Pierced (31 page)

‘Where are you going?’

‘To work.’

‘Now?’

‘Yes. I’ve a story to write.’

The duty editor raises an eyebrow when Henning lets himself into the office and presses the button for black coffee. Henning gives him a quick update before he sits down at his desk.

On his way to the office he wondered how he should approach the story. The headline was obvious:
Famous Journalist in Coma.
He knows that anyone awake at this time of night will click on it. Given the headline it could be anyone in the media, an industry fond of turning its own into celebrities. And celebrities sell. That’s just the way it is. If the story is also placed on the front page, where the introduction can’t be seen so that the readers won’t automatically see which celebrity it concerns, the story will generate loads of hits.

It’s macabre, Henning thinks, to take such things into consideration at a time like this, but he is sure that Iver wouldn’t have minded. On the contrary: he would have insisted on it.

Henning starts to write. When he was at the hospital, he couldn’t take it in. Nor did it sink in when he was talking to the duty officer at the police station to get some quotes. But when he types the word ‘coma’ and writes that Iver Gundersen is hovering between life and death, the brutal truth that Iver might actually die finally dawns on him.

Ørjan Mjønes turns towards the morning sun, shielding his face with one hand as he peers towards the entrance door, which only stays closed for short periods. Passengers with bags and suitcases on wheels are walking in his direction. Mjønes looks at his watch. The train leaves in five minutes.

He lights another cigarette and sucks it greedily. He is about to ring Jeton Pocoli when both Pocoli and Durim Redzepi come shuffling down the platform. Their tired faces grimace when the sun greets them.

Mjønes nods when they reach him and pulls them aside.

‘Let’s go over this once more: Durim, you get off at Flå, you take a picture of Brenden with you and start looking around. Check out shops, petrol stations, hotels, post offices and restaurants.’

Redzepi grunts.

‘And you,’ Mjønes says, looking at Pocoli. ‘You’ll do the same at the next station. Nesbyen. I’ll take Gol. And we’ll keep each other updated.’

More bleary-eyed looks.

‘What about Flurim? Isn’t he coming?’ Pocoli asks.

‘He’s monitoring data traffic, you know that. This wouldn’t have been necessary if you had done your job properly in the first place.’

Pocoli looks down and makes no reply.

‘If we don’t strike lucky at any of those stations we’ll carry on to Ål, Geilo and so on.’

Mjønes looks at them. Nobody nods. A ticket inspector with a backpack passes to one side of them. Mjønes checks the clock on his mobile. Ten minutes past eight.

‘Okay,’ he says. ‘We’ll travel in separate compartments. I don’t want anyone seeing us together.’

It is just past nine o’clock in the morning when Henning rings Geir Grønningen’s doorbell at number 13 Tøyengata. He presses the bell four times and keeps his finger on it extra long on the last ring. Soon afterwards he hears a
hello
in a voice still thick with sleep. Henning can’t be sure, but he thinks it’s Grønningen.

‘Henning Juul. May I come in, please?’

A few seconds of silence follow. ‘Now?’

‘Yes, now. I need to talk to you again.’

‘Are you kidding? At this time in the morning?’

‘I wouldn’t be here at this hour if it wasn’t urgent,’ Henning barks.

Again there is silence. A morose snort can be heard from the intercom. ‘Hang on a minute, I just need to put some clothes on.’

Henning looks around while he waits impatiently for the door to buzz. Soon he is let in, and he stomps up to the third floor. The smell of spices which hits him the moment he entered the stairwell grows less noticeable the higher he gets. Grønningen meets Henning in the doorway of his flat at the top of the stairs.

‘Do you have any idea what time it is?’ he says.

Henning nods while he tries to get his breath back.

‘I was working until the early hours,’ Grønningen continues.

‘In which case you went to bed just as I started work,’ Henning replies, unperturbed. ‘A colleague of mine was beaten up last night. I think you might know who did it.’

‘Me?’

‘Did you see a man with long hair wearing a corduroy jacket talking to your boss yesterday?’

Grønningen scratches his head while he tries to remember. His eyes are still sleepy.

‘When was this?’

‘About 10.30. Shortly afterwards, on his way home, he was attacked.’

‘Dammit, Juul, I did tell you.’

‘Yes, and I warned him not to be as cocky as he usually is, but I don’t think he heard me. Are you going to let me in?’

Grønningen hesitates for a long time before he nods and pushes open the door. ‘It’s a bit of a mess.’

‘Do I look like a guy who cares?’

‘No, I don’t suppose you do.’

‘I wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee if you could manage it.’

‘It’ll have to be instant.’

‘Instant is fine.’

Henning kicks off his shoes. In the hallway there is a mountain of shoes, socks and coats.

‘I don’t bother tidying up when I have things to do,’ Grønningen says as he fills up the kettle. Henning struggles to step over the mess.

‘So what are you doing, then?’ he asks.

‘Writing the eulogy. For the funeral.’

‘Yes, of course. When is it?’

‘Tuesday. In Tønsberg.’

‘That was quick.’

‘Yes, Veronica wanted it over and done with as soon as possible.’

Henning indicates with a nod of his head that he will wait in the living room. There he tries to find a vacant seat on the worn black leather sofa. He just about manages it. He sits down and takes a look around. There is carpet on the floor with bits of crisps embedded in the fibres, a bottle top, several empty bottles, bags of photocopies. A dumb-bell marked 17.5 kilograms has made a hollow in the carpet under the coffee table.

On the wall are pictures of bodybuilders in various glistening poses. A poster of Arnold Schwarzenegger in
Terminator
appears to take pride of place.

Grønningen comes in soon afterwards and sits down in an armchair next to the sofa.

‘Thank you,’ Henning says and slurps the hot coffee.

‘So what happened?’ Grønningen asks him.

Henning spends thirty seconds telling him about Iver’s meeting with Kent Harry Hansen and the Åsgard visit later that same evening.

‘According to Iver, Hansen was quite angry when he left.’

Grønningen looks as if he has suddenly put two and two together.

‘What?’ Henning says.

Grønningen glances down. ‘No, it’s just that I . . . ’

‘What?’ Henning says again after a fresh pause. Grønningen stares at Henning for a long time before he answers unwillingly: ‘When Kent Harry came to the gym yesterday, he was angry about something. None of us knew what it was.’

‘Did he say anything?’

Grønningen shakes his head. ‘He just stormed into the office and slammed the door behind him.’

‘And you never found out why he was in such a bad mood?’

‘No. I left soon afterwards.’

‘And no one has been boasting about beating up some scummy journalist either?’

‘No. But I wouldn’t tell you if they had.’

Henning nods slowly before he decides to change the subject to something he has been pondering since their previous meeting.

‘Do you know if Tore made any enemies while he was inside?’

Grønningen looks up at him. ‘Not that I know of,’ he replies. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Because I can’t work out why Tore was so keen to talk to me. There aren’t that many journalists in Norway, certainly not crime reporters, so I can’t ignore the fact that Tore might have known who I was before he was locked up. But how did he know that I was back at work?’

Grønningen keeps his eyes fixed on Henning for a few seconds before they glide away.

‘Tore doesn’t have access to the Internet in prison. And the only person to visit Tore, apart from Veronica, was you.’

Grønningen briefly meets his eyes again before they disappear out into the room.

‘Did you tell him I was back at work?’

‘Me? No.’

Henning makes no reply, but looks directly at Grønningen. ‘Do you know if Tore knew who I was before he went to prison?’

‘No idea.’

Henning takes a deep breath.
I’m getting nowhere
, he thinks.
Every door slams in my face
. ‘Okay,’ he says and signals that he is about to leave. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’

Grønningen nods to indicate that Henning is welcome.

‘I’ll probably see you on Tuesday,’ Henning adds. ‘Good luck with the eulogy.’

‘Thanks.’

The bell above the entrance to Fighting Fit chimes energetically as Henning arrives and steps on to the purple carpet. He walks up to the reception counter. The girl who was behind it before is there again today. Like the last time, she looks up and pushes her chest up and out as he comes over. Her T-shirt, which displays a Pondus cartoon he has seen before, briefly attracts his attention.

‘Kent Harry Hansen?’ he enquires and sees that the woman recognises him. She manages a bored nod towards the back room before her fringe falls over her eyes again. Henning thanks her, and, as he starts to walk, the popular Prima Vera song about the Swedes starts to play on the loudspeakers. Henning doesn’t bother knocking, he just walks straight into Hansen’s office.

‘I’ll call you back,’ Hansen says and puts down the handset. He gets up and looks at Henning. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Yes,’ Henning says, aggressively and without introducing himself. ‘The man who interviewed you yesterday is in hospital, beaten to a pulp.’

‘Is he?’

‘Yes, he is.’

Henning looks at Hansen’s unruffled face and shifts his gaze to Hansen’s hands. No evidence of recent fighting. ‘Would you know anything about that?’

‘Me? Why would I?’

Henning doesn’t reply. Instead, he studies Hansen’s eyes, but he can’t read anything in them.

‘Sometimes he upsets people. He told me he had got on the wrong side of you.’

‘Yes, but I don’t go round beating people up for that.’

‘No, I don’t suppose you do. You have people who do it for you.’

Hansen scoffs. ‘As I said to that journalist, I don’t know what you think we’re doing in here. And I don’t know who the hell you think you are, coming here, hurling accusations about—’

‘My name is Henning Juul,’ Henning interrupts him. ‘I asked Iver to talk to you about Tore Pulli. I got him into this mess. I don’t know what questions he asked you, but I gave him the ammunition. If you have a problem with the press or your operation here can’t stand a little close scrutiny then take it up with me. Don’t beat people up in dark alleys.’

‘Listen, I don’t know what you think you’re—’

‘It’s either you or Even Nylund who sent some heavies to tell Iver to shut up and back off.’

‘I think you should leave now.’

‘Or you’ll beat me up, too?’

Hansen looks at Henning for a long second before he quickly moves past the desk, grabs hold of Henning’s upper arm and pushes him out of the office. Prima Vera is halfway through the chorus, Henning can hear, as Hansen shoves him in the back and Henning has to take a step to the side to avoid falling over.

‘Get out of here,’ Hansen thunders.

‘Thanks for talking to me,’ Henning says with sarcasm, but he does as he is told. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the for-now-gentle receptionist staring at him.

The sound of a car approaching is unmistakable. Thorleif sits up, goes straight to the kitchen window and looks outside. Down the road an Audi comes to a halt before it turns left, towards the cabin. Thorleif’s heart skips a beat. Panicking, he considers rushing to the larder to hide when he notices an estate agent’s sign at the roadside by the crossroads. The sign wasn’t there yesterday.

There must be a viewing at one of the cabins this weekend, he concludes. It could attract many potential buyers. Thorleif swears softly. He hears the car spray gravel as it comes down the road. He steps back behind the curtain as it drives past. With a sigh he sits down at the dining table where a notepad and pen are waiting for him.

When he came home last night he began to write, inspired by Mia, the hotel receptionist. He did it in an attempt to keep himself busy since he couldn’t concentrate on reading, and he realised at once how good it felt to express himself in the old-fashioned way again. Writing on a computer is so quick by comparison.

He started with the man who forced him to kill Tore Pulli, tried to describe him in as much detail as possible in case he needed to remember it later. Then he tried to articulate what he had been through in the past week. At the end he realised that what he had written was a confession and an apology to Tore Pulli’s family and to his own. It was as if the words took on a will of their own.

It’s Saturday, Thorleif thinks. It’s almost twelve hours since he emailed Iver Gundersen. Perhaps Gundersen was working last night or he is at work today. Worst-case scenario is he won’t see Thorleif’s email until Monday. But he might get his emails forwarded to his mobile; he might be one of those people who can’t help checking their messages all the time. It could mean that Gundersen has already taken action and contacted someone he knows or trusts.

There is still hope, Thorleif says to himself.

Never give up hope.

Henning finds Nora on a chair outside the intensive-care unit where Iver is being monitored. Her skin is pale. The circles under her eyes have grown more noticeable, but she is just as beautiful as she always was. She stands up when Henning approaches her.