The Son by Jo Nesbø Page B

bathed in morning sunshine. Once it had been the sunny side of a working-class neighbourhood. Once he had dreamed of buying himself a little house there. Now he owned a bigger house in a more expensive part of Oslo. But he still dreamed about the little house.
    Though Nestor appeared to have reacted to the news of the breakout with equanimity, it wasn’t the loss of composure in Nestor and his ilk that worried Franck. On the contrary, he suspected they were at their most unruffled when making decisions which were so horrifying they made his blood run cold. On the other hand, they operated with a simple, clear and practical logic that Arild Franck couldn’t help but admire.
    ‘Find him,’ Nestor had said. ‘Or make sure that no one does.’
    If they found Lofthus, they could persuade him to confess to the murder of Mrs Morsand before anyone else got to him. They had their methods. If they killed Lofthus, they could stop him from explaining away the technical evidence against him at the Morsand crime scene, but then they wouldn’t be able to use him in future cases. That was how it was. Pros and cons. Ultimately, though, it was a matter of hard logic.
    ‘There’s a Simon Kefas on the phone for you.’ It was Ina’s voice on the intercom.
    Arild Franck snorted automatically.
    Simon Kefas.
    Talk about a man who always looked out for number one. A spineless loser who had walked over more than one dead body in his gambling addiction. They said he had changed since he met the woman he was with now. But no one knew better than an assistant prison governor that people don’t change; Franck had all the insight he needed into Simon Kefas.
    ‘Tell him I’m not here.’
    ‘He wants to meet with you later today. It’s about Per Vollan.’
    Vollan? Franck thought the police had declared Vollan’s death to be a suicide. He heaved a sigh and looked down at the newspaper on his desk. The breakout was reported further in, but at least it wasn’t on the front page. Presumably because the news desk didn’t have a good photograph of the escaped prisoner. The vultures probably preferred to wait until they got an E-FIT drawing of the killer where, ideally, he would look like a fiend. In which case they would be disappointed.
    ‘Arild?’
    They had an unspoken agreement that she could address him by his first name when no one else was present.
    ‘Find some space in my diary, Ina. Don’t give him more than thirty minutes.’
    Franck peered at the mosque. Soon it would be twenty-five hours.
    Lars Gilberg moved a step closer.
    The boy was lying on a flattened piece of cardboard and had covered himself with a long coat. He had arrived the day before and had found a spot to hide behind the bushes that grew along the path and the buildings behind. He had sat there, silent and motionless, as if playing hide-and-seek. Two uniformed police officers had stopped by, looked alternately at Gilberg and a photo they held up before moving on. Gilberg had said nothing. Later that evening when it started to rain, the boy had emerged and lain down under the bridge. Without asking for permission. It wasn’t that permission wouldn’t be granted, but he hadn’t even asked to begin with. And then there was the other thing. He was wearing a uniform. Lars Gilberg wasn’t sure what kind of uniform – he had been rejected by the army before he had time to see anything other than the recruiting officer’s green one. ‘Unsuitable’ had been the somewhat vague reason given. From time to time Lars Gilberg wondered if there was anything he was suitable for. And, if so, would he ever find out what that was? Perhaps it was this: getting money for drugs and living under a bridge.
    Like now.
    The boy was asleep and his breathing was steady. Lars Gilberg took another step. There was something about the way the boy had moved and his skin colour that told Gilberg that he was a junkie. In which case he might still have some drugs on him.
    Gilberg was now so close