The Devil's Star (52 page)

The lift stopped in front of them with a thud and swayed a little.

Harry breathed in and stretched out his hand. His fingers closed around and underneath the tiled wooden surface. He expected to feel the cold, hard steel against his fingertips. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Only more wood. And a loose bit of tape.

Tom Waaler sighed.

‘I’m afraid I threw it down the disposal chute, Harry. Did you really think I wouldn’t search for planted weapons?’

Waaler pulled open the iron door with one hand while pointing the gun at them.

‘The boy goes in first.’

Harry averted his eyes when Oleg looked up at him. He couldn’t meet Oleg’s questioning gaze searching for further assurances. Instead Harry nodded mutely towards the door. Oleg went in and stood at the back of the lift. A dim light from the ceiling fell onto the brown walls of imitation rosewood and a collage of declarations of love, slogans, sexual organs and greetings carved into its surface.

SCREW U
was etched above Oleg’s head.

A burial chamber, Harry thought. It was a burial chamber.

He stuffed his free hand inside his jacket pocket. As he had demonstrated before, he didn’t like lifts. Harry jerked his left hand and the sudden movement sent Sven sprawling against Waaler. Waaler turned towards Sven as Harry raised his right hand over his head. He took aim like a matador with a sword. He knew he would get only one stab, and accuracy was more important than power.

He brought down his hand.

The point of the chisel went through the leather jacket with a tearing sound. The metal end sank into the soft tissue over the right collar-bone, perforated the jugular vein and penetrated the network of nerves in the plexus brachialis and paralysed the motor neurones leading to the arm. There was a clunk as the gun hit the stone floor and clattered down the stairs. Waaler looked down at his right shoulder with an expression of surprise. Beneath the protruding short green handle his arm hung limply by his side.

It had been a long, shitty day for Tom Waaler. The shit had started when he was woken up and told that Harry had taken Sivertsen and cleared off. And it continued when it proved to be much harder to find Harry than he had anticipated. Tom had explained to the others in the association that they would have to use the boy. They had refused; it was too risky, they said. In his heart of hearts he had always known that he would have to take the last few steps on his own. It was always like that. No one would stop him and no one would help him. Loyalty was a question of how much something was worth; charity began at home. And the shit just kept coming. He couldn’t feel his arm any longer. The only thing he felt was the warm stream down his chest telling him that something with a lot of blood in had been punctured.

He turned towards Harry again, just in time to see his face grow in size, and the next moment his head was filled with a crunching sound as Harry’s spring-loaded skull hit him over the bridge of his nose. Harry took a swing at him with his right arm, but Waaler managed to move out of the way. Harry went after him, but was pulled back by Sven Sivertsen’s left arm. Tom inhaled greedily through his mouth as he felt the pain unleash the blind, life-giving rage into his veins. He regained his balance. In all senses. He estimated the distance, went into a crouch position, kicked out and whirled round on one foot with the other held high. It was a perfect
O’ou tek
and hit Harry in the temple. He fell sideways and dragged Sven Sivertsen down with him.

Tom turned and looked for the gun. It was on the landing below them. He held onto the railing and was down there in two bounds. His right arm still wouldn’t obey him. He swore, picked up the gun with his left hand and sprinted back.

Harry and Sven had disappeared.

He turned, just in time to see the lift door close. He clenched the gun between his teeth, grabbed hold of the door handle with his left hand and yanked. It felt as if his arm was coming out of its socket. Locked. Tom put his face against the round window in the door. They had pulled the grille shut and he could hear the excited voices inside.

An absolutely shit day. But now it was going to come to an end. Now it would be perfect. Tom raised his gun.

Out of breath, Harry leaned against the back wall and waited for the lift to move. He had just managed to close the grille and press the
BASEMENT
button when the door began to shake and they heard Waaler swearing on the other side.

‘The bloody lift won’t start!’ wheezed Sven. He had sunk down to his knees beside Harry.

The lift gave a jerk, like a massive hiccup, but it didn’t move.

‘If the bloody lift is that slow, he can just run down the stairs and then say “welcome back” when we get there!’

‘Hell,’ Harry muttered. ‘The door between the entrance and the basement is locked.’

Harry saw a shadow flit across the round window.

‘Look out!’ he screamed, pushing Oleg over towards the grille.

The sound was like a cork being drawn out of a wine bottle as the bullet bored its way into the pseudo-rosewood panel above Harry’s head. He pulled Sven over towards Oleg.

At that moment the lift jerked again and, with a lot of creaking noises, started to move.

‘Fuck,’ Sven whispered.

‘Harry . . .’ Oleg began.

There was a crash. Harry caught a fleeting glimpse of a clenched fist between the latticework of the grille and above Oleg’s head before he instinctively closed his eyes as the glass fragments showered over him.

‘Harry!’

Oleg’s scream went right through Harry. Through his ears, his nose, his mouth, his throat, he drowned in it. Harry opened his eyes again and looked straight into Oleg’s wide-open eyes; his gaping mouth distorted with pain and panic; his long, black hair caught by a large white hand. Oleg was being lifted off the floor.

‘Harry!’

Harry went blind. He thrust open his eyes, but couldn’t see anything. Only a white sheet of panic. But he could hear. Hear Sis screaming.

‘Harry!’

He could hear Ellen screaming. Rakel screaming. Everyone was screaming his name.

‘Harry!’

He stared into the white void as it slowly transformed itself into black. Had he passed out? The screams subsided, like fading echoes. He floated away. They were right. He was never there when it mattered. He made sure he was elsewhere. Packed his case. Opened a bottle. Locked the door. Became scared. Went blind. They were always right. And if they weren’t, they would be.

‘Daddy!’

A foot struck him in the chest. He could see again. Oleg was dangling in front of him, his legs kicking out; his head held tight in Waaler’s hand. But the lift had stopped. He instantly saw why. The grille had been knocked out of position. Harry looked at Sven, who was sitting on the floor beside him, his eyes fixed into a frozen stare.

‘Harry!’ Waaler’s voice from outside. ‘Bring the lift up or I’ll shoot the boy.’

Harry stood up and then ducked again immediately. He had seen what he needed to see. The door to the fourth floor was half a metre higher than the lift.

‘If you shoot from there, Tangen will have the murder on film,’ Harry said.

He heard Waaler’s deep laugh.

‘Tell me, Harry. If this cavalry of yours really exists, shouldn’t it have ridden in before now?’

‘Daddy . . .’ Oleg moaned.

Harry closed his eyes.

‘Listen, Tom. The lift won’t move as long as the grille isn’t properly shut. Your arm is between the bars, so you had better let Oleg go so that we can get it into position.’

Waaler laughed again.

‘Do you think I’m stupid, Harry? The grille only needs to move a few centimetres. You can manage that without me letting go of the boy.’

Harry looked at Sven, but only received an unfocused, faraway look in return.

‘OK,’ Harry said. ‘But I’ve got cuffs on, so I’ll need Sven’s help. And at this moment it looks as if he’s freaked out.’

‘Sven!’ Waaler shouted. ‘Can you hear?’

Sven barely raised his head.

‘Do you remember Lodin, Sven? Your predecessor in Prague?’

The echo rumbled down to the entrance. Sven swallowed.

‘Head fell in a lathe, Sven. Fancy trying that?’

Sven staggered to his feet. Harry grabbed his collar and pulled him up close.

‘Do you know what you’ve got to do, Sven?’ he shouted into wan, trance-like features as he put his hand into his back pocket and brought out a key.

‘Make sure the grille stays in position. Do you hear? Hold the grille tight when we start.’

Harry pointed to one of the worn, round, black buttons on the panel.

Sven gazed intently at Harry as he put the key in the lock for the handcuffs and twisted. Then he nodded.

‘OK,’ Harry shouted. ‘We’re ready. We’re putting the grille in position.’

Sven stood with his back to the grille. He took hold with both hands and pushed to the right. Waaler groaned as the latticework pulled his arm the same way. There was a gentle click as the contact points on the floor and the grille met.

‘There!’ Harry shouted.

They waited. Harry took a step across the lift and stared up. In a small crack between the round window and Waaler’s shoulder two eyes glared down at him. One, Waaler’s enraged, wide-open eye; the other, the black, unseeing eye of the gun.

‘Come back up,’ Waaler said.

‘If you spare the boy,’ Harry said.

‘It’s a deal.’

Harry nodded slowly. Then he pressed the button.

‘I knew you would do the right thing in the end, Harry.’

‘One usually does,’ Harry said.

He saw Waaler’s one eyebrow suddenly darken. Maybe it was because he had just discovered that the handcuffs were hanging from one of Harry’s wrists. Maybe it was something in Harry’s intonation. Or maybe he felt it too. That the moment had come.

There was an ominous scream in the steel wires as the lift jerked into action. At the same moment Harry took a quick pace forward and stretched up on his toes. There was a dry click as the handcuff locked into place around Waaler’s wrist.

‘Bloody h –’ Waaler began.

Harry lifted one leg. The handcuffs were biting into both of their wrists as Hole’s 95 kilos dragged Waaler down. Waaler tried to take the strain, but his arm was pulled through the window until it was blocked by his shoulder.

A shit day.

‘Let me go, for fuck’s sake!’ Tom screamed, as his chin pressed against the iron door. He tried to pull his arm back, but it was too heavy. He bellowed with rage and slammed his gun against the iron door. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. They were ruining everything for him. They’d destroyed the sandcastle, kicked it to pieces and now stood there laughing. But they would see, one day they would see. That was when he noticed. That the bars of the grille were touching his lower arm, that the lift was moving. But the wrong way. Downwards. He felt his throat tighten when he realised. That he was going to be crushed. That the lift was now a slow motion guillotine. That he too was about to meet his fate.

‘Hold the grille tight, Sven!’ Harry shouted.

Tom let go of Oleg and tried to pull his arm away. But Harry was too heavy. Tom panicked. He made another desperate attempt to free himself. And another. His feet skidded on the slippery floor. He felt the inside of the lift roof against his shoulder. All reasoning deserted him.

‘Don’t, Harry. Stop.’

He meant to shout, but sobs stifled his words.

‘Mercy . . .’

43

Monday Night. Rolex.

Tick, tick, tick.

Harry sat listening to the second hand with his eyes closed while he counted. He mused that the time would have to be pretty accurate since the ticking was coming from a gold Rolex watch.

Tick, tick, tick.

If he had counted correctly he had been sitting in the lift for a quarter of an hour now. Fifteen minutes. Nine hundred seconds since he had pressed the stop button between the ground floor and the basement and announced that now they were safe and would have to wait. For nine hundred seconds they had sat as quiet as mice, listening. For footsteps. Voices. Doors being opened and closed. While Harry, his eyes closed, had counted the nine hundred ticks from the Rolex watch on the wrist of the blood-covered arm on the lift floor, and still attached to his handcuffs.

Tick, tick, tick.

Harry opened his eyes. He unlocked the handcuffs and wondered how he was going to get into the boot of the car now that he had swallowed the key.

‘Oleg,’ he whispered and gently shook the sleeping boy’s shoulder. ‘I need you to help me.’

Oleg got to his feet.

‘What’s the point?’ Sven asked, looking up at Oleg who was standing on Harry’s shoulders and detaching the strip lighting from the roof of the lift.

‘Take it,’ Harry said.

Sven reached up to Oleg and took one of the two tubes.

‘Firstly, so that my eyes get used to the dark before I go out into the basement,’ Harry said. ‘Secondly, so that we don’t stand here in the light blinking when the lift door opens.’

‘Waaler? In the basement?’ Sven’s voice was full of disbelief. ‘Come on, no-one can survive that.’

He pointed with the light tube to the already pale, wax-like arm on the floor.

‘Imagine how much blood he lost. And the shock.’

‘I’m trying to anticipate every eventuality,’ Harry said.

Then it went dark.

Tick, tick, tick.

Harry stepped out of the lift, moved quickly to the side and crouched down. He heard the door close softly behind him. He waited until he heard the lift start. The arrangement had been that they should stop the lift between the basement and the ground floor where they would be safe.

Harry listened with bated breath. So far, no sign of ghosts. He stood up. Faint light shone through a door window at the other end of the basement. He made out the shapes of garden furniture, old chests of drawers and the tips of skis behind the wire netting. Harry groped his way along the wall. He found a door and opened it. There was the sweet smell of refuse. He had come to the right place. He trod on torn rubbish bags, eggshells and empty milk cartons as he fumbled his way through the sticky heat generated by the decomposing waste. The gun was over by the wall. One of the bits of tape was still attached. He made sure that it was still loaded before he went out again.