Phantom(81)

Berntsen got to his feet again and tiptoed towards Tutu, gun first. Oleg and I followed, also on tiptoe.

‘There’s only one hole,’ Oleg whispered to me.

‘What?’ I whispered back.

But then I realised.

I could see the last drill hole. And worked out where the first must have been.

‘Oh shit,’ I whispered. Even though I realised there was no longer any reason to whisper.

Berntsen had reached Tutu. He gave him a nudge. Tutu rolled sideways off the chair and fell to the floor. He lay face down on the concrete and we could see the circular entry into the back of his head.

‘Drill went right through, OK,’ Berntsen said. He poked his finger into the hole in the wall.

‘Bloody hell,’ I whispered to Oleg. ‘What are the chances of that happening, eh?’

But he didn’t answer. He was staring at the body as though he didn’t know whether to vomit or cry.

‘Gusto,’ he said finally, ‘what have we done?’

I don’t know what got into me, but I started laughing. It was impossible to hold back. The übercool hip gyration from the cop with the massive underbite, the despair on Oleg’s face, flattened behind the stocking, and Tutu, who turned out to have a brain after all, with his mouth hanging open. I laughed so much I howled. Until I was slapped and saw sparks in front of my eyes.

‘Shape up unless you want another,’ Berntsen said, rubbing his palm.

‘Thank you,’ I said and meant it. ‘Let’s find the dope.’

‘First we have to figure out what to do with Drillo here,’ Berntsen said.

‘It’s too late,’ I said. ‘Now they’ll find out there’s been a break-in anyway.’

‘Not if we get Tutu into the car and screw the locks on again,’ Oleg whined in a reedy, tear-filled voice. ‘If they discover some of the dope’s gone they’ll think he ran off with it.’

Berntsen looked at Oleg and nodded. ‘Bright partner you’ve got there, Wussto. Let’s get going.’

‘Dope first,’ I said.

‘Drillo first,’ Berntsen said.

‘Dope,’ I repeated.

‘Drillo.’

‘I intend to become a millionaire this evening, you pelican.’

Berntsen raised a hand. ‘Drillo.’

‘Shut up!’ It was Oleg. We stared at him.

‘It’s simple logic. If Tutu isn’t in the boot before the police come we lose both the dope and our freedom. If Tutu, but not the dope, is in the boot we lose only the money.’

Berntsen turned to me. ‘Sounds like Boris agrees with me, Wussto. Two against one.’

‘OK,’ I said. ‘You carry the body and I’ll search for the dope.’

‘Wrong,’ Berntsen said. ‘We carry the body and you wash up the gunge after us.’ He pointed to the sink on the wall beside the bar.

I poured water into a bucket while Oleg and Berntsen grabbed a leg each and dragged Tutu towards the door, leaving a thin trail of blood. Under Karen McDougal’s provocative gaze I scrubbed brain and blood off the wall and then the floor. I had just finished and was about to start searching for dope when I heard a sound from the door that opened onto the E6. A sound I tried to persuade myself was going somewhere else. The fact that the sound was getting louder and louder could be a figment of my imagination. Police sirens.

I checked the bar, the office and the toilet. It was a simple room, no second storey, no cellar, not many places to hide twenty kilos of horse. Then my eyes fell on the toolbox. On the padlock. Which had not been there before.

Oleg shouted something from the door.

‘Give me the jemmy,’ I shouted back.

‘We’ve got to get out now! They’re down the road!’

‘Jemmy!’

‘Now, Gusto!’

I knew it was in there. Twenty-five million kroner, right in front of me, in a shitty wooden box. I started kicking the lock.

‘I’ll shoot, Gusto!’

I turned to Oleg. He was pointing the bloody Odessa at me. Not that I thought he would hit me from that range, it was well over ten metres, but just the idea that he would train a weapon on me.

‘If they catch you, they’ll catch us!’ he shouted with tears in his throat.

‘Come on!’

I battered away at the lock again. The sirens were getting louder and louder. The thing about sirens, though, is that they always sound closer than they are.

I heard a crack like a whip above me on the wall. I looked back at the door, and my blood ran cold. It was Berntsen. He was standing there with a smoking police shooter in his hand.

‘Next one won’t miss,’ he said calmly.

I gave the box one last kick. Then I ran.

We had hardly clambered over the fence and removed the stockings when we found ourselves looking into the headlights of the police cars. We walked casually towards them.