘Are you at work?’

  ‘Yes.’ The extended e indicated suspicion. No one rang Tresko for no reason.

  ‘I need a quick favour.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose you do. Doh, what about the hundred kroner you borrowed? You said-’

  ‘I need you to turn off the electricity in the Frogner Park / Madserud alle area.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘We’ve got a police emergency here. There’s a guy gone nuts with a gun. We need cover of darkness. Are you still at the substation in Montebello?’

  Another pause.

  ‘So far, but are you still a cop?’

  ‘Of course. Tresko, this is actually pretty urgent.’

  ‘I don’t give a shit. I don’t have the authorisation to do that. You’ll have to talk to Henmo, and he-’