About the Book
In the depths of winter, a killer stalks the city streets. His victims are two young women, both found with twenty-four inexplicable puncture wounds, both drowned in their own blood. The crime scenes offer no clues, the media is reaching fever pitch, and the police are running out of options. There is only one man who can help them, and he doesn’t want to be found.
Deeply traumatised by the Snowman investigation, which threatened the lives of those he holds most dear, Inspector Harry Hole has lost himself in the squalor of Hong Kong’s opium dens. But with his father seriously ill in hospital, Harry reluctantly agrees to return to Oslo. He has no intention of working on the case, but his instinct takes over when a third victim is found brutally murdered in a city park.
The victims appear completely unconnected to one another, but it’s not long before Harry makes a discovery: the women all spent the night in an isolated mountain hostel. And someone is picking off the guests one by one.
A heart-stopping thriller from the bestselling author of The Snowman, The Leopard is an international phenomenon that will grip you until the final page.
Praise for Jo Nesbo
‘Many authors know how to make the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Jo Nesbø’s one of the few who keeps them there’ Linwood Barclay
‘This is chilling, spectacular stuff, and anyone looking for serious, and seriously compelling, crime writing need look no further’ Mark Billingham
‘Jo Nesbø is my new favourite thriller writer and Harry Hole my new hero’ Michael Connelly
‘Nesbø is in a class of his own’
Evening Standard
‘A master at work’ Time Out
Praise for The Snowman
‘Every now and then, a truly exceptional crime novel comes along, something so gripping that it recalls classics such as The Silence of the Lambs. One of Norway’s most successful crime writers, Jo Nesbø has pulled it off with The Snowman… This superb novel… deserves comparison with the first volume of Stieg Larsson’s Millennium trilogy’ Sunday Times
‘Nesbø, in his fifth, most wide-ranging novel, gradually tightens the narrative grip until, throughout the last 100 pages, the reader also finds it hard to breathe’ Evening Standard
‘This is crime writing of the highest order, in which the characters are as strong as the story, where an atmosphere of evil permeates, and the tension never lets up’ The Times, Marcel Berlins
Jo Nesbo
The Leopard
TRANSLATED
FROM THE NORWEGIAN
BY
Don Bartlett
Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title
Copyright
Also by Jo Nesbo
Map
PART ONE
1 The Drowning
2 The Illuminating Darkness
3 Hong Kong
4 Sex Pistols
5 The Park
6 Homecoming
7 Gallows
8 Snøw Patrol
9 The Dive
PART TWO
10 Reminders
11 Print
12 Crime Scene
13 Office
14 Recruitment
15 Strobe Lights
16 Speed King
17 Fibres
18 The Patient
19 The White Bride
20 Øystein
21 Snow White
23 Passenger
PART THREE
24 Stavanger
25 Territory
26 The Needle
27 Kind, Light-Fingered and Tight-Fisted
28 Drammen
29 Kluit
30 Guest Book
31 Kigali
32 Police
33 Leipzig
34 Medium
35 The Dive
PART FOUR
36 Helicopter
37 Profile
38 Permanent Scarring
39 Relational Search
40 The Offer
41 The Blue Chit
42 Beavis
43 House Call
44 The Anchor
45 Questioning
PART FIVE
46 Red Beetle
47 Fear of the Dark
48 Hypothesis
49 Bombay Garden
50 Corruption
51 Letter
52 Visit
53 Heel Hook
54 Tulip
55 Turquoise
PART SIX
56 Decoy
57 Thunder
58 Snow
59 The Burial
60 Pixies and Dwarfs
61 The Drop
62 Transit
63 The Storehouse
PART SEVEN
64 State of Health
65 Kadok
66 After the Fire
67 Prince Charming
68 Pike
69 Looped Writing
70 Blind Spot
71 Bliss
72 Boy
73 Arrest
74 Bristol Cream
PART EIGHT
75 Perspiration
76 Redefinition
77 Fingerprint
78 The Deal
79 Missed Calls
80 The Rhythm
81 The Cones of Light
82 Red
PART NINE
83 The End of the World
84 Reunion
85 Edvard Munch
86 Calibre
87 Kalashnikov
88 The Church
89 The Wedding
90 Marlon Brando
PART TEN
91 Parting
92 Free Fall
93 The Answer
94 Glass Noodles
95 The Allies
Epilogue
About the Author
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Version 1.0
Epub ISBN 9781407086071
www.randomhouse.co.uk
Published by Harvill Secker 2010
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
Copyright © Jo Nesbo 2009
English translation copyright © Don Bartlett 2011
Jo Nesbo has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
First published with the title Panserhjerte in 2009
by H. Aschehoug & Co. (W. Nygaard), Oslo
First published in Great Britain in 2010 by
HARVILL SECKER
Random House
20 Vauxhall Bridge Road
London SW1V 2SA
www.rbooks.co.uk
Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm
The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9781846554018 (trade
paperback)
This translation has been published with the financial support of NORLA
ALSO BY JO NESBO
The Redbreast
Nemesis
The Devil’s Star
The Redeemer
The Snowman
PART ONE
1
The Drowning
SHE AWOKE. BLINKED IN THE PITCH DARKNESS. YAWNED, and breathed through her nose. She blinked again. Felt a tear run down her face, felt it dissolve the salt of other tears. But saliva was no longer entering her throat; her mouth was dry and hard. Her cheeks were forced out by the pressure from inside. The foreign body in her mouth felt as though it would explode her head. But what was it? What was it? The first thing she thought when she awoke was that she wanted to go back. Back into the dark, warm depths that had enveloped her. The injection he had given her had not worn off yet, but she knew pain was on the way, felt it coming in the slow, dull beat of her pulse and the jerky flow of blood through her brain. Where was he? Was he standing right behind her? She held her breath, listened. She couldn’t hear anything, but she could sense a presence. Like a leopard. Someone had told her leopards made so little noise they could sneak right up to their prey in the dark. They could regulate their breathing so that it was in tune with yours. Could hold their breath when you held yours. She was certain she could feel his body heat. What was he waiting for? She exhaled again. And at that same moment was sure she had felt breath on her neck. She whirled round, hit out, but was met by air. She hunched up, tried to make herself small, to hide. Pointless.
How long had she been unconscious?
The drug wore off. The sensation lasted only for a fraction of a second. But it was enough to give her the foretaste, the promise. The promise of what was to come.
The foreign body placed on the table in front of her had been the size of a billiard ball, made of shiny metal with punched-out small holes and figures and symbols. From one of the holes protruded a red wire with a looped end, which instantly made her think of the Christmas tree that would need decorating at her parents’ house on 23 December, in seven days. With shiny balls, Christmas pixies, hearts, candles and Norwegian flags. In eight days they would be singing a traditional Christmas carol, and she would see the twinkling eyes of her nephews and nieces as they opened their presents. All the things she should have done differently. All the days she should have lived to the full, avoiding escapism, should have filled with happiness, breath and love. The places she had merely travelled through, the places she was planning to visit. The men she had met, the man she had still not met. The foetus she had got rid of when she was seventeen, the children she had not yet had. The days she had wasted for the days she thought she would have.
Then she had stopped thinking about anything except the knife that had been brandished before her. And the gentle voice that had told her to put the ball in her mouth. She had done so, of course she had. With her heart thumping she had opened her mouth as wide as she could and pushed the ball in with the wire left hanging outside. The metal tasted bitter and salty, like tears. Then her head had been forced back, and the steel burned against her skin as the knife was laid flat against her throat. The ceiling and the room were illuminated by a standard lamp leaning against the wall in one of the corners. Bare, grey concrete. Apart from the lamp, the room contained a white plastic camping table, two chairs, two empty beer bottles and two people. Him and her. She smelt a leather glove as a finger had tugged lightly at the red loop hanging from her mouth. And the next moment her head had seemed to explode.
The ball had expanded and forced itself against the inside of her mouth. But however wide she opened her jaws, the pressure was constant. He had examined her with a concentrated, engaged expression, like a dentist checking to see whether the orthodontic brace was sitting as it should. A little smile intimated satisfaction.
With her tongue she could feel circular ridges around the holes in the ball and that was what was pressing against her palate, against the soft flesh of her tongue, against her teeth, against the uvula. She had tried to say something. He had listened patiently to the inarticulate sounds emerging from her mouth. Had nodded when she gave up, and had taken out a syringe. The drop on the tip had glinted in the torchlight. He had whispered something in her ear: ‘Don’t touch the wire.’
Then he had injected her in the neck. She was out in seconds.
She listened to her own terrified breathing as she blinked in the darkness.
She had to do something.
She placed her palms on the chair seat, which was clammy from her perspiration, and pushed herself up. No one stopped her.
She advanced with tiny steps until she hit a wall. Groped her way along to a smooth, cold surface. The metal door. She pulled at the bolt. It didn’t budge. Locked. Of course it was locked. What had she been thinking? Was that laughter she could hear, or was the sound coming from inside her head? Where was he? Why was he playing with her like this?
Do something. Think. But to think, she would first have to get rid of this metal ball before the pain drove her insane. She put her thumb and first finger in the corners of her mouth. Felt the ridges. Tried in vain to get her fingers under one of them. Had a coughing fit and a panic attack when she couldn’t breathe. She realised that the ridges had made the flesh around her windpipe swell, that soon she would be in danger of suffocating. She kicked the metal door, tried to scream, but the ball stifled the sound. She gave up again. Leaned against the wall. Listened. Was that his wary tread she could hear? Was he moving around the room? Was he playing blind man’s buff with her? Or was it her blood throbbing past her ears? She steeled herself against the pain and forced her mouth shut. The ridges were hardly down before they sprang back and forced her mouth open again. The ball seemed to be pulsating now, as though it had become an iron heart, a part of her.
Do something. Think.
Springs. The ridges were spring-loaded.
They had jumped up when he pulled the wire.
‘Don’t touch the wire,’ he had said.
Why not? What would happen?
She slid down the wall until she was sitting. Cold damp rose from the concrete floor. She wanted to scream again, but she couldn’t. Quiet. Silence.
All the things she should have said to those she loved, instead of the words that had served to fill the silence with those to whom she was indifferent.
There was no way out. There was just her and this unbelievable pain, her head exploding.
‘Don’t touch the wire.’
If she pulled it, the ridges might retract into the ball, and she would be spared the pain.
Her thoughts ran in the same circles. How long had she been here? Two hours? Eight hours? Twenty minutes?
If all you had to do was pull the wire, why hadn’t she already done it? Because the warning had been given by an obvious sicko? Or was this part of the game? Being tricked into resisting the temptation to stop this quite unnecessary pain? Or was the game about defying the warning and pulling the wire, causing … causing something dreadful to happen? What would happen? What was this ball?
Yes, it was a game, a brutal game. And she had to play. The pain was intolerable, her throat was swelling, soon she would suffocate.
She tried to scream again, but it subsided into a sob, and she blinked and blinked, without producing any further tears.
Her fingers found the string hanging from her lips. She pulled tentatively until it was taut.
There was so much she regretted not having done, naturally. But if a life of self-denial would had placed her anywhere else than here, right now, she would have chosen that. She just wanted to live. Any sort of life. As simple as that.
She pulled the wire.
The needles shot out of the circular ridges. They were seven centimetres long. Four burst through her cheeks on each side, three into the sinuses, two up the nasal passages and two out through the chin. Two needles pierced the windpipe and one the right eye, one the left. S
everal needles penetrated the rear part of the palate and reached the brain. But that was not the direct cause of her death. Because the metal ball impeded movement, she was unable to spit out the blood pouring from the wounds into her mouth. Instead it ran down her windpipe and into her lungs, not allowing oxygen to be absorbed into her bloodstream, which in turn led to a cardiac arrest and what the pathologist would call in his report cerebral hypoxia, that is, lack of oxygen to her brain. In other words, Borgny Stem-Myhre drowned.
2
The Illuminating Darkness
18 December
The days are short. It’s still light outside, but here in my cutting room there is eternal darkness. In the light from my work lamp the people in the pictures on the wall look so irritatingly happy and unsuspecting. So full of expectations, as though they take it for granted that all life lies before them, a perfectly calm ocean of time, smooth and unruffled. I have taken cuttings from the newspaper, snipped off all the lachrymose stories about the shocked family, edited out the gory details about the finding of the body. Contented myself with the inevitable photo a relative or a friend has given a persistent journalist, the picture of when she was in her prime, smiling as though immortal.
The police don’t know a lot. Not yet. But soon they will have more to work with.
What is it, where is it, whatever it is that makes a murderer? Is it innate, is it in a gene, inherited potential that some have and others do not? Or is it shaped by need, developed in a confrontation with the world, a survival strategy, a life-saving sickness, rational insanity? For just as sickness is a fevered bombardment of the body, insanity is a vital retreat to a place where one can entrench oneself anew.
For my part, I believe that the ability to kill is fundamental to any healthy person. Our existence is a fight for gain, and whoever cannot kill his neighbour has no right to an existence. Killing is, after all, only hastening the inevitable. Death allows no exceptions, which is good because life is pain and suffering. In that sense, every murder is an act of charity. It just doesn’t seem like that when the sun warms your skin or water wets your lips and you recognise your idiotic lust for life in every heartbeat and are ready to buy mere crumbs of time with everything you have accrued through life: dignity, status, principles. That is when you have to dig deep, to give a wide berth to the confusing, blinding light. Into the cold illuminating darkness. And perceive the hard kernel. The truth. For that is what I had to find. That is what I found. Whatever it is that makes a person into a murderer.