Free The Son by Jo Nesbø Page A

chance of company than in their own living room where they were guaranteed peace and quiet.
    ‘You may not believe it, but it was an act of protest,’ he said, perching on the edge of the desk. ‘My father was a watchmaker and wanted me to take over his business. I didn’t want to be a bad copy of my father.’
    Kari wrapped her arms around her long, insect-like legs. ‘Any regrets?’
    Simon looked towards the window. The heat made the air outside quiver.
    ‘People have made money selling clocks.’
    ‘Not my father,’ Simon said. ‘And he didn’t like fakes, either. He refused to follow the trend and make cheap copies and plastic digital watches. He thought it was the path of least resistance. He went bankrupt in style.’
    ‘Well, that explains why you didn’t want to be a watchmaker.’
    ‘No, I ended up a watchmaker all the same.’
    ‘How?’
    ‘Crime scene technician. Ballistics expert. Bullet trajectories and all that. It’s almost the same as tinkering with watches. We’re probably more like our parents than we’d like to believe.’
    ‘So what happened?’ she smiled. ‘Did you go bankrupt?’
    ‘Well.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I guess I became more interested in the why rather than the how. I don’t know if it was the right decision to become a tactical investigator. Projectiles and bullet wounds are more predictable than the human brain.’
    ‘So that’s when you went to work for the Serious Fraud Office?’
    ‘You’ve read my CV.’
    ‘I always read up on people I’m going to work with. Had you had enough of blood and guts?’
    ‘No, but I was scared Else, my wife, might have. When I got married, I promised her more regular working hours and no more shifts. I liked the Serious Fraud Office; it was a little like working with watches again. Talking of my wife . . .’ He got up from the desk.
    ‘Why did you leave the Serious Fraud Office if you enjoyed it so much?’
    Simon smiled a tired smile. No, his CV wouldn’t tell her that, would it?
    ‘Lasagne. I think she’s cooking lasagne. See you tomorrow.’
    ‘Incidentally, I got a call from an old colleague. He told me he had seen a junkie wandering around wearing a dog collar.’
    ‘A dog collar?’
    ‘Like the one Per Vollan used to wear.’
    ‘What did you do with the information?’
    Kari opened her book again. ‘Nothing. I told him the case had been shelved.’
    ‘Downgraded. Until new evidence is found. What’s the name of the junkie and where can we find him?’
    ‘Gilberg. At the hostel.’
    ‘The residential centre. Fancy a break from reading?’
    Kari sighed and closed her book. ‘What about the lasagne?’
    Simon shrugged. ‘All good. I’ll call Else, she’ll understand. And lasagne tastes better when it’s reheated.’

10
    JOHANNES TIPPED THE dirty water down the sink and put the bucket and the mop in the broom cupboard. He had washed every corridor on the first floor and in the control room and was looking forward to the book waiting for him back in his cell. The Snows of Kilimanjaro . It was a collection of short stories, but he read only the one story over and over again. It was about a man with gangrene in his foot who knows he is going to die. About how this knowledge doesn’t make him a better or worse person, just more insightful, more honest, less patient. Johannes had never been much of a reader, the book had been recommended to him by the prison librarian, and since Johannes had been interested in Africa ever since he had sailed to Liberia and the Ivory Coast, he had read the first few pages about this apparently innocent, dying man in a tent on the savannah. The first time he had only skimmed through it, now he read slowly, one word at a time, looking for something even though he didn’t even know what it was.
    ‘Hi.’
    Johannes turned round.
    Sonny’s ‘hi’ had been almost a whisper and the hollow-cheeked, wild-eyed figure standing in front of him was so pale it was almost