Blood on Snow
- Автор: Несбё Ю
- Серия: Blood on Snow #1
- Год: 2015
- Язык: английский
- Год: Knopf, Doubleday Publishing Group
- ISBN: 978-0-385-35419-6
- Переводчик: Neil Smith
- Жанр: Триллеры
Электронная книга - «Blood on Snow». Краткое содержание книги:
He was wearing too many clothes for me to be able to see if he had a gun, but Pine’s jacket was lopsided. A seriously fat wallet, or a shooter. Too heavy for it to be that vicious knife he went round with. Presumably the same knife he had used the time he persuaded Maria to work for him. Showing her what the knife could do to her, to her boyfriend, if she didn’t suck and fuck back the money he owed. I had seen the terror in Maria’s wide-open eyes, staring at his mouth, trying desperately to lip-read what Pine wanted as he rattled on. Like he was now. But the new guy was ignoring the pimp and looking up and down the street with a dark glare from beneath his bearskin hat. Calm, focused. Must have been hired in. From abroad, maybe. He looked professional.
I left the shop through the door onto the next street. Went into a phone box on Torggata. Held up a page of the newspaper that I’d torn out. Drew a heart on the steamed-up window of the phone box while I waited for the call to be picked up.
“Ris Church, parish office.”
“Sorry to bother you, but I’ve got a wreath I want to deliver for the Hoffmann funeral the day after tomorrow.”
“The undertakers can look after—”
“The problem is that I live outside the city and am going to be driving through the city late tomorrow evening, after closing time. I thought I might deliver the wreath directly to the church.”
“We don’t have any staff who—”
“But I was assuming that you’d be receiving the coffin tomorrow evening?”
“That would be the normal way of things, yes.”
I waited, but nothing more followed.
“Perhaps you could check for me?”
A barely audible sigh. “One moment.” The sound of paper rustling. “Yes, that’s right.”
“Then I’ll call in to the church tomorrow evening. I’m sure the family will want to see him one last time, so I’ll be able to pass on my condolences to them as well. They’ve probably arranged a time with you to be let down into the crypt. I could call the family directly, but I’m reluctant to bother them...”
I waited, listening to the silence at the other end. I cleared my throat: “...at this tragic time for them, so close to Christmas.”
“I can see that they’ve asked to come between eight and nine o’clock tomorrow evening.”
“Thank you,” I said. “But I’m afraid I can’t make it then. It might be just as well if you don’t mention to them that I was thinking of coming in person. I’ll try to find another way of delivering the wreath.”
“As you wish.”
“Thanks for your help.”
I walked to Youngstorget. There was no one standing in Operapassasjen today. If it had been Hoffmann’s man there the day before, then he’d seen what he wanted to see.
The young guy refused to let me behind the counter. Said the Fisherman was in a meeting. I could see shadows moving behind the glass in the swing door. Then one of the shadows stood up and went out the same way I had done, through the back door.
“You can go through,” the young guy said.
“Sorry,” the Fisherman said. “It’s not just fish for Christmas that people are making a fuss about.”
I must have screwed up my nose at the strong smell, because he started to laugh.
“Don’t you like the smell of skate, lad?” He nodded towards the fish that had been partially filleted on the counter behind us. “Shipping dope in the same truck as a load of skate works perfectly, you know. The sniffer dogs don’t stand a chance. Not many people do it, but I like making fish balls from skate. Try one.” He nodded towards a bowl on the tiled wooden table between us. Pale grey fish balls floated in a cloudy liquid.
“So how are things going with that side of the business?” I asked, acting as if I hadn’t heard his invitation.
“There’s nothing wrong with demand, but the Russians are starting to get greedy. They’ll be easier to deal with when they can no longer play me and Hoffmann off against each other.”
“Hoffmann knows that you and I have been talking.”
“He’s not stupid.”
“No. Which is why he’s well guarded these days. We can’t just go and take him out. We’ll need to have a bit of imagination.”
“Your problem,” the Fisherman said.
“We need to get on the inside.”
“Still your problem.”
“The death was announced in the paper today. Hoffmann junior is being buried the day after tomorrow.”
“And?”
“That’s where we can take Hoffmann.”
“The funeral. Nice.” The Fisherman shook his head. “Too risky.”
“Not the funeral. The evening before. In the crypt.”
“Explain.”
I explained. He shook his head. I went on. He shook his head even more. I held one hand up and carried on talking. He was still shaking his head, but now he was grinning. “Well! How on earth did you come up with that?”
“Someone I know was buried at the same church. And that’s how it worked then.”
“You know I should say no.”
“But you’re going to say yes.”
“And if I don’t?”
“I’ll need money for three coffins,” I said. “Kimen Funeral Directors have them ready-made. But you probably know that...”
The Fisherman looked at me warily. Wiped his fingers on his apron. Tugged at his moustache. Wiped his fingers on his apron.
“Have a fish ball, and I’ll see what I’ve got in the till.”
I sat there and looked at the fish balls swimming in what I would have guessed was semen if I didn’t know better. Actually, when I came to think about it, I didn’t know better.
I walked past Maria’s supermarket on the way home. It occurred to me that I might as well buy food for dinner there. I went in and grabbed a basket. She was serving a customer with her back to me. I walked along the aisles and picked out fish fingers, potatoes and carrots. Four beers. They had an offer on King Haakon chocolates, ready-wrapped in Christmas paper. I put a box in the basket.
I walked towards Maria’s checkout. There was no one else in the shop. I saw she had seen me. She was blushing. Damn. I suppose it wasn’t so strange, the business about dinner that time was probably still a bit raw, she probably didn’t invite many men back to hers like that.
I went up to her and said a quick hello. Then looked down at my basket as I concentrated on putting the food — the fish fingers, potatoes, carrots and beer — on the conveyor belt. I held the box of chocolates in my hand for a moment. Hesitating. The ring on Corina’s finger. The one he, the son, had given her. Just like that. And here I was, thinking of turning up with a box of fucking chocolates as a Christmas present, wrapped up like it was Cleopatra’s crown jewels.
“Was. That. It.”
I looked at Maria in surprise. She had spoken. Who the hell knew she could do that? It sounded strange, obviously. But it was words. Words, as good as any others. She brushed her hair from her face. Freckles. Gentle eyes. A bit tired.
“Yes,” I said, overemphasising the word. Stretching my mouth.
She smiled slightly.
“That... is... it,” I said slowly, and rather too loudly.
She gestured questioningly towards the box of chocolates.
“For... you.” I held it out. “Happy... Christmas.”
She put a hand over her mouth. And behind the hand her face ran through a whole range of expressions. More than six. Surprise, confusion, joy, embarrassment, followed by raised brows (why?), lowered eyelids and a grateful smile. That’s what happens when you can’t talk — you end up with a very expressive face, and learn to perform a sort of pantomime that looks a bit exaggerated to anyone who’s not used to it.
I handed her the box. Saw her freckled hand approach mine. What did she want? Was she thinking of taking my hand? I pulled it back. Gave her a quick nod and headed for the door. I could feel her eyes on my back. Damn. All I’d done was give her a box of chocolates, so what exactly did the woman want?