The Son Page 8

  Johannes didn’t reply, he just kept his gaze and his aim fixed firmly at a point between Goldsrud’s eyes.

  ‘Light this for me, would you?’ The third officer had stuck an unlit cigarette in between his lips.

  ‘Put it away, Johannes.’ Goldsrud spoke quietly without blinking and Johannes could see that he had understood. That this wasn’t a novelty lighter.

  ‘Proper James Bond gadget, mate. How much do you want for it?’ The football player had got up and was coming towards Johannes to take a closer look.

  Johannes aimed the small pistol at one of the monitors up under the ceiling and pulled the trigger. He didn’t know quite what to expect and was just as startled as the others when there was a bang, the screen exploded and glass shattered.

  The football player stood rooted to the spot.

  ‘Get down on the floor!’ Johannes was blessed with a booming baritone, but now his voice was high-pitched and squealing like a near-hysterical old woman. But it worked. The knowledge that a desperate man is standing in front of you with a lethal weapon has a greater impact than any authoritative voice. All three men now knelt down and put their hands behind their heads as if this was a drill, as if being threatened at gunpoint was something they had practised. And perhaps they had. Learned that total surrender is the only appropriate response. And probably the only acceptable one at their pay grade.

  ‘All the way down. Down on the floor!’

  They did as they were told. It was almost like magic.

  He looked at the control board in front of him. Found the button that opened and shut the doors to the cells. Then the one that operated the locks and both entrances. Finally the big, red universal button, the one which opened every single door, to be used only in the event of fire. He pressed it. A long, howling tone indicated that the prison was now open. And a funny thought crossed his mind. That this was where he had always wanted to be. The skipper on the bridge of his ship.

  ‘Keep your eyes on the floor,’ he said. His voice was already growing stronger. ‘If any of you try to stop me, me and my mates will come after you and your families. Remember that I know everything about you, boys. Trine, Valborg . . .’ He reeled off the names of their wives and children, the schools they went to, their hobbies, where in Oslo they lived, information accumulated over the years, while he continued to look at the monitors. When he had finished, he left them. He went out of the door and then he started to run. He ran along the corridor, then downstairs to the floor below. He pulled the first door. It opened. He continued down the next corridor. His heart was already pounding, he hadn’t worked out as much as he ought to, he hadn’t kept in shape. He intended to start now. The second door opened as well. His legs protested at having to move so fast. Perhaps it was the cancer, perhaps it had reached his muscles and was weakening him. The third door led to the lock. He waited while the first door sealed behind him with a low hum, counting the seconds. He looked down the corridor towards the staff changing room. When he finally heard the door close, he grabbed the handle of the door in front of him. Pressed it down and pulled it.

  Locked.

  Damn! He pulled it again. The door refused to budge.

  He looked at the white sensor plate by the door. Pressed his index finger against it. An indicator glowed yellow for a couple of seconds before it went out and another lit up red. Johannes knew it meant his fingerprint hadn’t been recognised, but he tried to open the door anyway. Trapped. Defeated. He slumped to his knees in front of the door.

  At the same time he heard Geir Goldsrud’s voice:

  ‘Sorry, Johannes.’

  The voice was coming from a loudspeaker at the top of the wall and it sounded calm, almost comforting.

  ‘We’re just doing our job, Johannes. If we had to down tools every time someone threatens our families, there wouldn’t be a single prison officer left in Norway. Relax, we’ll come and get you. Do you want to slide the pistol out through the bars, or do you want us to gas you first?’

  Johannes looked up at the camera. Could they see the despair in his face? Or the relief? His relief that his escape had ended here and that life would carry on as before. More or less. He could probably forget about mopping the floors upstairs.

  He pushed the gold-plated pistol out through the bars. Then he lay down on the floor, put his hands behind his head and curled up like a bee that had just delivered its one and only sting. But when he closed his eyes he didn’t hear hyenas and he wasn’t on board a plane heading for the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro. He was still nowhere and alive. He was here.

  11

  IT HAD JUST gone seven thirty and the morning rain was falling on Staten’s car park.

  ‘It was only a matter of time,’ Arild Franck said and held open the door to the back entrance. ‘All addicts are essentially weak characters. I know it’s not fashionable to say so, but believe me, I know what they’re like.’

  ‘As long as he signs that confession, that’s all I care about.’ Einar Harnes was about to enter, but had to step aside for three prison officers on their way out. ‘I’m thinking of celebrating with a few glasses of bubbly myself tonight.’

  ‘Ah, they pay you that well?’

  ‘When I saw your car, I realised I had to raise my fees.’ He grinned as he nodded towards the Porsche Cayenne in the car park. ‘I put it down as an additional charge for antisocial work and Nestor said—’

  ‘Shh!’ Franck stuck his arm out in front of Harnes to let some more prison officers leave first. Most of the men had changed into civilian clothes, but some were clearly so keen to get home from the night shift that they practically ran to their cars still dressed in Staten’s green uniforms. Harnes received a sharp glance from a man who wore a long coat loosely over his uniform. He knew he had seen his face before. But while he couldn’t put a name to the face, he was fairly certain that the man could put a name to his: the shady lawyer who popped up in the papers in connection with equally shady cases. Perhaps this man and others like him were starting to wonder what Harnes was doing at Staten’s back entrance. It would hardly improve his image if they overheard him mentioning Nestor . . .

  Franck let himself and Harnes in through several doors until they reached the stairs leading to the first floor.

  Nestor had made it clear that they had to get a signed confession today. Unless the investigation into Yngve Morsand could be wound up immediately, the police might uncover new evidence which would make Sonny’s confession less credible. Harnes didn’t know how Nestor had got this information and nor did he want to.

  The prison governor had the biggest office, of course, but the office of the assistant prison governor had a view of the mosque and Ekebergåsen. It lay at the end of the corridor and was decorated with hideous paintings by a young female artist who specialised in painting flowers and discussing her libido with the tabloid press.

  Franck pressed a button on the intercom and asked for the inmate in cell 317 to be brought to his office.

  ‘That car cost me 1.2 million kroner,’ Franck said.

  ‘I bet half of that was for the Porsche insignia on the bonnet,’ Harnes said.

  ‘Yep, and the other half went to the government in taxes.’ Franck sighed and flopped into the unusual, high-backed office chair. It looked like a throne, Harnes thought.

  There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Enter,’ Franck called out.

  A prison officer appeared. He had his cap tucked under his arm and made a half-hearted salute. From time to time Harnes wondered how Franck got his staff to accept military greeting rituals in a modern workplace. And what other rules they had to swallow.

  ‘Yes, Goldsrud?’

  ‘I’m off now, but before I go I just wanted to know if you have any questions about last night’s shift report.’

  ‘I haven’t had a chance to look at it yet. Is there anything I should know about, seeing as you’re here?’

  ‘Nothing major except for an attempted breakout; I suppose you could c
all it that.’

  Franck pressed his palms together and smiled. ‘I’m delighted to hear that our inmates show such initiative and enterprise. Who and how?’

  ‘Johannes Halden in cell 2—’

  ‘238. The old man? Really?’

  ‘He got hold of a pistol somehow. I think it was a spur-of-the-moment thing. I just stopped by to tell you that the whole incident was much less dramatic than it might come across in the report. If you want my opinion, mild repercussions should suffice. The man has done a good job for us for many years and—’

  ‘Gaining someone’s trust is a smart move if you wish to ambush them. Because I imagine that’s what he did?’

  ‘Well, you see . . .’

  ‘Are you telling me that you allowed yourself to be outwitted, Goldsrud? How far did he get?’

  Harnes felt some sympathy with the prison officer who ran his forefinger over a sweaty upper lip. He always empathised with those whose case was weak. He could easily imagine being in their shoes.

  ‘As far as the lock. But there was never any real danger that he would get past the guards even if he had got outside. The security booth has bulletproof glass and gun slits and—’

  ‘Thanks for telling me, but I practically designed this prison, Goldsrud. And I think you have a soft spot for this guy you’ve been fraternising with a little too much. I’ll refrain from saying anything further until I’ve read the report, but your entire shift should prepare themselves for some hard questions. As for Johannes, we can’t be soft on him; we have a clientele that will exploit every sign of weakness. Understood?’

  ‘Understood.’

  The telephone rang.

  ‘Dismissed,’ Franck said, picking up the handset.

  Harnes was expecting another salute, an about-turn and march, but Goldsrud left the room civilian-style. The lawyer watched him, but jumped as Arild Franck screamed: ‘What the hell do you mean “gone”?’

  Franck stared at the made-up bed in cell 317. In front of the bed stood a pair of sandals. On the bedside table lay a Bible, on the desk a disposable syringe still in its plastic wrapper and on a chair a white shirt. That was all. Even so, the prison officer behind Franck stated the obvious:

  ‘He’s not here.’

  Franck glanced at his watch. The cell doors wouldn’t be opened for another fourteen minutes so the missing prisoner couldn’t be in any of the common rooms.

  ‘He must have left his cell when Johannes opened all the doors from the control room last night.’ Goldsrud was standing in the doorway.

  ‘Dear Lord,’ Harnes whispered and out of habit pressed his finger against the bridge of his nose where his glasses used to sit until he had paid 15,000 kroner cash last year for laser surgery in Thailand. ‘If he has absconded—’

  ‘Shut up,’ Franck hissed. ‘He can’t have made it past the guards. He’s still in here somewhere. Goldsrud, raise the alarm. Lock every door – no one gets in or out.’

  ‘But I need to take my kids to—’

  ‘Including you.’

  ‘What about the police?’ one of the prison officers said. ‘Shouldn’t they be informed?’

  ‘No!’ Franck yelled. ‘Lofthus is still inside Staten, I tell you! Not a word to anyone.’

  Arild Franck glowered at the old man. He had locked the door behind him and made sure that there were no prison officers standing outside it.

  ‘Where is Sonny?’

  Johannes lay in his bed, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. ‘Isn’t he in his cell?’

  ‘You know damn well he isn’t.’

  ‘Then he must have escaped.’

  Franck bent down, grabbed the old man’s T-shirt by the neck and pulled him towards him.

  ‘Wipe that grin off your face, Johannes. I know that the security guards outside haven’t seen anything so he has to be in here. And if you don’t tell me where he is, you can wave goodbye to your cancer treatment.’ Franck saw the look of astonishment on the old man’s face. ‘Oh, you can forget about doctor–patient confidentiality, I’ve eyes and ears everywhere. So what’s it to be?’ He released his hold on Johannes, whose head fell back on the pillow.

  The old man smoothed his thinning hair and folded his hands behind his head. He cleared his throat. ‘Do you know something, Governor? I think I’ve lived long enough. There’s no one waiting for me on the outside. And my sins have been forgiven, so for the first time I might just have a chance to get in upstairs. Perhaps I should take that chance while I still have it. What do you think?’

  Arild Franck clenched his teeth so hard it felt as if his fillings might crack.

  ‘What I think will happen, Johannes, is that you’ll discover that not a single one of your sins has been forgiven. Because in here I am God and I can guarantee you a slow and painful death from cancer. I’ll make sure that you stay here in your cell while the cancer eats you up without ever seeing as much as a glimpse of pain relief. And you wouldn’t be the first, let me tell you.’

  ‘Rather that than whatever hell you’re going to, Governor.’

  Franck wasn’t sure if the gurgling noises coming from the old man’s throat were death throes or laughter.

  On his way back to cell 317 Franck checked his walkie-talkie again. Still no trace of Sonny Lofthus. He knew they would soon be forced to issue a wanted bulletin.

  He went in to cell 317, landed heavily on the bed and scanned the floor, walls and ceiling with his eyes. He couldn’t bloody believe it. He grabbed the Bible on the bedside table and hurled it against the wall. It fell open on the floor. He knew that Vollan had used the Bible to smuggle in heroin and he glanced at the mangled pages. Damaged creeds and broken sentences with no meaning.

  He swore and threw the pillow against the wall.

  He watched it land on the floor. Stared at the hair that spilled out. Reddish hair that looked like tufts of beard and some long strands. He kicked the pillow. More matted, dirty blond hair drifted out.

  Short-haired. Newly shaven.

  And it was at that moment it finally dawned on him.

  ‘Night shift!’ he screamed into the walkie-talkie. ‘Check all the officers who left at the end of the night shift!’

  Franck looked at his watch. 8.10 a.m. He knew what had happened now. And he knew that it was too late to do anything about it. He got up and kicked the chair which smashed into the shatter-proof mirror by the door.

  The bus driver looked at the prison officer who was staring nonplussed at the ticket and the fifty kroner he had been given as change for his hundred-krone note. He could tell that the man was a prison officer because he was wearing a uniform under his long coat and had an ID card saying ‘Sørensen’ with a photo that looked nothing like him.

  ‘Been a while since you last caught the bus, has it?’ the driver asked.

  The man with the bad haircut nodded.

  ‘It’s only twenty-six kroner if you buy a travel card in advance,’ the driver said, but he could tell from the passenger’s expression that he thought even this price was a rip-off. It was a common reaction in anyone who hadn’t travelled by bus in Oslo for a few years.

  ‘Thanks for your help,’ the man said.

  The bus driver pulled out from the kerb while he followed the back of the prison officer in his rear-view mirror. He didn’t really know why, perhaps it was because of his voice. So warm and sincere as if he really thanked him with all his heart. He saw him sit down and gaze in wonder out of the window like one of those foreign tourists who strayed onto the bus from time to time. Saw him pull a set of keys out of his coat pocket and study them as if he hadn’t seen them before. Take a packet of chewing gum from his other coat pocket.

  Then he had to concentrate on the traffic in front of him.

  PART TWO

  12

  ARILD FRANCK WAS standing at the window in his office. He looked at his watch. Most escaped prisoners were brought back in the first twelve hours. He had told the press it was the first twenty-four hours so that he could call it
a fast result, should it take longer than twelve. But it was coming up for twenty-five hours now, and they still had no leads to go on.

  He had just been to the prison governor’s large office. The one with no view. And there the man with no view had demanded an explanation. The prison governor was in a foul mood because he had been forced to return early from the annual Nordic prison conference in Reykjavik. On the telephone from Iceland yesterday he had said that he would contact the press. He liked talking to the media, did his boss. Franck had asked for twenty-four hours’ media blackout to find Lofthus, but his boss had dismissed this out of hand and said that this wasn’t something they could keep under wraps. Firstly, Sonny Lofthus was a killer so the public was entitled to be warned. Secondly, they needed to circulate his picture to the media to help find him.

  And, thirdly, you want your own picture in the papers, Franck thought. So your political cronies can see that you’re working rather than floating around a blue lagoon drinking Svartadaudir schnapps.

  Franck had tried explaining to the governor that circulating pictures was unlikely to be very effective; any photos they had of Sonny Lofthus were from when he was jailed twelve years ago and even then he had had long hair and a beard. And the images from the CCTV cameras after he had cut off his hair were so grainy as to be unusable. And still the governor had insisted on dragging the name of Staten through the mud.

  ‘The police are looking for him, Arild, so surely you know it’s only a matter of time before I get a phone call from a reporter wondering why the breakout hasn’t been made public and asking if Staten has covered up breakouts before. I prefer to control the story, Arild.’

  The prison governor had gone on to ask which procedures Franck thought needed tightening up. And Franck knew why: so that the governor could go to his government friends and pass off the assistant prison governor’s ideas as his own. Ideas from a man with a view. And yet he had shared his thoughts with the idiot. Voice recognition to replace fingerprints and electronic tagging with indestructible GPS chips. Ultimately there were things Franck valued higher than himself and Staten Prison was one of them.