Pierced (32 page)

‘How is he?’ he asks. ‘Any change?’

She shakes her head.

‘He hasn’t regained consciousness yet?’

‘No.’

‘So what are the doctors saying?’

‘Not much. They’re just waiting for him to wake up.’

Henning nods and concentrates on her. ‘And how are you?’

She looks up. Her eyes are swollen.

‘Forget it,’ he says. ‘Stupid question. Have you had something to eat?’

She stares at him as if the concept of food is alien to her.

‘You have to eat something, Nora.’

There is silence for a few seconds. Then she says ‘You too, Henning.’

They stand there looking at each other.

‘Then let’s do that,’ he says.

They sit in the hospital’s café clutching warm mugs. Henning has coffee, Nora drinks tea. As always, each has taken two sugars. He bought a ham and cheese baguette and had it heated up in the café’s microwave oven, but neither Henning nor Nora are in a rush to sink their teeth into the chewy bread.

He studies her in brief flashes. He has never noticed until now how small vertical lines appear to be carved into her lips with a careful scalpel. It feels weird to be with her again after everything that has happened. Nora stares vaguely at something with a glowing melancholy in her eyes.

‘The police haven’t found the person who did it,’ he says.

‘What?’

‘Iver’s attacker. The police haven’t got much to go on at the moment.’

‘Right.’

Henning takes a sip of his coffee. He knows there are other people present, but the only face he sees is Nora’s. It is like being caught in a force field. Even if he could, he isn’t sure that he would want to escape. Sitting here, opposite her, with food and drink on the table between them, makes it difficult not to remember the golden hours before everything became so bloody complicated. Before Jonas. And he knows deep down, in his heart of hearts, that they loved each other once.

For a while they eat in silence, and though Henning knows that it belongs to their past life, he recognises the feeling of companionship, the idea of a joint project where pauses are permitted so that the silence which follows each sentence can embrace them. But then the silence becomes uncomfortable and he knows that the longer they sit there without saying anything, the harder talking will be.

‘There is something I need to tell you.’

Nora takes a bite of her baguette and chews it absent-mindedly. Henning takes a deep breath. ‘I’ve discovered a clue,’ he says, uncertain as to how to continue.

‘What do you mean? What kind of clue?’

‘A clue that relates to the fire.’

‘The fire? What do you . . . ’ Her mouth opens.

‘I know that somebody set fire to my flat . . . our old flat . . . my place, on the day that—’

For no reason he makes a fencing movement with one arm.

‘Henning, what are you—’

‘Just listen to me, Nora, please,’ he interrupts her. ‘I know I’m right. And now I’ve discovered a clue which I believe changes the case. The day of the fire . . . Tore Pulli was outside my flat that day, and—’

Nora’s mug hits the table with a bang. ‘Henning, what the hell are you talking about? What clue? What case? Tore Pulli? Are you sitting there telling me that someone caused Jonas’s death? Is that what you’re saying to me?’

‘I—’

‘What the hell does Tore Pulli have to do with anything?’

Henning searches for the start of a sentence that will extinguish the embers he sees in her eyes, but he finds nothing. Nora pushes the chair out behind her.

‘Christ, Henning, I knew that you were mad‚ but not that you had lost the plot completely.’

‘Nora, please—’

‘Forget it. Just forget it. I don’t want to hear another word about it, I can’t bear it. And don’t come here again. Please, don’t come here again.’

On her way out she bumps into her chair, which almost falls over. People stand back to make way for her. Henning sees that she is crying as she leaves the café.

He doesn’t move for several minutes.
You idiot
, he says to himself.
It has taken you almost two years to be able to breathe normally when Nora is in the same room as you. And then you go and ruin everything
. And, honestly, what did he think would happen? That she would jump for joy and say, ‘
Well done, Henning. I’m thrilled that you’ve found a clue. Come here, I always knew that one day you would discover who killed our son. My all-time hero!
’

He should have tested the waters first, found out what Nora thought about that day, if she shares his suspicions. When he thinks about it, he knows that she has crossed Jonas out. Not deep down, because she carries him in her heart, but she applies correction fluid every day.

He shakes his head at himself.
Great, Henning. Well played.

They ought to rename this dump Hole
, Ørjan Mjønes thinks, as he gets back on the train after spending three hours wandering around the centre and vicinity of Gol. He is fed up with hotels and motels and bars and cafés, especially since none of the people inside them have seen anything of Thorleif Brenden. Durim might be right when he said it would be like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. Nor have the other two got anywhere in Flå and Nesbyen. They are on their way to Ål and Geilo now. Mjønes remembers what Langbein said. The clock is ticking.

He finds an empty seat by the window and updates Durim and Jeton before he rests his head against the wall and weighs up the situation. Brenden might have sat in this very seat. What did he think? What plans did he make?

Mjønes rings Flurim Ahmetaj, taking care to speak quietly into the mobile. ‘Have you found out if Number One has friends or relatives or any other links to the area between Flå and Finse?’

‘I haven’t discovered any.’

‘He wasn’t stationed here when he was in the army?’

‘No. He did his military service in Jørstadmoen.’

‘Do a wider search on the guy, check his Facebook profile, see if any of his friends live around here.’

Ahmetaj sighs. ‘We should have wrapped this up two days ago. I have other things to do. If you need my services after today you’ll have to stump up some more dosh.’

‘You’ll carry on working until the job is done. That was the deal.’

‘Yes, and the job you wanted done finished on Thursday. Today is Saturday. So how much extra are you going to pay me?’

Mjønes sighs as he shakes his head. ‘Let’s discuss your fee when I’m back. In the meantime I want you to—’

‘No.’

‘What did you say?’

‘“Discuss your fee”? What the hell do you think this is?’

Mjønes takes a deep breath. ‘What will it take for you or the three of you to stick with this job until it’s done?’

‘Twenty a day.’

Mjønes shakes his head. ‘I’ll give you ten.’

‘Fifteen.’

‘Agreed. But then you had better come up with something useful.’

‘Now, now old man. I’ve got some news for you. I’ve lost the feed at Number Two’s flat. The cops turned up and searched the place. They found the cameras and took them away.’

Mjønes ends the call and feels like hurling the mobile against the wall. Soon afterwards they pass Ål.

Ål. Gol.
Where the hell do they get those names from?

Henning walks under the ruby-red canopy and stops in front of the two doormen outside Åsgard. He looks at them in turn.

‘Which one of you is Petter Holte?’ he asks.

The doormen exchange glances before the bigger one pushes his chest up and out.

‘You don’t seem to be answering your phone,’ Henning says.

Holte makes no reply, he merely stares at him blankly. The light above the entrance shines on the bald patch on Holte’s head. There is a dense crescent of stubble around his pate.

‘I’ve been trying to call you,’ Henning continues.

‘And you are?’

‘My name is Henning Juul.’

Holte looks at him, but shows no signs of recognition. ‘I don’t know you.’

‘No, but I know you. You’re Tore Pulli’s cousin.’

Holte doesn’t reply.

‘Are you going in or what?’ the other doorman says.

‘In a moment. I just need to have a quick word with Petter first. I’m a reporter.’

‘I don’t talk to reporters,’ Holte says, far from impressed.

‘Oh, you don’t? But perhaps you beat them up?’

Henning watches Holte closely as his muscles tense and his face darkens. Henning reacts by straightening up.

‘A colleague of mine was beaten up last night. Before that he had been here.’

Henning has to narrow his eyes in order to see Holte’s pupils in the dim light.

‘We don’t know anything about that,’ the other doorman says.

Henning focuses exclusively on Holte. ‘Why are you wearing gloves?’

Holte looks down at his hands before he steps forwards. His tanned face has taken on a flushed undertone. ‘What do you want?’

In the past, the heavies in front of Henning would have intimidated him. ‘I want to know if you beat up my colleague last night.’

Holte snorts. The light from the lamp above the entrance bounces off his right earring. The voice of the other doorman is softer.

‘Petter has made it clear that he doesn’t want to be interviewed. You need to respect that or we’ll have to ask you to leave.’

Henning looks at Holte for one more second before he holds up his hands and says, ‘Okay.’ Holte’s colleague steps aside and opens the door. It would have been fun, Henning thinks, to accidentally bump into Holte’s inflated shoulder, but it strikes him that he might have pushed his luck far enough as it is. In spite of everything, he would still like to leave in one piece.

Henning enters, and the Swedish bartender tells him to go upstairs to Even Nylund’s office. From the first floor Henning has a view of the small stage where a woman of East European appearance tries to tantalise the sparse audience with sensual movements.

It is like entering an attic. The corridor in front of him has an opening that reminds him of a vagina. The lighting is subdued. On the wall to the left he sees an illuminated picture of a woman having sex with a fallen warrior. It must be Freya, Henning thinks, and remembers from his schooldays how Vikings who died in battle would come to her. In Norse mythology this kind of death was depicted as an erotic encounter.

Henning walks down the corridor, stops in front of an open door and peers inside. A man sitting on a chair with his back to him turns around.

‘Ah, right. There you are.’

Four TV monitors are mounted on the wall above Even Nylund. Nylund gets up as Henning goes inside. They shake hands.

‘So you found me.’

Nylund gestures to a chair. Henning sits down.

‘Can I get you something to drink?’

Henning shakes his head even though his shirt sticks to his body and his throat is parched. He looks around. The walls are decorated with pictures of scantily clad women, advertising posters and press cuttings. The images on the TV screens are replaced every few seconds. They are live shots from the bar, the stage, the whole room seen from a bird’s-eye view plus pictures from outside. Petter Holte stands tall and tough with his thumbs hooked in his belt.

‘I know who you are,’ Nylund says.

‘Do you?’

‘I spoke to Geir Grønningen earlier today. He seemed to think that you might be stopping by. I was sorry to hear about your colleague,’ Nylund says and shakes his head. Henning studies him, not sure what to make of Nylund’s apparently genuine expression of sympathy.

‘Your colleague said you have a theory that Tore Pulli was innocent.’

Henning holds up his hand in front of his mouth and coughs briefly. ‘So he told you? Yes, I suppose we have. I wonder if that’s why he was beaten up.’

‘Who by?’

‘Well, that’s the problem. You, possibly.’

Nylund smiles. ‘Look at me,’ he says. ‘I weigh sixty-eight kilos. Some of my girls can beat me at arm wrestling.’

‘Yes, maybe they can. But those who work for you have been known to beat people up.’

Henning points to the screen where Petter Holte is holding up an authoritarian hand to a middle-aged man on unsteady legs who is trying to enter the club.

‘I can assure you, Juul, that no one here is involved in the attack on your colleague.’

‘And you’re sure that you know what your staff get up to at any given time?’

‘When they’re at work, then yes.’

‘And you keep an eye on them from here?’

Henning points to the monitors.

‘And in person – when I’m downstairs.’

‘Right. Do these monitors record?’

‘Yes.’

‘So you can find out who left the club after my colleague did.’

‘I can.’

‘Would you do it?’

Nylund smiles. ‘I’m sorry about what happened to your colleague, Juul, but my customers are entitled to a certain amount of privacy. I can’t show you recordings of what happens in here just because you want me to.’

‘I could get the police to do it.’

‘Be my guest – the police can see the footage as long as they produce the right paperwork. And just to be clear, it’s nothing personal.’

‘Mm.’

Henning looks around again. One of the video cameras is pointing at a door with a sign saying
Glitnir.

‘Why the Norse theme?’ Henning asks and turns to Nylund again.

‘It was Vidar’s idea.’

‘Vidar Fjell?’

‘Yes. Some years ago, when I talked about opening this place, we spent an evening discussing how we could make the club stand out. Vidar talked about Freya and the Vikings and all that, and I was fascinated by the Norse concept of sex. I think we all were. We decided it would be a good look for us, and that’s how Åsgard was born.’

‘So Vidar was into Norse mythology?’

‘Yes. In a big way.’

Interesting, Henning thinks, as he remembers that Fjell’s father is a professor of Nordic Studies. This must be where his interest sprang from. Henning realises he is excited by this discovery though he doesn’t quite know why.