‘I know,’ the man said into the camera. ‘I wasn’t planning on getting in touch, I just decided today. You see, I’m going away tomorrow on an extended trip, and I don’t know when I’ll be back. I didn’t want to leave with matters unresolved, Dad. It’s time for forgiveness. I had to see you one last time, face-to-face, to get it off my chest. I think it’ll be good for both of us. It doesn’t need to take more than a few minutes, and we’ll both regret it if we don’t, I’m sure of that.’
Røed listened. He hadn’t heard that deep voice before, not back then or recently. From what he could remember of those last days in the house in Gaustad, the boy’s voice had just begun to break. Of course, the thought had crossed his mind that he may show up one day and cause trouble for him. It would be one person’s word against another’s and the only person who could confirm that any so-called sexual abuse had occurred had perished in a fire. But even an allegation would damage his reputation if it came out. Stain the facade, as the people in this country so contemptuously put it. Because Norway was a country where concepts like family honour had been eroded by social bloody democracy, because the state was the family for most people now, and the small individuals had nobody to answer to but their equals, social democracy’s grey mass, so lacking in tradition. It was different if your name was Røed, but that was something the average citizen would never understand. Understand the expectation to sooner take your own life than drag the family name through the mud. So, what should he do? He had to decide. His stepson had resurfaced. Røed wiped his forehead with his free hand. And was astonished to find he was not afraid. It was like when the tram nearly ran him over. Now that what he had been so terrified of was finally happening, why didn’t it scare him more? What if they did talk together? If his stepson had bad intentions, then talking wasn’t going to make the situation any worse. And at best it was just a matter of forgiveness. All forgotten, thank you and goodbye, maybe he would even sleep better at night. The only thing he had to be careful about was not to say anything, confess directly or indirectly to something that could be used against him.
‘I can give you ten minutes,’ Røed said, and pressed the button that opened the street door. ‘Take the lift to the top floor.’
He replaced the handset. Could the boy be planning on making a recording? He returned to the living room. ‘Do you frisk visitors?’ he asked the bodyguards.
‘Always,’ the older one said.
‘Good. Check if he has any microphones taped to him and keep his phone until he leaves.’
Prim was sitting in a soft armchair in the TV room looking at Markus Røed. The bodyguards were standing just outside with the door ajar.
It had come as a surprise to find he had bodyguards, but it didn’t really matter much. The important thing was that he had him on his own.
The whole thing could of course have been made easier. Had he wanted to kill Markus Røed or cause him physical harm, it would not have been very difficult; after all, only now did he have bodyguards, and in a city like Oslo the inhabitants are so naively trusting that no one thinks the guy they meet on the street might have a weapon under his jacket. It just doesn’t happen. And that wasn’t what was going to happen to Markus Røed either. That wouldn’t be enough. Yes, it would be easier to shoot him, but if the vengeance he had planned for his stepfather gave him just a fraction of the delight it had given him in his imagination, it would be worth all the work. Because the revenge Prim had composed was akin to a symphony, and the climactic crescendo was building.
‘I’m sorry about what happened to your mother,’ Markus said. Loud enough for Prim to hear him clearly, low enough for the bodyguards in the hallway not to catch it.
Prim could see the big man was uncomfortable sitting there in the chair. His fingers picking at the material on the armrests, his nostrils flaring. A sure sign he had caught the odour of the intestinal juices. The dilated pupils told Prim that the scent signals had already reached the brain, where the parasites, eager to breed, had been in place for several days. The result of a little work of art, if he might say so himself. When the original plan to infect his stepfather at the party had gone awry, Prim had been forced to improvise and come up with a fresh plan. And he had carried it out, he had infected Markus Røed right in front of all of them, the lawyers, the police, even Harry Hole.
Markus Røed looked at his watch and sneezed. ‘Not to rush you, but as I said I’m pressed for time, so we need to be brief. What country is it you’re trav—’
‘I want you,’ Prim said.
His stepfather gave such a start in the chair that his jowls quivered.
‘I’m sorry, what?’
‘I’ve fantasised about you all these years. There’s no doubt it was abuse, but I... well, I guess I learned to like it. And want to try it again.’
