Pierced

Chapter 1

It’s always the same scream.

Henning Juul blinks and fumbles for the light switch. The sheet under him is wet and the air quivers with heat. He runs clammy fingers over the scars on his neck and face. His head is pounding with a bass rhythm which is pouring out from an open window in Steenstrupsgate. In the distance a motorbike roars as it sets off, then there is silence. Like the drum roll before an execution.

Henning takes a deep breath and tries to strangle the dream that still feels all too real, but it refuses to go away.

It had started off as a good dream. They had gone outside to play, Jonas and him. A thick layer of snow had covered the ground overnight. At the junction by Birkelunden Park the tramlines were reduced to just ruler-straight silver lines and they could barely make them out. The dense snowflakes were still dancing in the air, but they melted the moment they landed on Henning’s cheek.

He was pulling Jonas on the sledge down Toftesgate and into Sofienberg Park, where the children looked like ants on the small hill sloping down from the church. Jonas threw himself energetically from side to side. Henning was exhausted when they finally reached the top of the hill. He was about to sit down at the rear of the sledge when Jonas stopped him.

‘Not you, Daddy! Only me!’

‘Okay. But you know that means you’ll have to pull the sledge back up the hill all on your own.’

‘Yeah, yeah.’

‘Do you promise?’

‘Yesss!’

Henning knew that the wet snowflakes had a longer lifespan than the promise Jonas had just made, but he didn’t mind.

‘Give me a push, I want to go reeeeally fast!’

‘Okay. Hold on tight. Let’s count to three.’

They counted in unison: ‘ONE! TWO! Aaaand THREEEE!!!’

And Henning gave Jonas a big push. He heard the boy squeal with delight as he got under way and noticed that the other children were watching him too, enjoying the sight of the little boy with the pale-blue woolly hat hurtling towards a jump which someone had built halfway down the hill. And Jonas reached it, gained some height, landed quickly and whooped as he turned the steering wheel to avoid colliding with a girl coming from the side. She turned around and followed Jonas with her eyes as he veered further and further to the left.

Towards the tree.

Henning saw it too, saw where Jonas was heading, his small fists gripping the steering wheel. Henning started running down the hill, but he lost his footing. He stumbled and rolled over couple of times before he managed to get back on his feet.

The snowflakes, the voices and the din faded into the background as Henning mouthed a scream, but no sound came out. He looked in desperation as the other parents who were also watching Jonas stayed rooted to the spot and did nothing to help him. In the end he closed his eyes. He didn’t want to see it when it happened. He didn’t want to see his son die. Not again.

And Jonas was gone. As were the hill and the snowflakes, the trees and the people. It grew dark all around him. The unmistakeable smell of smoke stung his nose. And even though he couldn’t see Jonas, he had no trouble hearing his cries. Henning waved his arms frantically to carve a hole in the darkness surging in front of him, but it made no difference. The intense heat scorched his face. Breathing became difficult and he started to cough.

A glimpse of light appeared in the smoke. Henning blinked and focused on the opening, which grew ever larger; he could see a door being eaten up by the flames. He coughed again. Then the gap started to close up and soon the smoke covered it completely. It was burning hot and black as night everywhere. And then Jonas started to scream.

Again.

*

Henning exhales at the sight of the flashing red light. His eyes seek out the other smoke alarm in the ceiling. He waits for it to emit its cyclical indicator of rude health. But the seconds pass. And some more. And even more. He feels a tightness creep across his chest and spread out to his shoulders and neck. At last the second smoke alarm lights up. A quick red flash.

He flops back on to his pillow and breathes out while he waits for the monster in his chest to calm down. Eventually it resumes its normal pace. He touches the scars on his face again. They still hurt. Not just on the outside. And he knows that they will keep hurting until he finds out who torched his flat. Who snuffed out the life of the best little boy in the whole world.

Henning turns to the clock on the bedside table. It’s not even 10.30 in the evening. The headache which made him lie down an hour and a half ago is still throbbing. He massages his temples as he shuffles to the kitchen and takes the last can of Coke from the fridge. Back in the living room he tidies away clothes and newspapers from the sofa before he sits down and opens the can. The sound of bubbles rising to the surface makes him sleepy. He closes his eyes and longs for a dream without snowflakes.

Chapter 2

‘How long are you going to be? I want to go home.’

Gunhild Dokken leans over the counter and looks across the room. A song by Jokke amp; Valentinerne belts out from the loudspeakers. Geir Gronningen is lying on a bench, pressing 135 kilos up from his chest while he groans. Behind him, in front of the mirror, a short sturdy man is guiding the movement of the bar with his hands — without helping him.

‘We’ve just got a few more reps to do,’ Petter Holte says without taking his eyes off the bar.

Dokken turns around and looks up at the clock on the wall. It says 22.45.

‘It’s Friday, guys. Friday night, for God’s sake. It’s almost eleven o’clock. Haven’t you got anything better to do?’

None of the men replies.

‘Put your back into it,’ says Per Ola Heggelund who is standing with his arms folded across his chest at the end of the bench. Gronningen has nearly raised the bar above his head. Holte gently takes hold of the bar and assists Gronningen’s trembling arms.

‘One more,’ he says. ‘You can do one more.’

Gronningen takes a deep breath, lowers the bar until it touches his chest and pushes as hard as he can. His muscles quiver while Holte lets him earn every single millimetre, right until the kilos have been raised and a roaring Gronningen can return the bar to the forked holders. He pulls a face and flexes his pecs, scratches his straggly beard and shakes his long thin hair away from his face.

‘Good job,’ Heggelund says and nods with approval. Gronningen scowls at him.

‘Good? It was crap. I can usually do much better than that.’

Heggelund glances nervously at Holte, but all he gets is a sour look in return. Holte loosens his gym belt while he studies himself in the mirror. His shaven head — like the rest of him — has the deep tan of a sunbed. He adjusts his black gloves slightly and observes the muscles under the tight-fitting white vest, nods with satisfaction as he tenses them and watches the contours in his biceps stand out. He hoists up his Better Bodies sweatpants before he marches over to the reception counter behind which a bored-looking Gunhild Dokken is flicking through a magazine, her fringe covering her eyes.

‘Are you doing anything tonight?’ Holte asks and stops in front of her. His voice is soft and hopeful.

‘I’m going home,’ she replies without looking up.

Holte nods slowly while he gazes at her.

‘Do you want company?’

‘No,’ she replies, unequivocally.

Holte’s nostrils flare.

‘Are you meeting anyone?’

‘That’s none of your business,’ Dokken huffs.

After a brief pause, Holte turns to Gronningen, who gives him an encouraging nod.

‘It’s just us here,’ Holte says. ‘I can lock up for you, if you like.’

Dokken slams the magazine shut.

‘Couldn’t you have told me that earlier? While there was still some of the evening left?’

‘Yes, but I-’

A shadow falls across Holte’s face as he stares at the floor.

‘Okay,’ she sighs, sullenly. ‘You know where the keys are.’

Dokken goes over to a coat stand and puts on a thin black jacket. She drops her mobile into her handbag, which she slips over her shoulder.

‘Don’t work too hard.’

‘We’re not training again until Sunday.’

‘Wow,’ she says, rolling her eyes. ‘A day off.’

Holte smiles and follows her with his eyes as she marches towards the door. A bell above her head chimes before the door shuts firmly behind her. Then she is gone in the night. Holte shakes his head almost imperceptibly before he goes behind the counter, stops the music and takes a Metallica CD, And Justice for All, from the stand. He finds track number eight, ‘To Live Is to Die’, turns up the volume and fast-forwards to the middle of the song.

‘Still no luck?’ Heggelund smiles when Holte comes back. Holte glares at him, but makes no reply. Instead he asks who is next.

‘Heggis,’ Gronningen replies and looks at Heggelund.

‘Yep, me it is,’ Heggelund replies, cheerfully. He goes over to the bar and removes 15 kilos from each side. Then he sits on the bench and breathes in deeply a couple of times before he lies down and finds the points on the bar where he always places the up-yours finger. He fills his lungs with air again. Holte is back in position behind him while James Hetfield proclaims, ‘When a man lies, he murders some part of the world.’

Heggelund lifts the bar from the stand. The weights clang against each other before he lowers the bar and raises it again. His first lift goes without a hitch. He tries to establish a steady rhythm, and his next repetition is smooth, too. Two lifts later his grunting has become more aggressive. Holte straightens his back and ensures his legs are evenly balanced before he puts his hands under the bar, ready to assist. He looks at Gronningen, who nods as he moves a little closer. From the sound system, Metallica launches into the thumping riff that is the opening of ‘Dyers Eve.’

Heggelund closes his eyes and summons up all his strength for the next repetition, but the bar refuses to move. He opens his eyes. Holte’s hands have moved from the underside to the top of the bar. Gronningen is standing by the side of the bench. He sits down astride Heggelund’s stomach. Heggelund groans loudly. Holte pushes the bar down and lets it hover a few centimetres above Heggelund’s Adam’s apple. His eyes fill with panic.

‘What… what-’

‘How long have you been coming here?’ Gronningen asks him. ‘Two months? Two and a half, perhaps?’

Heggelund tries to say something, but all his strength goes into keeping the bar off his throat.

‘Do you think we’re idiots?’ Holte says, and eyeballs him. ‘Do you think we let just anybody work out with us without checking them out first?’

Heggelund can only manage some gurgling sounds.

‘You’ve been lying to us,’ Holte says through clenched teeth. ‘You’ve been having us on. Did you really think we wouldn’t find out that you’re starting at the Police College in the autumn?’

Heggelund’s eyes widen even further.

‘So what was your game?’ Gronningen continues. ‘Have you been watching too much television? Did you think you could get a head start? Go under cover, like?’

‘No chance,’ Holte takes over. ‘No one messes with us like that!’

‘Please,’ Heggelund begs as his arms tremble. Holte pushes the bar down until it makes contact with Heggelund’s skin. Sparks fly from his eyes.

‘So do you think you’ll be coming back here?’ Gronningen asks him. Heggelund squeezes his eyes shut and tries to shake his head. Tears mix with drops of sweat on his face.

‘Are you going to tell anyone about this?’ Holte hisses. Again, Heggelund attempts to shake his head. Gronningen looks at him for a few seconds before he gets off and nods to Holte. Heggelund can barely breathe, but Holte doesn’t remove the bar.

‘Petter!’

Reluctantly Holte lifts the bar aided by what little is left of Heggelund’s strength. He slams it back in the stand. Holte turns around and snatches a towel while he snorts with contempt. Gronningen pulls him to one side.

‘You could have killed him!’ he whispers. Holte doesn’t reply, he merely looks at Heggelund, who is gasping for air. His cheeks are stained with tears, his eyelids heavy.

‘Enough is enough,’ Gronningen says. ‘Have you forgotten everything Tore taught us?’

Holte makes no reply, he just walks off a few steps. Heggelund discreetly moves into a sitting position while James Hetfield’s voice roars from the sound system. Gronningen turns around and goes back to Heggelund, who is still clutching his throat. Gronningen waits until the two of them have eye contact before he nods his head in the direction of the door. Heggelund struggles to his feet and staggers towards the exit, where the name of the gym glows at him in letters the colour of blood: Fighting Fit.

Chapter 3

A sharp light makes Henning blink. His eyes feel gritty. He rubs away the sleep and feels an ache across his lower back.

He sits up slowly. The Coke on the coffee table is no longer cold, but he takes a sip all the same, letting it fizz in his mouth. Outside, shades of blue sky merge into one another. He lets in the warm summer wind through a window in the living room. A swallow cries out, but there is no answer. Behind the block of flats opposite his a yellow construction crane skims the tops of the trees.

Henning goes to the bedroom, takes two tablets from the jar on his bedside table and swallows them dry before he continues to the kitchen where he glances at the chaotic pile of newspapers and printouts on the table. He sits down in front of his laptop, bumping into one of the table legs as he does so, and jolts the remains of a mug of cold coffee with dark brown rings on the inside. He opens up the screen and is greeted by an old version of the home page of 123news. no, before it automatically updates itself. Henning reads the main story, then he scrolls down and learns that nothing much has happened overnight. Heatwaves in Europe. Russia thinks Iran will soon have the ability to develop a nuclear bomb. Two people seriously injured following a traffic accident in Hedmark. Some girl he has seen before, but whose name he can’t remember, has had enough of her breast implants.

Henning checks the competition’s websites as well, even though he doesn’t know why he bothers, because it’s a waste of time. It’s the same news everywhere. But this is how he starts his day. And it’s what he used to do before Jonas died.

Soon it will be two years, Henning thinks. For most people, two years is an eternity of moments and memories stacked on top of each other. For him it’s no time at all. He hasn’t managed to uncover a single clue. It would have been so much easier if only he could remember something, anything, from the days and weeks leading up to the fire.

The face of Mikael Vollan stares out at him from the top of the pile. Mikael Vollan, the man who bombarded businesses and private individuals with 153 million fraudulent emails sent through accounts he created using false identities. Vollan advertised pyramid schemes and other scams to trick people into paying for something that didn’t exist. Henning got so fed up with receiving all that spam that he decided to find out who was behind it and what was in it for them. Together with 6tiermes7 (Henning’s anonymous police source) and his good friend and computer wiz Atle Abelsen, he eventually managed to unravel Vollan’s network. When the most important pieces were in place, Henning handed over his file to the Norwegian Gaming Authority, the Norwegian National Authority for Investigation and Prosecution of Economic and Environmental Crime and, eventually, Kripos, the Norwegian Serious Crime Unit, in return for a head start of a couple of hours before the long arm of the law went into action. Vollan was later sentenced to seven years’ imprisonment, and he was ordered to pay compensation as well.

Henning studies the printouts once more before putting them away with a sigh. In court Vollan expressed both remorse and relief: he was glad that someone had finally put a stop to him. It had become an obsession was how he put it.

Vollan wouldn’t have had any money left to pay a hit man to eliminate Henning. Or Jonas.

Henning rubs his face wearily. Something will turn up, he tells himself. It has to.

Chapter 4

Tore Pulli used to enjoy looking at himself in the mirror. The ultra-short hair. The bright blue eyes. The strong nose. The dense, neatly combed beard. His sharp chin that no one had ever managed to punch without having their own smashed soon afterwards. The gold chains around his neck. The tight-fitting clothes. He loved to see how his muscles bulged, how his veins swelled under the tanned, tattooed skin. No one was ever in any doubt that he, Tore Pulli, was a guy they really didn’t want to mess with.

But that’s not what he sees now. His clothes no longer fit his body as snugly as they once did. What was at one time a tightly packed explosion, feared and revered, is nothing but a distant memory.

Pulli turns on the tap and lets the water run until it gets cold before he bends down and immerses his face in his wet hands. He rubs his eyes, dragging his fingers across his cheeks, his forehead, the frown lines and the bald patch before he dries himself with a white towel. Are you ready? he asks the face in the mirror. Are you really going to go through with this?

Veronica looks back at him from the picture on the cork noticeboard. As always, she looks straight at him with her lovely youthful smile. And as always he wonders how she keeps going.

Pulli sits down on the narrow pine bed, rests his elbows on his knees and cups his hands under his chin. His eyes wander to the rubbish bin overflowing on the grey linoleum floor. An ashtray, a lighter and a remote control are lying on a stool in front of him. His best friends. Surrounding him, his four worst enemies.

Resolutely he gets up and walks out into a corridor almost as long as a handball pitch, only narrower and with tables and seating arrangements, benches and chairs, placed either side of thick yellow lines. He nods briefly to the guard in the armoured glass cage, points to a telephone and gets a nod in return before he walks, unwillingly, to a table on the opposite side of the room A grey telephone sits on top of a dark-red plastic cloth. Stacks of writing paper, envelopes and forms are lying next to it. Pulli looks at the wall clock. Twenty minutes max.

He lifts the receiver but puts it back immediately. Have you done everything you can? he wonders. Is there really no one else who can help you?

No. There are no other options left.

Chapter 5

Henning’s back is damp with sweat as he stops at the corner outside Cafe Con Bar. Across the road, Vaterlands Park lies like a lung between Oslo Plaza Hotel and the aggressive main road to Gronland. Nearby, a steady stream of people hurry across the uneven cobblestones. The traffic roars angrily.

Henning takes off his rather scruffy jacket and finds a vacant table. If Erling Ophus hadn’t insisted on meeting in the city centre, and preferably near his old workplace, Henning would never have chosen to sit in a place where people rush by.

Henning has interviewed Ophus many times before, but he has never met him in person. By the time Ophus turned up at a crime scene, the flames had usually died down and the journalists had gone home to write up their stories. Henning was surprised that Ophus was prepared to meet with him on a Saturday rather than enjoy his leisurely retirement in Leirsund.

It doesn’t take long before Henning spots Ophus across the road. The retired fire investigator wisely waits for a green light before he crosses. Henning stands up, takes a few steps towards Ophus and holds out his hand. The tall, stately man in the short-sleeved white shirt and dark-blue trousers smiles and shakes Henning’s hand firmly.

‘Hi,’ Henning says. ‘Thank you for coming.’

‘No, thank you. My wife had planned for me to spend the day on all fours in the flowerbed, and you’ve given me a good excuse to come into town and perhaps catch up with some old colleagues later. If they’re at work, that is.’

Ophus smiles and lets go of Henning’s hand. He gestures to a chair on the opposite side of the table and they sit down.

Ophus looks as if he has just come from a mountain hike, although even more energetic than when he set out. The skin on his face is fresh and clean-shaven with a warm glow of summer. The lines in his forehead are wavy and deep. He has a distinctive mole on his left cheek, but his face would be poorer without it.

A waiter with bed hair and large bags under his eyes comes over to them.

‘Would you like something to drink?’ Henning asks his guest.

‘A cup of coffee would be nice.’

‘Two coffees,’ Henning says to the waiter, who turns around instantly without saying a word. Henning holds up his new mobile. ‘Would you mind if I record our conversation?’

‘No, no. That’s fine.’

Henning presses the red button in the centre of the active screen and checks that it starts recording.

‘As I explained to you on the telephone,’ he clears his throat, ‘I’m working on this case.’

‘Yes, so I gather.’

Henning is about to ask his first question when his mobile rings.

‘I’m sorry, I have to-’

‘That’s all right,’ Ophus says and holds up his hands. Henning looks at the number. Unknown. He ignores the call.

‘Let’s try again,’ he smiles. ‘So you worked as a fire investigator all your life?’

‘That’s right,’ Ophus says, proudly. ‘I guess I’ve investigated more cases than anyone else in Norway. The insurance companies were keen to snatch me up when I retired, but once I had decided it was time to stop, I wanted to stop completely — though I have to admit I’m starting to regret my decision.’

‘Too much weeding?’

Ophus nods and smiles as he accepts the clattering china cup from the sleepy waiter.

‘What is the most common cause of a domestic fire?’

‘Carelessness,’ Ophus replies and slurps his coffee greedily. ‘Around one in four fires are started by naked flames, cigarettes and candles. People are careless with ashes. It doesn’t cross their minds that something could still be burning or smouldering long after the flames have burned down. Then you have people playing with lighters — and fireworks, of course. Things like that.’ Ophus gestures.

‘A fair number of fires are caused by people boiling a kettle dry or overheating a cooker or covering electric heaters. These days we all have so many electrical products and the quality varies enormously. Around 20 per cent of all fires are caused by faulty electric goods.’

Henning leans across the table.

‘What about arson?’

‘Roughly 10 per cent of all fires are started deliberately. We never succeed in identifying the cause of around double that number. And finally some fires are caused by lightning or people immolating themselves.’

Henning makes a quick note on the pad lying in front of him.

‘Is it difficult to investigate a fire?’

‘Yes, very much so. Most of the time the fire will have wiped out any evidence there might have been. Besides, even the most experienced investigator never stops learning.’

‘And the police must investigate all fires by law, am I right?’

‘Indeed they must.’

Henning’s mobile rings again. Unknown is calling him a second time, he notices, but he continues to ignores it.

‘How do they do that?’

‘Eh?’

‘How do the police go about investigating a fire?’

‘Have you ever heard about the Five Es rule?’

‘No, what’s that?’

Ophus smiles and takes a run at it: ‘Evidence, Examination, Evaluation, Elimination and Enforcement.’

Henning grins.

‘How long did it take you to come up with that?’

‘Weeks. No. Months!’ Ophus smiles again.

Silence falls at the table while Ophus drinks his coffee. Henning looks at his notes. ‘So approximately 10 per cent of all fires are arson?’

‘Around 10 per cent, yes.’

Henning nods. He feels the scars on his face burn as if they were being licked by flames. Slowly, he looks up at Ophus.

‘My flat burned down two years ago,’ Henning says and looks down again. ‘I lost my son.’

‘Oh, how awful.’

‘That was when I got these.’ Henning points to his scars. ‘I had to jump through a wall of flames to get to my son, but-’

He doesn’t manage to complete the sentence. He never does. ‘I think the fire was started deliberately.’

‘What makes you think that?’ Ophus asks after an unashamed slurp of his coffee. Henning cringes. He is only too aware that his argument is low on evidence.

‘I don’t know, really. It’s a hunch I have, a gut feeling, call it what you will. And then there is-’

Henning breaks off, thinking that there is no point in telling a man like Ophus about his dreams and the images he sees in them. He shakes his head softly. ‘It’s just something I believe.’

Ophus nods quietly while he raises his cup to his lips. ‘When did it happen?’

‘11 September 2007.’

‘That’s after my time, sorry.’

Henning gives him a deflated look before lowering his gaze.

‘What did the police say? I presume they investigated the fire?’ Ophus looks at him over the rim of his cup and narrows his eyes.

‘Yes,’ Henning says. ‘And they concluded that the cause of the fire was unknown.’

‘But you believe it was started deliberately?’

Henning tries to straighten up, but he slumps immediately and hugs himself. ‘I’ve no idea how it could have been done,’ he admits.

Ophus finally takes a sip of his coffee and puts down the cup with a clatter. ‘What did the police report say?’

‘I’ve never saw it myself, but I’ve heard they concluded that the fire most likely started in the hallway.’

‘Did the fire start while you were at home?’

‘Yes.’

‘Any sign of a break-in?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘Did you lock the door?’

‘I don’t remember. I’ve no memory of anything that happened in the days and weeks leading up to the fire. But I think so. I always used to lock the door even when I was at home during the day, but I can’t remember if I locked it that evening.’

‘Didn’t you have smoke detectors fitted?’

The rhythm of Ophus’s questions and Henning’s answers breaks down. The cobblestones stare back at him accusingly.

‘I did have one, but the battery was dead and I-’ Henning tries to look up while he gulps.

‘And the police found no foot- or fingerprints, no other evidence, DNA-’

Henning shakes his head.

‘And yet you still believe that someone started a fire in your home?’

‘Yes.’

Ophus leans back in his chair. At that moment, Henning’s mobile rings for the third time. Henning glances irritably at the display. Unknown.

‘I’m sorry, I-’

‘Go on, answer it. I’m in no rush.’

‘Is that all right? Are you sure that-’

‘Yes, absolutely. I don’t mind.’

‘Thank you, I’ll-’

Henning waves his hand without quite knowing why. Ophus nods sympathetically. Henning takes the call.

‘Henning Juul?’

‘Yes?’

‘Henning Juul, the reporter?’

‘That’s me, yes. Who is this?’

‘My name is Tore Pulli.’

Henning straightens up and says hi.

‘Do you remember me?’

‘I know who you are. What’s this about?’

Pulli doesn’t reply. Henning moistens his lips in the silence that follows. ‘Why are you calling me?’ he asks.

‘I’ve got a story for you,’ Pulli says.

‘What kind of story?’

‘I can’t tell you over the phone.’

‘All right. Listen, I would like to talk to you, but I’m a bit busy right now. Could I get you to call me back later? Preferably during office hours?’

‘I can’t-’

‘Great,’ Henning interrupts him. ‘Thanks very much.’

He ends the call and smiles quickly at Ophus, who is watching the increasingly busy traffic. Henning exhales hard.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he says and is rewarded with another understanding smile.

‘But back to our conversation,’ Ophus says, looking at Henning. ‘I have to be honest with you. If the police investigation has made no progress in two years, there’s little that can be done now. Finding fresh evidence is out of the question. I assume that your flat was demolished or renovated following the fire?’

‘Yes. Other people live there now.’

‘So any evidence is gone for good. And there are many ways to torch a flat which are impossible to detect. Unfortunately.’

Henning nods silently. They sit there looking at each other until Henning looks away. He knows that he has to find the person or persons who set fire to his flat and get them to admit it. It is the only thing that will satisfy him.

His eyes wander to the junction.

‘So you think that someone was trying to get you? Kill you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, that’s the big question. I don’t know. I don’t even know where to begin.’

‘And this happened two years ago?’

‘More or less.’

Ophus looks at Henning for a long time. ‘Don’t you think they would have made a second attempt?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Has anyone tried to kill you since?’

‘Not that I’ve noticed.’

Ophus doesn’t reply but Henning can see what he is thinking all the same. It would suit you to be arson, wouldn’t it? So you can blame someone other than yourself?

They listen to the traffic.

Eventually, Ophus says, ‘I don’t think there is very much I can do to help you.’

‘That’s what I was afraid of,’ Henning replies, quietly.

‘You mentioned that you hadn’t seen the police report. Perhaps there is something in that which could be useful to you? I might be able to get you a copy of it, if you like.’

‘I don’t know if it will make a difference, but — but why not?’

‘They owe me a favour down at the police station. I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Thank you so much. I really do appreciate it.’

Ophus straightens up, but Henning is aware that his eyes are still on him. He can’t bear to look him in the eye. So he says, without raising his gaze, ‘I don’t want to take up any more of your time than necessary, Ophus. Thank you so much for meeting with me.’

‘Not at all. You’re welcome to contact me if you think of anything else.’

Henning smiles and nods. They shake hands before Ophus gets up and heads for the junction. He passes a man leaning against the whitewashed wall sucking at a thin roll-up, the embers barely alive.

Chapter 6

Orjan Mjones presses his forehead against the United Airlines window and looks out over Oslo. Green trees surround Ekeberg Restaurant on the eastern slope of the city. Nearer the city centre people lie sunbathing, stretched out on the grass in Fjordbyen. The roof of the opera house sparkles like an ice floe in the sunshine. Below the belly of the plane, the red-brick towers of Oslo Town Hall stick up towards him like rotten teeth.

The aeroplane glides slowly through the quiet air. The captain announces that they will be landing in a few minutes. Mjones closes his eyes. It has been a long journey. A return trip to Bogota, changing in Newark both there and back, and he hasn’t managed a wink of sleep the whole time. He had to make do with a thirty-minute power nap on a airport bench while waiting for the flight back to Oslo. Soon he will have spent thirty-five hours in the air. It has been exciting. It has been exhausting. But it has been worth it.

It all started five days ago when he saw his fictitious contact name in the subject field in an advert on the website finn. no. Later the same day he called the number listed in the advert, which was answered by a voice he hadn’t heard for almost two years. Bearing in mind the rage in the voice the last time the two of them spoke, Mjones hadn’t expected to hear from Langbein ever again, but they agreed to meet at the bottom level of the multi-storey car park under Oslo City Shopping Centre. Mjones walked west until a sharp voice from behind a pillar ordered him to stop. A long shadow stretched out across the concrete.

Mjones did as he was told and looked around. He could hear tyres squeal in the distance, but he saw no one.

‘It has been a long time,’ he said, but Langbein made no reply. Instead, a C4 envelope was slid along the ground towards him. Reluctantly, he bent down to pick it up. He took out a photograph. There was a red cross covering the face of the man in the picture. Mjones’s jaw dropped. ‘You’re kidding me.’

‘No.’

Mjones looked at the photograph again, took out a sheet of paper which had been inserted behind it and skimmed the text. Then he shook his head and spoke the words he rarely allowed himself to utter: ‘That’s impossible.’

‘Nothing is impossible. And if you hadn’t screwed up the last time, there would be no need for this job.’

Mjones was about to protest, but he knew that Langbein was right. He was haunted by the incident. Mistakes are bad for his reputation. And yet he said, ‘It’s too risky.’

The turn in conversation caught him completely by surprise.

‘In my office there is an envelope identical to the one you’re holding in your hands. With one sole exception. It also contains a picture of you.’

‘Of me?’

‘Yes, of you. If you don’t take the job, you become the job.’

Mjones was about to go behind the pillar to confront Langbein, but the sight of an arm and the mouth of a pistol stopped him in his tracks.

‘If I’m not back in fifteen minutes that envelope goes to the next man on the list. But I want you. I thought it would be an appropriate way for you to correct the mistake you made last time. Besides, you’ll be well paid.’

Mjones tried to shake off his initial shock.

‘How much?’

‘Two million kroner. Twenty-five per cent up front, cash. You’ll get the rest when all the loose ends have been tied up.’

Mjones said nothing for a long time. He was contemplating the level of difficulty, his options. He scratched the back of his head and rubbed his nostrils with two fingers. Then he said:

‘I’ll do it for three.’

A few seconds of silence followed. Then Langbein said, ‘Done.’

An intense rush surged through Mjones’s body, but he didn’t have time to savour it. The next moment, a suitcase was pushed in his direction.

‘It must happen quickly and quietly. No traces. No questions. And no mistakes this time.’

Mjones nodded. Ideally, he would have liked plenty of time to plan, but he had always been good at thinking on his feet. In his head he had already come up with one possible scenario. But he had no time to ask Langbein any more questions because immediately afterwards a car door slammed shut. And when Mjones walked around the pillar, Langbein had gone.

Mjones thought for several minutes about what he was being forced to do. Langbein could be bluffing, but even before the threats and the money were mentioned Mjones had already made up his mind. It was an opportunity to redeem himself. To be generously paid for it as well was simply an added bonus. Besides, it was a long time since he had taken on a job of this magnitude and his fingers were already itching. All of his senses seemed heightened. He felt so much more alive.

Five days go quickly, Mjones thinks, and prepares himself for landing. So much has happened in that time. And yet so little. Perhaps that’s why he has been unable to sleep. Perhaps his body can’t relax until it’s all over. Nor will he have much time to rest when he gets home. The operation begins in a few hours. Everything must be in place.

The aeroplane lands, and half an hour later Mjones is on the train to Oslo. He thinks about the small box in his suitcase, about the plan he has come up with. It’s daring. It’s fiendish.

But if it works, it’s pure genius.

Chapter 7

Henning stares out of the window while the silence fills the space between the walls. The facade of the white building opposite him is streaked with brown trails of grime. His gaze continues down towards windowsills and intricate decorations. But he doesn’t look down. Not all the way down. He never can.

Behind a window without any curtains a woman is pacing up and down. She is talking on the telephone, gesturing angrily. Henning thinks about his conversation with Erling Ophus. Ophus is right, of course. Simply believing that the fire was arson is a sign of desperation. There has to be something he can investigate. But what?

Perhaps it’s true that he is only looking for another explanation so he doesn’t have to face the truth. And whether or not it was arson, nothing will change the fact that he could have saved Jonas if his eyes hadn’t been stuck together with melted skin. If he hadn’t slipped on that wet railing. If he hadn’t been so bloody A vibrating sound from the kitchen table makes him turn around. He doesn’t feel like talking to anyone right now, but the seven letters on the display arouse his curiosity. He presses the green answer button and puts the mobile to his ear.

‘Is this a better time?’

Tore Pulli’s voice is deeper than Henning managed to register in the noisy street in Gronland.

‘Eh, yes, I think so, but-’

‘11 September 2007.’

Henning stops.

‘What did you say?’

‘I know what happened that day.’

Henning feels a sudden rush of heat to his forehead. Something sharp stirs in his stomach. His throat tightens. He tries to swallow.

‘You lost your son,’ Pulli continues.

‘Y-yes,’ Henning replies in a weak and dry voice. ‘I did. What do you know about it?’

‘So now you’re prepared to listen to me? Now you’ve got time for me?’

‘Yes, I’ve got time to talk to you now,’ he says, rather more combatively this time. ‘What do you want? Why are you talking about my son?’

‘I’ve a story for you.’

‘Yes, so you said. What does that have to do with my son?’

Henning is unaware that he is standing on tiptoe.

‘Nothing. Not directly.’

‘What you mean? And cut the bullshit, Pulli, I’m starting to get annoyed-’

‘Do you know who I am?’

‘Yes, I told you when we spoke earlier today. What about it?’

‘Then perhaps you know why I’m calling.’

Henning racks his brains. He doesn’t remember reading anything about Tore Pulli since returning to work earlier in the summer. Before Jonas died, the former enforcer was forever in the newspapers, often depicted with a broad grin on his face and usually accompanied by his glamour-model wife.

‘No,’ Henning says.

Pulli starts to laugh.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘Sorry, I just-’

He leaves the sentence hanging in the air.

‘You just what?’

‘So you don’t know that I’m inside?’

‘No.’

‘Okay, I guess you’ve had other things on your mind in the past two years. But I’m calling you because you’re a good reporter. You’re good at finding things out.’

‘Do you know anything about the fire in my flat?’

There is a long silence. Then Pulli replies ‘Yes.’

Henning stands as if rooted to the floor. Pulli’s deep voice drills into him. There is something about the depth of gravity in it. He is not joking.

‘Are you there, Juul?’

‘What do you know about the fire?’ Henning demands to know and fails to hide the aggression lying right under the surface. ‘Did you start it?’

‘No.’

‘So, who did?’

‘Before we talk about that, I want you to do something for me.’

‘What?’

‘You obviously don’t know why I’m in jail. When you’ve found that out we can talk again.’

Outraged, Henning starts to pace around the flat.

‘You can’t just expect me to-’

‘I’m only allowed twenty minutes of phone calls per week, Juul. I need a few minutes with Veronica as well.’

‘What do you know about the fire?’ Henning shouts and stops right in front of the piano. ‘What do you want from me? Why are you calling?’

There is a short silence while Henning holds his breath.

‘Because I want you to find out who set me up,’ Tore Pulli says, slowly. ‘I want you to find out who should be sitting in here instead of me. If you can do that then I’ll tell you everything I know about the fire in your flat.’

Chapter 8

Henning puts down the mobile, runs his sweaty hands through his hair and resumes pacing up and down the living-room floor. How the hell could a man like Tore Pulli know anything about the fire? What exactly does he know, and why hasn’t he said anything before?

If it hadn’t been for the fact that Pulli was in prison, Henning would have called back immediately, grilled him and refused to let go until all his questions had been answered. But he can’t simply march down to Oslo Prison, knock on the door and demand to be let in. First, Pulli must add him to a visitors’ list, then Henning has to apply for permission to visit, and then the prison authorities will check his criminal record. And even though he is a journalist, it can take days, weeks even, for permission to be granted.

But then it strikes him that one important question has just been answered, perhaps the most important of all. Somebody knows something. Perhaps the fire in his flat was started deliberately after all.

Rattled, Henning sits down in front of his computer and googles Pulli’s name. He can’t remember the last time his heart beat so fast. A second later, the search engine brings up a list of thousands of hits. Henning sees Pulli’s mug shot, sombre photos of him outside Oslo Court and inside the courtroom in conversation with people Henning can only see the back of.

Pulli cuts a towering figure. Thick ox neck, broad shoulders, a huge chest and biceps the size of Henning’s thighs. His body matches his voice. Dark, big, terrifying. In some of the earlier photos he has pierced eyebrows. Together with the rings in his ears they reinforce his thuggish appearance, a look he clearly abandoned when he announced his new career as a property developer.

Henning clicks on an article from dagbladet. no. PULLI GETS 14 YEARS AND LAUGHS

Friday last, Tore Pulli was sentenced to fourteen years in prison for the murder of Joachim ‘Jocke’ Brolenius.

Joachim Brolenius, Henning mutters to himself and tastes the name. Never heard of him. He reads on:

The high-profile property speculator Tore Pulli smiled and shook his head in disbelief when he was sent to prison for fourteen years in Oslo Court Friday morning for the murder of Jocke Brolenius. His lawyer, Frode Olsvik, told dagbladet. no that his client received the verdict with composure but that he continues to maintain his innocence.

‘My client has already decided to appeal,’ Olsvik says. This means a whole new hearing in the appeal court. No date has yet been set for Pulli’s appeal.

Jocke Brolenius was found murdered in a closed-down factory building at the top of Sandakerveien on 26 October 2007. The Swedish enforcer is believed to have been beaten up with a knuckle-duster before being killed with an axe. Pulli’s fingerprints were found on the knuckle-duster, and the victim’s blood was found on Pulli when he was arrested.

The court chose to ignore the fact that the murder weapon has never been found as well as Pulli’s claim that Brolenius’s blood was on him because he was trying to help him. Pulli has always strongly denied any involvement with the killing though he admits arranging to meet with Brolenius.

When summing up, the judge took into account Pulli’s past as an enforcer, especially since Brolenius’s jaw had been broken, a type of injury Pulli was known to inflict on his victims when he worked as a debt collector. At Ulleval Hospital this particular kind of injury had become known as a ‘Pulli punch’, and the Institute of Forensic Medicine found that Brolenius’s jaw had sustained this type of fracture.

In addition to fourteen years’ imprisonment, Pulli was ordered to pay compensation and restoration to his victim’s parents totalling 256,821 kroner.

Henning rereads the article. Who was Joachim Brolenius? What was his relationship to Tore Pulli, and why were they meeting?

Brolenius was killed on 26 October 2007, Henning reads. Only six weeks after the death of Jonas. At that time, Henning was in Haukeland Hospital, and all he can remember doing is staring at the wall. He avoided newspapers like the plague. People too, as far as he could.

Henning scrolls down to the article’s list of links and clicks the first one:

PULLI SUSPECTED OF MURDER

The celebrity Tore Pulli has been arrested on suspicion of killing a Swedish criminal.

Henning reads on:

The call came in around 23.30 Friday evening. Oslo Police were called to an old factory where the Swedish enforcer Joachim ‘Jocke’ Brolenius had been found murdered. The celebrity Tore Pulli, who has himself a past as a hard-hitting enforcer, alerted the police that he had stumbled on the body, but found himself arrested for murder.

The background or the motive for the murder is unknown. For the moment police have released very little information, but they have told TV2 that evidence was found at the crime scene. The TV channel’s expert commentator, Johnny Brenna, who previously worked as a detective for Oslo Police, says it is most likely a revenge attack. He refuses to speculate on what could lie behind it.

Henning finds a Wikipedia article about Pulli.

Tore Jorn Pulli (born 19 June 1967 in Tonsberg) is a well-known Norwegian ex-enforcer and former member of a biker gang, who in 2008 was convicted of the murder of the Swedish enforcer, Jocke Brolenius. Pulli became well known in Norwegian media when he started dating the former glamour model and now model-agency owner, Veronica Nansen. They married in 2006. Pulli took part in an episode of the topical news quiz Nytt pa nytt, among others.

In a rare interview with Dagens N?ringsliv in the spring of 2007, Pulli claimed to have collected approximately 75 million kroner for clients during his time as an enforcer ‘just by breaking a few jaws’. He has never referred to himself as an enforcer but sees himself as a broker. Before he was convicted of murder he bought and sold property in Ostlandet, making considerable profits.

Henning looks up from the screen. ‘“Just by breaking a few jaws”,’ he repeats to himself. Why would an enforcer known for using his fists to solve problems ever kill anyone with an axe?

Henning skims several other articles about Tore Pulli. He clicks on an article headlined ‘Pulli Promises Million Kroner Reward’ and reads:

Convicted killer, Tore Pulli, has offered a reward of one million kroner to anyone who comes forward with information leading to his acquittal.

‘Wow,’ Henning exclaims. He clicks on other articles on the same subject without finding anything indicating an avalanche of tip-offs. What does that mean? he wonders. Surely someone must know something?

I want you to find out who should be sitting in here instead of me.

Well, that’s not going to be easy, Henning thinks to himself, when not even a million kroner could entice anyone to come out of the woodwork. And the prosecution appeared to have had a strong case. It was widely known that Pulli had invited Brolenius to a meeting at a place where they wouldn’t be disturbed. Pulli’s fingerprints were found on the knuckle-duster. He had Brolenius’s blood on his clothes, and Brolenius had been beaten up in a way which had Pulli’s MO all over it. Four bullets which were hard to dodge.

So, what happened?

Henning picks up his mobile and rings Bjarne Brogeland. The inspector replies after only a few rings.

‘Hi, Bjarne, it’s Henning Juul.’

‘Heyyy!’ Brogeland replies in a voice that reminds Henning of a stag party.

‘Are you busy?’

‘Not more than usual given it’s a Saturday. We’re on our way to Paradise Bay. Have you been there?’

‘Eh, no.’

‘Lovely beach, great water. How about you? What’s new?’

Henning places his thumb and index finger on the corners of his mouth and lets them glide down towards his chin. He hasn’t spoken to Brogeland since the Henriette Hagerup case, the girl who was stoned to death in a tent on Ekeberg Common earlier that summer. Given that Henning helped them crack the case, he feels entitled to call in a favour or two.

‘I’m working on an old story.’

‘That doesn’t surprise me, but for God’s sake, it’s Saturday! Don’t you ever stop?’

‘It doesn’t feel like a Saturday,’ Henning says, and realises he can’t remember when he was last aware that there was a difference between the days of the week.

‘The sun is shining, Henning. Buy yourself an ice cream. Get some fresh air!’

‘Mm. Listen, did you ever have anything to do with the Tore Pulli case?’

The voices of excited children in the background can be heard through the receiver. Henning tries to shut them out.

‘No, I was still working on organised crime at the time. Why?’

Henning pauses for a moment, not sure how to reply.

‘Oh, I was just curious.’

‘You’re never just curious,’ Brogeland scoffs. ‘What are you sniffing around after this time? Does it have anything to do with his appeal?’

‘His appeal?’ Henning replies, and frowns.

‘Yes, it’s being heard in a couple of weeks, if I’m not mistaken.’

‘Is it? No, it doesn’t have anything to do with that. Or, at least, I don’t think so.’

Henning holds his breath for a moment.

‘The guy is guilty as hell,’ Brogeland says.

‘How do you know?’

‘Does the name Jocke Brolenius mean anything to you?’

‘Just about.’

‘Then you probably know that he killed Vidar Fjell?’

Vidar Fjell, Henning thinks, and runs the name over his tongue. It sounds familiar. ‘No?’

‘I thought you had a photographic memory?’ Brogeland teases him.

‘My camera is broken.’

Brogeland laughs. ‘You certainly haven’t lost your way with words. But here goes: Vidar Fjell managed a gym called Fighting Fit in Valerenga. He was murdered a couple of months before Brolenius. Or perhaps a bit more. Pulli worked out at Fighting Fit and was a good friend of Fjell’s.’

Henning is aware that his cheeks are burning hot. ‘Why was Fjell killed?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘But Brolenius was a Swedish enforcer, am I right?’

‘Yes. The Swedish gangs dominated Oslo quite considerably at the time, you probably already know that… Alisha! Don’t go up there, you could kill yourself if you fell down!’

Brogeland’s voice disappears for a moment. Henning remembers the case now. Fjell was killed not long before Jonas died. He had done a little bit of research on the story, but he can’t remember when he stopped.

‘But if Brolenius was killed to avenge the murder of Fjell, did anyone later avenge Brolenius?’

‘There was a rumour going around that somebody had knocked over Vidar Fjell’s gravestone, I seem to recall, but nothing more than that. I don’t suppose there was much point in carrying out a revenge attack once Pulli had been arrested. Why are you working on this story now?’

‘I don’t know if I am.’

‘Hello, you’re calling me on a Saturday.’

‘Yes, I’m — sorry.’

‘Yeah, right. Tore Pulli had this woman, I recall. Damn-’

‘What?’

‘Why is it always the biggest arseholes who get the hottest chicks?’

Henning makes no reply.

‘Anyway, talk to Assistant Commissioner Pia Nokleby,’ Brogeland continues. ‘She’s totally in charge of the case. And all other cases, for that matter.’

‘Good idea.’

‘But wait until Monday, please,’ Brogeland hastens to add. Henning says mm and hangs up.

It’s not going to be easy, he thinks. Murders and revenge killings in gangs that are practically impenetrable — especially if you’re a journalist. But if Pulli is innocent, then someone managed to kill Jocke Brolenius in a style that framed him. That in itself was no simple task. The killer would have to be devious and without scruples. And this killer would almost certainly not like it if I tried to stir up the past.

Chapter 9

The distant headlights of a fast car weave their way in between the tree trunks and cast a white veil over the approaching autumn. Orjan Mjones grips the steering wheel hard and checks the mirrors to make sure that he isn’t being followed. It would be something of an achievement if he was, he thinks, given the speed he is travelling.

The clock on the sat nav shows 02.15, and it is some time since he left the nearest main road. A loud but brief rumble under the tyres tells him he has just driven over a cattle grid before the tyres resume spraying gravel at the verges.

Mjones knows that the others have already arrived. It has been a while since they last worked together, but he knew that they would be just as ready for action as he was. Flurim Ahmetaj is there because he knows everything about computers and surveillance equipment and has easy access to them. Durim Redzepi, because nobody is better at getting in and out of someone’s home than he is. And Jeton Pocoli, because he is a master at following people. In addition, he has bedroom eyes and a bad-boy image, which makes it easy for him to chat up Norwegian women. The reports he has supplied so far suggest that these skills in particular will prove useful.

As far as these men are concerned, it has always been a matter of showing up to a table already set, to a plan already laid, and they do what they are told to and what they are paid for. This has never motivated Mjones. He lives for the craftsmanship. The preliminary work, gathering pieces of information, fitting them into a bigger picture, planning for the unexpected. It is during this phase that he feels alive. And when everything works according to plan, his plan, it makes him delirious with happiness. His favourite pastime is reading about himself in the newspaper afterwards and being absolutely certain that the police will never be able to catch him.

Mjones slows down, turns into a narrow track, and a red-painted cabin appears a couple of hundred metres further down the road. He pulls up next to two motorbikes and a dark-blue BMW estate. Mjones smiles and shakes his head, takes a long look at the desirable car before he steps out on to the makeshift car park. He glances at the cabin where the light is still on and the murmur of conversation fills the night.

Mjones takes the cage and the backpack from the boot of his car. He walks over to the cabin, doesn’t bother to knock, but pushes down the door handle firmly and enters. The arm of a short, thin man on the sofa reaches swiftly for a pistol lying on the table in front of him. He cocks the weapon and points it at Mjones.

Twice in one week, he thinks. It’s becoming a habit.

‘Relax, Durim, it’s only me.’

Durim Redzepi looks at Mjones for a few seconds before he lowers the pistol. Mjones smiles and takes a few steps inside. Playing cards and chips are spread across the oval table. The smoke from countless cigarettes hangs like a blue cobweb across the room.

‘Who is winning?’ he asks and sets down the cage, inside which a tortoiseshell cat is dozing on its stomach. He also removes his backpack.

‘Flurim has the most chips,’ Redzepi says in broken Swedish. A man with a Mohican turns to Mjones. His broad smile reveals a pointed silver stud in his tongue. The men’s attention reverts to their game.

‘Hurry up, it’s your turn,’ Ahmetaj says with the same East European Swedish accent, addressing a compact man in grey tracksuit bottoms who is leaning on the table while he contemplates his next move. A hairy stomach is visible under his white T-shirt. Jeton Pocoli taps his nose with his index finger before he puts down two cards and pushes all his chips to the centre of the table. ‘I’m all in.’

The men around the table stare at him in disbelief.

‘You’re bluffing.’

Pocoli shakes his head.

‘Screw you.’ Redzepi runs his hand over his stubbled head, throws his cards on the table, picks up a can of beer from the floor and lifts it to his lips. Ahmetaj looks at Pocoli, searching for signs of bluffing. He scrutinises him for a long time before he heaves a sigh, looks at the chips in front of him, grabs a large chunk of his own pile and shoves them into the pot.

The last card is played. Ahmetaj’s hopeful look dissolves instantly. ‘For fuck’s sake!’ he groans and tosses aside his cards. ‘Just my rotten luck.’

‘Luck, or the lack of it, has nothing to do with it,’ Pocoli gloats as he scoops up the chips with a broad grin.

Mjones laughs and goes over to the kitchen in the corner. He looks at the messy row of empty beer cans and takes out a plastic carrier bag from one of the drawers. One by one the cans disappear into the bag.

‘Okay,’ he says when he has made the place look reasonably tidy. ‘Have you done everything I told you?’

‘Do you have the money?’ Ahmetaj doesn’t look at him, but interlocks his fingers at the top of his Mohican. It shines, even in the modest lighting in the room. Mjones opens his backpack, takes out a wad of banknotes and runs his finger quickly over them. Fifty notes. He takes out another five wads and throws two to each man.

‘If we pull it off, you’ll get the same again,’ Mjones says while the trio around the table count their money. Ahmetaj nods happily.

‘The equipment is over there,’ he says, pointing to a black bag.

‘What about his email? His mobile? His bank accounts?’

‘Already taken care of.’

Mjones nods and looks at Pocoli. ‘Anything specific I need to know?’

‘I’ll brief you later.’

‘Okay.’

Mjones’s eyes shift to Redzepi.

‘I’m ready when you are.’

Mjones nods again. Everything is as it should be. He sees no point in explaining the plan to them in detail even though he is itching to do so. They are supplying a service. End of story. And yet he can’t resist giving them a preview.

‘Why did you bring the cat?’ Pocoli asks him.

Mjones smiles. ‘To check that I didn’t buy a pig in a poke.’ Mjones laughs at his own joke, but the card players stare blankly at him. ‘Right, I realise you don’t speak Norwegian. But I promise you, you’ve never seen anything like it. It’s quite-’

A contented smile plays at the corners of his mouth. He puts his hand inside the backpack and produces two identical boxes the size of a matchbox, which he puts down on the table.

‘What are they?’ Redzepi asks.

Mjones touches the first box with his index finger. ‘Piercing needles,’ he says.

‘And the other?’

Mjones smiles and opens the second box. ‘You really don’t want to know.’

With reverential movements he takes out an ampoule sealed with a small plastic cap. He unscrews the top, takes out a piercing needle and dips it in the clear liquid with the utmost care. He holds the needle, with the tip pointing upwards. The needle gleams.

‘Who wants to do the honours?’ he asks and looks at them before he nods in the direction of the cat. The eyes around the table light up immediately. He assesses them in turn.

‘Durim,’ he decides. Redzepi smiles and gets up. Mjones hands him the needle. ‘Watch yourself.’

Redzepi takes a step backwards and is extra careful to avoid the point of the needle.

‘No screw-ups this time.’

Mjones looks at him long and hard. Beads of sweat force their way out of the pores of Redzepi’s forehead. He pinches the needle so hard that his knuckles go white.

Calmly, he approaches the cat in the cage. Behind him the others get up and move closer. Redzepi’s look is one of deep concentration.

He opens the cage and looks at the sleepy animal, which barely raises its eyelids to look back at him.

‘Meow,’ Redzepi says, softly.

Then he aims the needle at the cat’s neck.

And pricks it.

Chapter 10

Henning wakes up early Sunday morning after a dreamless sleep. He goes to the kitchen to make some coffee. While he showers he turns over in his mind the information he found on Tore Pulli the previous night.

Pulli’s parents died in a car crash a few days after his eleventh birthday, and it was left to his grandparents, Margit Marie and Sverre Lorents, to try to turn young Tore Jorn into a good citizen. The boy’s life had, however, already taken a wrong turn. As the youngest member of a tagging gang, he constantly had to prove his place. In his early teens he was involved in a series of minor burglaries. He started smoking cigarettes and moved on to cannabis. He was quick to start fights. He drove a moped long before he was legally allowed to. His path to the biker gang was a short one. And it was at that point that he took up bodybuilding in earnest.

One evening, when Pulli and his biker friends had been drinking heavily, Fred Are Melby — a notorious enforcer — came over to Pulli and started talking to him. Pulli, who was eighteen or nineteen years old at the time, thought this was cool until Melby’s fist connected with his temple and floored him. Pulli quickly got back on his feet and proceeded to beat Melby to a pulp, including breaking his jaw with a lightning fast jab with his elbow.

In the days that followed Melby’s discharge from hospital Pulli was expecting some form of retaliation, but it never came. Instead, Melby offered him a job and promised to teach him everything he knew about the business. Pulli had got his foot in the door. Melby encouraged him to perfect his fast elbow move, thus establishing Pulli’s signature trademark. Later, Pulli discovered that the initial provocation had simply been a kind of initiation test.

For six years he worked as a debt collector. Loan sharks and dodgy builders knew that they could trust him, and as his reputation started to precede him he no longer had to resort to violence to collect on his clients’ behalf. As soon as people heard Pulli had been hired, they paid up. However, brute force alone wasn’t enough, even though Pulli now regarded his body as a temple and never touched a drop of alcohol. He soon learned the importance of charisma, and the combination of strength and knowledge was — in his eyes — unbeatable. For that reason he read not only all the literature about weapons and combat techniques he could get his hands on but also biographies on great military leaders and personalities. Pulli enjoyed huge respect within his circle, and in the course of time he came to be a wealthy man.

His grandfather, Sverre Lorents, who had worked as a carpenter all his life, advised Pulli to invest in property, and he entered the market at a favourable time. He reinvested the money he made in larger ventures which provided him with even greater profits and enabled him to continue down the same road. Soon he no longer needed to rely on his enforcer activity to make a living. Nor was it beneficial to his legitimate business interests to have at least one foot firmly anchored in the criminal underworld. In 2004, he shelved his knuckle-duster, or, more precisely, he hung it on the wall of his study. And then he met Veronica Nansen. They married two years later, and the tabloid press regarded their wedding as the highlight of its year.

Nansen is the owner of Nansen Models AS, a popular supplier of girls for a variety of glamorous assignments. Before that, she earned her living as a high-profile model and hosted a reality-TV show that promised to give young, skinny and very ordinary girls the chance to make a living from their looks.

Henning would not normally call anyone on a Sunday, but given that the matter affects both him and Tore Pulli he has no scruples disturbing Veronica Nansen. After many long rings the telephone is answered by a woman whose voice is rusty with sleep. ‘Hi, sorry for disturbing you. My name is Henning Juul.’

Henning’s other hand drums the table impatiently while he waits for her to reply. ‘I don’t know if Tore has-’

‘I spoke to Tore yesterday,’ Nansen says sharply. ‘I know who you are.’

Her words sow a seed of guilt without him quite knowing why, but he shakes it off.

‘So you know that I’m also-’

‘I know that you’re giving Tore false hope. It’s the last thing he needs right now.’

‘False-’

‘As far as I’m concerned, he’s free to seek comfort in a pipe dream that someone outside the prison walls will ride to his rescue, but I’ve no time for people like you.’

‘People like me? You don’t even know what I-’

‘Oh, yes, I do. You’re attracted to mysteries, aren’t you? Riddles nobody has managed to crack. And now you want to turn up and save the day.’

‘Not at all-’

‘Tore doesn’t need this now.’

‘So what do you think he needs?’

‘He needs to prepare himself for his appeal. He should be trying to find out how to challenge his sentence rather than-’

Nansen fails to find a suitable ending.

‘So he’s guilty?’

‘Did I say that?’

‘No, but-’

Nansen interrupts him with a snort. ‘If you knew what I know, you would have done Tore a favour and turned down the job. He has been through enough.’

Henning changes tactics. ‘Have you ever been to prison?’ he asks. He hears that she is about to reply, but interrupts her. ‘Have you sat in a room no bigger than a broom cupboard where your door is locked at 8.40 every night, knowing you won’t be able to leave until seven o’clock the next morning?’

Her sigh is heavier and more laboured than he had expected. ‘No, but-’

‘Sometimes hope is the only thing that keeps you going,’ he continues. ‘If Tore believes that I can help him, then I don’t think — with all due respect — that you should try to oppose it.’

His comment verges on the pompous, but it works. He thinks.

‘I’m just trying to be realistic,’ she says eventually.

‘Okay, I understand, but could we at least have a chat about his case? You probably know him better than anyone, and perhaps you know more about the case. And just so you know, I haven’t decided if I’m going to take this job yet.’

‘You’re right,’ she says quietly, after a long pause. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be so abrasive. It’s just that-’

‘Forget it,’ Henning says. ‘Is there any chance that we could meet? Today preferably, if that’s all right? I know it’s a Sunday and all that, but-’

‘Could you be here in half an hour?’

Surprised at her sudden co-operation, Henning looks at his watch. ‘I can.’

Chapter 11

‘Can we play the snake game? Please, please, pleeeeease!’

Thorleif Brenden hears his daughter’s voice from the bedroom while he takes out plates from the kitchen cupboard. Glasses and cutlery are waiting on the table with cold cuts, cheese, orange juice and milk. The oven is on. A saucepan with water and eggs splutters on the cooker, but the sounds from the bedroom drown out even the dulcet tones of Norwegian songbird Marit Larsen from the Tivoli radio on the windowsill.

The snake game, Thorleif thinks, and smiles. The kids never get bored with it, even though Elisabeth has been playing it with them for years. First with Pal, then with Julie. And now with both of them. Thorleif hears a hissing sound, and the expectant squeals from the children who are hoping — or dreading — being bitten by their mother’s hand snaking towards them under the duvet. The game usually ends in tears, either when Julie is kneed in the stomach or her eye is poked by a stray finger. Even so, the tears are always forgotten by the next time.

Thorleif bends down and sees that the bread rolls are golden brown on top. He turns off the oven and takes them out. His stomach rumbles with hunger. The eggs are almost done so he goes through the living room and into the bedroom. Hissssss. He can hear suppressed giggling that could erupt at any minute.

‘Breakfast is nearly ready,’ Thorleif says just as the snake strikes. The room is filled with panicky squeals of laughter.

‘Just a bit more!’ Pal pleads.

‘The eggs will go cold.’

‘Just two more minutes! Please!’

Thorleif smiles and shakes his head while he looks, unsuccessfully, for Elisabeth’s eyes somewhere in the sea of bed linen.

Hisssss.

The room explodes in new shouts of glee.

Marit Larsen has long since finished singing when Thorleif cuts the bread rolls in half and puts them in a brown wicker basket.

‘Smell my hands, Daddy. I’ve washed them.’

Julie toddles into the kitchen, climbs up on her Tripp Trapp chair and holds out her hands to him. The tears from the snake game are still fresh on her cheeks. He puts the basket on the table and sniffs them. ‘What a good girl you are.’

Her face broadens into a smile. Across the table Pal’s eyes take on a wounded expression. ‘You never tell me I’m a good boy when I wash my hands.’

‘That’s because you’re eight years old, Pal. You learned to wash your hands a long time ago. By the way, have you washed them this morning?’

Pal doesn’t reply, but his sulky face gradually changes into a mischievous smile.

‘Then you go and do it straight away.’

Pal gets up and runs to the bathroom. He bumps into Elisabeth who is coming from the opposite direction.

‘Remember to dry your hands properly!’ Thorleif calls out after him. ‘And hang up the towel when you’re done, please.’

He looks at Elisabeth. The night still lives in her eyes, but her face instantly lights up when she sees the breakfast table.

‘Oh, how lovely,’ she beams as she admires the food. ‘Candles and everything.’

Thorleif smiles.

‘What would you like to drink, Julie?’ he asks his daughter.

Pal runs back in and sits down. The water is still dripping from his hands.

‘Milk, please.’

Thorleif takes a glass and is about to fill it.

‘No, juice,’ she says. ‘I want juice.’

‘Sure?’

Julie nods adamantly. Pal leans across the table and helps himself to half a bread roll before he grabs his knife and tries to slice off the top of his egg. ‘Who boiled the eggs?’

‘Daddy,’ Julie replies.

Pal groans. ‘Mum is better at boiling eggs.’

‘Absolutely,’ Thorleif replies. ‘Mum is better at everything.’

‘Not at spotting roe deer,’ Julie points out.

‘No, definitely not when it comes to spotting roe deer,’ Elisabeth joins in. ‘Once we saw twenty-five of them along the road when we drove home from Copenhagen. Twenty-five!’

‘Is that true?’

‘Absolutely! Daddy was the first to spot nearly all of them.’

‘Is that true, Daddy?’

Thorleif nods and smiles proudly as he removes the top of his egg.

‘And not just roe deer. Cows and sheep too.’

‘And wind turbines,’ Elisabeth interjects. Thorleif smiles and sprinkles a little salt on the scalped egg. Around the table the rest of the family help themselves to rolls, butter, cheese, jam and cold cuts.

‘So,’ Thorleif begins. ‘What are we going to do today? Any suggestions?’

‘Can we go to the cinema?’ Pal asks.

‘I want to go swimming,’ Julie counters.

‘We’ve been doing that all summer. Can’t we go to the cinema? It’s been so long! Please.’

‘Going to the cinema is expensive,’ Elisabeth says. ‘Or it is if we all go.’

‘Mum is right,’ Thorleif says. ‘What would you like to do today, Mum?’

‘Bogstad Farm is open to visitors. I saw it in the paper. Perhaps-’

‘Is it?’ the children shout in unison. ‘Can we go there? Please? Can we? Can we?’

Elisabeth studies the children for a little while before her eyes find Thorleif’s.

‘Do you really think Bogstad Farm is cheaper than going to the cinema?’ he smiles.

‘No, but we can’t spend the whole day indoors when the weather is so nice.’

‘We want to visit the farm, Daddy. Please. Pleeease.’

Thorleif looks at his children in turn. ‘Okay,’ he says. The children whoop and start jumping up and down on their chairs immediately. ‘But then you need to eat a big breakfast first. One bread roll each, at least. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Daddy!’

Thorleif takes a bite of his bread roll and feels the crust between his teeth while he looks at Elisabeth, at all of them, one after the other. It’s Sunday morning. Everyone is happy.

Can life get any better?

Chapter 12

Ulleval Garden City lies in the borough of Nordre Aker and was built shortly after the First World War as a residential area for the working class. The intention was that the workers would leave their tenements in favour of bigger houses with their own patch of garden, but it didn’t take long before the better-off hijacked the idyll. Since then house prices in the area have been among the highest in Oslo.

It’s a lovely part of town, Henning thinks, as the cab comes to a halt on John Colletts Plass. Living in Ulleval Garden City bestows a certain status on its residents even though he doesn’t think that was the reason Tore Pulli and Veronica Nansen bought a home here. The properties are well maintained, plants climb up the walls, and the whole neighbourhood is characterised by immaculately landscaped gardens and attractive cafes.

It doesn’t take him long to identify the brick building where Nansen has chosen to remain despite her husband’s jail sentence. Perhaps it’s about holding on to what they had. Henning rings the bell and is admitted immediately. He wheezes as he climbs the stairs to the second floor where the front door has been left open for him. He enters a hallway with a large wardrobe concealed behind spotless mirrors. Further into the flat a chandelier sparkles from the ceiling even though no light is coming from its bulbs.

Veronica Nansen, wearing loose-fitting grey jogging pants, a pink top and a thin grey zip-up hoodie, appears in his field of vision. She has a pink baseball cap on her head, and her ponytail dangles from the back.

‘You found it, I see,’ she says, and smiles briefly.

‘Oh yes,’ Henning says, still panting, and smiles. His scars stretch, and he is aware of her looking at them as they shake hands. Her hand feels small, like the hand of a child.

‘Coffee?’ she asks.

‘Yes, please,’ Henning replies and follows her into the kitchen. There are warm-grey slate tiles on the floor, an integrated wine store, a heating cupboard for plates, a steam oven, a sophisticated espresso machine and two stainless-steel ovens, one of them extra wide. The island in the centre of the kitchen alone is bigger than Henning’s bedroom.

‘Let’s sit down here,’ Nansen says, indicating tall slim bar stools with shiny chrome legs and bright yellow seats and backrests. ‘The living room is a mess,’ she says, and it sounds like an apology. Henning, who always feels ill at ease in the presence of expensive objects, scales the chair and tries to make himself comfortable. Clumsily he rests his elbows on the surface of the table where a bowl of brightly coloured fruit is tempting him.

‘Nice house,’ he says. ‘Or, rather, nice flat.’

‘Thank you.’

Her voice is devoid of enthusiasm. She is probably used to being complimented, Henning thinks, and he watches her while she starts the espresso machine and finds two cups. She is shorter than he had imagined and refreshingly free of make-up. He had assumed that a woman for whom every pavement is a catwalk, or at least it was once, would make an effort to pose in male company, but Veronica shuffles her feet and slumps slightly. Her hunched shoulders make her look as if she has a puncture. Perhaps her guard is down when she is at home, Henning thinks. Perhaps that’s the one place where she allows herself to be exactly who she is.

Soon the aroma of freshly brewed coffee spreads across the kitchen. Henning thanks her when she puts a cup in front of him.

‘Tore said you’re a journalist,’ she says, half-asking half-accusing, and sits down opposite him.

‘Yes. I work for 123news.’

‘ 123news? As easy as 1, 2, 3?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid so,’ Henning replies.

Nansen takes out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter from the pocket of her hoodie. She offers Henning a cigarette, but he shakes his head.

‘Good place to work, is it?’

‘No,’ he replies, and smiles quickly.

‘Why not?’ she says, and lights up. Henning stares at the flame.

‘I don’t know if I would like it anywhere in the media, to be honest.’

‘So why are you in this line of work?’ she asks, and blows out hard blue smoke through pursed lips.

‘It’s the only thing I’m good at.’

‘I don’t believe that. Everyone has hidden talents.’

‘In that case my talents are very well hidden.’

She smiles. ‘Isn’t there something you would like to do?’

Henning hesitates. ‘I like making music. Playing the piano.’

‘So why don’t you do that?’

‘I’m not good enough.’

‘Says who?’

‘Says me.’

A furrow appears on Nansen’s brow when she takes another drag of her cigarette.

‘Also, it’s been a while since I last played, so-’

‘Didn’t you just say that you enjoy playing?’

‘Yes.’

‘So why haven’t you played for a while?’ Nansen fixes him with her eyes.

‘Because — because I can’t bear it.’ Henning looks down, surprised at how quickly they have reached such an intimate point in their conversation. And the fact that they got there at all.

‘It reminds me of my son,’ he says, quietly. ‘And what… what-’

Henning can hear how desperate he sounds.

‘Tore told me what happened.’

Henning looks up. ‘Did he? What did he say?’

‘He said that you lost your son in a fire.’

‘Did he say anything else?’

‘No.’

Nansen doesn’t elaborate. She looks at the smoke that wafts randomly from the embers of the cigarette.

‘He hasn’t mentioned my son before?’

‘No. Why would he?’ she says.

Henning can’t think of a suitable reply. Nansen takes another tight-lipped drag.

‘You really should try to play again,’ she says, blowing the smoke up right in front of her face. ‘For your own sake. You never know, you might surprise yourself. It might do you good.’

‘I don’t think so,’ he says.

They drink coffee in silent seconds.

‘And you run a modelling agency?’

‘Yes,’ she says, matter-of-fact. ‘Someone has to look out for them.’

‘Is there that much to look out for?’

Nansen smiles faintly. ‘The things I’ve seen… One day I’ll write a book about it.’

‘Really?’

She nods and sucks the cigarette again.

‘Are you busy?’

‘Not at the moment. It has been tough, what with the recession and all that. I’ve had to lay off a lot of staff recently, and that’s never much fun. Tore being convicted of murder didn’t exactly help either.’

Her face darkens.

‘How has it been… since?’ Henning asks. Nansen sighs.

‘It has been tough, I won’t lie. I haven’t had the energy to go out much.’

She looks down. He can barely make out the contours of her face in the warm light from the kitchen window.

‘But,’ she says, and straightens up. ‘I’m boring you talking about myself. What do you want to know?’

‘As much as possible,’ Henning smiles.

‘I don’t really know how to begin,’ she says, looking at him. Her ponytail winds its way down one side of her neck like a blonde snake. Her eyes, ice blue and sharp, contain something Henning can’t quite fathom.

‘I’ve done some homework on the case,’ he begins. ‘I understand that Tore was arrested at the crime scene and that he had arranged to meet Jocke Brolenius there.’

Nansen nods, takes a final drag and stubs out the cigarette, grinding it into the ashtray.

‘Why did Tore ask Brolenius to meet with him?’

‘How much do you know about Vidar Fjell and all that?’

‘I’ve read that the murder of Jocke Brolenius was regarded as revenge for the murder of Vidar Fjell.’

Nansen nods again. ‘Vidar had worked with the Drug Rehabilitation Service for many years. Young addicts who were trying to get clean were encouraged to work out in his gym.’

‘You’re referring to Fighting Fit?’

‘Yes. Christ, what a name,’ she says, and rolls her eyes. ‘Anyway, Vidar received grants from the council so he could look after disadvantaged youths.’

‘Isn’t that the Inner City Project?’

‘It’s part of it, certainly. Vidar taught them how to work out and what workouts to do, and he tried to give them a sense of belonging. A couple of the young people he helped even ended up working there. Vidar was a really great guy.’

Nansen lights up another cigarette.

‘And he had a zero-tolerance policy as far as dope, steroids and all that were concerned. If you messed about with drugs in his gym, you were out on your ear. But Jocke Brolenius didn’t give a toss about that. He even tried to recruit some of the kids Vidar had managed to straighten out.’

Nansen curls her lips around the cigarette and sucks greedily.

‘Because of who Brolenius was, he was given a friendly warning first. But he didn’t listen, so Vidar threw him out.’

‘And Brolenius took offence?’

‘Oh, yes.’

Henning recalls that Fjell was attacked in his office and that he died of a brain haemorrhage as a result of the injuries he sustained. The fact that he was a haemophiliac and wasn’t found by one of his staff until the following day didn’t improve his chances.

‘Why didn’t the police arrest Brolenius?’

‘They interviewed him, as far as I know, but he denied having anything to do with the murder.’

‘And there was no incriminating evidence?’

‘No,’ Nansen replies, crossing her feet while she leans back. ‘But everyone knew it was him. When the police failed to do their job, it didn’t exactly calm the troubled waters down at Fighting Fit. But Tore put his foot down. He knew exactly what Brolenius was like and who his friends were, and he wanted to prevent a bloodbath. That was why he invited Brolenius to a meeting. To see if the two of them could settle the conflict.’

Henning tries to visualise the scenario.

‘Why did he think he could do that?’

‘I don’t know. I tried talking him out of it because I thought it was a crap idea.’

‘Did a lot of people know about this meeting?’

‘Yes, a fair number, I think. Everyone was talking about it, both here and at the gym. Tore eventually managed to convince them that nothing good would come from killing Brolenius. He asked them to trust him.’

Henning looks at her pensively.

‘So what do you think happened?’

‘I think that someone got there before Tore, killed Brolenius and ran off before Tore arrived.’

‘That sounds risky.’

‘Yes, perhaps. But they succeeded.’

‘They?’ Henning raises an eyebrow.

‘Yes, I don’t really know why I say that. But somehow it sounds more likely than “him” or “her”.’

Henning turns his head and looks across the kitchen. A long pause follows.

‘On the phone, you said to me, “if you knew what I know, you would have done Tore a favour and turned down the job.” What did you mean by that?’

Some moments pass before she answers.

‘It suits a lot of people very well that Tore is where he is.’

‘And what do you mean by that?’ Henning attempts a smile, but Nansen’s stern armour remains intact.

‘Let’s start with the police,’ she says, and blows smoke out into the room with an air of resignation. ‘They’ve been trying to get something on Tore for years. And when the opportunity finally presented itself, they grabbed it with both hands.’

‘And did they have any reasons for wanting to get Tore?’

Nansen taps the ash off her cigarette with an angry index finger.

‘No one is saying that Tore was a choirboy, at least not until he stopped working as a debt collector. But he didn’t kill Brolenius. He was trying to prevent Brolenius getting killed. But when the police discovered that there was some evidence that implicated Tore, it suited them perfectly. It meant they didn’t have to look for anyone else.’

‘So the police deliberately failed to investigate important leads. Is that what you’re saying?’

Nansen sucks in one last drag before stubbing out the cigarette.

‘The police force is riddled with incompetent two-faced idiots.’

The glance she throws out into the room is bitter, but she doesn’t elaborate. Henning considers the wisdom of discussing this particular topic with her.

‘So who could have killed Brolenius — if Tore didn’t do it?’

‘It must have been one of those morons Tore surrounded himself with.’

‘You’re referring to his friends at Fighting Fit.’

She nods and looks away.

‘Tore’s so-called friends,’ she says, acidly. The darkness in her eyes is still there when she continues, ‘How many of them have visited Tore in prison, do you think?’

Henning looks at her quizzically.

‘Just one,’ she says, holding up a single finger in the air. ‘Just one.’

‘And that is?’

‘Geir. Geir Gronningen. I suppose you could say he’s one of the more decent of that bunch. He’s still a moron, though. And that was one of the reasons I was so sceptical when you called.’

‘In what way is he decent?’

‘Geir has been trying to help Tore ever since he was first arrested. But he hasn’t managed to find out a sodding thing. And then you turn up out of nowhere, and-’

She interrupts herself.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to-’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Henning says. ‘But Gronningen, who is he? What does he do?’

‘I think he still works as a debt collector, not that I have much contact with him these days. He also works as a doorman in a strip club in Majorstua. Asgard, it’s called, or something like that.’

‘Who runs Fighting Fit now?’

‘A guy called Kent Harry Hansen.’

‘Is he okay?’

‘Well,’ she says, after a short pause. ‘I don’t really know how to answer that. There certainly isn’t much left of Vidar’s old gym, that much I can tell you.’

‘What do you mean?’

Nansen looks at him for a little while before she continues. ‘I think Kent Harry is happy to look the other way when it comes to drugs. I also think people call him up when they need some muscle. And there is a lot of that in the gym.’

Henning nods again.

‘Do you have any more names?’

‘There’s Petter Holte, Tore’s cousin. He works as a doorman at Asgard and is a wannabe debt collector, though I can’t imagine that Kent Harry would ever dare to use him. Tore certainly never did even though Petter was always pestering him.’ Nansen looks him straight in the eye as she explains. ‘When Tore was still involved with his old life he got so many requests he had to outsource some of his work for a while. He passed on several jobs to Geir, that much I do know, but never to Petter. Petter had a temper.’

Henning, who has forgotten to drink his coffee for several minutes, raises the cup to his lips again.

‘There are plenty of other morons down at the gym,’ Nansen goes on. ‘Or… at least there used to be. I don’t have very much to do with them these days.’

Henning looks out of the window. Outside in the street a tram glides past.

‘Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that Tore is innocent,’ Henning says, looking at her. ‘That means someone managed to beat up and murder Jocke Brolenius, a hardened criminal, something which in itself is no easy matter. But not only that: the same person also made it look as if Tore did it.’

Nansen doesn’t reply. She just looks at him.

‘It would require brains,’ Henning says, tapping his forehead. ‘And a level head. Do you think that any of the people you’ve mentioned so far fits that description?’

‘I don’t know,’ she says, quietly.

‘You keep referring to them as morons.’

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘But that is mostly because I hate everything they stand for. Everything they are.’

‘You blame them,’ he says. ‘That’s understandable.’

She sighs and takes out another cigarette.

‘It’s just so bloody frustrating,’ she bursts out. ‘I know that Tore is innocent, and there is not a damn thing I can do about it!’

She squeezes the lighter hard.

‘And you don’t have any theories about who could have done it? Anyone who would have wanted to make life difficult for Tore or avenge the murder of Vidar Fjell?’

She shakes her head.

A long silence ensues.

‘So what do you think?’ she says, and looks up at him. ‘What do you think you can do?’

‘I don’t know,’ Henning says, and exhales heavily. ‘But I think I’m going to need my gym bag.’

Chapter 13

‘Are we nearly there yet?’ Julie Brenden whines. She tries to wriggle out of the car seat, but the seat belt keeps her in place.

‘Not long to go now, darling,’ Elisabeth replies, turning around. ‘Isn’t that right, Daddy?’

‘It’s just over there,’ Thorleif says, as the popular Bogstad Lake, where people go swimming in the summer and skiing in the winter, appears behind the trees. On the far shore, the manicured fairways of the fashionable Oslo Golf Club sparkle in the late summer sun.

‘Oh dear,’ Elisabeth exclaims as they turn into Bogstad Farm. ‘We’re not the only ones who thought of this.’

Thorleif looks at the sea of cars parked outside the farm. He lets the car roll across the thick cobblestones. There isn’t a single vacant parking space to be seen.

‘I’ll drop you off outside the entrance and then I’ll look for somewhere to park,’ he says.

‘That would be great.’

He drives them as close as he can and stops. Elisabeth and Pal get out. Thorleif helps Julie out of her car seat. ‘I’ll be with you very soon,’ he says to Elisabeth. ‘Keep your mobile on so I can find you.’

Elisabeth doesn’t seem to hear him; instead she extends her hand towards the children and waves them eagerly over to her. Julie jumps and skips across the cobblestones. Thorleif is about to repeat his request when he notices a dark-blue BMW right behind him.

‘Oh, sorry,’ he says, holding up a hand apologetically. He quickly gets into the car and drives off. Soon he is back on the road. It’ll be a long walk back, he concludes. Both sides of the road are wallpapered with cars. The BMW is still right up his tail.

A car park appears to his left. Expectant-looking families are getting out of their cars. I’ll try my luck here, Thorleif thinks, and turns into it. He drives slowly across the gravel while scouting for a vacant space.

There! A single vacant space. He presses the accelerator and slips in before someone else grabs it. Triumphantly, he turns off the engine and sits there for a while feeling the sun heat the car. Thorleif removes his seat belt, and, as he does so, he looks in the rear-view mirror. The dark-blue BMW is quietly blocking him in. The driver appears to be staring at him. Thorleif tries to work out if the man wants something from him, but it doesn’t appear to be the case.

As Thorleif gets out, the wheels of the BMW dig into the ground and tear it up. Thorleif follows the car with his eyes as it turns right at the end of the car park and accelerates towards the exit. He notices the driver’s fair skin and ponytail. The car indicates left and drives off at speed towards Oslo.

Chapter 14

Human beings are creatures of habit. They have their fixed rituals which they repeat every day, every week, every year. Henning is one of those creatures. In the past, before Jonas, if he was at a cafe or bar, and if he used the toilet there more than once, he would inevitably find his way back to the same cubicle. He might even wait for it to be vacant if it wasn’t when he first arrived.

Veronica Nansen told him that Tore and his friends worked out every Sunday at one o’clock in the afternoon and that if one of them didn’t show up they needed a good reason. When Henning stops outside Fighting Fit in Kjolbergveien, the time is a little past 1.30. If I’m lucky, he thinks, that ritual is still being honoured.

The name of the gym is printed in red letters against a black background on a filthy glass door. The carpet inside is purple. Henning walks up to an imposing reception counter. Three tiny potted plants have been placed at random on the counter next to an index of workout cards and a till. A computer screen lights up the face of the short-haired woman who is staring at it. Two white cupboards in a corner behind her are stocked with protein drinks and dietary supplements.

Henning waits patiently for her attention. The receptionist he had initially classified as a woman isn’t particularly feminine. She has rings in both eyebrows, and she wears black make-up around her eyes and on her lips. The muscles in her biceps are defined in a masculine way. When she finally looks up at him she pushes her chest up and out. She is even wearing a T-shirt advertising a deodorant for men. He notices she has thin, encrusted scars running diagonally down her forearms. Whether they were made by an angry cat or something else Henning can’t determine without making it obvious that he is staring. The infected needle scars around the major veins in her elbow joint, however, are unmistakable.

Henning says hi and attempts a smile.

‘Hi,’ she replies.

‘My name is Henning Juul. I work for 123news.’

No response, only a dull stare.

‘I’m working on a story about gyms, I don’t mean gyms that belong to the big chains, but the independent ones that survive despite the fierce competition. I thought it was about time that someone wrote about you too.’

He flashes a smile as false as the Rolex watches on Karl Johansgate, but it will have to do.

‘And that’s why you are here? On a Sunday?’

Her voice is hoarse as if something is stuck in her throat.

‘Eh, yes. I’m writing a lot of other stories this week, and, as I happened to be in the neighbourhood, I thought that-’

Henning realises he is struggling to convince even himself so he shuts up. The woman says nothing. She just stares at him.

‘Is Kent Harry Hansen here?’

‘No.’

‘Oh no!’ he says, excessively positive. ‘So where is he?’

‘Some people have better things to do on a Sunday than work.’

‘Fair point,’ Henning says and smiles again.

The girl’s fixed mask remains intact.

‘I was wondering, is there anyone from admin here today?’

‘I’m the only one.’

‘And you are-’

‘I’m just the receptionist.’

Henning looks around.

‘How about Geir Gronningen? Is he here today?’

‘He doesn’t work here.’

‘No, but I’ve heard that he uses this gym.’

‘So what?’

‘I need a quote or two. Why people work out here and blah blah blah. It makes the article sound better.’

The girl behind the counter looks at him before she nods in the direction of a row of exercise bikes by the windows. A man in a white vest is pedalling at a sedate pace whilst looking at a screen on the wall.

‘That’s him?’

The girl nods. Almost imperceptibly.

‘Okay, thanks for your help.’

Henning attempts an ironic smile, but her attention is already elsewhere. He crosses the large room where white and black equipment in all shapes and sizes competes for floor space. Music blasts from the loudspeakers. The weights ring out. Grunting and bellowing alternate. The sound of testosterone, Henning thinks. No one here looks as if it bothers them that brute strength on its own is pointless if you can’t run 150 metres without getting out of breath. Many of the stomachs on display are bulging, but not from muscle.

‘Geir Gronningen?’

Henning puts his hand on the bike’s handlebars. A tall man with long thin hair turns to face him. He has a wispy beard around his lips and chin. And here was Henning thinking the age of grunge was long gone.

‘Hi,’ Henning goes on.

Gronningen’s only reply is to pedal more slowly. Henning gets on the vacant exercise bike next to him and discovers too late that his feet don’t reach the pedals, but he refrains from adjusting the seat. Instead he sits there, dangling his legs.

‘Do you mind if I have a chat with you while you warm up?’

Gronningen looks straight ahead. Henning fixes his eyes on him until he turns around. ‘My name is Henning Juul,’ he continues. ‘I’m a journalist with 123news. I’ve just been talking to Veronica Nansen.’

Gronningen turns his head slightly.

‘She told me that you’ve been trying to find out who-’

‘Are you out of your mind?’ Gronningen hisses and looks daggers at him before quickly glancing around. ‘You can’t just come in here and-’

‘Why not?’ Henning says as frown lines appear on his brow. ‘We’re just having a chat.’

‘You don’t understand,’ the big man says. ‘Get out before anyone sees you.’

‘You’re quite right,’ Henning says, feigning ignorance. ‘I don’t understand.’

Gronningen gives him a look of exasperation. Neither of them says anything for a while, but Henning refuses to release Gronningen’s eyes. Finally, Gronningen gives in. ‘Do you know where Jarlen, the restaurant, is?’

‘No, but I can find out.’

‘Wait there and I’ll have a chat with you later.’

‘Okay. When?’

Gronningen rolls his eyes before he faces Henning again. ‘When I’m done here. I can’t cut my workout short just because you turned up.’

‘So give me a time.’

Gronningen glances surreptitiously around again. Then, without looking at Henning, he says, ‘Give me a couple of hours.’

‘A couple of hours it is.’

Henning looks at the clock on the wall behind the reception counter, nods to Gronningen and climbs off the exercise bike. On his way to the exit he smiles at the girl behind the counter and gives her a thumbs-up before he walks outside and back into the heat.

Chapter 15

Thorleif Brenden wakes up with a start and looks around. There is light all around him. From an open window that overlooks the courtyard the sound of children shouting enters and exacerbates his headache.

He gets up and goes to the kitchen. Then he fills a glass with cold water and swallows the contents with rapid gulps. He groans with satisfaction. The next moment the door is flung open as if Kramer from Seinfeld himself is about to make an entrance. But it is only Julie with Elisabeth at her heels.

‘Hi, Daddy! I need the loo.’

‘Okay, sweetheart,’ he smiles and looks at Elisabeth. ‘Remember to close the door behind you.’

‘Okay,’ Julie replies.

‘And afterwards you must tell Daddy what you’ve just learned, promise?’ Elisabeth calls out after her daughter.

‘Yesss!’

Elisabeth smiles and looks at him tenderly. ‘Hi,’ she says in a soft and affectionate voice. ‘Did you have a good sleep?’

Thorleif shakes his head and refills his glass.

‘You certainly look as if you have.’

‘How can you tell?’ he asks her.

‘Your eyes are swollen. As if they’ve relaxed properly for once.’

‘It’s probably just an allergic reaction.’

‘Oh, you poor thing. You shouldn’t have joined us on that horse-and-cart ride. Have you taken your medication? Do you feel better for it?’

‘A bit, perhaps.’

Elisabeth strokes his cheeks and gazes at him as if he were a baby. Then she kicks off her shoes. He can hear Julie singing happily through the open bathroom door.

‘Are you going to fix the alarm today?’

‘What?’

‘The burglar alarm. We must get someone in to take a look at it.’

‘Oh, right.’

Thorleif had already forgotten that the alarm had, unexpectedly, not been working when they came back from Bogstad Farm.

‘Daddy,’ Julie shouts as she comes storming out of the bathroom. ‘Do you know what?’

‘No.’

‘I’ve learned to ride my bicycle!’

Her sense of triumph is written large across her face.

‘Really?’

Julie nods, bursting with pride.

‘Do you want to see, Daddy? Do you want me to show you?’

Thorleif looks at Elisabeth. Julie’s parents are bursting with pride, too.

‘Of course I want you to show me, sweetheart. Hang on, let me just put my shoes on.’

Chapter 16

Henning walks across the golden brown floor of Jarlen. A wall painted red at the top and white at the bottom welcomes him to the restaurant. The wall sconces look like hats someone thought it would be amusing to turn upside down. There are white tablecloths and napkins on the tables but hardly any customers eating at them.

Henning picks a table in the middle of the room, orders Danish-style beefburger with potatoes, vegetables and pickled beetroot for no other reason than he likes Denmark and the Danes. While he waits for his food, he looks out of the window at the five-metre-high wall across the road.

Oslo Prison.

He is somewhere inside it, Henning thinks, the man with information about the fire. The time when he meets Tore Pulli face to face can’t come soon enough.

Henning is still feeling uncomfortably full after his meal when Geir Gronningen shows up, two hours and fifteen minutes after their brief chat at Fighting Fit. He has showered and is wearing tight leather trousers and a white T-shirt which strains over his belly. His steps are measured and decisive, and his arms hang well away from his upper body as if something has been stuffed under his armpits. His long hair falls loosely over his shoulders, but his hairline has retreated high up his forehead and has made room for deep frown lines.

Henning gets up when Gronningen appears. ‘I don’t think we managed to introduce ourselves properly earlier,’ he says and holds out his hand. ‘Henning Juul.’

Gronningen shakes his hand reluctantly. ‘You’ve got a nerve,’ he says as he sits down.

‘Why is that?’

‘Walking straight into the gym and talking to me about what I-’

Gronningen breaks off, looks around, but all he sees is a noisy family with children at a table further away.

‘You’re lucky no one saw you,’ he continues.

‘I am or you are?’

Gronningen doesn’t reply.

‘So no one knows that you’re trying to find out who set Tore up?’

Gronningen looks at Henning. His lips form the beginning of an answer, but Henning sees that he opts for an alternative reply. ‘Turning up at the gym and asking questions about people isn’t very smart,’ he says archly. ‘People might think you’re trying to fit them up.’

‘And they’ve developed this paranoia because they’ve been law-abiding citizens all their lives?’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘I think so. But I wanted to talk to you because Veronica said that you’ve tried to help Tore while he has been inside.’

‘I’ve tried and tried, Mrs Blom,’ he says and looks down.

‘So you haven’t found anything out?’

Gronningen studies his napkin in detail. ‘Not much, no.’

‘That probably explains why Tore rang me yesterday,’ Henning says and waits for Gronningen to look up. Which he does half a second later.

‘Did he?’

‘Yes. He asked for my help. Since you’re clearly trying to help him too, I thought we might be useful to each other.’

Gronningen snorts with ill-concealed contempt.

‘I get it,’ Henning continues. ‘You don’t know if you can trust me. And no one has claimed the one-million-krone reward yet. But you can relax, Geir. I don’t give a toss about the money. I have my own reason for doing this.’

‘What reason would that be?’

‘This is how we do it,’ Henning says and waits until he has Gronningen’s undivided attention. ‘I tell you everything you want to know about me and why I’m here, and then you tell me what you know about your friend’s case. I’m interested in anyone who knew Tore. Who they were and what they stood for.’

Gronningen directs his dark-brown eyes at a floral arrangement on one of the console tables.

‘I don’t snitch on my mates,’ he says in a mournful voice that suggests that he has just betrayed a lifelong principle.

‘I’m not asking you to. All you have to do is tell me a bit about Tore and how he got on with his friends, how they treated each other. You don’t have to talk about what they got up to if you don’t want to. And just to make it clear: I’m only interested in this story. If I should stumble across anything else while I’m sniffing around I’ll leave it alone.’

Henning is surprised when he realises that he actually means what he says.

Many seconds pass without Gronningen saying anything. At regular intervals he looks at Henning before his gaze breaks away. The waiter comes over to their table. Gronningen orders a Wiener schnitzel with extra potatoes and vegetables. When the waiter has gone, Henning leans across the table.

‘My son died,’ he says, and a lump forms instantly in his throat. ‘I tried to rescue him from my flat. Somebody set fire to it.’ Henning tries to swallow. ‘Tore says that he knows something about what happened that day. He has promised to tell me what it is — if I help him. That’s the only reward I’m looking for. I’ll do anything to make Tore tell me what he knows. No matter what that is or where it takes me.’ He pauses for effect. Gronningen stares pensively at the table. ‘And it’s fine if you don’t want to help me help your friend. But I promise you, Geir, I’m not going to go away. Not now, not ever.’

Henning notices that his voice is trembling. Even so Gronningen remains silent.

‘You don’t happen to know something, do you?’ Henning continues after a pause.

‘Eh?’

‘About the fire in my flat?’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, you — given that you and Tore are such close friends. If Tore knows something then it’s not inconceivable that he might have told you.’

‘He didn’t.’

Henning concentrates on Gronningen’s eyes. At the other table a family erupts in a collective giggling fit. Gronningen quickly turns in their direction before resuming his study of the napkin in front of him. He picks it up and spreads it out.

‘How was he?’ he asks.

‘Tore? I don’t know. I’ve never met him so I don’t know what he was like before. And I didn’t speak to him for very long.’

‘I haven’t spoken to him for a long time.’

‘Why not?’

‘He’s only allowed one visit a week and Veronica gets first pick. That’s all they’ve got, the two of them, so the rest of us tend to leave them alone.’

Henning refrains from saying anything for a while. He senses that Gronningen has started to open up.

‘It has been difficult to talk about Tore since he went to prison,’ he says. ‘Nobody really wants to, and in a way we’ve put it behind us. I’ve tried to find out where everyone was the night that Jocke Brolenius was killed, but people were either with each other or they were out of town.’

Henning nods. ‘But you knew that Tore was meeting Jocke Brolenius?’

‘Yes, several of us did. He came to the gym to work out before he drove up to the old factory.’

Henning picks up a jug on the table and fills his glass with water. He looks at Gronningen to see if he wants some and Gronningen holds out his glass without nodding.

‘Can you describe Tore to me?’ Henning asks as he pours the water. ‘I mean from a friend’s perspective?’

Gronningen sighs and starts to reminisce. Suddenly he breaks into a smile. ‘The first time I met Tore, he punched me in the face.’

‘Why?’ Henning asks, mirroring his smile.

‘Because I had just put Tore’s cousin in hospital for chatting up my girlfriend. Petter was only a boy then, so Tore had to step in. He broke my jaw.’

Gronningen touches his face and briefly strokes the beard that decorates his chin.

‘When I came to, he squatted down in front of me and said, “I look after my own. I just want you to remember that.”’

‘And from then on you were best mates?’ Henning asks in disbelief.

‘Well, not straight away. But he saw that I had what it took and that’s why he recruited me for-’

‘The enforcer business?’

‘Call it what you will. He put me up for the odd job here and there. In time, we grew to be best mates even though there were lots of contenders for that role.’

‘How come?’ Henning asks, and sips his water.

‘Tore was a popular guy. And he was feared as well. Being around Tore gave you a certain status. Everyone looked up to him. He got whatever he wanted. And I’m not just thinking of his job, but… other things.’

‘What things?’

‘One day we were watching some reality-TV show when Veronica appeared on the screen. And Tore said, “I want her!” And that’s what happened.’

Henning twirls the glass in his hands. ‘And did he get whatever he wanted in the property business, too?’

‘Yes, on the whole.’

‘Did he have any enemies in the property business?’

‘I’m sure he did, but I doubt if any of them would have gone to so much trouble to get rid of him. It would have been simpler just to have him killed.’

That sounds very reasonable, Henning thinks. Tore’s meeting with Jocke Brolenius was an internal affair which had nothing to do with his legitimate business activities.

‘I understand Tore met with some resistance when you discussed what to do about murder of Vidar Fjell?’

‘Not just some.’

‘Who shouted the loudest?’

Henning folds his hands and leans closer.

‘Irene Otnes. Vidar’s girlfriend. She made it clear that she wanted revenge, and there was no shortage of volunteers. Petter was one of them. But Tore put his foot down. All hell would have broken loose if we had picked a fight with a Swedish gang.’

‘Was anyone apart from Irene Otnes out for blood?’

‘We all were.’

‘I mean was anyone especially incensed and did they express their anger or disgust at Tore because he didn’t want revenge?’

Gronningen mulls over the question. ‘Robert.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Robert van Derksen. A martial-arts instructor. He was a good mate of Vidar’s, but Tore and Robert weren’t exactly best mates. Or they weren’t then.’

‘Why not?’

Gronningen breathes out. ‘One night, three or four years ago, we went to the opening of Order @ the Bar in the city centre. Veronica was there with some of her models. Free drinks. You know what these events are like.’

‘Robert helped himself — quite liberally you could say — and I’m not just talking about the drinks. It looked as if he thought the girls were free too. Tore didn’t like Robert pawing Veronica’s girls and told him to lay off — for all the good that did — and when, a little later, Tore took him outside to cool down, Robert tried to hit him. Tore saw the punch come a week in advance.’

Henning raises an eyebrow. ‘Didn’t you just say that van Derksen was a martial-arts instructor?’

‘Yes, but he was shit-faced that night. When he sobered up and heard what had happened he felt humiliated. Things between the two of them were never the same again.’

‘So Robert van Derksen had a motive for killing Jocke Brolenius and setting Tore Pulli up?’

‘Yes.’

‘But could he have broken Brolenius’s jaw? In the style of Pulli?’

‘Yes, definitely,’ Gronningen replies without hesitation before he adds, ‘It’s not that difficult. All it takes is a bit of practice.’

Chapter 17

Henning decides to walk home from Akebergveien, an exercise usually conducive to thinking. And he has much to digest after his meetings with Veronica Nansen and Geir Gronningen, especially the information Gronningen gave him about Robert van Derksen. According to Gronningen, van Derksen claimed to be with a woman on the night that Brolenius was killed, although Gronningen was ashamed to admit that he had never double-checked his alibi. Van Derksen had a habit of replacing his women frequently, and Gronningen hadn’t been able to remember which particular woman he had been with at the time. ‘And I’m not sure that Robert would be able to remember either,’ was how he put it.

When Henning comes home he visits the bodybuilding website www.hardenever.no and finds a picture of Robert van Derksen showing off an oiled torso, a six-pack and rippling muscles in his arms and legs, posing in combat style. Henning reads about the courses he teaches: karate, tae kwon do and Krav Maga — and realises that he can’t simply turn up on van Derksen’s doorstep and ask if he murdered Jocke Brolenius. He could sign up for one of the courses and ask if van Derksen would teach him the Pulli punch, but such questions rely on familiarity and trust. And both take time — which Henning doesn’t have.

There must be another way, he thinks, and rings the contact number listed at the bottom of the screen.

‘Hi, my name is Henning Juul from the internet newspaper 123news. Am I speaking to Robert van Derksen?’

‘You are,’ van Derksen replies, sounding bored. His voice is lighter than Henning had expected, bordering on meek.

‘Sorry for disturbing you on a Sunday, but I’m working on a story about Tore Pulli. I understand that the two of you knew each other well?’

There is silence.

‘I’ve got nothing to say about Tore.’

‘You don’t need to say anything about Tore,’ Henning is quick to add, scared that van Derksen might hang up on him. ‘I’m more interested in the murder of Jocke Brolenius. I think there may have been a miscarriage of justice and that Tore might be innocent,’ Henning continues.

The seconds pass.

‘Why do you think that?’

Henning waits a few more moments before he replies: ‘Because certain things in the case against him don’t make sense. The murder weapon has never been found, for one. And if Tore really wanted to kill someone, I don’t think he would have left his calling card behind at the crime scene.’

Another silence.

‘What do you mean?’

‘The Pulli punch,’ Henning continues, feeling himself warming to his subject. ‘Brolenius’s fractured jaw. I think that someone with strong fists wanted it to look as if Tore killed Jocke Brolenius.’

Henning lets his words take effect. Many long seconds of silence follow.

‘Are you still there?’ he asks eventually.

‘You need to call someone else,’ van Derksen says. ‘I’ve got nothing to say to you.’

And the line goes dead.

Henning looks at his mobile as if it could tell him why van Derksen went from being interested to cutting him off. Perhaps he got nervous, Henning thinks. Or perhaps he just didn’t want to talk to a journalist.

Henning reviews the information he has obtained during the day. It’s a fair amount. But he still can’t work out how Pulli knew that he was back at work. As far as Henning is aware, prison inmates don’t have Internet access. Did someone tell Pulli? In which case who could it have been? Neither Veronica Nansen nor Geir Gronningen gave the impression of ever having heard of Henning before.

Henning googles his own and Tore Pulli’s name on the Internet but only finds stories he wrote years ago. Henning pulls a face. Something doesn’t add up, he thinks. His reputation is not of sufficient calibre for an inmate to whom he has never previously spoken to call him up out of the blue to ask for his help. There are private investigators who would happily take on this kind of work, and Pulli has enough money to pay them. Henning types the word ‘private investigator’ and googles it with Pulli’s name, but he isn’t rewarded with helpful hits this time either.

Given that a reward of one million kroner was on the table there can only be two reasons why no one has come forward with information that could free Pulli. Either the real killer is so smart that he hasn’t aroused even the slightest suspicion amongst his own people or Tore Pulli is guilty and is merely putting on a show.

Henning butters a slice of crispbread and eats it while he walks up and down the living room. His eyes stop at the dark-brown piano. As always, the lid is closed. He doesn’t want to look at it, at everything it represents. But then he hears Veronica Nansen’s voice. He takes one hesitant step towards the piano before he pauses. Then he takes another towards the piano stool. He pulls it out. Slowly, he sits down and visualises the keys trapped under the lid, tempting ebony and ivory.

He opens the lid with great care. His stomach lurches just at the sight of the keys. Silently, he folds back the lid as his eyes glide from side to side. He remembers how his fingers used to run off, finding their own ways and following any path they liked, repeating movements and sequences until slowly but surely they formed wider roads in an increasingly familiar terrain. He loved how the tone coloured the walls, how the sound and its resonance opened up parallel worlds the moment he closed his eyes.

Henning places his fingers on G7, one of his favourite chords; he didn’t know that’s what it was until he pressed the same keys on a digital piano many years ago, an instrument which was hooked up to a computer, and the name came up on the screen. He has learned the names of his favourite chords — Cm7, E?7b5: chords that cry out to be followed by pure tones. But he was searching for contrasts, exploring the relationship between harmony and discord, believing that something pure and right would emerge out of the dissonance and the friction, something that would grow stronger and transform even disharmony into harmony. Often he would hit random keys until he stumbled across something he liked, something to which he could add side chords and compose a melody around.

Now he barely hears the tones, not to begin with, but they grow, they force their way inside him and compel him to listen, to let the notes resonate, and he gets a strong urge to strike them down again so they can lift him up and away from time and space, but his fingers lock, he is unable to lift them, and gradually every note in the chord blends with the others to create a melange of sound that vibrates and cascades. Soon all that is left is chaos which quietly dies away.

Henning retracts his hands with effort. He realises he hasn’t been breathing for a while. Then he closes the lid.

Chapter 18

Monday morning, Henning hangs up his jacket at the office and looks at Iver Gundersen’s face. As always it displays traces of the night before. The bags under his eyes are puffy. His cheeks and chin are unshaven even though some areas show evidence of a razor. His long hair falls like a fringed scarf over his shoulders. The fibres on the elbows of his cord jacket are frayed.

Henning nods quickly in Iver’s direction, thinking he can detect a hint of Nora’s moisturiser across the table. Sodding coconut.

‘Good weekend?’ Iver says, without looking at Henning.

‘It was all right.’

Henning registers a nod, but doesn’t feel the need to reciprocate. He sits down, turns on his computer, puts down his mobile, removes some papers from his desk and types in his username and password. Other journalists start to arrive. Henning hears sleepy grunts, chit-chat, someone laughs. He has no idea how he will be able to concentrate on work today.

He only managed a few hours’ shut-eye before going to the office. His sleep was fitful, and he woke up with a pounding headache that has yet to release its grip on him. However, he managed to do some research last night which he hopes will be useful during the day. The question, simply, is when.

‘Coffee?’

Iver gets up. Henning shakes his head even though he quite fancies a cup. Iver lingers for a moment before he hurries to join the queue, occasionally stealing a glance at the national news section where Henning is sitting. He looks away whenever Henning looks back at him.

Henning remembers how Iver, in the weeks that followed the Henriette Hagerup story, was very happy to accept pats on the back when he didn’t think Henning was watching. But his smug and self-satisfied facade disappeared whenever Henning entered his field of vision. Iver’s eyes took on an unfathomable expression. Gratitude, possibly, mixed with guilt and a kind of shame because Henning knew the real truth. And for that very reason there was also irritation and even resentment. Ever since Iver returned from his holidays, they have only exchanged small talk, but Henning senses that something unspoken hangs in the air between them.

‘The Eagle is in a bad mood today,’ Iver says when he comes back.

‘Who is?’

‘Heidi. She dropped by earlier.’

‘Right.’

The Eagle, Henning thinks. Good nickname. He clicks on the publishing tool and opens some websites.

‘Are you ready for the morning meeting?’ Iver asks as he sits down.

‘I’ve tried and tried, Mrs Blom.’

Iver quickly presses some buttons on his mobile before he puts it down. He stares vacantly into space‚ then he suddenly turns to Henning.

‘Who the hell is Mrs Blom?’

Henning meets Iver’s puzzled face.

‘I keep hearing people talk about her, but I’ve no idea who she is. I doubt that anyone does.’

‘Why — because you don’t?’

‘No,’ Iver says, a little shamefaced. ‘But nowadays people use all these expressions without knowing what they really mean or where they come from. “Once in a blue moon.” “Fit as a fiddle.” “Not on my nelly.” “I’ve tried and tried, Mrs Blom.” I find it really quite irritating.’

Henning looks briefly at Iver before he says, ‘It’s a term intended to express moderation or reservation.’

‘Yes, I get that, obviously. But who is Mrs Blom?’

Again there is silence between the desks.

‘It’s a line from Carousel,’ Henning says, reluctantly.

‘Eh?’

‘It’s a comedy by Alex Brinchmann. There is no mention of a Mrs Blom in the script, but the actor Per Aabel ad-libbed during rehearsals. And it stayed in.’

Iver sips his coffee.

‘That’s all there is to it, seriously?’ he says, sounding incredulous as he turns his mug in his hands.

‘That depends entirely on how you look at it. Do you want me to go through the other expressions?’

Iver stares at Henning for a long time, initially with amazement, until he realises that Henning isn’t joking. Iver looks at his watch.

‘We haven’t got time,’ he says, getting up. ‘The Eagle awaits.’

Chapter 19

Entering the TV2 building in the middle of Karl Johansgate, Oslo’s main street, has always instilled in Thorleif Brenden a feeling of being a part of something important. It has nothing to do with the size of the building; it is the knowledge of all those people working in one place towards a common goal and yet in fierce competition with each other. He feels proud when he nods to the receptionist, when he swipes his staff card through the reader with practised ease and enters the lift, greeting producers, editors, reporters and anyone else there with the same purpose: creating programmes that will enlighten or entertain the people of Norway.

Thorleif remembers his first weeks working for TV2 and how he would look at everyone, surreptitiously, to see if he recognised them. And he did, of course. Everywhere. Glamorous TV personality Dorte Skappel, without make-up and in jeans. Journalist Oddvar Stenstrom, for once not wagging his finger at a hapless guest. News anchor Pal T. Jorgensen, just as well groomed off camera as he is on. Everyone who was anyone was there. And they were all normal people.

Thorleif began his TV2 career in 2000 after nearly five years of studying in the USA, where he obtained a bachelor’s degree in film and television and started a master’s in documentary filmmaking which he never completed. He much preferred working to writing even though he has always enjoyed the latter. For a man with his background, getting a foot in the door at TV2 was fairly easy. The corporation always needed freelancers with his skills, and to begin with he worked thirty days every month — even in February, or at least that was how it felt. In the end he had to slow down. It wasn’t a realistic long-term plan, especially after he started seeing Elisabeth. And certainly not once Pal was born.

In 2002, he covered someone’s leave of absence, and he was offered a full-time employment contract the following year. Since then, he has worked for various departments within the corporation to avoid doing the same thing every day. However, he mostly works for the news desk. He has been to Afghanistan, Iraq, Chechnya and several African countries — places where history is being written. He has helped tell their stories, risking his life on occasion. The trip to Kenya in 2008 was a particularly bad time.

It was just after the election. Several hundred Kikuyu had sought refuge in a church in the town of Eldoret because no one could make up their mind who had won. A furious mob set fire to the church, and between fifty and one hundred people were killed, many of them children. Anyone who tried to escape was hacked to death with machetes.

Thorleif was working on the day it happened, and the international news editor decided that TV2 should cover the situation because it was starting to look like another Rwanda. Accompanied by the seasoned war correspondent Frode Greverud, Thorleif packed his camera and sound equipment and set off. Having landed in Nairobi, they travelled to Eldoret the next day. They could only travel during daylight because it was impossible to know what or who you might bump into at night.

They had talked to local people and the Red Cross in advance and had learned where it was safe to go, but on their way to Eldoret they came across a bus of refugees. Thorleif and Greverud stopped and decided to make a feature about them. This delayed them by forty-five minutes, which meant they didn’t reach Eldoret before sunset. Three kilometres from the town the darkness was total. Either side of the road were lines of narrow, rickety houses. Suddenly they saw that the road had been deliberately blocked with hundreds of rocks. It was impossible to drive through.

Twenty to twenty-five men approached their car with gleaming machetes. Thorleif looked at Greverud, a man with years of experience of areas torn apart by conflict. He didn’t know what they should do either. They were unable to drive on or to reverse. The driver they had hired for the trip was black, but fortunately he was from a neutral tribe, otherwise he, and possibly they too, would have been hacked to death.

The men let them pass, and the next day they visited the church. There they spoke to two young men who claimed to have witnessed the massacre. Thorleif and Greverud didn’t notice anyone approaching but soon found themselves surrounded by twenty locals. Foreign visitors were exotic; the cameras and microphones were attracting attention.

Suddenly they heard a gunshot. Then another and another. The bullets whizzed over their heads. Total panic broke out. Greverud signalled to Thorleif that they had to get out of there, but there were only two dirt roads, one leading directly towards the shooter while the other would take them further into the bush. The men they had been interviewing ran that way. Greverud pulled Thorleif into the car where they took cover.

But the gunman came closer. For a few frantic seconds they sat as if frozen in the front of the car. Should they drive in the direction of the shooter or follow the people being shot at? They decided to drive towards the gunman, to make themselves known to him, to show him that they were white. When the car was only a couple of metres from the gunman, he stopped. They saw that he was carrying a Norwegian AG-3 battle rifle, of all things. There was no chance of escape. Thorleif was convinced that he was about to die. It would take the gunman three seconds to shoot them down. Possibly not even that.

But rather than kill them, he crouched behind their car. Thorleif filmed the gunman as he shot at the men they had just been interviewing, footage which was broadcast on TV2 later that day. The shooting was a personal vendetta by a soldier from another tribe. But the fear of death that overcame Thorleif when he thought the gunman was going to kill them was impossible to describe. He has tried since, using pen and paper and in conversation with others, but he has never succeeded. It happened so quickly. Once when he was young he was in a car that aquaplaned on the motorway at 115 kilometres an hour. Three seconds later the car had come to a standstill with broken windows in a thicket of bushes and trees. On that occasion he had not managed to think anything at all before the crisis was over either.

Later that day in Eldoret, Greverud and Thorleif visited a hospital where they filmed a man who had had half his face destroyed in an acid attack. ‘Show the world,’ he said. ‘Show people what is happening here.’ And it’s moments like that when Thorleif understands the value of his work. Its importance. To uncover cruelty, to draw attention to it, to expose it to the world so that the global community can take action.

Not long afterwards, two Nobel Peace Prize winners visited the area to broker a ceasefire. The conflict was resolved. It was unlikely to be as a result of the footage Thorleif had shot, but it might have contributed to saving some lives. Shortly after returning to Norway he went to Parliament to interview opposition politicians who were unhappy about the state of Norwegian roads and he felt like throwing up.

Today probably won’t involve a trip to Eldoret, Thorleif thinks, as he takes a seat at one of the vacant workstations in the technical department on the second floor. None of the producers or photo editors is there. A quiet day in the office is not to be sniffed at.

Thorleif goes on the intranet and finds DeskPlanner to see if anyone has booked him for a job today. At the moment it looks quiet, but he knows things can change without notice.

‘Hi, Toffe.’

Thorleif turns around. Guri Palme strolls into the room with her trademark elegant ease. It’s as if the room expands. She always has an infectious, rather seductive smile on her face. Palme looks around.

‘I was actually looking for Reinertsen, but-’

‘I’ve just come in,’ Thorleif says. ‘I haven’t seen him yet.’

‘No? Perhaps you could come on a job with me?’

‘Certainly. What’s it about?’

‘Nothing fancy, we’re just visiting a solicitor who is working from home today. But we need to leave in fifteen minutes.’

‘Okay. Will you be needing anything specific for the recording?’

‘No. And, anyway, you always have the coolest sound and camera equipment, so-’

Thorleif smiles, watches her go over to the water cooler and press a button that releases a plastic cup. Her blue jeans fit snugly around her ankles and thighs. Her jacket only covers half her bottom so that he can just about make out what it conceals. The art of suggestion. Guri Palme masters it.

‘Listen, you might know how to go about this,’ Thorleif says, swivelling around on his chair so that he is looking directly at her.

‘What?’

‘You’ve been a crime reporter for while. Have you ever needed to identify a car registration number?’

‘Yes, I have. Lots of times. Why?’

Thorleif hesitates.

‘I’m just curious.’

‘You can send the number to a text-based service, but I can’t remember their number off the top of my head. Anyway, it might be easier to go on the website for Bronnoysund Register Centre.’

‘Please would you show me?’

‘Sure,’ she smiles and marches over to him. Thorleif rolls his chair aside to make room for her. As Palme leans over the keyboard her blonde hair falls forwards, but she tucks the tresses behind her ears so that they don’t obstruct her view. She smells of something lovely. Thorleif doesn’t know if it’s her shampoo or perfume. Not that it matters. It’s a good smell.

‘Here you go,’ Palme says, turning to face him. ‘You type in the number in that field there,’ she says, pointing at the screen. ‘Then you press enter, and, abracadabra, you’ll get a page with information about the car.’

‘Wow,’ he says. ‘That’s brilliant. Thank you so much.’

‘No problem. But make sure you’re ready. Fifteen minutes.’

‘Okay. I’ll meet you in the car park.’

Palme disappears, but the scent of her lingers behind. Summer sky and meadows, he thinks. What a woman.

He ends his reverie to focus on the task in hand. He remembers the registration number of the annoying BMW and types it in, then he presses enter. A new window opens. He reads:

As of 27.07.2009 the following liabilities were registered in respect of vehicle registration number BR 65607: Security for unpaid balance of the purchase of the motor vehicle. NOK 763,910.00. Click on the date for further information about liabilities.

Thorleif clicks on the date.

Submitted by 1134291 DNB Bank Car Financing

Loans Administration Department, PO Box 7125

5020 BERGEN

Relating to person/business:

Ravndal, Anthon

Bekkestuveien 13a

1357 Bekkestua

‘Anthon Ravndal,’ Thorleif says and looks up the man’s telephone number. ‘Good to know.’

Chapter 20

‘Your turn, Henning.’

He looks up and meets the sharp eyes of national news editor Heidi Kjus. Henning hasn’t noticed it until now, but Heidi has had a haircut. Short and modern, though he doesn’t really know why he thinks it looks modern — how would he know? And for once her make-up doesn’t look like war paint.

‘Eh?’

‘What about you? What’s in your notebook today? We have been through Iver, Rita and Jorgen. You were paying attention, weren’t you?’

‘Of course.’

‘What have you got for us today?’

Henning looks down at the notebook which he brought with him to the meeting mainly for show. The top sheet is blank. He considered writing down Tore Pulli’s name but decided it wasn’t an obvious story. Not yet.

‘Well, I’m not really sure,’ he begins.

There is silence all around him. The eyes of everyone in the meeting room make the skin on his forehead tingle.

‘There’s not much happening at the moment.’

‘So nothing for us today either, Henning?’ Heidi Kjus asks.

‘It’s very quiet out there. It has been an uneventful summer.’

Kjus looks at him over the rim of her glasses and pushes them further up her nose. He hasn’t noticed the glasses until now either.

‘I’m aware of it,’ she says. ‘But then you have to go out and find the news. We can’t just sit here hoping for stories to drop into our laps. We need to chase them. Talk to people. Our number of hits have been disappointing this summer.’

‘They always are.’

‘Yes, but-’

‘I have an appointment later today,’ he continues, and takes a sip of his coffee. ‘I’m meeting a source.’

It’s the oldest reporter excuse in the book, but it usually works.

‘Which story is this?’

‘I can’t tell you anything at this stage.’

Heidi is about to say something, but stops herself. ‘What did you just say?’

‘If I get what I’m hoping for from my source, it could turn into a story. But until then I’m keeping my mouth shut.’

‘Just so,’ Heidi says, offended, and shakes her head almost imperceptibly, but enough for everyone around the table to register it. She draws a long hard line under Henning’s name on her sheet. ‘Then you’re on cuttings duty until further notice.’

Henning’s jaw drops. ‘Cuttings duty?’

‘Yes. You know what cuttings duty is, don’t you?’

‘Yes. Of course I do.’

‘There’s no one from the cuttings team here today. Ill health, holiday and blah blah blah. Plus Egil is taking time off in lieu. I’ll send you NTB’s news list shortly, Henning, and the list of today’s stories to everyone else.’

Henning sees that Iver is grinning from ear to ear.

‘Quick, quick,’ Heidi says, making get-out-of-here gestures with her hands. ‘I’m off to an editors’ meeting and half the day has gone already.’

Chairs are pushed back, and they stand up. Henning is the last to leave. ‘Cuttings,’ he mutters to himself. ‘Lucky me.’ Another time he might have kicked up a fuss or spent a minute or two before the meeting inventing a story, a follow-up — anything — to give Heidi the impression he was busy. But cuttings duty is practically a no-brainer. He can spend the time between cutting and pasting stories doing further research on Tore Pulli and the people around him. Henning knows he has barely scratched the surface.

Chapter 21

The secretary’s friendly smile reaches all the way down the handset. Henning thanks her and waits for her to route the call through the switchboard at the offices of Johnsen, Urne amp; Olsvik. Henning has been there before, but now that Heidi has put him on cuttings duty he doesn’t have the time to visit Frode Olsvik, Pulli’s solicitor, in person.

He produces two stories during the first two hours of his day at the office, one about bad weather hampering the search for survivors after a plane crash in Pakistan which has so far claimed the lives of 158 people and a brief eight-liner about four men charged with the gang rape of a woman in a basement flat in Nordstrand last weekend. News-agency stories both of them. Henning forgets all about them when Olsvik’s well-upholstered voice winds its way down his mobile. Henning introduces himself.

‘Good morning, Juul.’

‘Hi. Do you remember me?’

‘I do,’ the lawyer says, and clears his throat. Frode Olsvik is a defence lawyer who would have fitted right into an episode of LA Law in the late eighties. He wears tailor-made suits, braces and treats his guests to a large selection of single-malt whiskies from crystal carafes in his drawing room. But despite working long hours he appears to have both a happy wife and well-adjusted children, something Henning has picked up from other crime reporters who are Facebook friends of Olsvik.

‘My condolences,’ he says. ‘I heard about your son. How are you?’

‘Thank you, I’m not too bad.’

‘I saw that you had returned to work.’

‘Where did you see that?’

Olsvik laughs. ‘Even though I don’t have much time for your paper, I do occasionally socialise with your boss. It’s nothing personal, you understand.’

‘Perfectly. Can you spare a minute?’

‘One, yes, but no more. My next client is due shortly.’

‘Okay, I’ll try to be brief. It’s about Tore Pulli. How long is it until his appeal will be heard?’

‘Let me have a look-’

Fingers leaf through a diary.

‘We’re starting next week. Why? Are you planning a feature on him?’

‘I don’t know‚ to be honest. But could I ask you a question first, please? Off the record, did he do it?’

Olsvik laughs out loud. ‘You know very well I can’t answer that question, Juul.’

‘Haven’t you ever asked him?’

‘I never ask my clients that question. They are legally entitled to a good defence whether they’re guilty or not.’

‘But Pulli claims that he is innocent and that he was set up.’

‘He does.’

‘What do you think about that?’

‘What do I think about that?’

‘You must have met some villains in your time. Many of them must have sworn to you that they were innocent, and most of them would have been lying through their teeth. Given Pulli’s past, then-’

‘I can’t discuss that with you, Juul,’ Olsvik cuts him off.

‘Okay, fair enough,’ Henning replies. ‘What’s Pulli’s explanation as to why his fingerprints were found on the knuckle-duster?’

Olsvik delays his reply for a few seconds. ‘Haven’t you read the verdict?’

‘No, I… I haven’t got that far yet.’

Another silence.

‘Well. It was Tore’s knuckle-duster. His old one.’

‘Which he used when he was an enforcer?’

‘Yes. He claims that someone must have stolen it.’

‘When?’

‘He doesn’t know.’

‘But it was his knuckle-duster that was used during the attack?’

‘Yes. Traces of Brolenius’s skin and beard were found on it.’

Henning thinks about this, and he grabs a pen by the notebook without quite knowing why. Heidi appears from around the corner. Henning lowers his voice.

‘The murder weapon was never found. What was Pulli’s explanation for that?’

‘Pulli thinks it’s inconceivable that the prosecutor would believe that he would hide the murder weapon elsewhere only to return to the crime scene later. That was one of the reasons why we appealed the verdict immediately.’

Henning ponders this. ‘Will you be introducing any new evidence for the appeal? Information that wasn’t available first time round?’

‘Not at the moment. Juul, I have to go-’

‘Just one last quick question if I may, Olsvik.’

Olsvik sighs theatrically before agreeing.

‘Has your client ever spoken to you about… about me?’

‘About you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘I don’t know. But has he ever done so?’

‘Eh, no. Not that I can remember.’

‘Has he ever mentioned my son?’

‘Your son? No,’ Olsvik says. ‘Why do you ask that, Juul?’

A clammy, lonely feeling overwhelms him. ‘Forget I asked. I was just curious.’

Chapter 22

Henning informs Heidi before he leaves for the police station. On his way he calls Pia Nokleby. She is by no means the only assistant commissioner at the police station, but he has had more contact with Nokleby than with anyone else there since his return to work.

‘Hi Pia, it’s Henning Juul.’

‘Hi Henning.’

‘Do you have a couple of minutes?’

It takes a while before she replies: ‘Yes, I think so. What’s it about?’

‘Would you come outside, please?’

‘Outside where?’

‘Out on the grass. I’m outside the station.’

This is a lie — he hasn’t got there yet — but it will take her some time to get down from the fifth floor.

‘Now?’

‘Yes, please. I’m bored standing here on my own even though the weather is nice.’

Another pause.

‘I’m due in a meeting very shortly, but-’

‘I’ve bought you an ice cream.’

Lie number two.

‘Have you now? But I’m on a diet.’

‘On a diet? You?’

‘Ha-ha.’

Henning laughs, even though he knows it sounds false.

‘Okay, give me a couple of minutes. I feel in need of a break.’

‘I’m on the bench to your left as you come out. Hurry up, your ice cream is melting.’

‘Yes, all right, I’m on my way.’

Nokleby walks briskly past a group of smokers occupying their usual spot a short distance from the main entrance. A blue cloud of cigarette smoke rises towards the sun. Henning waves when he sees her.

As always, the assistant commissioner is in uniform. Her sunglasses emphasise her bone structure. Henning hasn’t noticed it before, but she is actually rather attractive. Distinctive cheekbones, not too defined, just enough to endow her face with shape and character. When she comes closer, he sees that her skin is unblemished and lightly tanned. She has no bags under her eyes though he knows how hard she works. Her dark hair is cut short over her ears and neck and combed into a neat side parting to the left without a fringe to block her view. Her glossy hair has a touch of auburn. She fills out the uniform, not too much, but not too little either.

Nokleby sits down next to him.

‘Hi Henning.’

‘Hi.’

He hands her the ice cream: strawberry soft ice in a cup which he bought in a kiosk across the road.

‘I took a wild guess that you liked strawberry.’

‘All girls like strawberry,’ she smiles.

Henning watches her rip off the cellophane from the spoon that comes with the ice cream. She raises the cup to him.

‘Thank you very much.’

‘Don’t mention it.’

‘Are you trying to bribe me?’

‘Yes. Is it working?’

‘Let me taste the ice cream first and then I’ll tell you.’

Henning smiles again as he watches her scoop out the soft ice. She swallows a mouthful and closes her eyes.

‘Not bad. Not bad at all.’

Henning laughs. Nokleby raises her eyes towards the avenue that leads up to Oslo Prison.

‘I presume you haven’t just come here to eat ice cream.’

Henning takes a bite of his own ice cream. ‘I’ve started looking into the case of Tore Pulli,’ he says and swallows. Nokleby eats another spoonful and looks at him.

‘There was evidence at the crime scene that indicated that Pulli did it, while other clues pointed elsewhere. I’m just curious: did you consider other suspects?’

Nokleby smiles indulgently. ‘We didn’t just find one piece of evidence and build the case on that alone — if that’s what you’re implying.’

‘It wouldn’t be the first time.’

‘Not since I’ve been here.’ Nokleby licks her lips and puts down her ice cream.

‘Some of Tore’s friends wouldn’t agree with you. They go so far as to claim that the police have been hunting Tore for years.’

‘Hunting?’

‘Yes, trying to frame him.’

‘For God’s sake,’ she scoffs. ‘Anyone who says that has been watching too many American movies. The police in Norway don’t frame people, Henning.’

‘The press regularly run stories about substandard police work, inappropriate charges, evidence going missing — being planted even, in some cases. Do you really think it’s that strange that people in the street don’t have total faith in the ethical and moral integrity of today’s law enforcers? That some people might think that a case such as Pulli’s is as much about saving face as it is about the truth?’

Nokleby doesn’t reply. Her arms are folded across her chest. The colour of her cheeks has darkened. For a while they watch the green area outside the police station. Near the pavement a man is pushing a lawnmower up and down.

‘It wasn’t my intention to criticise you, Pia,’ Henning says, after a long pause.

‘No, I know.’

‘Pulli called the police himself, didn’t he?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you trawled the neighbourhood looking for the murder weapon?’

‘Obviously.’

‘Why did Pulli return to the crime scene to call the police?’

‘Probably because he couldn’t find his knuckle-duster.’

Henning looks at her for a long time. ‘Do you think that sounds convincing?’

‘No, not totally convincing, but plausible. I’m perfectly aware that a man like Tore Pulli realised that he would have a problem explaining himself after killing Jocke Brolenius. It was widely known that he had asked Brolenius for a meeting. That’s why he concealed the most important piece of evidence against him, the murder weapon, before coming up with this conspiracy theory that someone stole his knuckle-duster and gave Brolenius a Pulli punch to fit him up for something he hadn’t done.’

‘You’re forgetting that Pulli tried to prevent Brolenius getting killed in the first place.’

‘Yes, I’ve heard that story too. It could have been his plan all along, getting people to testify that he had been working to avert a bloodbath so we were more likely to buy his conspiracy theory.’

‘But you didn’t.’

‘No.’

‘Something of a gamble, I must say.’

‘You may be right. But you’re forgetting that Brolenius very likely killed Pulli’s friend. No one can convince me that Tore Pulli didn’t want revenge.’

Henning nods quietly.

‘And there’s one more thing: during his initial interviews, Tore Pulli claimed that he turned up at the factory exactly at the agreed time of eleven o’clock that night and that Brolenius was already dead when he arrived. But Pulli didn’t call the police to report the death until 11.19. So tell me this: does it take nineteen minutes to discover a body and call the police, or does it take nineteen minutes to kill someone, conceal the murder weapon and then return to the crime scene to pick up anything you have forgotten?’

Henning doesn’t respond immediately. ‘But in that case why call the police at all?’

‘Because he had come to the conclusion that showing his hand was his best chance of getting off. He knew he would be our prime suspect. But nobody bought his story.’

Nokleby gets up. ‘Pulli did it, Henning.’

Henning doesn’t reply.

‘I’ve got to get back,’ Nokleby continues. ‘If you’re going to write about this, I want copy approval if you quote me. You haven’t made any notes.’

He nods.

‘Thanks for the ice cream,’ she says. ‘It was really good.’

‘And quite sickly.’

She smiles, waves and walks away. Henning gets up too. He shakes his foot, which has gone to sleep, and watches her stride towards the entrance at a brisk pace. He notices with a certain degree of fascination that he likes what he sees.

Chapter 23

On his way back to the newspaper, Henning reviews his conversation with Pia Nokleby. She has a point. If Pulli is adamant that he arrived at the factory at the agreed time, he has a problem explaining the nineteen minutes. Henning wonders if he can trust him at all.

He gets himself a cup of coffee, sits down by his desk and starts thinking about Vidar Fjell. Who was he really?

Henning finds out that Vidar Fjell’s parents, Linda and Erik, live in Lillestrom. Erik is a professor of Nordic Studies and works at the University of Oslo, but he can find no information about Linda other than a home telephone number she shares with her husband. A rusty female voice answers after a few rings.

‘Hello, it’s Henning Juul from the internet newspaper 123news. Can I have a few of minutes of your time?’

‘That depends,’ she replies, with that buttoned-up, brusque voice that many people switch to the moment they realise they are speaking to a journalist.

‘It’s about your son.’

There is silence.

‘Why are you writing about Vidar? Now?’

‘I don’t know yet. I’m working on a story where Vidar’s name keeps cropping up. I-’

‘What kind of story?’

‘Tore Pulli’s appeal.’

Linda Fjell snorts. ‘Vidar is dead. That’s bad enough without you journalists bringing it up all the time.’

‘I-’

‘I don’t want to talk about Vidar,’ she interrupts him sharply.

‘What about your husband then? Is he at home?’

‘No,’ she replies, swiftly.

Henning can hear that she is about to hang up.

‘I’m sorry to call you about this,’ he says, quickly. ‘I don’t know you, and I don’t know your husband. But I know how you feel. I’ve lost a child myself.’

There is silence. Henning closes his eyes, tries to will away the images that surface whenever he mentions Jonas. Scenes he never saw but which he can’t stop imagining.

‘I know what it’s like,’ he says, gently. ‘And nothing helps.’

He can hear her breathing, heavy and tortured.

‘So how do you manage?’ Linda Fjell asks him after a pause.

Henning is incapable of replying straight away. ‘Who says I’m managing?’ he whispers, finally. When he continues his voice is soft and slow. ‘But I try to make my boy as alive as I can. For me that means thinking about him as often as I can bear it. I talk about him when I get the chance. And I talk to him sometimes — even if it’s just inside my head. If I don’t do that then I might as well be dead too. I still draw breath just to keep the memory of him alive. It deserves that. And he deserves it.’

Neither of them says anything for a while. Henning feels in need of a shower. ‘Is it okay if I ask you some questions about Vidar?’

Linda Fjell heaves a sigh. ‘Okay,’ she sniffs.

‘Good. Thank you so much.’

‘I don’t really know what you want to know, but-’

‘Perhaps you could begin by telling me something about your son.’

‘Ah.’

‘Perhaps we could start with the place where he worked,’ Henning says to help her get started. ‘His gym.’

‘Fighting Fit,’ she says, proudly. ‘It was his pride and joy. He did everything himself, almost. He was never tempted to sell out to a chain or anything like that. No, not Vidar. He always wanted to do things his way, ever since he was little. Did you know that his gym was a place where young people who had been in trouble could work out?’

‘Yes, I knew that.’

‘Vidar practically dragged them in off the street. At his funeral they were queuing all the way out to the cemetery. There wasn’t room enough in the church. Vidar had so many friends.’

Henning can hear how she grows with every word. ‘Did he have a lot of close friends too?’

‘Yes, he did.’

Linda Fjell reels off the names Henning was expecting to hear: Robert van Derksen, Geir Gronningen, Petter Holte, Kent Harry Hansen. But not Tore Pulli. Henning asks if Tore was one of Vidar’s close friends.

‘No.’

‘Pardon me for asking,’ he says after a short pause. ‘But how do you know that?’

‘Because real friends are there for each other.’

‘And Tore wasn’t?’

‘No.’

‘In what way was he not there for Vidar? After all, he was convicted of avenging your son’s killing.’

Linda Fjell snorts. ‘Is that how you prove what a good friend you are? By killing people? I’m talking about something completely different. Some years ago Vidar had problems at the gym, money trouble. The rent shot up, and the grant the council gave him through the Inner City Project wasn’t enough to cover it. Tore had so much money he didn’t know what to do with it. Vidar went to see Tore to ask for his help. And you know what he said? He said no, that’s what he said.’

‘Are we talking about a lot of money?’

‘I don’t know. I never knew the actual sum involved, but it was definitely not more than Tore could have managed. And do you know what Tore did next? He bought himself a brand-new motorbike. He already had three or four or whatever! Dear God.’

Henning notes down the word ‘mean’ on the pad in front of him.

‘How did Vidar take it?’

‘How do you think? He was upset, obviously.’

‘Hm.’

An uncomfortable silence ensues. A few minutes later, when Henning ends the call, he is left with the feeling that Pulli might not have been all that popular — even before Vidar Fjell was killed.

Chapter 24

The first time the Brenden-Haaland family marked the start of a new school year by eating out, Julie had just been born and they were forced to abandon their celebration before the waiter had even brought the menus. Little Julie screamed her head off and refused to be consoled. At home they could cope with a crying baby, but in public was another matter.

The following year was more successful. Thorleif managed to eat almost half his food before they had to leave. The third year was even better when Julie insisted on having her own meal and swallowed four or five mouthfuls before declaring she had had enough. Today, as Pal proudly announces that he is now in Year Four, Thorleif is actually starting to think that his family can behave like civilised people in a restaurant and enjoy a meal without ruining the experience for the other diners.

They follow a petite young woman with short hair down the stairs at Pizza Di Mimmo, who seats them in the furthest possible corner. Once they have ordered, a sort of calm descends upon their table.

‘Do you know what happened to me today?’ Elisabeth says with an animated expression.

‘No?’ Thorleif replies.

‘I was interviewed.’

‘Who by?’

‘ Aftenposten, I think it was. It was one of those “Your Say” features.’

‘I didn’t know Aftenposten still did that.’

‘Neither did I.’

Elisabeth beams. ‘The topic was crime and immigration, I think. Or maybe it was the other way around. Or it might have been organised crime, I don’t know. Anyway, I was asked if I or anyone in my family has ever felt threatened. I answered no — of course.’

‘Did they ask you anything else?’

‘I can’t really remember.’

Thorleif looks at her while she thinks about it.

‘Yes, now I can. The question was, “How far are you willing to go to protect your family?”’

Thorleif looks at her. ‘Is this a joke?’

‘No.’

‘And what did you reply?’

‘What do you think? I would do whatever it takes, of course. Wouldn’t you?’

Thorleif nods slowly. He used to laugh at people who claimed they would do whatever it took to protect their girlfriend or children — or both. He seriously doubted that they meant what they said or had any idea what it might involve. So he never used the expression himself.

Not until he had children of his own.

‘When are they running it?’ he asks.

‘Tomorrow, I think.’

‘Then we had better get up early,’ he says and smiles. In the mirror the short-haired waitress approaches with bouncy steps. He straightens up a little and looks at Julie’s expectant face. She makes only sporadic contact with the seat underneath her. Pal licks his lips. Thorleif gazes at his children. Until the moment when something deep inside him starts to melt.

Chapter 25

The knife-sharpening business, Skjerpings, is located in Kurveien in Kjelsas, a northern suburb of Oslo. Kurveien is a street where yellow concrete blocks press against the mountainsides. White and blue terraces stick out like open drawers. Outside the ground-floor flats, privet hedges struggle to conceal tiny gardens where barbecues and tricycles occupy most of the grass.

At the end of the street, a Nissan Micra with Skjerpings logo and web address on a sticker on the left rear window is parked on the drive in front of a garage. At the top of a small hill to the left Henning can see a large, black log cabin.

He takes a deep breath and starts walking up the steps. When he reaches the cabin, he can see the blue water of Oslo Fjord on the horizon. The whole city lies at his feet. It strikes him what an incredibly beautiful city Oslo is — as long as you look at it from afar.

At the front of the cabin he finds a doorbell labelled skjerpings. no. Soon he hears footsteps coming down a staircase. The door is opened.

‘Hi,’ a woman with long red hair says. Pretty dimples. Lots of attractive freckles. She doesn’t look like someone who could have taken out a man like Brolenius. But if somebody kills your boyfriend, Henning thinks, there are no limits to what you can do. Especially if you earn your living by making murder weapons even sharper than they already are.

‘Are you Irene Otnes?’

‘Yes, that’s me. Can I help you? Do you have some tools you need sharpened?’

‘No. I was wondering if I could have a chat to you about Vidar Fjell?’

Her warm smile vanishes instantly.

‘My name is Henning Juul, and I work for the internet newspaper, 123news.’

Otnes frowns. ‘Why do you want to talk about Vidar now?’

‘I’m working on a story about Tore Pulli. His appeal is coming up, and much of the evidence against him is circumstantial. It is based on his relationship to Vidar. I was… working on other things when he was killed, but now I’m back, and I’m trying to get an idea of what happened.’

She looks at him. A cat rubs itself against her legs before it darts out on the flagstones.

‘If it’s convenient? I really need your help.’

Otnes hesitates before she nods. ‘We can sit over there,’ she says, pointing to an arrangement of plastic chairs. A parasol casts a dark shadow over the grey flagstones.

‘Thank you so much.’

Otnes goes back inside to get a jacket and comes out again. Henning smiles as they sit down.

‘Lovely house,’ he remarks.

Otnes beams with pride. ‘Thank you.’

‘And very unusual for Oslo. A proper old-fashioned log cabin. Do you live in this enormous house all on your own?’

‘I have my cat,’ she replies and smiles quickly as a gust of wind takes hold of her hair. An awkward silence passes between them.

‘So you run a knife-sharpening business?’ Henning continues.

‘Yes, I do. It’s not very common, especially if you’re a woman. And these days people just buy new knives when their old ones get dull. The throwaway society. We have it too good in this country.’

Henning nods in agreement. ‘Is it mainly knives you sharpen?’

‘Yes.’

‘What about axes?’

‘No, hardly ever. If someone had brought in an axe, I think I would have remembered.’

‘And you don’t remember an axe?’

‘No. Why do you want to know about that? I thought you were here to talk about Vidar?’

Henning pauses briefly before starting in again. ‘I have to be honest with you, Irene, I didn’t just come here to talk about Vidar. The circumstances surrounding his death seem quite clear. I’m more interested in what happened afterwards. With Jocke Brolenius and Tore Pulli.’

‘Yes, that’s when it all fell apart,’ she says and shakes her head softly.

‘How do you mean?’

‘I’m thinking of the discussions we had in the weeks that followed.’ She shakes her head again.

‘You were very outspoken, I understand, seeking to avenge Vidar’s murder?’

‘Yes, I was angry and upset. But I look at it from another viewpoint now. After Brolenius was killed, I realised it made absolutely no difference. I was still upset.’

Henning nods.

‘I’ve heard that Vidar went to Tore to ask for financial help for Fighting Fit. Is that true?’

‘It is, yes.’

‘But Tore said no?’

She shakes her head in contempt. ‘Tore liked to think of himself as a big shot, you know. He took his business very seriously. He wouldn’t make any investment unless there was a guaranteed profit at the other end.’

‘Did Vidar and Tore fall out over it?’

‘No, it would have taken a lot more than that. They had known each other a long time.’

Henning nods quietly. ‘Do you think Tore is guilty?’

‘I don’t really know how to answer that.’

‘A simple yes or no would suffice.’ Henning attempts a smile.

‘I don’t think I want to say anything about it.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because of Veronica. I don’t want her to read about me in the paper. We’re friends, you understand, and I’ve always supported her. I wouldn’t want her to find out that I don’t believe her husband is innocent.’

‘This won’t appear in the paper, I promise you. So you believe he did it?’

She looks at him for a while before she nods.

‘Because?’

‘Because Tore has always been good at wrapping people around his little finger. And I know that he lies about all sorts of things.’

Henning moves to the edge of the chair. ‘Such as?’

‘Everything from little fibs and white lies to outright deception. Vidar used to get so annoyed with him because of it. When Vidar set up Fighting Fit, Tore was around and he helped out a bit. Whenever Vidar asked Tore if he had done something, picked something up or called the plumber, Tore would say yes, he had done it, but then it turned out that he hadn’t done it after all. It happened all the time.’

Henning feels his stomach lurch.

‘I could go on. Cinema tickets, hotel rooms. Once Vidar was helping out a musician friend of his who was looking for a rehearsal space, and Tore said he could fix it. And when Vidar asked Tore if he had taken care of it, Tore replied that everything was sorted. But when the guy turned up to practise, the room was already occupied. The man who ran the place had never even heard of Tore.’ She shakes her head. ‘People who do that really irritate me,’ she declares.

Henning nods and reasons that if you lie about the little things in life then the path to the really big lies isn’t a very long one. Once again he is overcome by a feeling that Pulli is playing him.

‘Do you know Robert van Derksen?’

Otnes snorts. ‘Have you seen his Facebook profile?’

‘I’m not on Facebook.’

‘He has posted some very impressive photos of himself, shirtless and glistening with oil.’ She pulls a face and shakes her head.

Henning thinks about the photos van Derksen had uploaded of himself on www.hardenever.no. ‘So he likes showing off?’

‘Oh yes. And he is extremely fond of the ladies. He even tried it on with me.’

When they wind up their chat a little later, Henning concludes that Otnes is still bitter but that at the same time she is starting to come to terms with Fjell’s death. There was no hatred in her eyes when she talked about Tore. Nor when she spoke about Brolenius. And he can’t see why she would keep secrets. If she had known who Brolenius’s real killer was, she would have told someone. Especially if she could have earned herself one million kroner by doing so.

The afternoon is warm and pleasant, and Henning decides to walk all the way home to Grunerlokka. It takes him an hour, and he stands under the shower for a long time when he gets back. He eats a slice of bread with jam while he checks his emails, scrolling quickly through the 128 new emails in his inbox. Heidi Kjus has sent some round-robin emails, he sees. Directives and targets. The memos she has carefully composed disappear with just a hard tap on the delete button. He instantly feels better for it. His mood improves even further when he discovers an email from Oslo Prison.

From: Knut Olav Nordbo kon@kriminalomsorg. no

Subject: ‹‹request for visit — Tore Pulli››

To: Henning Juul ‹henning. juul@123news. no›

Your application has been processed and your request to visit has been granted.

There is still considerable press interest in connection with the forthcoming appeal, but Tore has indicated that he would like to meet with you as soon as possible. If you are available as early as tomorrow — Tuesday — he would like to meet with you at 10 a.m.

Kind regards

Knut Olav Nordbo

Liaison Officer, Oslo Prison

As soon as tomorrow, Henning thinks, pleased. Perhaps then he can finally get some answers.

Chapter 26

Aftenposten is lying on the doormat right inside the front door. Thorleif picks it up and quickly flicks through the news section, then arts and finance, but he sees no ‘Your Say’ column, not on the back page — where it used to be — or in connection with any of the articles inside the newspaper itself. He goes through it again in case he was too sleepy and bleary-eyed to spot it the first time, but the result is the same.

He takes the newspaper to Elisabeth who is still in bed. ‘Are you sure it was Aftenposten?’

‘Eh?’ she grunts from under the duvet.

‘ Aftenposten. I can’t find your interview.’

Elisabeth pushes the duvet aside and looks at him. Her eyes are two narrow lines. ‘Are you sure?’ she mumbles.

‘I’ve gone through the whole sodding newspaper twice.’

He gives her the paper. Elisabeth sits up and starts leafing through it herself. Thorleif is aware of a pressing need for coffee so he doesn’t wait for her to finish but goes to the kitchen, finds a filter and measures out coffee and water. Shortly afterwards Elisabeth comes plodding.

‘I couldn’t find it either,’ she yawns.

‘Are you sure it was Aftenposten?’

Elisabeth thinks about it. ‘Fairly. Perhaps it wasn’t for today’s edition,’ she says and yawns again. ‘Perhaps it’ll be in tomorrow. They might not do “Your Say” every day.’

It is possible that things have changed since the days Thorleif trotted up and down the streets of Eidsvoll on the lookout for potential interviewees who rarely or never agreed to be photographed or answer any of the idiotic questions the editorial team had thought up. But on the occasions it was his job to find people in the street for ‘Your Say’, it was always for the following day’s edition. It was usually the last thing he did before going home.

But Elisabeth could be right. Perhaps the column has simply been moved and will appear in the evening edition or later in the week. He bends down, finds some sandwich bags and starts making everyone’s packed lunch.

‘Did you ring the burglar alarm people yesterday?’ Elisabeth asks, as she shuffles around.

‘Eh?’

‘The burglar alarm. We have to get it fixed.’

‘Oh, right. No, I forgot.’

‘Don’t forget to do it today, please.’

Chapter 27

At any given time there are 392 inmates in Oslo Prison divided between Botsen, Bayeren and Stifinneren — also known as A, B and C Block. Henning is due to visit Botsen, which consists of a main building with wings spreading out in a fan shape in addition to some smaller units. Everything is constructed in red brick. The prison, especially the entrance, is familiar to most Norwegians thanks to the famous Olsen Gang films, which traditionally opened with Egon Olsen walking out of the prison and down the avenue after being released — having already planned his next master stroke while inside.

Henning’s pulse quickens as he walks up the same avenue. He isn’t usually nervous before interviewing or meeting someone, but today he is.

Heidi Kjus welcomed his idea of talking to Pulli. She said that she had been thinking of suggesting it herself, but no one at the morning meeting, not even Iver, looked as if they believed her. Henning has practically forgotten about Heidi trying to take credit for his idea when he presses the button on the intercom outside the prison and introduces himself. Seconds later, the door slides open. Henning is met by a man in jeans and a stone-washed shirt who introduces himself as Knut Olav Nordbo. He has short hair, a mixture of brown and grey, neatly combed and parted to one side. He has no beard, but his skin is slightly flushed with some liver spots and moles. Nordbo exudes a vapour of stale nicotine and yesterday’s tipple. Red wine would be Henning’s guess.

He is ushered through an old door and down some stairs to a passage where he hangs up his jacket. Once Henning has handed over his mobile and press card, Nordbo disappears into a room. A short while later he returns with a visitor’s card which Henning pins to his shirt.

‘There we are,’ Nordbo says and guides Henning through two heavy concrete doors to the visitors’ rooms.

‘That’s it?’ Henning asks. ‘No body searches, no nothing?’

‘No,’ Nordbo says. ‘The penal code states that all inmates are entitled to meet representatives of the press to promote their case. And the system is based on trust.’

‘But in theory I could smuggle in all sorts of things.’

‘Indeed you could. But we would rather you didn’t,’ Nordbo smiles. ‘If you wait in there I’ll go and get Tore.’

‘Okay.’

Henning enters a small and narrow visitors’ room with a grey linoleum floor, yellow walls and a rectangular window with green and white curtains. It is furnished with a black leather sofa placed below the window and a coffee table and an armchair opposite it. A tall plant is gathering dust on the floor. At one end of the room there is a small, sad-looking box of plastic toys. He opens a green cupboard directly opposite and finds faded green sheets and hand towels.

It doesn’t take long before he can hear footsteps. Nordbo is the first to appear.

‘I’ll leave you two to chat,’ he says and smiles. Henning nods by way of a thank you and watches as Nordbo steps aside to make way for the mountain of a man who enters the room. Henning represses the urge to bombard the man with questions and stares at him instead. Tore Pulli is almost unrecognisable. He must have lost at least fifteen kilos. His steps are tentative. He wears a red baseball cap that doesn’t match any of his other clothes. Green shirt, blue tracksuit bottoms.

Henning takes a step forwards as he thinks about everything he has read and learned about Tore Pulli recently. The enforcer, the businessman, the friend, the liar. Which one of them is he now?

Pulli transfers a steaming mug from his right to his left hand and extends his free hand to Henning. Henning shakes it and looks him straight in the eye.

‘Hello,’ he says. ‘Henning Juul.’

Pulli’s handshake is firm and warm.

‘So this is what you look like,’ Pulli says.

‘What were you expecting?’

‘Well, I don’t know really.’

‘Most people feel awkward when they see my face.’

‘I’ve seen worse.’

Pulli walks past Henning and takes a seat on the leather sofa by the window. Henning takes the armchair opposite the coffee table and watches Pulli as he dunks a tea bag up and down in the steaming water. His hand movements are gracious and measured. His shirtsleeves have been folded up to his elbows and on the upper side of his right forearm he has a tattoo of a woman’s face with long wavy hair. Pulli always used to have a deep tan, but now his skin is pale. He takes off the baseball cap and reveals a scalp almost free from hair which he scratches quickly before putting the cap back on.

‘So,’ Pulli says, carefully sipping his tea. ‘I presume you’ve found-’

‘Before we start talking about that,’ Henning interrupts him. ‘I have a question. Or rather it isn’t a question, more a demand. If I’m to help you or try to help you, you have to give me something first.’

Pulli puts down the cup and smiles coyly. ‘Give you something?’

‘When you called me last Saturday, you said you knew something about what happened the day my son died. I need to know if I can trust you, if what you say holds true or if you’re just messing with me.’

‘I think you may have misunderstood,’ Pulli says and gives Henning a condescending look.

‘Not at all. You need my help. I need yours. Give me something, anything, which I can check out so I’ll know if there is more where that came from.’

Pulli looks at Henning in disbelief, but he says nothing.

‘What guarantee do I have that you’ll scratch my back if I scratch yours first?’ Henning continues.

‘You have my word.’

‘Yes, that’s all very well, but I know nothing about what your word or code of honour is worth, especially when you have nothing to lose. And you came to me, an investigative reporter who hasn’t been particularly active in the last couple of years, and that makes me suspicious. You already know that my son is dead, that there was a fire in my home, and you’re dangling the world’s biggest carrot in front of me. How can I be sure that you aren’t just playing me because you’re bored with the colour of the walls in here? I need to know if this is a scam, Pulli.’

Pulli takes a sip of his tea and puts down the cup. ‘If I tell you everything I know now, you’ve no incentive to help me.’

‘If you’re innocent, then yes, I do. I don’t like miscarriages of justice.’

Pulli smiles again. ‘I can’t wait that long.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘If I tell you everything today, you’ll be chasing that lead until you can’t get any further, and in the meantime you won’t give a damn about me. Besides, I’m not sure that you’ll get very far or live very long.’

Henning looks at Pulli. ‘So we’re talking about dangerous people?’

‘What do you think? You’re no use to me if you’re dead, and I don’t have very much time. My appeal is about to be heard.’

‘Okay, I hear what you’re saying. But-’

‘It was raining,’ Pulli says. ‘That day.’

Henning looks at him for a few seconds before he snorts. ‘Thanks, I already knew that. Anyone could have found that out.’

‘I was sitting in a car outside your flat that night. The windscreen wipers were going all the time.’

‘Why were you there?’

‘That’s not important right now. The point isn’t why I was there.’

‘So what is the point?’

‘The point is that I saw someone who had no business being there enter and go through to the courtyard.’

A knot tightens in Henning’s stomach. ‘How do you know he had no business being there?’

‘Because I know who he is.’

Henning straightens up a little. ‘Who is he?’

Pulli smiles. ‘Nice try, but this will have to do for now.’

‘No, it bloody won’t! How did you know he had no reason being there?’

Pulli sighs. ‘He didn’t live there, and, as far as I know, he didn’t know anyone in the building either. It wasn’t his kind of neighbourhood.’

‘But he knew me or he knew who I was?’

Pulli looks away before he takes another sip of his tea. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Come on, of course you do. I can see it in your face.’

‘No.’

Henning studies Pulli for a long time. ‘How did you know that I lived there?’

‘Eh?’

‘You were sitting outside my flat, you said, and you knew that I lived there. How did you know that?’

‘There were stories about you in the paper in the days that followed. I put two and two together.’

‘Just so,’ Henning says, reluctantly. ‘This man, where do you know him from?’

‘That’s enough.’

‘No.’

‘I’m not giving you any more.’

‘How did he get in?’

‘Eh?’

‘Into the courtyard. Did he break in? Did he have a key? Did he ring anyone’s bell?’

‘It was difficult to see from where I was sitting. But he gained entry. And that’s all I’m going to give you. This time.’

‘Was he carrying anything?’

Pulli sighs again. ‘A bag.’

‘Black? Blue? White?’

‘I couldn’t see. It was dark. And that’s it.’

Henning snorts again. ‘You could easily have made up everything you’ve just told me.’

‘Are you calling me a liar?’

‘Not necessarily, but we have an inherent problem. I can’t check what you’ve just said. A man entering the courtyard as it was getting dark? Come on, Pulli.’

‘I’m telling you the truth’

‘Yes, I heard you the first time.’

‘Look at me,’ Pulli says, leaning forwards aggressively. ‘Do I look like a liar?’

Irene Otnes’s words come back to Henning as he examines Pulli’s face. He hears his breathing quicken as he focuses on the eyes, staring deeply into Pulli’s irises.

‘I don’t know,’ Henning says, at last.

‘No, you don’t, do you?’ Pulli says wearily and leans back. ‘You’ll have to make up your mind what your son’s life is worth. I guarantee that you’ll be interested in what I know. If that isn’t enough for you, I suggest you leave now.’

Pulli looks away. He’s angry, Henning thinks. Either that or he’s a brilliant actor. Henning inspects Pulli a little longer before he nods.

‘Okay,’ he says.

Chapter 28

Thank God it’s nearly lunchtime, Thorleif Brenden thinks and hugs his stomach, which has been troubling him recently. He hopes he isn’t coming down with something.

His computer pings to alert him to an incoming email. Thorleif leans towards the screen, minimises a web page and brings up his inbox. He doesn’t recognise the sender, but the title in the subject field makes him open the new email.

‘Elisabeth — survey’

The email has an attachment, a photograph. He downloads it. Elisabeth appears, talking to someone whose profile he can only just make out. She is holding up one hand, but not high enough to cover her face like she often does when she is talking or explaining something. The picture has a date stamp in the bottom right-hand corner.

Thorleif’s eyes widen. It was taken yesterday. It must be Elisabeth’s ‘Your Say’ interview, he thinks. The man she is talking to is wearing a black leather jacket and dark trousers. He has no distinguishing features apart from his height and ponytail. The man must be at least two heads taller than her. Why would anyone send him this picture?

Thorleif is about to call Elisabeth to ask if the picture has also been sent to her when he clicks to close it and sees the sender’s email address: murder@hushmail. com. He looks up over the screen. Murder? As in murder? What on earth…?

Thorleif leans back in his chair and tries to remember what Elisabeth told him about the interview, the questions she was asked. Crime and immigration, was it? Or organised crime, Elisabeth hadn’t been entirely sure. Now what was it the interviewer had wanted to know? Have you or your family ever been threatened? How far would you go to protect your family? Is someone playing a joke on them?

‘Are you coming for lunch, Toffe?’

A colleague walks past him, but Thorleif doesn’t register who. He stares at the picture.

‘Toffe?’

‘Coming,’ he replies, absentmindedly. A cold wind chills him. He looks at the man with the ponytail. Didn’t the man who drove the BMW the other day have a ponytail? Don’t they look a bit similar? He looks at the email again and sees that it comes with an acknowledge-receipt request.

The next second his work telephone rings.

Thorleif’s attention instantly switches to the ringing telephone. The display merely shows ‘… calling.’ He decides to ignore it. Somewhere in the open-plan office a door slams shut. The telephone refuses to be silenced. Thorleif stares at it. Reluctantly, he reaches out and lifts the receiver, but he says nothing.

‘Thorleif?’

‘Yes?’ he replies eventually in a feeble voice.

‘Have you opened the photo?’

The Swedish accent has a strong hint of Eastern Europe.

‘I know what you’re thinking. The answer is yes,’ the voice continues. ‘We know. We know quite a lot about you, Thorleif. Or perhaps I should call you… Toffe?’

Thorleif quickly glances around the room. Only his work colleagues ever call him Toffe.

‘Who are you?’ he stutters. ‘What do you want?’

‘We need your help.’

‘My help?’

‘Yes. Your help. Soon you’ll find out why. And when we ask you to be ready, Toffe, then you’ll do what we tell you. No questions asked.’

‘B-but-’

‘And, Toffe, if you care about your family at all, you’ll keep your mouth shut. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

Thorleif nods.

‘I can’t hear you, Toffe.’

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ he nods again. ‘I understand.’

‘Good. We’ll be in touch.’

Chapter 29

‘I’ll set this to record if that’s all right with you,’ Henning says and holds up his mobile. Pulli nods and leans back in the leather sofa, crossing his legs.

‘Before we begin there’s one thing you need to be absolutely clear about,’ Henning says, looking hard at Pulli. ‘If I’m going to be able to help you, you need to answer every single question I ask you. That means no secrets. Nothing. Agreed?’

‘Sure,’ Pulli says and shrugs his shoulders.

‘Okay. Good. Then we’ll start with Jocke Brolenius. Who was he?’

Pulli lifts the mug to his lips. ‘A Swede, like most Swedes in that business. Brutal and totally unscrupulous.’

‘But he worked out with you?’

Pulli nods as he slurps. ‘Jocke was a guy who took up space. He was quite cocky and tough, liked to brag if he had beaten up someone in a particularly nasty way. Not to everyone’s liking, if you know what I mean. And he had other business interests.’

‘Yes, I’ve heard about those. How could you be sure that he had killed Vidar Fjell?’

‘Who else could it have been? A few days before Vidar was killed, the two of them had a massive row. Several people heard Jocke threaten Vidar.’

‘And when Vidar was found dead that was when the trouble started?’

Pulli nods before he goes on to tell him about the discussions at the gym and at home in his flat where he finally managed to convince everyone that he would sort out the problem alone.

‘But wasn’t it a bit risky to meet that night — just you and Jocke? After all, you knew what he was capable of.’

‘Yes, but my name and reputation were still worth something then. And I knew Jocke quite well. He and I had agreed to come alone and unarmed. I’ve seen enough gang wars to know that people often get their retaliation in first to beat their opponent to it.’

‘And that was what you were trying to prevent — a gang war?’

‘Yes. It might have been quite a naive attempt at diplomacy, but I felt I had to give it a try.’

Henning nods again. ‘So, according to you, what happened the day Jocke Brolenius was killed?’

Pulli takes off his baseball cap and scratches his head before replacing it. ‘I don’t suppose there is much I can say that I haven’t said already. I was due to meet Jocke at eleven o’clock, but when I arrived he was already dead.’

‘You saw no one else in the area? No one coming in the opposite direction?’

‘No. And I was only meeting Jocke, no one else, so I wasn’t expecting-’

‘You said in court that you arrived to meet Jocke precisely at the agreed time, but you didn’t report his death to the police until nineteen minutes later. How do you explain the gap?’

Pulli looks down. ‘I don’t think I can. I must have lost track of time.’

Henning looks at him for a few seconds. ‘That doesn’t sound very convincing.’

‘No, I know. But I have no other explanation for it.’

‘You’re quite sure that you were on time?’

‘Yes, of course I bloody was. I was never usually late for meetings and I certainly wouldn’t screw up such an important one.’

‘But all the same,’ Henning persists. ‘Nineteen minutes. That’s quite a lot.’

‘Yes, I… I know. But I give you my word: Jocke was dead when I arrived. And, remember, I spent a little time checking that he really was dead so that must account for some of it.’

Henning nods slowly and studies Pulli. He looks sincere, Henning thinks and decides to continue the conversation on Pulli’s terms. ‘I’m sure you’ve spent a lot of time wondering who could be behind this.’

‘Believe me, I’ve checked the archives,’ Pulli says, tapping his forehead with his index finger. ‘I certainly had plenty of enemies, but I don’t know if any of them were smart enough to frame me.’

‘Not even Robert van Derksen?’

Pulli looks up. ‘Why do you ask about him?’

‘Oh, I was just curious. I heard that the two of you didn’t really get on. And he was a good friend of Vidar, as far as I understand.’

‘Robert is a tosser,’ Pulli says with contempt. ‘He has an IQ deficit.’

‘But he did know your elbow technique?’

‘Yes, I taught it to him a hundred years ago.’

‘And yet you still don’t think he could have done it?’

Pulli shakes his head. ‘Robert is so full of himself that he would never have been able to pull a stunt like that without boasting about it.’

Henning nods. ‘Were any of the others jealous? Or resentful of your status, for example?’

‘No, we respected each other. I’ve always believed that if you treat people with respect then they’ll respect you back. I’ve done some things in my life that I’m not very proud of and I’m quite sure that some people envy me, but to go to such extremes?’ Pulli makes a sweeping gesture with his hand out into the room. He shakes his head wearily and drinks more tea. Henning looks at his notes.

‘So what’s with the knuckle-duster?’

Pulli starts to laugh. ‘To start with I haven’t worked as a debt collector for years. But even so I can’t remember the last time I used the knuckle-duster. I probably did a bit in the beginning before I discovered that my elbow had given me something of a reputation and all I had to do was roll up my sleeves and people would pay. Why would I turn up to the meeting with Jocke with my knuckle-duster? It makes no sense at all. Somebody obviously nicked it from me. But nobody in court cared about that. They had their nineteen minutes.’

‘Did you report the theft?’

‘No, I didn’t even know the knuckle-duster was missing then.’

‘And your flat hadn’t been burgled in the days or weeks before?’

‘No.’

‘Did you have a lot of visitors?’

‘Yes, people came over practically every single day.’

‘So anyone could have taken the knuckle-duster?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who has keys to your flat?’

‘My nan has one in case we lose ours, but she is eighty-seven years old and lives in Enebakk. And even if someone had nicked her key, it wouldn’t have done them much good. The flat has a burglar alarm. Veronica and I are the only two people who know the code.’

The key to the flat, Henning says to himself, and drifts off for a moment. He remembers what Erling Ophus, the fire investigator, asked him: if he had locked the door on the night of the fire or if there were any signs of a break-in. If Pulli is right and someone gained access to Henning’s courtyard, it suggests that this person had a key. But Henning has only one set of spare keys and he keeps them at his mother’s. And she never leaves the house because her smoker’s lungs confine her to the kitchen where she sits with a bottle of St Hallvard in front of her all day.

Something beeps. Henning looks around.

‘It’s that time again,’ Pulli says and takes out an object that looks like a pen. ‘I’ve got diabetes. I need insulin several times a day.’

Pulli presses the pen against his trouser leg and pushes down the top of it.

‘I’ve always wondered if that hurts,’ Henning says.

‘You get used to it,’ Pulli replies and returns the pen to his breast pocket. ‘Nowadays I hardly ever feel it.’

‘Is it the same with piercings? I seem to recall that you had some before you became a property developer.’

‘Yes, it’s a bit like that.’

They smile quickly at each other. There is a knock on the door. Nordbo sticks his head around.

‘Time’s up,’ he says, apologetically.

‘Okay,’ Henning replies, looking at Pulli. The bags under his eyes seem even heavier. ‘We need to talk further. I’ve many more questions for you.’

‘I have to do some media interviews in the next few days,’ Pulli replies. ‘But yes, we need to meet again.’

They get up and shake hands before Henning is escorted out the same way he came in. Just like Egon Olsen he walks out and back into freedom. He realises how good it feels not to be surrounded by concrete walls.

Chapter 30

Thorleif turns his attention away from the roofs outside the kitchen window and gazes at Elisabeth across the dinner table. She looks back at him quizzically.

‘Would you pass me the salt, please?’

Thorleif finds the bowl of Maldon salt next to his knife and hands it to her before he resumes staring out of the window. He sees nothing. Something grey, perhaps. Around him cutlery clangs against plates, children eat noisily.

‘Hello, what planet are you on?’

He turns to Elisabeth again.

‘You haven’t said one word during dinner.’

‘No, I’m — I’m not very hungry.’

‘Right. So just because you’re not hungry you can’t talk to us?’

Her eyes pin him down.

‘I’m not feeling very well,’ he whispers and looks at her. There is no change in her face to suggest sympathy. Perhaps she can tell that he is lying. Though he isn’t really. He feels terrible. His stomach is in constant turmoil. Everything he eats seems only to pour petrol on the fire burning below. Since he came home he has been to the lavatory three times. Four times while he was at work.

He had summoned up the courage to ring Anthon Ravndal just before he left work, but it didn’t make him feel any better. He doesn’t know what he had expected, if he would get straight through to the Swedish-speaking East European or if Ravndal was the man behind the wheel of the car that appeared to follow him the other day. The same man who probably interviewed Elisabeth.

‘Are you the owner of a BMW estate car with the registration number BR 65607?’

‘Eh, yeah. What about it? Have you found it?’

Ravndal’s voice went from being sceptical to hopeful in one second.

‘Found it? What do you mean?’

‘My car was stolen four days ago. Are you calling from the police?’

‘Stolen?’

‘Yes! It was… who is calling? What’s your name?’

Thorleif was tempted to hang up immediately, but he couldn’t do it. Instead he introduced himself and explained how he had seen the car, but without mentioning his suspicions.

‘The car is probably halfway to mainland Europe by now,’ Ravndal said. ‘The last thing the police knew was that it passed a toll road in Vestfold.’

They finished the conversation and agreed to keep in touch should either of them find out what had happened to the car.

‘The guy who interviewed you,’ Thorleif says, interrupting Julie who is in the middle of a story about a number game at her nursery. ‘Did he give you his name?’

Elisabeth turns to look at him. ‘I know a few people on Aftenposten,’ he says by way of explanation. ‘Perhaps it’s someone I know.’

‘If he did, then I don’t remember what it was,’ Elisabeth says.

‘And you can’t remember what he looked like either?’

‘Well, he was certainly very tall. Dark hair. He looked a little like Furio from The Sopranos.’

‘The Italian with the ponytail?’

‘Yes. The one Carmela was so keen on. He never did anything for me, personally, but-’

Elisabeth eats a mouthful of her cod fillet, then piles potato with melted butter and sliced carrots on to her fork.

‘Did he speak Norwegian?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The man who interviewed you. Did he speak Norwegian?’

‘Of course he spoke Norwegian! Hello, he works for a Norwegian newspaper. What kind of question is that?’

In that case there must be more of them, Thorleif concludes and pokes at his food. The voice on the telephone made it very clear that Thorleif must not talk to anyone. But how will he manage that?

‘Did you remember to call the security company today?’

‘It was a really busy day at work,’ he lies. She rolls her eyes at him. ‘You’re welcome to fix the alarm yourself, if it’s so urgent,’ he adds.

‘You know very well I haven’t got a clue about such things.’

Thorleif doesn’t reply.

‘By the way, I’m going out tonight. Perhaps you remember that?’

‘Eh?’

‘I’m going out and you’re putting the kids to bed.’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Had you forgotten that too?’

‘No,’ he replies, reluctantly.

‘For God’s sake, Thorleif, I told you several days ago!’

‘I’m sure you did. It’s not a problem. You go out if you want to. What are you doing? Where are you going?’

‘It’s my mums’ night out tonight.’

Thorleif sends her a baffled look.

‘With the other mums from Pal’s football team,’ she explains. ‘You dads should do it as well. It’s good fun.’

Thorleif doesn’t reply but locks his eyes on a spot on the doorframe behind her. Thank God she’s going out, he thinks. That way he won’t have to lie to her more than necessary.

Chapter 31

As soon as Henning gets home, he sits down at the kitchen table and plays the recording of his conversation with Pulli. He listens to it a couple of times and notes down items to follow up. He registers with irritation that he forgot to ask one or two important questions.

It dawns on him that he should make a chart of the key people in Tore Pulli’s life to make it easier for him to keep track. He tears a sheet off the pad and starts writing.

In addition there are Irene Otnes and Robert van Derksen, various girlfriends and boyfriends, the staff at Fighting Fit, people who work out there, other friends who might potentially know something. There are just too many of them, Henning thinks. He really needs help. Pulli’s appeal is coming up very soon.

Henning recalls the conversation he had yesterday with Frode Olsvik, Pulli’s lawyer. The first question Henning asked him was ‘Do you remember me?’ because they hadn’t spoken for a long time. Pulli asked Henning the very same question during their telephone conversation last Saturday, but Henning didn’t think anything of it at the time. Now that the question has resurfaced, the choice of words intrigues him. Is it really what you would say if you were a celebrity and you hadn’t spoken to the media for some time?

Henning shakes his head. No, you would say, ‘Do you know who I am?’ Pulli’s question indicates a kind of relationship that belongs in the past. So why would Henning remember Pulli?

Brogeland jokes that Henning has a photographic memory. It’s not all that far from the truth. Henning has forgotten a great deal, but he rarely forgets a face and a name. The only thing he can’t remember clearly — with the exception of the memories of his late father — are the weeks before Jonas died.

Henning looks up from the sheet. Is it possible that Pulli and I had something to do with each other in those weeks? Could that explain why Pulli was sitting outside my flat that night?

Chapter 32

Thorleif jumps when the door opens.

‘Hello, Daddy,’ Julie says, her hair wet and tangled. She is stark naked.

‘Hello, sweetheart. Bath time with Martin again?’

She nods eagerly.

‘What happened to your clothes?’

She stops; her face takes on the oops expression. ‘I forgot.’

‘Then go back upstairs and get them.’

‘But it’s Martin’s bedtime.’

‘Then we’ll have to get them tomorrow. Come on, let’s go to the bathroom. It’s your bedtime too.’

‘But I don’t want to go to bed.’

‘It doesn’t matter what you want, sweetheart. You’re going to bed.’

‘But Daddy. I haven’t had any dinner yet.’

Thorleif sighs. ‘Okay. What do you want?’

‘Crisps.’

‘Crisps? But Julie. What day is it today?’

She thinks about it. ‘Saturday?’

‘Nice try,’ he laughs. ‘You can have crispbread. Or an apple. Your choice.’

‘Ahemmmm. An apple.’

‘An apple it is. But afterwards it’s straight to bed. Okay?’

‘Okay, Daddy.’

‘Sit down then.’

‘But Daddy. I need to put my pants on first.’

He laughs again. ‘You go put on some pants, and while you do that I’ll peel you an apple.’

She races into her bedroom where one drawer after the other is opened and closed with a bang. Soon she comes running back, yanking her Hello Kitty pants as high up her waist as she can. Suddenly she stops and pulls a face which quickly transforms into deep toddler distress.

‘What happened?’ Thorleif says anxiously and rushes over to her. Julie is clutching her big toe as the tears flow. He realises immediately what the problem is. Those damned cracks in the floorboards, he thinks. Everything gets stuck in them. They have been talking about getting them fixed for ages, but they never have the money. Thorleif consoles his daughter as best he can. Soon the crying subsides.

When Julie has sat down and taken the first apple slice, his mobile beeps on the windowsill. Thorleif picks it up and sees that he has a text from an unknown number. A feeling of nausea spreads through his body. He downloads the photo. The contours of a dimly lit room gradually emerge. Several glasses on a small, round table. A painting on the wall at the back. The details are blurred, but he can make out a group of smiling women. His eyes stop at a woman in the centre.

Elisabeth.

He looks at her more closely than at any of the other women in the photo.

The football mums.

A message appears under the photo: Your girlfriend is lovely. Do you want her to stay that way?

Chapter 33

Thorleif is pacing up and down the living-room floor, constantly checking his watch and his mobile. It’s almost 11.30. Bloody woman, he thinks. Why the hell isn’t she back yet?

She hasn’t answered a single one of his calls, but this is typical of her and not in itself cause for alarm. Every time Elisabeth leaves the house, especially when she is out with a girlfriend — or three — it’s as if the rest of her world ceases to exist. In many ways, he envies her ability to switch off. Thorleif feels compelled to check his mobile at regular intervals. But not so Elisabeth. And especially not now when he needs her more than ever. What on earth is keeping her?

Once the children were asleep Thorleif considered going out to look for her to reassure himself that she was still in one piece, but he decided against it. If they found out it would only make matters worse. And where would he look? Elisabeth never told him where she was going. She could be anywhere in Oslo.

Thorleif looks at his watch again. I have to do something, he thinks. What if something has happened to her on her way back? What if they have talked to her, threatened her even?

Downstairs, the front door slams. Thank God, he thinks. It has to be her. The sound of footsteps gets louder. On the other side of the door Thorleif hears the familiar jingling of keys. He opens the door and grabs her shoulders.

‘Oh!’ Elisabeth exclaims. ‘You frightened me.’

Her breath is saturated with alcohol.

‘Has it never crossed your mind that people might need to get hold of you when you’re out?’

Elisabeth is about to step inside the flat, but she stops. ‘Eh?’ she says, looking vague. ‘Did you try to call me?’

‘Yes, I tried calling you! Several times. Didn’t you check?’

‘No, I-’

Thorleif huffs and marches angrily into the kitchen.

‘And hello to you, too,’ she says and closes the door behind her. Thorleif turns on the tap.

‘Was it something important?’ she asks as she kicks off her shoes.

Thorleif fills his glass with water.

‘What’s happened? Is everything all right?’

‘No, everything is not all right!’ he shouts when he has swallowed a mouthful.

‘Well, go on then. What is it?’ she says, following him into the kitchen. ‘Has something happened to the kids?’

‘No, they’re-’

Thorleif wipes his mouth and turns away, unable to look her in the eye.

‘Well, tell me then. What’s happened?’

Thorleif hesitates for a long time. ‘Nothing,’ he says at last. ‘Only I got… scared.’

‘Scared? Why?’

He shakes his head. ‘Oh, forget it. I just think you should pick up when I call or text you.’

‘But, Thorleif,’ she says and mimics Julie’s voice as she takes a step closer. ‘I like having fun, Daddy. Don’t you understand?’

‘Yes, but-’

‘I need a bit of space from time to time, too.’

‘I know, but our life and what we have together — it’s… it’s-’ He shakes his head. ‘There are times when I need to tell you something important or I need a quick answer and then it’s bloody irritating that you don’t pick up!’

‘I know. I’m not very good at it.’

‘No.’

‘I’ll try harder. Okay?’

She takes another step towards him. Her eyes are inviting. Thorleif looks at her with reawakened tenderness. He pulls her close and holds her tight for a while.

‘Did you have a good time?’ he says, pushing her away from him.

‘It was great. But I think I might have had too much to drink,’ she says, taking the water glass from his hands.

‘Yes, I can smell it,’ Thorleif says, waving his hand under his nose. He grows serious again, desperate to ask if she noticed anything suspicious or anyone watching them, but he drops it. Instead he looks at Elisabeth gulping water and gasping for air when she has emptied the glass.

‘Poor Hilde,’ she says when she has got her breath back. ‘She was rather embarrassing. She doesn’t get out much these days. And there was this guy who… well, I don’t know-’

Thorleif looks straight at her.

‘I think he fancied one of us. He bought us all a round. Several rounds.’

‘Did he?’

‘I’m sure I’ll pay for it in the morning,’ she says and rolls her eyes.

‘What did he look like?’

‘Eh?’

‘The guy who was buying the drinks? What did he look like?’

‘I can’t really remember. Why do you want to know?’

‘Well, I-’ Thorleif evades her eyes.

‘Calm down, it wasn’t me he was interested in. Chance would be a fine thing.’

‘Hey, hey, don’t talk about yourself like that. I won’t have it.’

Elisabeth smiles through swimming eyes.

‘Did he speak Norwegian?’

‘ Did he speak Norwegian? Why do you keep asking me that?’

‘I don’t think I do.’

‘Yes, you do. Earlier tonight you asked if that journalist from Aftenposten spoke Norwegian. Have you gone mad? Why do you keep asking me if everyone I meet speaks Norwegian?’

‘I-’ He looks down.

‘I don’t think he said anything, so I don’t know. He just sat there, smiling and looking at us, nodding and raising his glass. That’s all I remember. Oh, hang on. He was slightly chubby. Balding. He looked like he thought he could pull, if you know what I mean. Fancied himself. But relax — he’s not my type.’

Elisabeth glances at him and smiles. Thorleif looks at her dark hair which falls loosely over her shoulders when she doesn’t put it up. At her tempting mouth.

‘Seriously,’ he says, pulling her close again. ‘You mustn’t ever say such negative things about yourself. Do you hear?’

Elisabeth closes her eyes and smiles.

‘You’re the best, the most wonderful woman in the whole world,’ he whispers to her.

She opens her eyes again and kisses him on the lips. Her lips taste of stale alcohol. But it doesn’t matter.

‘Thank you,’ she says, tenderly.

Thorleif swallows to make the lump in his throat go away. And he realises as he looks deep into her eyes even though it’s late and they are tired, that his girlfriend has never been lovelier.

Chapter 34

The morning meeting has already begun when Henning rushes into the meeting room on the ground floor. News editor Kare Hjeltland is sitting at the end of the table with Heidi Kjus diagonally opposite him.

‘Hi Henning,’ Hjeltland shouts as Henning arrives. ‘Good to see you. Climb on board, climb on board.’

‘Sorry, I’m late,’ he says. ‘Something… something came up.’

‘Not to worry, not to worry.’

Heidi glares at him as he sits down. Henning spent some time earlier this morning looking for old telephone records because Telenor only stores files online for three months, but he found nothing. Nor would the Data Retention Directive have been much use since he is looking for information that is more than a year old.

‘We were just discussing today’s stories, stories, stories,’ Hjeltland shouts as a twitch takes control of his face. Henning has never got used to the news editor’s Tourette’s. The fact that his hair stands out on all sides does little to lessen Hjeltland’s comical appearance.

‘Have you got something you want to add?’ he yells, looking at Henning.

Henning clears his throat, aware that everyone’s eyes are on him.

‘No, I-’ He looks at Heidi. ‘I don’t mind being on cuttings duty today as well, if the cuttings team is still short-staffed.’

‘Cuttings duty?’ Hjeltland exclaims. ‘Why on earth would you want to be on cuttings duty? You’re going out, Juul. To work. Chasing scoops.’

Heidi’s cheeks redden. ‘All right, I’ll do that then-’

‘Okay. Great,’ Hjeltland says and checks his watch. ‘I’ve another meeting, MEETING,’ he hollers. Henning struggles for a second or two to suppress an involuntary laugh and sees that Iver Gundersen is doing likewise. Hjeltland storms out of the door, closely followed by Heidi. Henning is the last to leave, with Iver right in front of him.

‘He ought to be called Holler,’ Iver jokes. ‘Holler and the Eagle. They would make a great team.’

‘Good film title.’

‘Yes. Starsky and Hutch. Thelma and Louise. Holler and the Eagle.’

They walk back up to the second floor and return to their desks. Henning looks at Iver, who loses himself in the screen. Perhaps Iver can help me, Henning thinks. He’s smart enough. He contemplates asking him for a moment. Then he shakes his head.

*

Thorleif simultaneously loves and hates dropping off Julie at nursery in the morning. He hates it because sometimes she starts to cry when he leaves. And he loves it for the very same reason. At home, Elisabeth is always her favourite. Julie wants Mummy to put her to bed, to read to her. But at nursery she only wants him.

Today, fortunately, she is all smiles. He hugs her for a long time and whispers in her ear that Mummy will pick her up at four o’clock as usual. Then they go through their goodbye ritual.

‘I love you,’ he says. ‘All the way to the moon.’

‘I love you all the way to the sun. No, to Morocco!’

‘Ah,’ Thorleif says. ‘That’s very far away.’

She nods and squeezes him hard until he has to free himself. He waves to her again and again and again. Even when he is back at the car park outside the Ladybird Nursery he has to wave and wave and wave towards the window where she always stands. As usual he blows her kisses as well. And he gets one back. As he always does.

Kids, Thorleif thinks and opens the car door. The only thing they ever care about is the next treat or the next game. The dangers that lurk out there in the real world never cross their minds. All that matters is getting sweets on Saturdays.

He checks the time and sees that he is running late. He is just about to start the engine when the door on the passenger side is pulled open and a man sits down next to him. Thorleif turns in his seat and is about to protest when he realises who the man is.

The BMW man.

Furio.

Thorleif nearly has a heart attack. The man looks unperturbed.

‘Drive,’ he orders him.

‘But-’

‘In’, the man checks his watch, ‘three minutes a friend of mine will enter a school not very far from here. He will sit down in the canteen. At regular intervals he will go to classrooms 38 and 39 where Elisabeth Haaland is teaching today — with the exception of period four when she has a free period. Your behaviour today will determine whether or not she makes it home from work. Do you understand what I’m saying to you? Are you listening?’

Thorleif nods feverishly and swallows hard.

‘Drive.’

Thorleif turns the key in the ignition with trembling fingers. The car starts. Nearly. He makes a second attempt, and this time the engine roars. Thorleif’s cheeks are flushed. He tries to breathe, but it is difficult.

‘Drive,’ the man says for the third time. Thorleif puts the car into first gear. The car jumps when he releases the clutch. He manoeuvres out between the other parked cars and parents with children, spare clothes and lunchboxes in their hands. Thorleif lets the car roll down the hill towards a junction.

‘W-which way?’ he stammers.

‘That’s what’s so great about this,’ the man says. ‘You can choose.’

‘Choose?’

‘Yes.’

‘I–I don’t understand.’

‘It’s a simple choice. If you turn left, your girlfriend will die. If you turn right, the four of you will still be eating tacos on Friday.’

Thorleif is speechless. Your girlfriend. He indicates right. The man smiles.

‘Good,’ the man says. ‘Wise choice. Now you’ll call work and tell them that you’re ill today.’

‘Ill?’

Thorleif changes from first to second gear.

‘Yes. Ill. But that you’ll be well enough to return to work tomorrow.’

‘But-’

‘If you can’t remember the number, then I’ve got it on my mobile.’

Thorleif stares at the man, who smiles again. As cold as ice. Thorleif eases out the mobile from his inside pocket. He scrolls down to the number for TV2 with shaking fingers and presses call. He wedges his mobile against his left shoulder as he steers the car into the central lane. He can feel his pulse throb in his neck. He stops at another junction and looks at the car next to him. A woman in the passenger seat meets his eyes. In a manic moment he wonders if he can alert her but realises immediately how hopeless it would be. What would he signal? How? With what?

Guri Palme picks up at the first ring.

‘Hi, Guri, it’s me, Toffe.’

‘Oh, hi, Toffe.’

‘Hi. Listen — I’m… I’m not feeling very well today.’

‘Aren’t you?’ she says, sounding concerned. ‘I’m sorry.’

Thorleif squeezes his eyes shut.

‘Nothing serious, I hope?’ she continues.

‘I threw up this morning, but I’m absolutely sure I’ll be fine tomorrow.’

‘Are you really? I can probably get Trude to find someone else for tomorrow.’

‘No, no, I’ll be all right.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’ll be fine.’

‘Okay. Good. I hope you feel better soon.’

‘Thank you.’

He ends the call and hyperventilates. The man next to him claps his hands.

‘Bravo,’ he says. ‘I liked the bit about throwing up. I’m starting to think this is going to work out just fine, Toffe. You’re good at improvising. That’s very promising. Take a right up there.’

The man points towards the upcoming roundabout. The emerging autumn colours of Frogner Park glow in the morning sun.

‘I’ve got another very important question for you,’ the man says and turns to Thorleif. ‘Which do you prefer: pedestrian or cyclist?’

Chapter 35

Henning is working his way through a pile of papers on his desk. It takes him only minutes to establish that none of the printouts or notes that have been lying there since Jonas died can be linked to a story that relates even remotely to Tore Pulli. He simply can’t recall who he interviewed around that time. Nor are any of the notes dated.

There has to be something, he thinks, something that will remind him of what he was working on in the weeks leading up to the fire. He found nothing significant in the archive, only standard news stories about a robbery, an assault and a couple of court verdicts. Isn’t there anyone he can ring? Talk to?

For a brief moment he considers calling Nora, but dismisses the idea instantly. When they were married they worked for rival newspapers and hardly ever discussed details of the stories they were investigating. And they had been separated for months when Jonas died. Nora would get hysterical if she were to discover that Henning is digging up the past which she is making a determined — albeit counter-intuitive — effort to slam the lid on by trying to find happiness with Iver.

My tapes, it suddenly occurs to him. The old recordings I made of my sources so I could quote them and use them as evidence in case someone kicked up a fuss after the story had been published. Perhaps there was something on them? The ones he has made since returning to work are in a driftwood cupboard in the kitchen in his flat. But what about his old tapes?

He pulls out his desk drawers and sees at once that they are empty. They had different desks before the refurbishment, he recalls, and gets up, walks past the coffee machine and around the corner to where the national news section used to be. But the old workstations are no longer there.

Henning returns just as the news editor is finishing a telephone conversation.

‘The old office furniture we used to have,’ Henning says, and gets Kare Hjeltland’s attention. ‘Do you know what happened to it?’

‘Retired along with the office bike — I rode them all to death, ha-ha,’ Hjeltland says and folds his hands behind his head. His armpits are wet. Henning tries not to look at them. ‘Oh, the furniture? Not a clue. Why do you ask? Thinking of giving your flat a makeover?’

‘No.’

‘Try asking Ida. I think she was in charge of the refurbishment.’

‘Okay. Thank you.’

*

‘Nice day for a drive, isn’t it?’

Thorleif doesn’t reply.

‘I love driving. I never listen to the radio. I like the silence around me. It helps me think. Don’t you agree?’

Thorleif glances at the man next to him, but he says nothing. He can see something shiny in his inside jacket pocket. The man is wearing gloves. The speedometer shows 100 kilometres per hour, the legal limit exactly. Every time Thorleif nudges the speed up above 110 kilometres, the man leans over and checks the speedometer, a movement always followed by a look of concern.

‘Careful now,’ he says. ‘You don’t want the police to pull you over, do you?’

Of course, I bloody do, Thorleif thinks every time. He has considered doing something insane like driving the car into a ditch in the hope that only he survives. But fear makes him cling to the steering wheel. His heart refuses to beat in a steady rhythm.

He has asked the man what he meant by ‘pedestrian or cyclist’, but the man merely smiled and ignored his question. However, there is something that troubles Thorleif more than that. The man has made no effort to conceal his face. Isn’t he scared that Thorleif will recognise him later or point him out to the police?

The answer when it hits him is as simple as it is brutal. They don’t care. When this is over, they won’t need him any more, and then they will kill him. That is why it doesn’t matter if Thorleif knows the man’s real identity or remembers his face.

‘Where are we going?’ he asks.

They pass the exit to Holmestrand going south on the E18.

‘We’re not there yet. You just carry on driving. And stick to the speed limit.’

The man’s mobile beeps. He takes off his glove and presses some keys. When he has finished, he puts his hand on the armrest and looks out of the window. Thorleif alternates between looking at the road in front of him and at the landscape where the trees are starting to take over. But today he sees no deer lowering their heads towards the ground, only short, rust-coloured wheat stubble and white plastic-covered hay bales that look like giant marshmallows scattered across the undulating fields. The man puts on his glove again.

One hour later they exit towards Larvik.

‘Take a left on that roundabout,’ the man says, pointing at a sign for Fritzoe Brygge Shopping Centre. ‘And go into the multi-storey car park.’

Thorleif drives his Opel Astra slowly down to the basement level where every sound and movement is amplified. He passes a dark wooden entrance which leads to the shopping centre where today’s special offer from Meny is fishcakes. A dozen cars are parked, but there are plenty of vacant spaces.

‘Park next to that car,’ the man says, gesturing towards a dark blue BMW. Thorleif drives around the white supporting pillars. The BMW is the same colour as the one he saw outside Bogstad Farm, but the registration plates are different. Thorleif looks at the man, who smiles slyly.

‘Park here and then we will swap cars.’

Thorleif manoeuvres into the bay and turns off the engine. A heavy silence fills the car. In the distance a door slams with a bang before an engine starts. They get out. He is met by a smell that reminds him of a ferry deck. There is a constant humming above him. The man goes over to the passenger side of the BMW, opens the doors and tosses the keys to Thorleif. Caught off guard, Thorleif only just manages to catch them.

‘You want me to drive?’

‘Let’s find out what you’re made of,’ the man says, and his voice echoes against the walls. He grins. ‘In you get.’

Chapter 36

They have left Stavern behind and have driven past horse paddocks, onion fields and a Free Church when Thorleif is told to stop in a bus lay-by opposite a maize field. The crop reaches waist height. Beyond them, far away on the horizon, the Strait of Skagerrak opens wide towards Denmark. White horses on the surface of the water chase boats, big and small. Above them white and dark-grey clouds drift along without bumping into one another.

‘Do you want me to turn off the engine?’ Thorleif says. The sun is roasting him through the window. The man next to him looks at an old garage with rusty doors and a black sheet-metal roof. He turns his whole body towards Thorleif.

‘Earlier today I asked you which way you wanted to go. Remember?’

‘Y-yes.’

The man points ahead where the road bends left in a long, soft curve.

‘A few hundred metres further ahead there is another junction. Technically you can’t turn right there, you’ll have to go straight across it, but I’ll ask you all the same. Right or left?’

‘W-what?’

‘Right or left?’

‘But-’

‘Right or left?’

‘I don’t know! Which way do you want me to go?’

‘You remember how it was earlier today. I’m asking you one last time: right or left? Left: your girlfriend dies. Right: you can still eat tacos-’

‘Right,’ Thorleif replies quickly. ‘I’ll turn right, okay?! Why don’t you just tell me which way you want me to go? I’ll do anything to save my girlfriend!’

‘Good, Toffe, I want you to hold that thought: you’ll do anything to save your girlfriend. Great. Now start driving. Stick to route 301.’

‘What are we going to do when we get there?’

The man doesn’t reply. Thorleif sighs and puts the car in ‘D’. He pulls out into the road again, calmly increases his speed to 60 kilometres per hour and follows the long curve to the left, towards the sign for the 301. He brakes in the bend before continuing straight ahead and accelerating up a small hill. The narrow road continues to wind its way through dense forest interspaced with onion and potato fields on both sides whenever the landscape opens up. No cars come in the opposite direction. Thorleif clutches the steering wheel. Tiny side roads turn off to the right, towards farms and cottages he can’t see.

‘Pull up over there.’

The man points to a faded brown fence enclosing a plot which doesn’t appear to be named, but where gravestones stick up from the well-tended grass. Thorleif parks in between two birches whose branches offer them shade.

‘What do we do now?’ Thorleif asks.

‘We wait. You can turn off the engine now.’

They sit in silence for several minutes. They hear the sound of a car approaching. A black cat runs along the edge of the road before it shoots off in between the rowan bushes. The car appears, zooms past them before it falls silent once more. Soon afterwards a tractor comes along. Then two cyclists. Thorleif notices that the man follows them with his eyes with considerable interest.

Suddenly he leans forwards and says, ‘Perfect.’

‘What is?’

‘Check your wing mirror.’

Behind them a man wearing a headset, dark-blue running trousers and a blue jacket comes jogging. His pace is leisurely.

‘Wait until he has passed us.’

Thorleif waits. He watches the jogger in his mirror, sees him overtake the car. The jogger pays no attention to them, he just disappears around the next bend. The minutes pass.

‘Okay, start the engine.’

‘What are we doing?’

‘Just do as you are told.’

The engine growls menacingly.

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Drive. Faster.’

Thorleif pushes down the accelerator a little more. The car gains speed. The jogger appears around the next bend. He has reached the foot of a long sloping hill that twists like a snake.

‘Faster!’ The man leans forwards.

‘Why?’

‘Because I want you to hit him.’

‘I can’t drive into him. I’ll kill him!’

‘Faster!’

Thorleif obeys, gripping the steering wheel. His thoughts bounce up and down like a roller-coaster. What does he do now? Surely he can’t run over someone deliberately?

They pass a house and a sign advertising a sculpture exhibition.

‘There are people living here,’ Thorleif yells.

‘So what?’

‘What if they see us? What if there are other cars behind us or coming towards us?’

‘Think about your girlfriend. Think about what we’re going to do to her if you don’t run him over.’

‘I can’t do it!’ he screams.

‘Of course you can!’

The tears well up in his eyes and make it difficult for him to see clearly. Thorleif closes them and tries to blink away the wetness, but the tears keep flowing. He struggles to breathe. The engine emits another roar as they gain on the jogger. The fields open up on both sides of the road and there is a smell of onions, of bloody onions, while Thorleif’s heart feels as if it is about to jump out of his chest. His hears himself cry out as his hands twist the steering wheel in the direction of the jogger. I’m going to hit you, Thorleif thinks, I’m going to hit you now.

He closes his eyes and waits for the car to react to the collision with a human being and the loud crash that will follow as Thorleif takes the life of an innocent man. But the crash never comes. The wheels of the car never stray across the edge of the tarmac where the gravel starts, where thousands of onions are neatly lined up. Thorleif opens his eyes again. Only a few metres ahead of them the road goes into a double bend, and they are about to plough into a field where the red-tinted flowers of the potatoes still display the remains of summer. Thorleif tries frantically to regain control of the car, to get it back on the road. He hears a quartet of tyres scream as the car hurls itself to the left just as they come into the bend and Thorleif clings to the steering wheel while he pants and tries to straighten up, gasping and frantically turning the wheel. Behind them the jogger has stopped. He waves his clenched fists at them.

You failed, Thorleif mutters to himself. You failed the test.

He stares at the man who has already pressed a number on his mobile which he is pressing against his ear.

‘Hi, it’s me,’ he says and sends Thorleif an icy stare. ‘He screwed up. Kill his girlfriend.’

Chapter 37

A bunch of keys that editor-in-chief Ida Caroline Ovesen has lent to Henning is jingling in his hands. One of the keys fits the lock of a basement storeroom where all superfluous office equipment was dumped during the refurbishment until someone found a suitable home for it. ‘It’ll probably stay there for ever,’ Ida remarked.

She had no idea where his cassette tapes might be. The refurbishment had been chaotic, and many staff had helped clear out the offices. This impression of chaos is reinforced when Henning enters a room filled to the rafters with chairs, desks, old computers, boxes of wires and cables, mice and mouse mats, ring binders and bookcases, workstations and monitors.

Henning moves a chair, clambers to the first desk and opens its drawers one by one, but they are all empty. The desks are identical, and none of them has his or any of his colleagues’ names on them so he has no other choice but to go through all of them and keep his fingers crossed that he might have some luck for once. He clears a path, taking one drawer at a time and slamming it shut as soon as he has looked inside. Soon he has built up a rhythm, but it produces no result.

Perhaps the drawers were emptied first, he speculates. He closes his eyes and imagines being the person who cleared out and removed the tapes from his desk. Could they have been put in a separate box? Bundled together with sticky tape even? Henning opens his eyes and locates the packing crates but soon realises that the filing system used was the one known as chucking stuff in any old box. Ten minutes later he has rummaged through all of them without finding a single audio cassette.

He looks around again. At the rear, behind the storage crates, he can see an unvarnished pine shelving unit filled with old stationery, headed paper with 123news ’s old logo, envelopes, pens — even umbrellas and white T-shirts. Henning works his way across to it, stepping over a dusty computer monitor in the process, and starts scanning the shelf in front of him at eye level. Nothing of interest. He stands on tiptoe and takes down a box from the top shelf. As he does so its bottom falls out and the contents cascade around his feet. He bends down and feels twinges in his back and hip, pain that sometimes returns as a reminder — as if he could ever forget the slippery railing and the fatal flagstones two floors below, but he grits his teeth and searches through the rubbish which someone decided was worth keeping. Conference papers for the Norwegian Foundation for Investigative Journalism. Union agreements. A computer mouse. Three pens that are unlikely to work. He removes two half-empty boxes of drawing pins that have fallen out — and spots a pile of cassettes held together with yellow tape. The initials HJ have been written on the side followed by a question mark.

Henning smiles. So someone did pack them, he thinks, delighted, as he counts eight cassettes, each containing four hours of recording time. He realises immediately that he will be unable to concentrate on anything else until he has listened to all of them. Perhaps he could ask Heidi Kjus for a few days’ leave.

His thoughts are interrupted by his mobile ringing. The caller is unknown, but Henning replies.

‘It’s Tore Pulli. Olsvik said you wanted me to call you.’

Henning stands up and feels his back ache. ‘Yes. Eh, great.’

He tries to organise his thoughts but ends up asking the first question that comes into his head. ‘How do we know each other?’

The seconds pass without Pulli replying.

‘The first time we spoke, you asked me if I remembered you. That’s not a question you ask someone you’ve never met or spoken to before. But I have no memory of us meeting. I remember nothing from the weeks or days before my son died. So, I was wondering, did we have any contact around the time of the fire at my flat? Did we know each other?’

The seconds tick away while Henning grows increasingly agitated.

‘I read somewhere that you weren’t in the habit of giving interviews, Pulli. Was I trying to arrange an interview with you? Was that the reason?’

Pulli doesn’t reply.

‘Was I working on a story where you were one of the players?’

Still silence.

‘Why were you outside my flat that night? And I mean, really?’

Pulli sighs. ‘I can’t tell you anything about that, Juul.’

‘Why not?’

‘I just can’t. The telephone in here is being monitored.’

‘I don’t give a damn about that.’

‘No, but I do.’

‘If you want my help, you have to not care about that.’

Pulli sighs. As does Henning when Pulli takes a long time to consider his response.

‘I can’t tell you on the telephone,’ he says eventually.

‘Then tell me this,’ Henning counters aggressively. ‘How did you know that I was back at work?’

Another silence.

‘Great,’ Henning snorts. ‘I can’t be bothered with this. Good luck with your appeal.’

Chapter 38

‘No! Don’t do it, don’t do it, please, don’t do it!’ Thorleif grabs the man’s left shoulder and pulls him.

‘Watch the road!’

The car has swerved out on the gravel at the edge of the tarmac. Thorleif lets go of the man and forces the car back on the road. The moment he is in control of the car, he pleads with the man again. ‘Don’t do it! I’ll do whatever you want, please, give me another chance, please, don’t hurt her, don’t kill her!’

‘It’s too late, Toffe. You had your chance.’

‘No, it can’t be too late! I’ll do what you want me to. Whatever it is. Please.’

Thorleif is crying. The man ignores him.

‘Please,’ he begs him as he bangs the steering wheel. They reach the end of the road. Thorleif stops the car, rests his head on the steering wheel and sobs.

‘Turn right,’ the man says softly and looks at Thorleif. ‘There is a car behind us. Turn right,’ he repeats, his voice firmer this time.

Slowly, Thorleif straightens up. A swirling mist is dancing in front of his eyes. He doesn’t see where the car is heading; he merely registers that it is accelerating. I’ve killed her, Thorleif thinks in despair. It’s my fault. Soon she’ll be leaving work for the last time. She’ll never see the children again.

The children, he thinks. My God. ‘Please,’ he repeats, weakly. ‘I’ll do anything. Anything. I promise, I’ll get it right next time.’

But the man doesn’t respond.

Thorleif drives quietly. The road is narrow, with grass on both sides right up to the tarmac. The colours around him merge, churn and spin inside his brain. Again his head slumps forwards against the steering wheel as he weeps. The car almost comes to a halt. The man reaches over and takes the wheel, making sure that they stay on the road. Then he looks at Thorleif.

‘Okay,’ he says, calmly. ‘I’ll give you a second chance.’

Thorleif lifts his head quickly and stares at the man; he never would have thought that he would experience such a genuine and profound sense of gratitude towards someone who only a few minutes ago had tried to make him kill another human being.

‘Thank you,’ he says, relieved. ‘Thank you so much.’

His breathing is rasping as he closes his eyes and mouths a silent thank you.

‘Have you calmed down now? Are you fit to drive?’

Thorleif blinks away his tears and nods.

‘Okay. Then drive.’

Thorleif sniffs and wipes his face on his sleeves. His cheeks are burning hot. Sweat is pouring from his forehead and his scalp. They drive past a large glasshouse just begging for kids to throw stones at it.

‘Do you want me to turn around?’ he stutters.

‘No.’

‘But what… where-’

‘Just drive back to the multi-storey car park. Stay on this road.’

‘But don’t you want me to-’

‘Not now.’

Thorleif tries to compose himself. He wipes sweat and tears off his face and presses the accelerator. An infinite feeling of relief washes over him. The trials have ended. At least for now. At the same time he can’t stop panicking about what will happen next, what he will have to do, and to whom. But why does it have to be him? What has he done?

Twenty minutes later they are back in the multi-storey car park under Fritzoe Brygge Shopping Centre. Thorleif parks next to his own car.

‘What happens now?’ he asks when the BMW has come to a standstill.

‘Now you go home. And when you get there, you act normally. You don’t tell anyone what you did today. We have contacts inside the police. If you try to warn anyone, we won’t just kill your girlfriend.’

Thorleif is speechless with shock.

‘Now go home.’

‘But what do I… when do you want-’

‘We’ll contact you again. Now go home.’

Thorleif stays in the car.

‘Why are you doing this to me?’ he asks, quietly.

The man doesn’t reply.

‘Okay,’ Thorleif says with a sigh and opens the car door. He gets out and walks around to his own car. The window on the BMW’s passenger side is rolled down.

‘Drive safely,’ the man says. ‘We wouldn’t want anything to happen to you. And if you try to harm yourself, we’ll make it even worse for your family.’

‘I understand,’ Thorleif nods.

‘And Thorleif,’ the man says, looking at him, ‘you should seriously think about fixing the cracks in your kitchen floor.’

Chapter 39

As soon as Thorleif has left the multi-storey car park, he calls Elisabeth, but she doesn’t answer her mobile. Thorleif looks at his watch. She is probably still teaching, he thinks and joins the E18 towards Oslo. On his way home he calls her at regular intervals, but she doesn’t pick up until he passes Sandvika.

‘Hi,’ she says, anxiously. ‘What’s happened?’

Thorleif closes his eyes. He is so relieved to hear her voice that he almost bursts into tears. He takes a deep breath and regains some sort of composure. He thinks carefully before he answers. ‘Nothing.’

‘For God’s sake, Thorleif, I have eight missed calls on my mobile. I thought something had happened to the kids!’

‘It’s nothing.’

‘You can’t do this to me.’

‘Where are you?’ he says, trying to distract her.

‘Where am I? I’m at work, of course. Where are you? I can hear you’re in the car.’

‘Eh, yes. I’m working, too.’

‘Why did you ring me eight times?’

‘Because… could you do me a favour?’ he says.

‘Yes, of course, but-’

‘Could you pick up the kids today? I’m going to be a bit late‚ I think.’

‘Hello, I pick them up every day! Why would you ask me to do that? You don’t need to call me eight times to ask me to do something I do every day already. Have you gone completely mad?’

‘No. It’s just that… ’ he shakes his head at himself, ‘just drive carefully. Okay?’

‘Drive carefully? Jesus Christ, Thorleif, you’re sitting in our car! What is wrong with you?’

‘Nothing, I’m just joking,’ he says quickly, hoping that will suffice.

‘When will you be back?’ she sighs.

‘I’m not really sure.’

‘No, I didn’t think so. If you’re later than five, we’ll go ahead and eat without you.’

‘Okay. Take care. I… ’ He can’t complete the sentence so he hangs up. He regrets it instantly. He should have warned her, told her to look over her shoulder, be on her guard. But what if they are bugging his mobile? Or both their mobiles? They must have been in his home since the man in the car knew about the cracks in the kitchen floor. Thorleif feels sick just thinking about what else the man has seen. The children. Their lives.

I can’t talk to anyone about this, Thorleif concludes. I can’t and I daren’t. But how do I get myself out of this nightmare? I can’t just do what they want since they are clearly going to kill me afterwards. First I kill, then I am killed.

No, he says to himself and feels the car accelerate. He has to come up with something.

Chapter 40

The queue at the off-licence in Gronland Basar is never very long. Henning buys two bottles of St Hallvard and walks out into the mix of aromatic spices that always fills the air in this part of Oslo. His most recent conversation with Pulli replays in his head while he walks. I just can’t, Henning mimics. At the time Henning meant it when he said that he could not be bothered to waste any more time on a man who is used to getting what he wants and who — according to Irene Otnes — also has a habit of lying. But Henning knows he has nowhere else to go. And he hopes it gave Pulli something to think about until the next time.

As always, he finds his mother in the kitchen with a lit cigarette between her fingers. Another cigarette is burning in the ashtray next to her.

‘Hi Mum,’ he shouts, trying to drown out the sound of the radio. ‘Losing My Religion’ is playing on P4 for the umpteenth time, he registers.

‘How are you?’

She glances up from the newspaper in front of her. Her face is seething with irritation.

‘Look at this,’ she snorts. ‘Look what they have done to my newspaper.’

Henning goes over to the kitchen counter and puts down the bottles. Today’s edition of Aftenposten is scrunched up at the bottom.

‘How annoying,’ he shouts and tries to smooth out the crinkled paper. She sweeps his hand away with a dismissive gesture. REM finish singing, and the voice of an intense female announcer fills the kitchen. Christine Juul looks at him.

‘Did you get the liqueur?’

‘I did.’

‘Would you…?’ She waves her hands in the direction of the cupboard. Henning opens it and takes out a glass. He removes the top of one of the bottles and is about pour the first soothing drops into the glass when he stops.

‘This glass is filthy, Mum.’

Her eyes shoot sideways, towards him, but she says nothing. Henning turns on the tap, waits for the water to warm up before he washes and dries the glass, but then he discovers that the tea towel is damp. He sniffs it, pulls away from it quickly and looks at her.

His mum needs a carer, he thinks. Someone who could help her with the basics. She can’t manage on her own. It’s either that or she has given up. He doesn’t have the energy to decide which is worse at this particular moment in time. His sister Trine can obviously never spare a single minute of her precious Minister for Justice time.

Henning puts the glass in front of his mother where a fawning Se og Hor feature about Trine and her husband just happens to lie open. ‘We Want Kids!’ screams the headline.

‘Did you buy cigarettes?’ she asks as she knocks back the liqueur.

‘No, you didn’t say anything about-’

‘You didn’t buy cigarettes?’

Henning is shocked by the anger in her voice which is soon replaced by a coughing fit that tears holes in her lungs. He puts his hand on her back and is about to slap it, but she wriggles away from him, pointing to the home respirator on the kitchen table near the wall while she hacks almost to the point of throwing up. Henning pushes the machine closer to her and attaches the mask over her nose and mouth with a blue strap around her head before he switches on the device. Soon her breathing calms down. Minutes later only spasms of her cough remain. She sits like this for some time, slowly breathing in and out.

Henning waits until her shoulders are no longer heaving before he slips out and locks the door behind him. Outside he can still hear the sound of the machine that is keeping her alive — for the time being, at least. And he catches himself wondering if he will feel sad the day she dies.

Chapter 41

Suddenly his duvet feels suffocating and hot — even though he was shivering with goose pimples a minute ago. In the living room Pal is racing across the floor with Endre, one of his new classmates, close behind.

Thorleif went straight to bed when he came home‚ blaming a stomach upset. He knows he would not have been able to look at their faces without collapsing with terror. His family would think that he had gone mad, something which — now that he thinks about it — is close to the truth. What the hell is he going to do? They are watching his every move. The man with the ponytail told him they even have contacts within the police. Is there anyone at all who can help him? Is there some way he could raise the alarm?

This leads him to another thought. When did the burglar alarm stop working? Sunday? The days of the week are a blur to him, but he thinks it was Sunday. Could someone have been in their flat while they visited Bogstad Farm?

He is startled by a thud on the wall. He hears squeals of laughter coming from the living room. Pal’s laughter always makes him smile. Footsteps disappear and new footsteps approach. The bedroom door opens. Thorleif jumps again, then he sees Julie stop on the threshold. Even the sight of her pout is enough to take his breath away.

‘What is it, sweetheart?’

‘Pal says I’m rubbish at drawing.’

‘Does he now?’ Thorleif says in a gentle voice. ‘Don’t listen to him, my love. Pal is just showing off to Endre. You’re great at drawing. Did I hear Mummy say that you’ve learned to draw hearts?’

Julie’s face explodes in a smile. ‘Can I show you?’

‘Yes, please!’

Little feet patter across the floorboards. Thirty seconds later she returns to the bedroom holding a sheet of paper in her hand.

‘Look, Daddy.’ Beaming with pride she shows him the heart drawn in fat red pen.

‘Well, I never,’ he enthuses. ‘What a fantastic heart.’

‘Would you like me to draw you one?’

‘Would you?’

Another broad smile followed by running feet. Thorleif straightens up and looks at the heart. It resembles a pair of buttocks. But it is a heart. The finest heart he has ever seen.

It gives him an idea.

‘Julie?’ he calls out.

‘Yesss?’

‘Why don’t you bring your colouring pencils in here? Then I can watch you while you draw?’

‘Would you like that, Daddy?’

‘Yes, absolutely. Perhaps I could do a bit of drawing myself.’

‘Yesss!’

Shortly afterwards she comes running across the floor. Thorleif hears her drop the box, and all the colouring pencils fall out and roll across the floor.

‘Oh,’ Julie cries out.

‘Never mind, my love,’ he says. ‘Just pick them up again.’

‘You need to help me.’

Thorleif sighs in the knowledge that the job will never be done unless he gets out of bed and picks up every single pencil with the possible exception of one or two. So that’s what he does: he gets up. His whole body aches, but it is re-energised by his idea. He goes out into the living room and can see no sign of Pal, Endre or Elisabeth.

‘Come on,’ he says, picking up the last pencil. ‘We need to find something we can rest the paper on so we don’t accidentally draw on the bed linen. Or Mummy will be cross.’

‘We’re going to draw in bed?’

‘Yes. And we’ll build ourselves a tent so we can sit inside it and draw. Won’t that be fun?’

‘Lots of fun!’

‘Come on.’

He nudges her, picks up two newspapers from the coffee table and crawls back into bed. They wrap the duvets around themselves. Thorleif sits upright so the duvets form a wall around them. Julie puts newspaper under the paper she is going to draw on.

‘Listen,’ he says to get her attention. She doesn’t respond, she’s busy deciding which colours to use. ‘Do we have any crisps?’

Now Julie looks at him. ‘But, Daddy, it’s not Saturday.’

‘No, I know. But we could pretend,’ he whispers. Julie’s face lights up.

‘Run off and get some. Make sure nobody sees you. Or at least not Mummy.’

‘Okay, Daddy.’

Her feet dart across the floor. She soon returns with a crumpled bag in her hands. Her face is glowing. Julie climbs back into bed and gives the bag to Thorleif. He opens it and offers it to her first. Julie takes out a single crisp that soon crunches between her teeth. She smiles again.

‘Take care not to leave crumbs,’ Thorleif whispers. ‘Mummy mustn’t find out what we’ve been up to, do you understand?’

Julie sends him a conspiratorial smile and nods her head as she munches happily. Thorleif takes the bag and helps himself to some crisps. The salt stings his taste buds and almost makes them shrivel. He holds out the bag to Julie while he looks at her. She takes some more crisps and carries on drawing. One heart after another. Red and yellow, black and purple.

‘Daddy, are you crying?’

‘No,’ he sniffles.

‘So why are your cheeks wet?’

‘Because.’

He looks at her for a long time: at her swift movements, her tangled hair, the traces of tomato sauce at the corners of her mouth. He removes a strand of hair from her eyes.

‘It’s going to be really good,’ he says, pointing to her drawing.

‘What are you going to draw, Daddy?’ she asks him.

Thorleif looks at the red heart and turns over the paper before he looks up at the ceiling, scanning the room for something small and round that might be a camera. But he sees nothing. Even so he bends down and speaks carefully into her ear.

‘I’m going to draw a car,’ he whispers. ‘A really fine car.’

Chapter 42

Henning buys a baguette from Deli de Luca on his way home and eats it as he walks. The thought of what awaits him makes him speed up.

Heidi let him have the rest of the week off though she couldn’t refrain from sighing heavily when he refused to give her a reason. Instead she said, ‘Fine. You need it. You look dreadful.’

Henning said nothing.

Back in his flat he sits down on the sofa and takes out the mini cassettes with his initials on. He peels off the tape, scrunches it into a ball and throws it on the kitchen floor. None of the tapes are labelled with a date or year, and it’s impossible to see if some of them are more used than others.

Henning finds his old tape recorder in the driftwood cupboard, plugs in the power cable and inserts the first cassette. Soon he hears his own voice.

What did you think of Statoil’s handling of this matter?

The reply is provided by a female voice he can’t identify.

Statoil’s promises concerning my role and the company’s self-imposed obligations in respect of human rights were false and misleading. This individual case is symptomatic of a greater problem.

Henning fast-forwards. The woman’s voice follows him for twelve minutes and thirty-six seconds before another woman’s voice appears after a short break. Henning recognises the voice immediately.

The man was stabbed in the chest. He has been taken to Ulleval Hospital, but his condition is unknown. His attacker appears to be a woman and she is now in police custody.

The voice belongs to Assistant Commissioner Pia Nokleby and is professional and grave as it always is when he asks her for a quote or two on the record. Henning fast-forwards through a story about sexual abuse of schoolchildren before he works out that this tape must have been recorded at least one year before Jonas died. He finds a marker pen, puts a big black cross on that cassette and inserts the next.

It’s going to be a long night.

Chapter 43

The feeling just before it happens is always the worst, when the body knows it needs to vomit but tries to fight the inevitable. And then it happens anyway, violently. Thorleif throws himself forwards while his stomach contracts and expels what little is left in his gut into the lavatory bowl. His intestines contort repeatedly, but nothing more comes out of his mouth.

He hacks a couple of times and lets the saliva drip but avoids looking down. The smell rising up towards him is enough. Tears press against his eyelids. Thorleif gets up, sniffs and flushes the lavatory. The sound of running water ricochets against the wall and inside his head where it jolts around, stirring up a chaotic mix of thoughts and emotions. His legs struggle to support his body. He staggers over to the sink and turns on the tap.

Thorleif recalls what he told Guri Palme yesterday. ‘I was sick this morning.’ It had been a white lie, but less than twenty-four hours later it proves to be true. Will he be able to go to work today?

He washes his face. He looks at the water dripping from his eyebrows and beard. You won’t be able to run over anyone. You’ll never be able to kill another human being. The very thought is enough to send him back to the lavatory bowl. He tries to ignore it, but there it is again, he recognises the revolting feeling, it’s only a matter of seconds now, and then it comes. He leans over the lavatory bowl, hugging the porcelain. The mere smell is enough to make him gag, but only saliva comes out. Saliva and mucus. He kneels down, spitting.

Soon he gets up again, splashes water on his face a second time, checks his watch: 5.30 a.m. He is due at work in four and a half hours.

He has to pull himself together.

*

Henning falls asleep around three o’clock in the morning and for once Jonas doesn’t haunt his dreams. Some hours later he is woken up by his mobile ringing, but when he answers it no one is there.

Henning drinks a mouthful of tepid Coke and opens the curtains. He goes to the kitchen and tips what is left of yesterday’s flask of coffee into a mug and puts it in the microwave. While he waits for the coffee to heat up, he looks at the cassettes on the kitchen table. Six of them are marked with big black crosses. The notepad next to them is filled with notes and names, but Henning’s pulse doesn’t quicken as he looks at them with fresh if still half-asleep eyes.

The microwave oven beeps. Henning takes out the mug and sips the hot liquid carefully. He sits down and puts on his headphones again. With slow and still sleepy motions he inserts the seventh cassette, presses play and listens. He hears his own voice. Boring questions. Bland answers. Have you any idea of the motive? Fast-forward, fast-forward, fast-forward. He drinks more coffee and presses play again. So what is your next move in this case? More fast-forwarding before he stops again. More play. He hears a man’s voice:… they might kill me.

Henning looks up. He rewinds to the start of the sentence and presses play for the umpteenth time. I’m risking my life meeting you. If they find me, they might kill me. Henning presses stop again.

He recognises the voice as belonging to Rasmus Bjelland and soon puts a face to a story. All it takes is a few internet searches to refresh his memory.

Bjelland was convicted of drugs smuggling in the early nineties. He was given a lengthy custodial sentence, Henning recalls, seven or eight years. When Bjelland was released, he started working as a carpenter without notable success. A limited company he set up, Bjelland, Bygg amp; Bolig, went bankrupt after trading for only eighteen months.

Like many other bankrupts at the time, Bjelland decided to try his luck in Brazil, more precisely in Natal — a pearl on the Atlantic coast and a city with 800,000 inhabitants. In the spring of 2006, Dagens N?ringsliv reported how the city was becoming a haven for Norwegian criminals. For years dirty money had been poured into various construction projects, later sold to Norwegians desperate for some sun and easily tempted by the favourable prices and generally low cost of living. They didn’t know that the million-krone construction projects were financed and controlled by criminal gangs who never filed a tax return in Norway. Even members of notorious gangs such as B-gjengen and Svenskeligaen invested in the Natal property market.

In 2004, Rasmus Bjelland married a Brazilian woman. She was responsible for attracting investors while Bjelland handled the construction side. Together they managed to build some smaller residential complexes which made them sufficient profits to reinvest. However, the people already running the show in Natal were perfectly happy with the existing set-up and resented the arrival of yet another property shark trying to get a share of their market.

On an autumn day in 2006, one of Bjelland’s business partners was found shot and killed outside the fishing village of Ponta Negra, an undeveloped area where Bjelland and his wife were planning their biggest project yet. Police concluded that the man, who was found with three bullet holes in his forehead and cash in his pocket, had been the victim of an armed robbery. Bjelland was terrified.

The story uncovered by Dagens N?ringsliv formed the basis of a huge Norwegian-Brazilian police operation. On 9 May 2007, 230 police officers in Natal carried out Operation Nemesis, the biggest raid the authorities in the province of Rio Grande do Norte had ever undertaken. They searched thirty-three flats and offices looking for documents to prove fraud and money laundering and confiscated items to a value of 300 million kroner. At the same time, in Oslo, eighty police officers carried out Operation Paradise and raided various locations associated with money laundering in Natal. While fourteen people were arrested in Natal, eleven were remanded in custody in Oslo. Seven people were later charged by Norway’s serious fraud office, Okokrim.

Rasmus Bjelland and his Brazilian wife were not among those arrested though their office was turned upside down. This led to suspicions that Bjelland had been in cahoots with the police prior to the raids and that the search of his office was purely for show. It didn’t take long before a price was put on his head and Bjelland went into hiding.

Rumours that a minor Norwegian property tycoon in Brazil now headed the hit list of several organised crime gangs soon reached most news desks, and Henning knew that Bjelland would not be easy to find. One day, however, he received a tip-off that Bjelland had settled with his creditors in Norway and had applied for witness protection — a request granted to only a few people since Kripos set up the programme in 2004.

After several phone calls back and forth, Henning finally tracked down a middleman who agreed to pass on a request for an interview, but it was turned down point blank. Nor did Bjelland take Henning’s bait that the article could serve as a pre-emptive defence brief. Henning had practically given up when the middleman contacted him and told him that Bjelland had changed his mind.

One overcast day in the summer of 2007 they met at Huk Beach. Henning remembers a man who was scared of the shadows and ready to do whatever it took to appear innocent and unjustly accused. In theory, talking to Norway’s most wanted man was a scoop, but Henning was left with a bad taste in his mouth — not necessarily because he believed that Bjelland was lying, but because he was allowing himself to be used as Bjelland’s mouthpiece. Another of Bjelland’s demands was that Henning would not write anything about his application for a new identity, which was being processed, since it would make him look even more suspicious; nor would he tell the readers that Bjelland was planning on staying in Norway. Henning had had to bite on this bullet, too. He even remembered the headline: I’m No Snitch.

Perhaps that’s the answer, Henning thinks to himself. Maybe the people who were looking for Bjelland thought that Henning knew Bjelland’s location since he had managed to interview him. But why torch Henning’s flat?

Perhaps they had made previous attempts at contacting Henning before opting for a more drastic approach. For all Henning knows, they may not have meant for anyone to die, only for Henning to become more co-operative. No matter what their motive was, it wouldn’t have worked. Henning never knew the identity of the middleman. Their only point of contact had been through an anonymous email address.

Henning looks up his own story on the Internet. With the benefit of hindsight he sees that it was definitely a good one. He took a fine picture of Bjelland from the back with a hood covering his head, looking out across Oslo Fjord. Mysterious and appealing. The story offered hitherto unpublished information. Reading his old article again stirs a memory in Henning of the man he was before Jonas died. He can hear the hunger in his own voice in the hunt for the big story. He recognises the feeling, not because he plans to write anything about Jonas but because he senses he might have hit on something.

He checks the Internet for more recent information about Bjelland, but his searches generate no hits. That must mean his application for a new identity was approved, Henning thinks. In other words, Rasmus Bjelland could be anywhere in Norway with a new face. Finding him again would be practically impossible. Nor is there much to suggest it would serve any purpose.

B-gjengen or Svenskeligaen, Henning thinks. He knows there aren’t many members of Svenskeligaen left in Oslo. And he can’t knock on the door of B-gjengen and ask them if they were behind a fire in a flat that led to the death of a six-year-old boy. He has to come up with another way to approach them.

But how?

The answer is obvious though it goes against the grain and holds little appeal for Henning.

Tore Pulli.

Chapter 44

Before Thorleif unlocks his car, he stops and glances around. Cars and buses zoom up and down Bygdoy Alle. Pedestrians are quietly using the pedestrian crossing, but nobody is walking down Nobelsgate in his direction. His hands tremble as he opens the door and gets in. He checks the rear-view mirror. Sees nobody.

He takes a breath, starts the engine and drives towards the centre of Oslo where he finds a parking space in Kirkegaten. The engine has just stopped when there is a bang on the windscreen. Thorleif is startled and jumps, but all he sees is a man in tracksuit bottoms and a white T-shirt walk away from the car at a leisurely pace.

Then Thorleif notices the yellow Post-it note attached to the windscreen. He gets out, searches for the man and sees him disappear around the corner. He doesn’t look back. Thorleif snatches the note and reads what it says.

Oslo Cathedral. Five minutes.

A wave of panic sweeps through him, and he has to make an effort to breathe. It’s starting again. He leans forwards and supports himself against the bonnet of the car while he tries to calm down. He stands like this for a while before he straightens up and takes a deep breath. Then he walks up Kirkegaten in the direction of the cathedral whose spire and verdigris top soar towards the open sky. His footsteps are feeble, reluctant, as if deep down he is hoping they will refuse to lead him to his executioner, acquire a will of their own and carry him to safety. Thorleif looks up at the pedestrians coming towards him, trying to make eye contact, but nobody returns the looks he gives them. I’m on my own, he thinks. I’m the only one who can deal with this.

He crosses Karl Johansgate and continues towards the cathedral while he wonders if he can stop himself from crying. The cathedral door is open, he sees, as he crosses the street by the taxi rank on Stortorvet. He enters the darkness and is instantly mesmerised by the silence that always fills a church space.

He hears mumbling, sees fingers pointing up at the ceiling, at the stained-glass windows and the paintings. He checks his watch. He needs to be at work in five minutes. He swears quietly to himself and instantly feels remorseful in view of the location and his surroundings. His shame evaporates when he detects the smell of leather behind him. He spins around and stares right into a grave face. The same face he learned to fear yesterday.

They remain opposite each other for a while. The man looks at Thorleif for a long time before he nods and walks further into the cathedral. Thorleif follows him. They sit down on a bench. The man waits until a group of Japanese tourists have moved on. Then he slips one hand into the inside pocket of his leather jacket and takes out a box. He opens it with care and shows it to Thorleif.

‘W-what’s that?’ Thorleif whispers, looking down at it. Reluctantly, he realises that he is intrigued.

‘This,’ the man says, reverently. ‘This is a piercing needle.’

Chapter 45

‘Are you all right?’

Thorleif looks up at Guri Palme’s concerned face.

‘You’re as white as a sheet. Are you sure you’re okay to work?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Thorleif groans, and forces a smile. ‘I’ll be fine. But I think I might not start the editing today.’

‘Fine. It’s not going out until Saturday, anyway,’ Palme says sympathetically. ‘Are you really all right? You look terrible.’

‘I’ll be fine,’ he assures her.

Palme scrutinises him for several seconds before she puts her hand on his shoulder.

‘Good. It’s a big day today.’

They get into a white Peugeot 207 with TV2’s familiar ‘2’ and the letters ENG 12 on the right front wing and drive off. He is numb; it’s as if the body sitting in the car doesn’t belong to him. He can’t feel the seat underneath him.

He looks out of the window searching for something he can focus on and lose himself in, but he finds nothing. Only children in the park, people in cafes. Life passing by. He recognises the mood from this morning. Something is brewing. He starts to feel dizzy. The little box he was given is burning a hole in his inside pocket.

Thorleif hears the man’s voice inside his head: There is no reason why you can’t go home from work today. You just have to do one small thing for us. If you do that you’ll be able to carry on with your life just as it was before. If you don’t, we’ll kill not only you but also your children.

Thorleif closes his eyes.

The car stops. The ground feels soft as he gets out. Ole Reinertsen, the other cameraman, opens the boot. Both of them pick up their cameras and recording equipment. Thorleif slings the lighting kit over his shoulder and soon feels his forehead flush with heat. The camera seems heavier than usual. The details around him lose substance and float past. He lets himself be guided through doors and finally into a room. He stares at the grey linoleum floor, feeling trapped by the white painted concrete walls.

‘Okay,’ Guri says. ‘We’ll probably need fifteen minutes to get ready. Or what do you think, Toffe?’

He nods. He hears a kind male voice reply that that’s fine and that he will be back. Thorleif is the last person to enter the room. He puts down his bags, his tripods and his camera. The room is small and narrow. A beech and glass table stands in the middle. The curtains have a pattern that looks like butterflies.

‘What do you think?’ Reinertsen asks him. ‘Two lights and a camera right behind Guri, roughly here?’

Reinertsen makes a square with his hands. Thorleif nods.

‘And I’ll be filming him as he enters.’

‘Mm.’

‘Could you pass me the tripod, please?’

Reinertsen points to the tripod. Thorleif does what he is asked. Behind him, Palme is marching up and down the floor with notes in her hands which she alternately looks at and away from. Thorleif’s work absorbs his attention for several minutes. He rigs the Panasonic 905 and finds a microphone and an XLR cable. Normally he would have said, I just need to attach this to you, and the interviewee would instantly forget that they were wearing a mike. But Thorleif doesn’t know if he will be able to say that today.

He tries to concentrate on the lighting. Three lights, perhaps a spot at the back to create an illusion of depth by contrasting objects. The light coming from behind is too sharp. He will have to close the curtains. Put a Dedolight in front, perhaps, with a Chimera attachment. It’ll be fine. The Chimera will disperse the light and soften it. If he dims the Dedolight, the colour will be warmer.

Rigging the lights distracts Thorleif and briefly makes him feel better. But in less than ten seconds the task facing him consumes him again.

Fifteen minutes later he is ready. He takes a deep breath, reaches inside his pocket, takes the box, opens it, turns away, places the needle in his left hand with the greatest of care, closes the box and puts it back. Do everything, he thinks. You have to do everything.

Near him, a door is opened. He sees Palme’s face light up. She has put on her camera face. She smiles. Extends her hand. Thorleif struggles to stop his knees from knocking. You’ll never be able to do it, a voice inside him whispers. You’ll fail. You’ll never succeed.

The room contracts. Thorleif presses his fingers together. His feet refuse to be still. The air grows clammy and difficult to inhale. Palme nods and smiles, she practically curtsies. ‘Thank you for coming. We’re delighted to start the Dypdykk series with this interview.’

A shadow appears in the doorway. Thorleif looks up. Dark, conspicuous tattoos. A woman’s face on a forearm.

He meets the eyes of the towering shadow. The man holds out his hand. Thorleif takes it, hears the man’s voice, deep and thundering.

‘Tore Pulli.’

Thorleif’s hand disappears inside the huge fist. He barely has enough strength to return the handshake. He looks up and says feebly, ‘Thorleif Brenden. N-nice to meet you.’