‘I am somewhat conversant with the term, yes,’ said Bent Nordbø with an acidic smile, his right thumb and forefinger furiously rubbing the handkerchief on his glasses. ‘However, basically, I am more interested in if there any rumours doing the rounds.’
‘Rumours?’ Gjendem said, failing to notice a relapse into his old habit of leaving his mouth open after speaking.
‘I am truly hopeful you understand the concept, Gjendem. Since that is what you and your employer live off. Well?’
Gjendem hesitated. ‘There are all sorts of rumours.’
Nordbø rolled his eyes. ‘Speculation. Fabrication. Direct lies. I’m not bothered with the niceties here, Gjendem. Turn the sack of gossip inside out, reveal the malevolence.’
‘N-negative things then?’
Nordbø released a pondorous sigh. ‘Gjendem, my dear man, do you often hear rumours about people’s sobriety, financial generosity, fidelity to partners and non-psychopathic leadership styles? Could that be because the function of rumours is to please the rest of us by putting us in a better light?’ Nordbø was finished with one lens and engaged on the cleansing operation of the second.
‘It’s a very, very idle rumour,’ Gjendem said and added with alacrity: ‘And I know for certain of others with the selfsame reputation who categorically are not.’
‘As an ex-editor I would recommend you delete either for certain or categorically, it’s a tautology,’ Nordbø said. ‘Categorically are not what?’
‘Erm. Jealous.’
‘Aren’t we all jealous?’
‘Violently jealous.’
‘Has he beaten up his wife?’
‘No, I don’t think he’s laid a hand on her. Or had reason to. However, those who have given her a second look . . .’
61
The Drop
HARRY AND BELLMAN LAY ON THEIR STOMACHS AT THE EDGE where the snowmobile tracks stopped. They stared down. Steep, black rock faces sliced inwards to the ground and disappeared in the thickening swirl of snow.
‘Can you see anything?’ Bellman asked.
‘Snow,’ Harry answered, passing him the binoculars.
‘The snowmobile’s there.’ Bellman got up and walked back to their vehicle. ‘We’re climbing down.’
‘We?’
‘You.’
‘Me? Thought you were the mountaineer here, Bellman.’
‘Correct,’ said Bellman who had already started strapping on the harness. ‘That’s why it’s logical for me to operate the ropes and rope brake. The rope’s seventy metres long. I’ll lower it as far as it can go. Alright?’
Six minutes later Harry stood on the edge with his back to the chasm, binoculars around his neck and a cigarette smoking from his mouth.
‘Nervous?’ Bellman smiled.
‘Nope,’ Harry said. ‘Scared shitless.’
Bellman checked the rope ran through the brake without a hitch, round the narrow tree trunk behind them and to Harry’s harness.
Harry closed his eyes, breathed in and concentrated on leaning backwards, overriding the body’s evolution-conditioned protest, formed from millions of years of experience that the species cannot survive if it steps off cliffs.
The brain won over the body by the smallest possible margin.
For the first few metres he could support his legs against the rock face, but as it jutted in he was left hanging in the air. The rope was released in fits and starts, but its elasticity softened the tightening of the harness against his back and thighs. Then the rope came more evenly, and after a while he had lost sight of the top and was alone, hovering between the white snowflakes and the black cliff faces.
He leaned to the side and peered down. And there, twenty metres below, he glimpsed sharp black rocks protruding from the snow. Steep scree. And in the midst of all the black and white, something yellow.
‘I can see the snowmobile!’ Harry shouted and the echo ricocheted between the rock walls. It was upside down with the skis in the air. Since he and the rope were unaffected by the wind, he could judge that the vehicle lay about three metres further along. More than seventy metres down. The snowmobile must therefore have been travelling at an unusually slow speed before it took off.
The rope went taut.
‘More!’ Harry shouted.
The resonant answer from above sounded as if it had come from a pulpit. ‘There is no more rope.’
Harry stared down at the snowmobile. Something was sticking out from under it to the left. A bare arm. Black, bloated, like a sausage that had been on the grill for too long. A white hand against a black rock. He tried to focus, to force his eyes to see better. Open palm, the right hand. Fingers. Distorted, crooked. Harry’s brain rewound. What had Tony Leike said about his illness? Not contagious, just hereditary. Arthritis.