Jo Nesbo - The Bat: A Harry Hole Novel

Jo Nesbs books have sold more than eighteen million copies worldwide, and have been translated into forty-seven languages. His other Harry Hole novels include The Redbreast, Nemesis, The Devils Star, The Snowman, The Leopard, Phantom, and The Redeemer, and he is the author of Headhunters and several childrens books. He has received the Glass Key Award for best Nordic crime novel. He is also a musician, songwriter, and economist and lives in Oslo.

www.jonesbo.com

BOOKS BY JO NESB

Headhunters

The Harry Hole series
Phantom
The Leopard
The Snowman
The Redeemer
The Devils Star
Nemesis
The Redbreast
The Bat

FIRST VINTAGE CRIME/BLACK LIZARD EDITION, JULY 2013

Translation copyright 2012 by Don Bartlett

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. Originally published in Norway as Flaggermusmannen by H. Aschehoug & Co. (W. Nygaard), Oslo, in 1997. Copyright 1997 by Jo Nesb. This translation was originally published in Great Britain by Harvill Secker, an imprint of the Random House Group Ltd., London, in 2012.

Vintage is a registered trademark and Vintage Crime/Black Lizard and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Lyrics from Where the Wild Roses Grow by Nick Cave reprinted by kind permission of Nick Cave and Mute Song.

The Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress.

eISBN: 978-0-345-80710-6

www.weeklylizard.com

Cover design: www.henrysteadman.com
Cover photographs: wing Dean Bertoncelj/Shutterstock.com; skyline Ben Bryant/Shutterstock.com

v3.1

Something was wrong.

At first the female passport official had beamed: How are ya, mate?

Im fine, Harry Hole had lied. It was more than thirty hours since he had taken off from Oslo via London, and after the change of planes in Bahrain he had sat in the same bloody seat by the emergency exit. For security reasons it could only be tipped back a little, and his lumbar region had almost crumbled by the time they reached Singapore.

And now the woman behind the counter was no longer smiling.

She had scrutinized his passport with conspicuous interest. Whether it was the photograph or his name that had initially put her in such a cheery mood was hard to say.

Business?

Harry Hole had a suspicion that passport officials in most places in the world would have added a sir, but he had read that this type of formal pleasantry wasnt especially widespread in Australia. It didnt really matter; Harry wasnt particularly accustomed to foreign travel or snobbishall he wanted was a hotel room and a bed as quickly as possible.

Yes, he had replied, drumming his fingers on the counter.

And that was when her lips had pursed, turned ugly and articulated, with a pointed tone: Why isnt there a visa in your passport, sir?

His heart sank, as it invariably did when there was a hint of a catastrophe in the offing. Perhaps sir was used only when situations became critical?

Sorry, I forgot, Harry mumbled, searching feverishly through his inside pockets. Why had they not been able to pin a special visa in his passport as they do with standard visas? Behind him in the queue he heard the faint drone of a Walkman and realized it was his traveling companion from the plane. He had been playing the same cassette the whole flight. Why the hell could he never remember which pocket he put things in? It was hot as well, even though it was getting on for ten oclock at night. Harry could feel his scalp beginning to itch.

At last he found the document and placed it on the counter, to his great relief.

Police officer, are you?

The passport official looked up from the special visa and studied him, but the pursed mouth was gone.

I hope no Norwegian blondes have been murdered?

She chuckled and smacked the stamp down hard on the special visa.

Well, just the one, Harry Hole answered.

The arrivals hall was crowded with travel reps and limousine drivers, holding up signs with names on, but not a Hole in sight. He was on the point of grabbing a taxi when a black man wearing light blue jeans and a Hawaiian shirt, and with an unusually broad nose and dark, curly hair plowed a furrow between the signs and came striding toward him.

Mr. Holy, I presume! he declared triumphantly.

Harry Hole considered his options. He had decided to spend the first days in Australia correcting the pronunciation of his surname so that he wouldnt be confused with apertures or orifices. Mr. Holy however, was infinitely preferable.

Andrew Kensington. How are ya? the man grinned and stuck out an enormous fist.

It was nothing less than a juice extractor.

Welcome to Sydney. Hope you enjoyed the flight, the stranger said with evident sincerity, like an echo of the air hostesss announcement twenty minutes earlier. He took Harrys battered suitcase and began to walk toward the exit without a backward glance. Harry kept close to him.

Do you work for Sydney police? he initiated.

Sure do, mate. Watch out!

The swing door hit Harry in the face, right on the hooter, and made his eyes water. A bad slapstick sketch could not have started worse. He rubbed his nose and swore in Norwegian. Kensington sent him a sympathetic look.

Bloody doors, eh? he said.

Harry didnt answer. He didnt know how to answer that sort of comment down under.

In the car park Kensington unlocked the boot of a small, well-used Toyota and shoved in the suitcase. Do you wanna drive, mate? he asked in surprise.

Harry realized he was sitting in the drivers seat. Of course, they drove on the bloody left in Australia. However, the passenger seat was so full of papers, cassettes and general rubbish that Harry squeezed into the back.

You must be an Aboriginal, he said as they turned onto the motorway.

Guess theres no fooling you, Officer, Kensington answered, glancing in the mirror.

In Norway we call you Australian Negroes.

Kensington kept his eyes trained on the mirror. Really?

Harry began to feel ill at ease. Er, by that I just mean that your forefathers obviously didnt belong to the convicts sent here from England two hundred years ago. He wanted to show he had at least a modicum of knowledge about the countrys history.

Thats right, Holy. My forefathers were here a bit before them. Forty thousand years, to be precise.

Kensington grinned into the mirror. Harry vowed to keep his mouth shut for a while.

I see. Call me Harry.

OK, Harry. Im Andrew.

Andrew ran the conversation for the rest of the ride. He drove Harry to Kings Cross, holding forth the whole way: this area was Sydneys red-light district and the center for the drugs trade and to a large extent all the other shady dealings in town. Every second scandal seemed to have a connection with some hotel or strip joint inside this square kilometer.

Here we are, Andrew said suddenly. He pulled in to the curb, jumped out and took Harrys suitcase from the boot.

See you tomorrow, Andrew said, and with that he and the car were gone. With a stiff back and jet lag beginning to announce its presence, Harry and his suitcase were now alone on a pavement in a town boasting a population roughly equivalent to the whole of Norway, outside the splendid Crescent Hotel. The name was printed on the door next to three stars. Oslos Chief Constable was not known for largesse with regards to accommodation for her employees. But perhaps this one was not going to be too bad after all. There must have been a civil service discount and it was probably the hotels smallest room, Harry reflected.