Police: A Harry Hole thriller (Oslo Sequence 8) (Harry Hole 10) by Jo Nesbo

Author:Jo Nesbo [Nesbo, Jo]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Random House
Published: 2013-09-11T16:00:00+00:00

Truls Berntsen drove through Kvadraturen. The way he did almost every night now. Slowly cruising up and down, here, there and everywhere. Dronningens gate, Kirkegata, Skippergata. Nedre Slottsgate, Tollbugata. This had been his town. And it would become his town again.

They were prattling away on the radio. Codes which were meant for him, Truls Berntsen, it was him they wanted to keep on the outside. And the idiots probably thought they were succeeding and that he didn’t understand. But they didn’t fool him. Truls Berntsen straightened the mirror, glanced at the service pistol lying on his jacket on the front seat. It was, as usual, the other way round. It was him who would fool them.

The women on the street ignored him; they recognised the car, knew he wasn’t going to buy their services. A boy wearing make-up and trousers that were far too tight swung round the pole of a No Parking sign like a pole dancer, jutting out a hip and pouting at Truls, who responded by giving him the finger.

The darkness felt as if it had become a touch denser. Truls leaned into the windscreen and looked up. Clouds were on their way in from the west. He stopped at the lights. Glanced back down at the seat. He had fooled them time after time and was about to fool them again. This was his town, no one could come here and take it away from him.

He shifted the gun into the glove compartment. The murder weapon. It was so long ago, but he could still see his face. René Kalsnes. The weak lady-boy features. Truls smacked the wheel with his fist. Turn green, for Christ’s sake!

He had hit him first with the baton.

Then he had taken his gun.

Even with his face bleeding, smashed to pieces, Truls had seen the pleading look, heard the begging wheeze, like a punctured cycle tyre. Wordless. Useless.

He had put the gun in the guy’s nose, fired, seen the jerk, as if it were in a film. Then he had rolled the car over the cliff and driven off. Further down the road he had wiped the baton and thrown it into the forest. He had several more in the bedroom cupboard at home. Weapons, night-vision goggles, bulletproof vest, even a Märklin rifle which they thought was still in the Evidence Room.

Truls drove down the tunnels and into Oslo’s belly. The car lobby, on the political right, had called the recently constructed tunnels the capital’s vital arteries. A representative of the environment lobby had responded by calling them the town’s bowels. They might be vital but they still carried shit.

He manoeuvred his way through the spur roads and roundabouts, signposted in the Oslo tradition, so that you had to be a local not to fall foul of the Department of Transport’s practical jokes. Then he was high up. East Oslo. His part of town. On the radio they were rabbiting away. One of the voices was drowned out by a rattling sound. The metro.

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