mirror by the door.
The bus driver looked at the prison officer who was staring nonplussed at the ticket and the fifty kroner he had been given as change for his hundred-krone note. He could tell that the man was a prison officer because he was wearing a uniform under his long coat and had an ID card saying ‘Sørensen’ with a photo that looked nothing like him.
‘Been a while since you last caught the bus, has it?’ the driver asked.
The man with the bad haircut nodded.
‘It’s only twenty-six kroner if you buy a travel card in advance,’ the driver said, but he could tell from the passenger’s expression that he thought even this price was a rip-off. It was a common reaction in anyone who hadn’t travelled by bus in Oslo for a few years.
‘Thanks for your help,’ the man said.
The bus driver pulled out from the kerb while he followed the back of the prison officer in his rear-view mirror. He didn’t really know why, perhaps it was because of his voice. So warm and sincere as if he really thanked him with all his heart. He saw him sit down and gaze in wonder out of the window like one of those foreign tourists who strayed onto the bus from time to time. Saw him pull a set of keys out of his coat pocket and study them as if he hadn’t seen them before. Take a packet of chewing gum from his other coat pocket.
Then he had to concentrate on the traffic in front of him.
PART TWO
12
ARILD FRANCK WAS standing at the window in his office. He looked at his watch. Most escaped prisoners were brought back in the first twelve hours. He had told the press it was the first twenty-four hours so that he could call it a fast result, should it take longer than twelve. But it was coming up for twenty-five hours now, and they still had no leads to go on.
He had just been to the prison governor’s large office. The one with no view. And there the man with no view had demanded an explanation. The prison governor was in a foul mood because he had been forced to return early from the annual Nordic prison conference in Reykjavik. On the telephone from Iceland yesterday he had said that he would contact the press. He liked talking to the media, did his boss. Franck had asked for twenty-four hours’ media blackout to find Lofthus, but his boss had dismissed this out of hand and said that this wasn’t something they could keep under wraps. Firstly, Sonny Lofthus was a killer so the public was entitled to be warned. Secondly, they needed to circulate his picture to the media to help find him.
And, thirdly, you want your own picture in the papers, Franck thought. So your political cronies can see that you’re working rather than floating around a blue lagoon drinking Svartadaudir schnapps.
Franck had tried explaining to the governor that circulating pictures was unlikely to be very effective; any photos they had of Sonny Lofthus were from when he was jailed twelve years ago and even then he had had long hair and a beard. And the images from the CCTV cameras after he had cut off his hair were so grainy as to be unusable. And still the governor had insisted on dragging the name of Staten through the mud.
‘The police are looking for him, Arild, so surely you know it’s only a matter of time before I get a phone call from a reporter wondering why the breakout hasn’t been made public and asking if Staten has covered up breakouts before. I prefer to control the story, Arild.’
The prison governor had gone on to ask which procedures Franck thought needed tightening up. And Franck knew why: so that the governor could go to his government friends and pass off the assistant prison governor’s ideas as his own. Ideas from a man with a view. And yet he had shared his thoughts with the idiot. Voice recognition to replace fingerprints and electronic tagging with indestructible GPS chips. Ultimately there were things Franck valued higher than himself and Staten Prison was one of them.
Arild Franck looked at Ekebergåsen as it lay
The bus driver looked at the prison officer who was staring nonplussed at the ticket and the fifty kroner he had been given as change for his hundred-krone note. He could tell that the man was a prison officer because he was wearing a uniform under his long coat and had an ID card saying ‘Sørensen’ with a photo that looked nothing like him.
‘Been a while since you last caught the bus, has it?’ the driver asked.
The man with the bad haircut nodded.
‘It’s only twenty-six kroner if you buy a travel card in advance,’ the driver said, but he could tell from the passenger’s expression that he thought even this price was a rip-off. It was a common reaction in anyone who hadn’t travelled by bus in Oslo for a few years.
‘Thanks for your help,’ the man said.
The bus driver pulled out from the kerb while he followed the back of the prison officer in his rear-view mirror. He didn’t really know why, perhaps it was because of his voice. So warm and sincere as if he really thanked him with all his heart. He saw him sit down and gaze in wonder out of the window like one of those foreign tourists who strayed onto the bus from time to time. Saw him pull a set of keys out of his coat pocket and study them as if he hadn’t seen them before. Take a packet of chewing gum from his other coat pocket.
Then he had to concentrate on the traffic in front of him.
PART TWO
12
ARILD FRANCK WAS standing at the window in his office. He looked at his watch. Most escaped prisoners were brought back in the first twelve hours. He had told the press it was the first twenty-four hours so that he could call it a fast result, should it take longer than twelve. But it was coming up for twenty-five hours now, and they still had no leads to go on.
He had just been to the prison governor’s large office. The one with no view. And there the man with no view had demanded an explanation. The prison governor was in a foul mood because he had been forced to return early from the annual Nordic prison conference in Reykjavik. On the telephone from Iceland yesterday he had said that he would contact the press. He liked talking to the media, did his boss. Franck had asked for twenty-four hours’ media blackout to find Lofthus, but his boss had dismissed this out of hand and said that this wasn’t something they could keep under wraps. Firstly, Sonny Lofthus was a killer so the public was entitled to be warned. Secondly, they needed to circulate his picture to the media to help find him.
And, thirdly, you want your own picture in the papers, Franck thought. So your political cronies can see that you’re working rather than floating around a blue lagoon drinking Svartadaudir schnapps.
Franck had tried explaining to the governor that circulating pictures was unlikely to be very effective; any photos they had of Sonny Lofthus were from when he was jailed twelve years ago and even then he had had long hair and a beard. And the images from the CCTV cameras after he had cut off his hair were so grainy as to be unusable. And still the governor had insisted on dragging the name of Staten through the mud.
‘The police are looking for him, Arild, so surely you know it’s only a matter of time before I get a phone call from a reporter wondering why the breakout hasn’t been made public and asking if Staten has covered up breakouts before. I prefer to control the story, Arild.’
The prison governor had gone on to ask which procedures Franck thought needed tightening up. And Franck knew why: so that the governor could go to his government friends and pass off the assistant prison governor’s ideas as his own. Ideas from a man with a view. And yet he had shared his thoughts with the idiot. Voice recognition to replace fingerprints and electronic tagging with indestructible GPS chips. Ultimately there were things Franck valued higher than himself and Staten Prison was one of them.
Arild Franck looked at Ekebergåsen as it lay
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