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.
‘I hear he’s in solitary,’ Harnes said as the car pulled away from the kerb outside the graffitied entrance to the law offices of Harnes & Fallbakken.
‘He beat up a fellow inmate,’ Franck said.
Harnes raised a well-groomed eyebrow. ‘Gandhi pulled a punch?’
‘You never can tell
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.
‘I hear he’s in solitary,’ Harnes said as the car pulled away from the kerb outside the graffitied entrance to the law offices of Harnes & Fallbakken.
‘He beat up a fellow inmate,’ Franck said.
Harnes raised a well-groomed eyebrow. ‘Gandhi pulled a punch?’
‘You never can tell
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