By Jo Nesbo, Charlotte Barslund
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She laughed. ‘Don’t worry so much, darling. ’ ‘All right. ’ ‘Yes, she’s still here and she’ll give me a lift home. ’ He ended the call reluctantly. Thought about his dream in which he gave her his sight. ’ He looked up. And up. The woman standing in front of his desk was tall. Very tall. And skinny. Legs as thin of those of a daddy-long-legs stuck out from under a smart skirt. ‘I’m Kari Adel. I’ve been told to assist you. ’ And she was young. Very young. She looked more like an ambitious bank clerk than a police officer.
The chaplain looked in the mirror, adjusted his dog collar, put on his long coat and left. Martha wasn’t at reception. Inger took the envelope and promised to deliver it. The sun was lower in the sky now; the day was retreating. He walked through the park while out of the corner of his eye he registered how everything and everyone played their parts without obvious errors. No one rose from a bench a little too quickly as he passed, no cars pulled out discreetly from the kerb when he changed his mind and decided to walk along Sannergata towards the river.
Tramp shipping. Nestor, the Ukrainian, recruited him. Heroin from northern Thailand was smuggled in trucks using the old drug route via Turkey and the Balkans. In Germany the cargo was distributed to the Scandinavian countries and Johannes’s job was to drive the last stretch. Later he became a confidential informant. There hadn’t been a good reason for that, either. Only a police officer who appealed to something inside him, something he didn’t even know he had. And though that prospect – a clear conscience – had seemed worth less than the kiss of a beautiful woman, he had really believed in that police officer.
The Son by Jo Nesbo, Charlotte Barslund