The Son Read online

  Simon was wet. When he wiggled his toes inside his shoes, they made tiny squelching sounds. But that wasn’t the real reason he was cold.

  The dining room was divided in half by a large, rectangular aquarium which also supplied the only source of illumination. At the table in front of it and with his back to the aquarium sat a huge figure.

  He was the reason Simon was cold.

  He had never seen him in the flesh before, but he didn’t doubt for a second who it was.

  The Twin.

  The man seemed to fill the entire room. Simon didn’t know if this was simply due to his physical size and obvious presence or the trappings of power and wealth, of this man’s ability to control so many destinies. Or whether all the legends that surrounded his persona made him even bigger: the baggage of death, meaningless cruelty and destruction.

  The man made an almost imperceptible gesture towards the chair which had been pulled out in front of him. Simon sat down.

  ‘Simon Kefas,’ the man said, stroking his chin with his forefinger.

  Large men often had surprisingly high-pitched voices.

  Not the Twin.

  The rumbling bass of his voice raised ripples in the glass of water in front of Simon.

  ‘I know what you want, Kefas.’ The muscles swelled under the suit which looked as if it might burst at the seams at any moment.

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘Money for Else’s eye operation.’

  Simon gulped at the sound of the name of his beloved in this man’s mouth.

  ‘The question is, what have you got to sell, yes?’

  Simon took out his mobile, opened the mailbox, put the phone on the table and pressed play. The voice on the sound file he had received sounded tinny: ‘. . . what’s the name and number of the account Nestor sent money to when he paid you? If I were you I would think before speaking.’ A pause, then another voice: ‘The account is in the name of a company. Dennis Limited, registered in the Cayman Islands.’ ‘And the account number?’ Another pause. ‘Eight, three, zero.’ ‘Slow down. And speak more clearly.’ ‘Eight. Three. Zero. Eight . . .’

  Simon pressed stop. ‘I presume you know who was answering the questions.’

  The huge man responded with a tiny gesture that could mean anything. ‘Is that what you’re selling?’

  ‘This recording was sent to me from a Hotmail address which I haven’t been able to or indeed tried to trace. Because I’m currently the only person who knows about the sound file. Evidence that the prison gov—’

  ‘Assistant prison governor.’

  ‘—of Staten admits to having a secret account into which he has received money from Hugo Nestor. I checked the account number and the information is correct.’

  ‘And how is this of value to me?’

  ‘What is valuable to you is that I don’t take this to my colleagues and you lose an important ally.’ Simon cleared his throat. ‘Yet another important ally.’

  The huge man shrugged. ‘Assistant prison governors can be replaced. And, in any case, it looks as if Franck has served his purpose. What more have you got, Kefas?’

  Simon stuck out his lower lip. ‘I’ve evidence that you have laundered money through Iversen’s property business. And DNA evidence linking Iver Iversen Senior to a Vietnamese girl, whom you trafficked into the country, murdered and made Sonny Lofthus take the fall for.’

  The large man stroked his throat with two fingers. ‘I’m listening. Go on.’

  ‘If I get the money for the eye operation, I can make sure that neither of these cases will be investigated.’

  ‘How much money are we talking about?’

  ‘Two million kroner.’

  ‘You could have blackmailed Iversen directly for that amount. So why are you really here?’

  ‘Because I want more than money.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘I want you to stop looking for the boy.’

  ‘Lofthus’s son? Why would I do that?’

  ‘Because Ab Lofthus was a friend.’

  The big man looked at Simon for a while. Then he leaned back in his chair and tapped the aquarium glass with his finger.

  ‘It looks like a regular aquarium, yes? But do you know what the grey fish that looks like a sprat costs, Kefas? No, you don’t, because I don’t want the Serious Fraud Office to know that some collectors are willing to pay millions of kroner for it. It isn’t especially impressive or attractive, but it’s incredibly rare. So its price is determined by the value it has to the individual; the highest bidder.’

  Simon shifted in his chair.

  ‘The point is,’ the big man said, ‘I want the Lofthus boy. He’s a rare fish and has greater value to me than to any other buyer. Because he has killed my people and stolen my money. Do you think I could have ruled this city for twenty years if I let people get away with stuff like that? He has turned himself into a fish I simply have to have. I’m sorry, Kefas. We’ll give you the money, but the boy is mine.’

  ‘All the boy wants is the mole who betrayed his father, then he’ll go away.’

  ‘And, as far as I’m concerned, he can have the mole, I’ve no use for him or her any more, the mole stopped operating twelve years ago. But even I never knew the mole’s identity. We exchanged money and information anonymously, and that was fine by me, I got what I paid for. And so will you, Kefas. Your wife’s eyesight, yes?’

  ‘As you wish,’ Simon said and got up. ‘If you go after the boy, I’ll get the money some other way.’

  The big man heaved a sigh. ‘I think you’ve misunderstood our negotiation, Kefas.’

  Simon saw that the blond man had also risen.

  ‘As an experienced gambler you ought to know that you should always check your cards carefully before you decide to play,’ the big man said. ‘Afterwards, it’s too late, yes?’

  Simon felt the blond man put his hand on his shoulder. He resisted the urge to push it away. He sat down again. The big man leaned across the table. He smelled of lavender.

  ‘Iversen told me about the DNA samples you came to him about. And now there’s this sound recording. That means you’re in touch with the boy, am I right? So now you will lead us to him. Him and whatever he stole from us.’

  ‘And if I say no?’

  The big man heaved another sigh. ‘What is it we all fear when we grow old, Kefas? Dying alone, yes? The real reason you’re doing everything you can to restore your wife’s sight is that you want her to look at you when you die. Because we tell ourselves it makes dying a little less lonely, yes? Well, imagine a deathbed even more lonely than one with a blind, but living wife present . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Bo, show him.’

  The blond man held up his mobile to Simon. Showed him a picture. He recognised the hospital ward. The bed. The sleeping woman in the bed.

  ‘The interesting thing isn’t that we know where she is right now,’ the big man said. ‘But that we found her, yes? In less than one hour after Iversen contacted us. And that means we’ll be able to find her again, no matter where you hide her.’

  Simon leapt out of the chair, his right hand shot towards the big man’s throat, but it ended up in a fist that caught it as easily as if it had been a butterfly. And that now closed quietly around Simon’s fingers.

  ‘You have to decide what you value the most, Kefas. The woman you share your life with or this stray dog you’ve adopted.’

  Simon swallowed. He tried to ignore the pain, the sound of his knuckle joints grinding against each other, but knew the tears of pain were giving him away. He blinked once. Twice. He felt a hot tear roll down his cheek.

  ‘She needs to travel to the US within the next two days,’ he whispered. ‘I must have the money in cash on her departure.’

  The Twin released his hold and Simon felt dizzy when the blood rushed back and exacerbated the pain.

  ‘She’ll be on a plane the moment you hand over the boy and the stolen goods,’ the big ma
n said.

  The blond man escorted Simon out. It had stopped raining, but the air still felt clammy and heavy.

  ‘What are you going to do to him?’ Simon asked.

  ‘You don’t want to know,’ said the blond man and smiled. ‘But it was nice doing business with you.’

  The door was closed and locked behind Simon.

  He left the alley. Darkness was falling. Simon started to run.

  Martha sat looking over the roast beef and the tall wine glasses, at the heads on the other side of the table, at the family pictures on the console table in front of the window, at the rain-sodden apple trees in the garden, up at the sky and into the approaching darkness.

  Anders’s speech was beautiful. No doubt about it, she could imagine one of the old aunts wiping away a tear.

  ‘Martha and I have decided on a winter wedding,’ he said. ‘Because we know that our love can melt all ice, that our friends’ hearts can warm any function room and that your – our family’s – care, wisdom and guidance will be all the light we need on our dark winter path. And, of course, there is another reason . . .’ Anders grabbed the wine glass and turned to Martha, who only just managed to tear herself away from the evening sky and return his smile. ‘We simply can’t wait until summer!’

  Happy laughter and applause filled the room.

  Anders seized her hand with his free one. He squeezed it hard, smiled, his fine eyes sparkling like the sea, and she knew he was aware of the impression he’d made. Then he bent down as if overcome by the occasion and kissed her quickly on the lips. The table erupted. He raised his glass.

  ‘To us!’

  Then he sat down. He caught her eye and flashed her an almost private smile. The smile which told the twelve dinner guests that he and Martha shared something special, something that belonged only to them. But just because Anders was playing to the gallery didn’t meant it wasn’t true. They did have something that belonged only to them. Something solid. They had been a couple for so long that it was easy to forget all the good days and the nice things they had done together. And they had worked through the bad times and come out stronger for it. She cared about Anders, she really did. Of course she did, otherwise why would she have agreed to marry him?

  His smile stiffened slightly. It was telling her that she could try to show a little more enthusiasm, work with him here now that they had gathered their families to tell them their wedding plans. Her future mother-in-law had asked to make the announcement and Martha hadn’t had the energy to protest. And now she got up and tapped her glass. It was as if someone had flicked a switch marked ‘silence’. Not just because the guests were eagerly awaiting what she had to say, but because no one wanted to be skewered by the mother of the groom’s withering stare.

  ‘And we’re so very thrilled that Martha has decided that the wedding ceremony will take place in St Paul’s Church.’

  Martha barely managed to stop herself from spluttering. She had decided?

  ‘As you’re aware, we’re a Catholic family. And even though the average level of education and income is higher among Protestants than Catholics in many other countries, that isn’t the case in Norway. In Norway we Catholics make up the elite. So, Martha, welcome to the A-team.’

  Martha acknowledged the joke which she knew perfectly well wasn’t a joke at all. She heard her future mother-in-law’s voice continue, but she drifted off again. Because she had to get away. Escape to that other place.

  ‘What are you thinking about, Martha?’

  She felt Anders’s lips against her hair and earlobe. She managed a smile because she was close to laughing. Laughing as she imagined getting up and telling him and the other guests that what she was thinking about was lying in the arms of a killer in the sun on a rock while a thunderstorm headed across the fjord towards them. But that didn’t mean that she didn’t love Anders. She had said yes. She had said yes because she loved him.

  35

  ‘DO YOU REMEMBER the first time we met?’ Simon asked as he stroked Else’s hand on the duvet. The two other patients in the ward were asleep behind their curtains.

  ‘No,’ she smiled and he imagined those strangely shiny, pure blue eyes of hers sparkle under the bandage. ‘But you do. Go on then, tell me again.’

  Instead of just smiling back, Simon chuckled quietly so that she could hear it.

  ‘You were working in a florist’s in Grønland. And I came in to buy flowers.’

  ‘A wreath,’ she said. ‘You came to buy a wreath.’

  ‘You were so beautiful that I made sure we chatted for much longer than was necessary. Even though you were far too young for me. But as we spoke, I grew young myself. And the next day I stopped by to buy roses.’

  ‘You bought lilies.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I wanted you to think they were for a friend. But the third time I bought roses.’

  ‘And the fourth.’

  ‘My flat was so full of flowers, I could barely breathe.’

  ‘They were all for you.’

  ‘They were all for you. I was merely looking after them for you. Then I asked you out. I’ve never been so scared in all my life.’

  ‘You looked so nervous that I couldn’t bear to say no.’

  ‘That trick works every time.’

  ‘No,’ she laughed. ‘You were nervous. But I was attracted by your sad eyes. A life lived. The melancholy of insight. That’s irresistible to a young woman, you know.’

  ‘You’ve always said it was my athletic body and that I’m a good listener.’

  ‘No, I haven’t!’ Else laughed even louder and Simon laughed with her. Relieved that she couldn’t see him now.

  ‘You bought a wreath the first time,’ she said quietly. ‘You wrote a card and you looked at it for a while, then you threw it in the bin and wrote another one. After you’d gone, I picked the card out of the bin and read it. And it said “To the love of my life”. That was what got my attention.’

  ‘Oh? Wouldn’t you rather have a man who thought he had yet to meet the love of his life?’

  ‘I wanted a man who was capable of loving, really loving.’

  He nodded. Over the years they had repeated this story to each other so often that the lines were rehearsed, as were their reactions and the apparent spontaneity. They had once sworn to tell each other everything, absolutely everything, and after they had done that, after they had tested how much truth the other could tolerate, their stories had become the walls and the roof that held their home together.

  She squeezed his hand. ‘And you were, Simon. You knew how to love.’

  ‘Because you fixed me.’

  ‘You fixed yourself. You decided to quit gambling, not me.’

  ‘You were the medicine, Else. Without you . . .’ Simon took a deep breath and hoped she couldn’t hear the trembling in his voice because he didn’t have the energy to go there now, not tonight. Didn’t want to repeat the story about his gambling addiction and debts which he ultimately dragged her into. He had done the unforgivable, mortgaged their house behind her back. And lost. And she had forgiven him. She hadn’t been angry or moved out or let him suffer the consequences or given him any kind of ultimatum. All she had done was to stroke his cheek and say that she forgave him. And he had cried like a child and at that moment his shame had extinguished the craving after the pulsating life in the intersection between hope and fear, where everything is at stake and can be won or lost in an instant, where thoughts of the catastrophic, final defeat are almost – almost – as tantalising as the thought of victory. It was true, he had quit that day. And he had never gambled since, hadn’t bet as much as a beer, and it had been his salvation. It had been their salvation. That and their promise to tell each other absolutely everything. To know that he had the capacity for self-control and the courage to be totally honest with another person had done something to him, had restored him as a man and a human being, yes, even caused him to grow more than if he had never been at the mercy of his vices. Perhaps th
at explained why in his later years as a police officer he had gone from seeing every criminal as notorious and incorrigible to being willing to give everyone a second chance – in stark contrast to what his wide experience told him.

  ‘We’re like Charlie Chaplin and the flower girl,’ Else said. ‘If you play the movie backwards.’

  Simon swallowed. The blind flower girl who thinks the tramp is a rich gentleman. Simon couldn’t remember how, only that the tramp helps her get her sight back, but that afterwards he never reveals his identity because he is convinced that she wouldn’t want him if she saw who he really was. And then, when she finds out, she loves him all the same.

  ‘I’ll go and stretch my legs,’ he said, getting up.

  There was no one else in the corridor. For a while he looked at the sign on the wall depicting a mobile with a red line across it. Then he took out his mobile and found the phone number. Some people think that if you send an email from a mobile via a Hotmail address on the Internet, the police won’t be able to trace the phone number it was sent from. Wrong. It had been easy to find. It felt as if his heart was in his throat, as if it was beating behind his collarbone. There was no reason why he would pick up the phone.

  ‘Yes?’

  His voice. Alien, but yet so strangely familiar, like an echo from a distant, no, a near past. The Son. Simon had to cough twice before his vocal cords would make a sound.

  ‘I have to meet you, Sonny.’

  ‘That would have been nice . . .’

  There wasn’t a hint of irony in his voice.

  ‘. . . but I’m not planning on being around for very long.’

  Here? In Oslo, in Norway? Or here on Earth?

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Simon asked.