Pierced (27 page)

‘You’re playing with fire,’ Hansen says quietly‚ and jabs his finger at Iver’s face. Iver tries hard to pretend that he isn’t scared. Then Hansen straightens up, heads for the door and slams it hard on his way out.

Elisabeth Haaland stares at the ceiling but sees nothing, only a pale grey fog. She doesn’t know if she can cry any more, but every time she imagines Thorleif or thinks about him, what he is doing, where he is, the knot in her stomach tightens and she bursts into tears. Her thoughts repeat in a never-ending spiral without producing a single answer.

What will she tell the children?

The police aren’t much help yet because not enough time has passed since Thorleif went missing. But she could hear it in the voice of the female police officer who called half an hour ago, the one who rang yesterday, that they no longer regarded it as a straightforward missing-person case. Why else would she ask if Thorleif had had anything to do with Tore Pulli, including before the interview? What was she insinuating?

Elisabeth stretches out her arms behind her and buries them under the pillow. Her fingers stop when they touch a sheet of paper. She pulls it out.

‘Julie’s heart,’ she whispers to herself, holds up the drawing and looks at the fat red lines Julie drew at nursery. Her daughter has decorated every scrap of paper and every newspaper she has come across since with hearts. Elisabeth turns over the sheet and sees the car. And she sees that Thorleif drew it.

Why would he do that, she wonders and sits up. He never draws with Julie because, according to him, he is so bad at it. But now he appears to have drawn a picture of a car. And why did he leave the drawing under her pillow?

The car looks like a BMW. The registration plates are clear to see. Her gaze glides down towards the words written in Thorleif’s inimitable penmanship. Elisabeth raises her hand to her mouth. And she jumps the next moment when someone rings the doorbell.

The sun hits Henning’s face as he leaves
123news
’s offices in 9 Urtegata. He takes out his mobile and calls Iver, who gives him a quick summary of his conversation with Hansen.

‘So he didn’t punch you in the face?’

‘No, but he clearly wanted to.’

‘I told you to take it easy with those guys.’

‘I know.’

‘Have you spoken to any of the others?’

‘No, not yet. But I’m about to call TV2.’

Henning nods as he holds up his other hand. A cab across the street indicates and stops at the pavement. ‘Good. We need a few more angles.’

‘I found a picture of Tore Pulli and a guy named Even Nylund on the Internet earlier today. Nylund runs a strip club in Majorstua. Åsgard it’s called or something like that.’

‘That’s where Geir Grønningen and Petter Holte work,’ Henning says and dashes across the street in between two cars.

‘I could try going over there tonight.’

‘Great idea.’

Henning gets into the cab.

‘What about you? Where are you going?’

‘I’m going to pay Thorleif Brenden’s girlfriend a visit.’

The cab stops right outside the Italian School in Bygdøy Allé. Henning walks down a side street and searches for Brenden’s apartment block in Nobelsgate. He passes courtyard gardens with withered plants, finds the building marked B and presses the bell labelled ‘Brenden & Haaland’.

Henning looks around while he waits for an answer that doesn’t come. Perhaps she’s asleep, he thinks. Or trying to sleep. He called Elisabeth Haaland at the school where she works, but they told him that she was off sick today. He tried her mobile, which rang several times before switching to voicemail. Henning knows it is unlikely that she will open the door to him, but he thought it was worth a try and set out anyway. He rings the doorbell again. Another thirty seconds pass before a shattered female voice answers.

Henning introduces himself. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but I would really like to talk to you about Thorleif. It will help you and your family if
123news
can publish a detailed account of Thorleif’s last movements. It could prompt people to come forward which might lead to his being found.’

All Henning hears is a click at the other end. ‘Damn,’ he mutters to himself, and waits a few seconds before he presses the bell once more. There is only silence and the hum of city life behind the walls and the trees. Henning swears again even though he knows it is rare for relatives to want to talk to the press at this stage.

Henning refrains from pressing the bell a fourth time. Haaland has enough to worry about, he decides, when at that moment the door opens in front of him. An ashen-faced woman looks at him, her eyes and skin marked by tears and despair.

‘Elisabeth Haaland?’ he asks.

The bags under her eyes are enormous. Her hair has been gathered in a messy ponytail. No make-up. She pulls her jacket protectively around her and marches past him.

‘I know this is a bad time,’ Henning says. ‘But I wouldn’t have come here if I didn’t think it was important.’

Haaland ignores him. Henning hurries after her, gritting his teeth in response to the pain coming from his hip and feet as he struggles to keep up with her. ‘Please, just listen to what I have to say.’

Haaland stops and spins around. ‘They made him do it,’ she says and stares at him wild-eyed.

‘What?’

‘Thorleif didn’t do it.’

‘Didn’t do what?’

‘Isn’t that why you’re here?’

Henning makes no reply, but he looks perplexed. Haaland doesn’t elaborate, she just turns around and walks on.

‘How do you know?’ he says, rushing after her.

‘Because he told me,’ she says without turning around.

‘Have you spoken to him?’

She doesn’t reply, but continues marching down the street. Henning starts to run even though the soles of his feet are screaming.

‘What are you saying, Elisabeth?’

‘I’m going to the police.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ Henning says, panting. ‘Perhaps we could talk while we walk? Or can I take you there in a cab?’

She glances at him over her shoulder; she doesn’t nod, but neither does she reject him. Henning tries to increase his speed as they reach Bygdøy Allé. Three cabs are waiting at the rank on the far side of the junction. Haaland gets into the first one. Henning stops outside and looks at her. She returns his gaze.

Then she nods.

Henning gets into the back. The cab pulls out before he has even had time to tell the driver that they are going to the police station. Henning hands over his credit card and leans back.

‘What’s going on, Elisabeth?’ he says, trying to catch his breath.

Haaland doesn’t reply. She looks at him with eyes that instantly well up. She strangles a sob and shakes her head, but can’t stop the tears that keep flowing.

‘What did you mean when you said that they made Thorleif do it? Are you referring to what happened in Oslo Prison yesterday?’

She gives him a quick look, but says nothing. She doesn’t have to.

‘Who made him?’

‘I-I don’t know who they are.’

‘Has anyone threatened him?’

Henning can’t decide if she is shaking her head because she doesn’t know or if fear has taken control of her body. ‘What’s happened?’ he says again, in an even softer voice.

Another shake of the head.

‘Has Thorleif been behaving strangely recently?’

Henning can see that she thinks about it before she nods.

‘In what way?’

She composes herself and dries her wet cheeks. ‘He has been very distant. He spent a couple of days in bed this week because of a stomach bug, and he kept calling to ask me to do the things I already do every day.’ Again she wipes the tears from her face.

‘Has he done anything else unusual?’

‘He drew a picture of a car.’

Henning lets her have all the time she needs.

‘And he put the picture under my pillow.’

‘Why do you think he did that?’

She shakes her head again while she opens her handbag and takes out the drawing. Henning’s eyes widen as he sees it. He reads the words Thorleif Brenden wrote at the bottom.

If anything should happen to me, go to the police and tell them to look for Furio. I don’t know what he will make me do or why, but I have to do what they want in order to protect you.

‘Who is Furio?’ Henning asks as he feels his heart beat faster. He used to live for moments like this.

‘I’m not sure,’ Haaland says. ‘But I’ve met him, I think. He interviewed me a couple of days ago.’

‘Is he a reporter?’

‘He said he was, but now I don’t think so.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because the interview he did with me was never published.’

Henning studies her. ‘Which newspaper was it?’

‘
Aftenposten.
’

‘And this man was called Furio?’

‘No,’ she says, looking down. ‘But he looked like Furio, the character in
The Sopranos
, if you’ve seen that.’

Henning nods. ‘Do you mean the type, or did he specifically resemble Furio?’

‘Both.’

Henning ponders this. ‘Do you remember anything else about him?’

‘No.’

‘What kind of questions did he ask you?’

‘He wanted to know how far I would go to protect my family. It was supposed to be for a survey in the newspaper, but—’

Again she shakes her head.

‘And you told Thorleif about the interview?’

Haaland nods tearfully.

‘But this Furio guy appears to have been in contact with Thorleif
after
you were interviewed?’

‘Yes, wouldn’t you think so when you look at this?’

Henning examines the drawing. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Did he speak Norwegian?’

She looks up at him at once. ‘Why does everyone keep asking me that?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Thorleif has asked me the same question several times in the past few days, if the people I had come into contact with spoke Norwegian. I thought he had gone mad. Why do you want to know?’

‘Because Tore Pulli was convicted of killing a Swedish enforcer,’ Henning says, gravely.

‘And you think his friends used Thorleif to take revenge on Pulli?’

‘I don’t know,’ he says.

There is no reason why they would want to do that. Pulli was already in jail, and, according to his lawyer, there was no new evidence in the appeal which might lead to him being acquitted. And even if there had been, all that would mean is that Jocke Brolenius’s real killer is still out there. So why kill Pulli? Pulli must have had other enemies, Henning thinks. ‘Has anyone else around you been acting strangely?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘And no other unusual events have occurred?’

‘No.’

Henning nods slowly to himself. There is silence for a few seconds. The cab slows down on Henrik Ibsensgate as they drive towards the National Theatre.

‘Our burglar alarm,’ Haaland exclaims and looks up.

‘Eh?’

‘A few days ago our burglar alarm stopped working.’

‘When was this?’

‘I don’t remember. Last Sunday, I think.’

‘What happened? How did you discover that it had stopped working?’

‘We had been out on a day trip – we tend to do this on Sundays – and we set the burglar alarm and locked the flat before we left. But when we came back, the alarm wasn’t working. Its power had been cut. Thorleif promised to fix it, but—’

She starts to cry again. Something occurs to Henning. The media has free access to prison inmates. The only item reporters are asked to hand over when they arrive is their mobile. No one is searched. Someone must have known about the interview, must have known which TV2 staff would be visiting the prison. It follows that the people who wanted Pulli dead must have identified and coerced whoever would be best placed to carry out the killing for them. The question is what they intend to do with Brenden afterwards, something which, now that he thinks about it, might explain why Brenden has gone missing.

It doesn’t bode well for Brenden; Henning shudders, and he looks at Haaland again. She dries her face. ‘Can you remember when Thorleif’s behaviour started to change?’

‘A couple of days later, I think. I’m not really sure.’

There is silence for a few more seconds as the cab approaches the police station.

‘This is a very important lead,’ Henning says, pointing at the drawing. ‘You need to tell the police everything you know, tell them about the burglar alarm, everything you remember about this Furio character. They will probably ask you to help them make an E-fit.’

‘I don’t know if I can,’ she says and starts to cry again.

‘They’ll help you,’ Henning assures her and puts his hand on her shoulder. ‘They’re very good at these things. Ask to speak to DI Brogeland.’

Haaland nods and tries to pull herself together as the cab stops outside the police station.

‘Will you be writing about this?’ she asks him.

‘It’s my job.’

‘No matter what you write then, please don’t say anything that makes Thorleif sound guilty. I know what people think when they read the papers. I don’t want my children to hear what their father might have done at their school or in nursery. Will you promise me that?’

‘If you like I can give you a call and read the article to you before it’s uploaded.’

‘I don’t know if I have the energy,’ she says, weakly. ‘Besides, you look – you look . . . decent.’

Henning grins. ‘Can I have that in writing, please?’

Her tearful smile fills him with compassion. ‘I have to go,’ she says. ‘They’re waiting for me.’

‘Okay. Don’t give up, Elisabeth.’

‘I’ll try not to,’ she says and gets out of the cab.

Ørjan Mjønes has to stop himself from laughing out loud. Everyone he meets on his way into Oslo Central Station quickly averts their eyes when he pretends to look them up and down. He can easily understand why someone would want to join the police. Having the power to make people shrink the moment they see a uniform even though they haven’t done anything wrong. When you think about it, it is ridiculous.