John D. Steffens pushed open the door of A&E and breathed in the cold air. Then he went over to the older paramedic who was leaning against the wall, letting the sunlight warm his face as he smoked, slowly, visibly enjoying it with his eyes closed.
‘Well, Hansen?’ Steffens said, leaning against the wall alongside him.
‘Good winter,’ the paramedic said, without opening his eyes.
‘Could I …?’
The paramedic took out his packet of cigarettes and held it out.
Steffens took a cigarette and the lighter.
‘Is he going to make it?’
‘We’ll see,’ Steffens said. ‘We managed to get some blood back into him, but the bullet’s still in his body.’
‘How many lives do you think you have to save, Steffens?’
‘What?’
‘You worked the night shift, and you’re still here. As usual. So how many have you seen ahead of you, how many do you have to save in order to do good?’
‘I don’t quite know what you’re talking about now, Hansen.’
‘Your wife. The one you didn’t save.’
Steffens didn’t answer, just inhaled.
‘I checked up on you.’
‘What for?’
‘Because I’m worried about you. And because I know what it’s like. I lost my wife too. But all the overtime, all the lives saved, won’t bring her back. But you know that, don’t you? And one day you’ll make a mistake, because you’re tired, and you’ll have another life on your conscience.’
‘Will I?’ Steffens said, and yawned. ‘Do you know a haematologist who’s better than me in A&E?’
Steffens heard the paramedic’s footsteps move away.
Closed his eyes.
Sleep.
He wished he could.
It had been 2,154 days. Not since Ina, his wife and Anders’s mother, died – that was 2,912 days ago. But since he last saw Anders. During the initial period after Ina’s death there had at least been sporadic phone calls, even if Anders was furious and blamed him. On good grounds. Anders moved, fled, put as much distance between them as he could. By giving up his plans to study medicine, for instance, and studying to become a police officer instead. During one of their irregular, ill-tempered phone conversations Anders had said he’d rather be like one of his lecturers, a former murder detective, Harry Hole, whom Anders evidently worshipped the way he used to worship his own father. He had tried to see Anders at his various addresses, at Police College, but had been rejected. He had more or less ended up stalking his own son. In an attempt to make him realise that they each lost her a little less if they didn’t lose each other. That together they could keep a part of her alive. But Anders hadn’t been willing to listen.
So when Rakel Fauke had come for an examination and Steffens realised she was Harry Hole’s wife, he had naturally been very curious. What did this Harry Hole have that made him so able to influence Anders? Could he teach him something he could use to approach Anders again? And then he had discovered that the stepson, Oleg, reacted just like Anders had when he realised that Harry Hole couldn’t save his mother. It was the same, endless paternal betrayal.
Sleep.
It had been a shock, seeing Anders today. His first crazy thought was that they had been tricked, that Oleg and Harry had arranged some sort of reconciliation meeting.
Sleep now.
It was getting darker, and a chill fell across his face. A cloud passing in front of the sun? John D. Steffens opened his eyes. There was a figure standing in front of him, surrounded by a halo from the sun shining immediately behind.
John D. Steffens blinked. The halo was stinging his eyes. He had to clear his throat before he could get any sound out. ‘Anders?’
‘Berntsen’s going to make it.’ Pause. ‘They’re saying it’s thanks to you.’
Clas Hafslund was sitting in his winter garden, looking out across the fjord, where the ice had this peculiar layer of perfectly still water on top of it, making it look like a vast mirror. He had put down his newspaper, which once again was printing page after page about that vampirist case. Surely they had to get tired of it soon? Out here on Nesøya they didn’t have monsters like that, thank goodness. Everything was nice and peaceful, all year round. Even if right at the moment he could hear the irritating sound of a helicopter somewhere, probably an accident on the E18. Clas Hafslund jumped when he heard a sudden bang.
The sound waves rolled across the fjord.
A gun.
It sounded like it had come from one of the neighbouring properties. Hagen’s, or Reinertsen’s. The two businessmen had spent years arguing about whether the boundary between them ran to the left or the right of an oak tree that was hundreds of years old. In an interview with the local paper, Reinertsen had said that even if the dispute might appear comical because it concerned just a few square metres on the edge of what were otherwise very large plots of land, it wasn’t a petty matter, but about the principle of ownership itself. And he was certain that Nesøya’s homeowners would agree that this was a principle which was every citizen’s duty to fight for. Because there could be no doubt that the tree belonged to his, Reinertsen’s, land, you only had to look at the coat of arms of the family he had bought the estate from. It featured a large oak, and anyone could see that it was a copy of the one at the heart of the dispute. Reinertsen went on to declare that sitting and looking at the mighty tree warmed the very depths of his soul (here the journalist noted that Reinertsen would have had to sit on the roof of his house in order to see it), knowing that it was his. The day after the interview was printed, Hagen had chopped the tree down and used it to fuel his stove, and told the newspaper that it had warmed not only his soul but his toes as well. And that Reinertsen from now on would have to enjoy the sight of the smoke from his chimney, because whenever he lit his stove over the course of the next few years, it would be with nothing but the wood from the oak. Provocative, of course, but even if the bang had undoubtedly come from a gun, Clas Hafslund found it hard to believe that Reinertsen had just shot Hagen because of a damn tree.
Hafslund saw movement down by the old boathouse that lay approximately 150 metres away from both his and Hagen’s and Reinertsen’s properties. It was a man. In a suit. He was wading out onto the ice, pulling an aluminium boat behind him. Clas blinked. The man stumbled and sank to his knees in the icy water. Then the kneeling man turned towards Clas Hafslund’s house as if he could feel that he was being watched. The man’s face was black. A refugee? Had they reached Nesøya now? Affronted, he reached for the binoculars on the shelf behind him and trained them on the man. No. He wasn’t black. The man’s face was covered with blood. Now he put both hands on the side of the boat and pulled himself to his feet again. And stumbled on. Taking the rope again, he dragged the boat behind him. And Clas Hafslund, who was by no means a religious man, thought that he was seeing Jesus. Jesus, walking on water. Jesus dragging his cross to Calvary. Jesus who had risen from the dead in order to pay a visit to Clas Hafslund and the whole of Nesøya. Jesus with a big revolver in his hand.
Sivert Falkeid was sitting at the front of the inflatable boat with the wind in his face and Nesøya in sight. He looked at his watch one last time. It was precisely thirteen minutes since he and Delta had received the message and immediately linked it to the hostage situation.
‘A call reporting shots being fired on Nesøya.’
Their response time was acceptable. They would be there before the emergency vehicles that had also been sent to Nesøya. But either way, it went without saying that a bullet travelled faster.
He could see the aluminium boat and the outline of the water’s edge where the ice started.
‘Now,’ he said, and moved back in the boat to the others, so that the bow of the boat lifted and they could use their speed to slide across the ice on the meltwater.