They’d driven in silence for some time. Ryker felt increasingly awkward, though he didn’t know why. Perhaps because of the overarching somber mood of them both. They’d smiled, they’d laughed a little earlier, but this mission – if it could be called that – was fraught and deadly and serious. Maybe Pettersen felt embarrassed by her earlier joviality.
He looked across at her. She must have sensed him doing so and glanced back, her stern look melting away. A surprise to him.
‘Okay, here’s one,’ she said, before smiling. ‘Two Swedish police officers are patrolling the Norwegian border. Have you heard this one?’
Embarrassed by her earlier joviality? Okay, perhaps not. A good thing, really.
‘I don’t think so,’ Ryker said.
‘It’s Friday afternoon and they’re in a good mood. They’re talking about how much they look forward to going home to their wives for a nice meal and some fun in bed. But suddenly they see a man who has hanged himself from a tree.’
She paused, as if for dramatic effect. Or perhaps she now doubted the choice of joke, given the subject. No, soon she was back on track.
‘The first officer goes, “Damn it! Now we have to write a report and wait for the transport… We won’t be home until late!”’
Ryker already found himself smiling – largely because of the effort she put into the officer’s voice.
‘The second one says, “I have an idea… The Norwegian border is right over there. If we hang him from a tree on the Norwegian side it will be their problem and we’ll still be home on time.” So the two officers take down the hanged man from the tree, carry him across the border, and find a tree there to hang him from. They go home to their wives. After a while, two Norwegian police officers walk by and notice the hanged man. One of them says to the other, “What the hell, he’s back again!”’
She laughed. Ryker tried his best not to.
‘Do you know any good ones?’ she asked after a few moments.
‘Not really.’
‘Any bad ones?’
Ryker thought. ‘Okay. A Norwegian goes to the psychiatrist. “What brings you in today?” the psychiatrist asks. The patient says, “I’ve just been so depressed. I wish I was never Björn.”’
Silence. Pettersen looked at Ryker as though he was an idiot. Then she burst out laughing.
‘Your face,’ she said. ‘Not bad, actually. But… It doesn’t really work in Norwegian. Born is født. Björn, født. Not exactly the same.’
Her smile slowly dropped away and she sighed. Ryker felt he knew what she was doing. Trying to lighten the mood, with her continual reversion to joking, but he sensed that even for her the battle was becoming tougher.
‘Someone was murdered,’ she said, no hint of light-heartedness now. ‘Last night, we think.’
Her eyes were dead ahead, focused only on the road. She sighed again.
‘In Blodstein?’ Ryker asked.
She nodded. ‘The body was dumped just north of the town. In the trees by the side of the road.’
‘Who was it?’
‘A man named Jonas Nyland. Do you know him?’
‘Never heard of him.’
She glanced over as if to check his face for any hint of a lie.
‘I shouldn’t even be telling you this,’ she said.
‘Then why are you?’
A laugh, but a nervous one. ‘It’s a long journey,’ she said.
‘You think his murder is relevant?’ Ryker asked.
She didn’t answer.
‘You must do, otherwise there wouldn’t be any point in bringing it up.’
Yet another sigh. ‘He was a private investigator. Used to be a policeman. In Trondheim. Sigurd Berg hired him.’
‘So Berg’s unlikely to be the murderer then,’ Ryker said. ‘Why murder your own PI?’
‘I guess so.’
‘What was Nyland investigating?’
‘That’s a good question. But even more important is why is he dead?’
Ryker said nothing. Pettersen, too, was quiet until, ‘Did you do it?’
Ryker snorted and glared at her. ‘Are you seriously asking me that?’
‘I’m not judging. Perhaps he was a terrible man. Threatened you. It was self-defense. But it’s not unreasonable for me to ask, given everything you’re involved with here.’
‘None of this mess is my making.’
‘That didn’t answer my question.’
‘No. I didn’t kill him. I’ve never heard of him, never met him.’
‘But you have killed men before.’
Was that a question? Ryker didn’t bother to answer. She didn’t say anything more.
The now more tense silence stretched out until they were approaching Trondheim. Nighttime was almost upon them, the dusk only adding to the downbeat mood somehow. By the time they made it to the outskirts of the city, the street lights were on, and headlight beams and tail lights jostled and rolled around them.
‘Take the left turn here,’ Ryker said.
Pettersen flicked her turn signal on but then pulled the car into the right-hand lane at the junction.
‘We’ve somewhere else to go first,’ she said.
‘We do?’
‘You’ll see.’
They carried on into unfamiliar territory. At least for Ryker. Did Pettersen know this area? Wherever she was taking them, it wasn’t to the Johansens either. A few minutes later they turned into a street of ramshackle, single-story homes. All timber built, each one unique, but all of them small and looking in various states of disrepair. Some empty, even.
‘What are we doing here?’ Ryker asked.
‘We’re looking for twenty-eight.’
Ryker stared out of the window. The street lights lit up the road well enough, but their beams barely reached the set-back houses making it near impossible in the dark to see the numbers.
Pettersen slowed right down.
‘There,’ she said, looking out her side.
She pulled over and shut down the engine.
‘So, go on then. Why are we here?’ Ryker said.
‘To speak to Henrik’s mother. His real mother.’
Pettersen opened her door. Ryker followed her out.
‘You know her?’ Ryker asked, mixed thoughts rumbling in his head.
‘No,’ Pettersen said. ‘I’m just a good investigator.’
She moved toward the narrow path that led to the house. A thin glow around the edges of one of the two front windows suggested the house was occupied, although the street around them was deathly quiet.
Ryker glanced over his shoulder a couple of times as they headed for the door, an eerie feeling creeping over him.
Pettersen reached the door. Stopped. She turned around.
‘I’m still in my uniform,’ she said to Ryker.
‘Is that a problem?’
‘I have no authority here. In fact, I’ll be in a lot of trouble if the local police see me, or if my boss finds out.’
‘If.’
She sighed.
‘We’ve come a long way for you to suddenly change your mind,’ Ryker added.
Was that it? Or was she just nervous?
Ryker went to brush past her, but Pettersen stood her ground to stop him. ‘No,’ she said, before breaking out into a smile. ‘I mean… Look at you. We’re not trying to scare her.’
‘Very funny.’
Pettersen turned and knocked on the door. Footsteps beyond. No locks released, but the wooden door was yanked from its closed position, the fixture catching on its frame and popping open with a snap.
A man held on to the door. He was tall, looked like a carbon copy of the guy Ryker had left Henrik with – the skinhead. Except this skinhead was twenty years older. He wore a hoodie and shorts. His face was mottled, the skin on his forehead heavily creased. He had deep-set eyes, his pupils the size of pennies – drugs, was Ryker’s immediate thought, though the darkness didn’t help the matter.
The man glanced from Pettersen to Ryker. Then Pettersen started the ball rolling and soon the two of them were in an unfriendly back and forth in Norwegian.
Eventually, all eyes turned to Ryker. The man glared – practically a snarl. Pettersen looked at Ryker pleadingly.
‘Have you got any money?’ she asked.
‘How much?’
‘Two hundred?’
Ryker fished in his pocket. Handed the money to Pettersen who slapped it into the man’s hand. He shouted back inside then moved out. He paused in front of Ryker. They were the same height, and the man leaned in, his eyes wide. High as a kite. But angry about it. A dangerous combination.
‘Fucking English,’ he said, before he turned and walked away, muttering under his breath.
‘He’s gone to get some more beer,’ Pettersen said. ‘We’ve got about ten minutes. If we’re not gone, he’s calling his friends.’
‘Great. Beer. Friends. We’re going to have a party.’
Pettersen shook her head, smiling. ‘I’m not sure that’s what he meant.’
‘Shame. But I’d love to know how you persuaded him to leave.’
‘I’m very good at it. If you’re lucky, I might tell you.’ She winked before she turned and walked into the house.
Ryker looked over his shoulder once more, then followed her in.
The inside of the house was as dilapidated as the outside. Messy too, with clothes and rubbish strewn. Even despite the unnecessary anger directed at him from the man, Ryker felt sorry for the occupants living like this, however much the situation was down to them.
They moved through to a back room. A lounge. A colorful game show of some sort played on a widescreen TV, on the floor in the corner. The TV – obviously new and not exactly cheap-looking – looked seriously out of place.
Upon the single sofa in the room lay a woman, stretched out, cigarette dangling from her hand, which hovered above an ashtray on the floor.
She looked up. Then jumped up. Then rattled off a worried response when she realized two strangers were staring at her. Pettersen talked calmly. Ryker recognized the word politiet – police – more than once.
The woman sat upright on the sofa, her face sullen, the now stubbed-out cigarette slowly smoking in the ashtray. Both Ryker and Pettersen remained standing. Largely because they had nowhere else to sit.
Ryker guessed the woman was late thirties, early forties, and although her features retained a natural youthfulness, she had a gaunt appearance. He could see Henrik in her. Their faces, their noses, had a similar shape, their eyes were nearly identical except hers were bloodshot.
‘Can we speak in English?’ Pettersen said to the woman. ‘My friend is helping.’
It wasn’t often Ryker was referred to as a friend. The woman glared at him.
‘I can try,’ the woman said.
Pettersen turned to Ryker. ‘This is Ingrid.’
‘I’m James,’ he said to her.
Her face showed no reaction at all.
‘How is he?’ she asked Ryker.
‘Henrik?’
‘She says you met him.’
Ryker glanced to Pettersen. Had she explained about the kidnapping already? Ingrid certainly didn’t seem too concerned.
‘Henrik’s not doing too well,’ Ryker said. ‘Some men are trying to hurt him.’
Still no reaction on Ingrid’s face.
‘They kidnapped him,’ Ryker said. ‘Do you know what that means?’
‘But she says you got him back.’
‘I did. But the men who did it are still out there. We want to find out who they are. Can you help us?’
She looked down and shook her head. ‘I haven’t seen Henrik since he was two. I think he wouldn’t even know me.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ Ryker said.
‘What does it matter?’
‘He’s here, now,’ Ryker said. ‘In Trondheim. You could see him.’
‘Why would I want to?’ Then she laughed. More like a cackle. ‘You think this is some sad story for me? A poor mother, her child taken from her. You’re wrong. I wasn’t always like this, but I never wanted him. I asked them to take him away. I wanted my life back.’
Some life, Ryker thought.
‘Do you know why anyone would want to hurt Henrik?’ Pettersen asked.
Ingrid turned her attention away from Ryker and the two women carried on a conversation in Norwegian at warp speed. Eventually, Pettersen faced Ryker again. She looked worried.
‘Some men came to see her,’ Pettersen said. ‘Two or three months ago.’
‘What can she tell us about them?’
‘She’s already told me what she can remember. One of them sounds a lot like Erling.’
‘And Berg?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Have you got a picture of either of them to show her?’ Ryker asked. ‘Or the Russians?’
Pettersen checked her watch. ‘I could try and get something, for the locals perhaps, but we only have a few more minutes.’
‘A few more minutes, if we really care what happens when her boyfriend gets back.’
‘I do.’
Ryker sighed.
‘What did the men want?’ he asked Ingrid.
She looked a little angrier now. ‘They were asking about Henrik. Where was he. Where was his father. Who was his father.’
‘His father?’ Ryker said. ‘And who is his father?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Same as I told them. I don’t know. And I don’t care.’
Ryker and Pettersen exchanged a look.
‘You’re sure you don’t know,’ Ryker said.
‘I. Don’t. Know,’ Ingrid said.
She held Ryker’s eye. Until a thud came from the door and her gaze switched to a spot behind him. He turned. Skinhead was back. He wasn’t alone. Three men in the hallway. A couple of bats. A knife. No beer.
‘We didn’t need any more beer,’ Skinhead said with an evil grin, his strong accent making the words almost indecipherable. ‘Time’s up.’
Ryker stood his ground. Then moved up to him. Eyeball to eyeball. Neither man flinched. Ryker glanced at the other two.
‘Come on,’ he said calmly to Pettersen.
She scuttled past him to the front door. Ryker thought about saying something else to the man inches from his face. He didn’t. Instead, he turned and followed Pettersen out.