Phantom(122)

He hung his coat on the stand and walked towards Harry with his hand outstretched. Stopped suddenly. Fluttered his hand in front of him. A deep furrow in his brow. Stood listening. And now Harry knew why. The thread he had felt on his face when he entered, which he had taken to be a spider’s web, must have been something else. Some invisible fibre Nybakk had wound across the hall to indicate whether he had had any unwelcome visitors.

Nybakk moved with surprising speed and agility towards a cupboard. Stuck his hand in. Pulled at something and the matt metal gleamed. A shotgun.

Shit, shit, shit. Harry hated shotguns.

Nybakk took out a box of cartridges, which was already open. Removed two large, red cartridges, held them between first and middle finger.

Harry’s brain whirred and whirred, but failed to come up with any good ideas, so he chose the bad one. Took his phone and began to press.

H-o-o-t a-n-d w-a-j-p

Shit! Wrong!

He heard the metallic click as Nybakk broke the gun.

Delete. Where are you? Out with ‘j’ and ‘p’ and in with ‘i’ and ‘t’.

Heard him loading the cartridges.

w-a-i-t t-i-l-l h-e i-s

Tiny bloody keys! Come on!

Heard the barrel click into place.

i-n t-h-e w-i-n-c

Wrong! Harry heard Nybakk’s shuffling gait come closer. Not enough time. Would have to hope Hans Christian could use his imagination.

l-i-g-h-t-s!

He pressed ‘send’.

Harry could see Nybakk had raised the shotgun to his shoulder. And it struck him that the pharmacist had noticed the cellar door was ajar.

At that moment a car horn hooted. Loud and insistent. Nybakk flinched. Looked to the sitting room, which faced the road. Hesitated. Then went into the room.

The horn hooted again, and this time it didn’t stop.

Harry opened the cellar door and then followed Nybakk, didn’t need to tiptoe, knew the hooting would drown his footsteps. From the door he watched Nybakk as he drew the curtains aside. The room was filled with blinding light from the powerful xenon headlamps on Hans Christian’s estate car.

Harry took four long strides, and Stig Nybakk neither saw nor heard him approach. He was holding one hand in front of his face to shield it from the light as Harry reached both arms round Stig Nybakk’s shoulders, grabbed the gun, pulled the barrel into his fleshy neck. Dug his knees into the back of Nybakk’s legs, forcing both of them down as Nybakk desperately fought for air.

Hans Christian must have realised the hooting had done its job, because it stopped, but Harry continued to apply pressure. Until Nybakk’s movements slowed, lost energy and he seemed to wilt.

Harry knew Nybakk was losing consciousness. After a few seconds without oxygen the brain would be damaged and after a few more Stig Nybakk, the kidnapper and brain behind violin, would be dead.

Harry took stock. Counted to three and allowed one hand to let go of the gun. Nybakk slid to the floor without a noise.

Harry sat on a chair panting. Gradually, as the adrenalin level in his blood sank, the pain from his chin and neck returned. It had been getting worse by the hour. He tried to ignore it, and pressed ‘O’ and ‘K’ to Hans Christian.

Nybakk began to groan softly and hunched up into the foetal position.

Harry searched him. Laid everything he found in his pockets on the coffee table. Wallet, mobile phone and bottle of prescription pills. Zestril. Harry remembered his grandfather had taken them to prevent a heart attack. Harry stuffed the pills into his jacket pocket, put the muzzle of the shotgun to Nybakk’s pale brow and ordered him to get up.

Nybakk looked at Harry. Was about to say something, but changed his mind. Struggled to his feet and swayed.

‘Where are we going?’ he asked as Harry nudged him forward into the hall.

‘Downstairs,’ Harry said.

Stig Nybakk was still unsteady, and Harry supported him with one hand on his shoulder and the gun in his back as they clambered down to the cellar. They stopped by the door where he had found Irene.

‘How did you know it was me?’

‘The ring,’ Harry said. ‘Open up.’

Nybakk took a key from his pocket and twisted it in the padlock.

Inside, he switched on a light.

Irene had moved. She was cowering in the corner furthest from them, trembling, one shoulder raised, as though afraid someone might hit her. Around her ankle was a shackle attached to a chain that led up to the ceiling, where it was nailed to a beam.

Harry noticed that the chain was long enough for her to move around. Long enough for her to switch on the light.

She had preferred darkness.

‘Release her,’ Harry said. ‘And put the shackle on.’

Nybakk coughed. Held up his palms. ‘Listen, Harry—’

Harry hit him. Completely lost his head and hit him. Heard the lifeless thud of metal on flesh and saw the red weal the gun barrel had made across Nybakk’s nose.