Pierced (34 page)

‘And then he will run right into us.’

‘Exactly.’

Pocoli nods again. ‘It sounds like a good plan.’

Ørjan Mjønes waits for fifteen minutes until Jeton and Durim have reached Nystølvegen before he walks back to the hotel. He enters the lobby and nods to the girl at reception.

‘Hi,’ he says and pretends to be out of breath. ‘I didn’t find him.’

‘Oh,’ she stutters, nervously. ‘What a . . . shame.’

‘You don’t happen to know where he lives, do you?’

‘No, it . . . I’ve no idea. He never mentioned it. He never really said very much about anything.’

Mjønes nods, turns around, and sees that the laptop is no longer on the table.

‘It was my laptop,’ she says by way of explanation. ‘I let him borrow it. He didn’t have a mobile or a laptop with him.’

Mjønes nods. ‘Did he say why he wanted to borrow it?’

‘No, all he said was that he . . . he had to check something.’

Another nod. He fixes his gaze on her. She is sweet. A sweet, innocent and naive young girl.

‘What’s your name?’ he asks.

‘Mia. Mia Sikveland.’

‘Okay, Mia, I need to have a look at your laptop.’

She hesitates.

‘I just need a quick look,’ he assures her.

She still appears reluctant.

‘Don’t you need a court order or something in order to do that? Or a green light from the public prosecutor?’

Mjønes has to think quickly. Mia is clearly not as gullible as she looks. He closes his eyes in an overbearing manner as if he is explaining something very simple to a small child.

‘This is an active investigation,’ he lectures her. ‘In which case it’s my decision whether I need to obtain a warrant from the court before I carry out a search or confiscate potential evidence.’

She looks at him for a few seconds.

‘Besides, it’s late. I can’t call anyone in Oslo now.’

‘But, I . . . I thought you were from the local police?’

‘No, I’ve been following Br— . . . Einar all the way from Oslo.’

She nods slowly.

‘This isn’t unusual. And you could help me save time,’ he says with a hint of irritation in his voice. ‘Time could be of the essence here.’

‘Okay, it’s just that I . . . ’

He looks at her.

‘Nothing.’

She hands him her laptop bag over the counter.

‘Thank you. And I’ll need your telephone number and address in case I need to speak to you again.’

‘Okay,’ she says, unwillingly.

‘Thank you,’ Mjønes says and smiles at her.

Thorleif blinks hard in an attempt to stay awake. His legs can barely manage to keep him upright. He has no idea what time it is except that it must be late. The sky is dark, but there are no clouds to cover the twinkling stars.

He drinks a mouthful of water from a glass he has filled up several times. He will have to go to the lavatory soon. Surely it would be safe to go now? He hasn’t seen a living soul since the two men he noticed further down the road for what must now be several hours ago. He runs to the lavatory, pees, but doesn’t wash his hands before resuming his position behind the window.

His eyes widen.

Only 100 metres away he sees a figure striding purposefully up the road. Thorleif snatches up a pair of binoculars he found in a drawer in the living room and puts them to his eyes. He gasps.

Frantically, Thorleif grabs the knife and raises it, ready to strike. The man with the ponytail is close now.
What the hell am I going to do?
Thorleif panics.
He can’t possibly know which of these cabins I’m in
, he says to himself in disbelief.

Or can he?

He takes a step back as he considers his options. What is better: making a run for it now in the middle of the night or hiding somewhere in the cabin and waiting for the right moment to attack? He mutters a string of expletives. He can’t stay behind the window in case he makes a movement that attracts the man’s attention. He looks around while his thoughts rage. Then he grips the knife harder and slips into the living room.

It is quiet. Thorleif holds his breath, looks at the knife, feels the weight of it. He has never held a knife like this before nor thought what he is thinking now. Even the idea of stabbing another human being fills him with revulsion. But then he thinks,
you have done it before
.
You’ve already killed another human being, and you did it to protect your family. Now you have to do it again, this time to protect yourself.

He tilts his head. The footsteps are right outside the cabin. Damn, he thinks. Somehow the man must have discovered that Thorleif has a friend who owns a cabin in the area. Thorleif exhales and waits. A drop of sweat runs from his forehead down to his temple. He lifts his T-shirt to his face, wipes it off, dries the handle of the knife as well and grips it once more.

Then he hears the sound of the door.

And the floor squeaks.

Even though he hasn’t been out in the hallway, he remembers the sound from when he was here with Einar. His heartbeats throb inside his head. Thorleif closes his eyes, he hears the rustling of clothes. Light footsteps. Controlled breathing. He tries to concentrate, telling himself he must be ready to strike at the right moment without fear or hesitation.

The footsteps stop right outside the door behind which he is hiding. Thorleif holds his breath again and stares at the door handle. Slowly it starts to move. The door is opened, calmly; it conceals Thorleif, who makes himself small. He sees an arm, an arm that isn’t holding a weapon, and at that moment Thorleif lashes out as hard as he can: he flings out his arm from behind the door, feels the knife take hold and sink in, a voice cries out, loud and shrill, and Thorleif is about to stab the intruder again when he feels a hand around his wrist. He is pulled out from his hiding place behind the door and stares right into the man’s angry eyes. He sees that the knife stabbed him in the shoulder and that blood is pouring from the black leather jacket. Summoning up all his strength, Thorleif grits his teeth and tries to force the knife towards him again, but he fails, the man is too strong. Next Thorleif kicks out and feels his foot hitting the man’s shin, but the man doesn’t even move, he merely roars in anger and pushes the knife out and away from himself. Thorleif tries desperately to find some extra strength, but he can feel that he is almost running on empty, that he is being forced back into the bedroom. He makes an effort to gain a foothold with his trainers, but the man overpowers him and pushes Thorleif backwards as he twists his wrist. The pain is intense. He tries to resist the man’s force and ignore his own agony, but it hurts so much, so much, it feels as if his arm is about to be snapped off. The knife slips out of his hand and falls to the floor.

Thorleif feels the man’s eyes on him. They shine, ice cold and hostile, and the next moment Thorleif receives a blow to his stomach that knocks the wind out of him. He buckles, clutching his stomach, and feels another blow, this time to his back, and his legs collapse under him. He hits the floor knees first. There he stays, struggling to get air into his lungs, and finally manages it with a gasp.

Drops of blood fall on to Thorleif’s neck and back. He hears more footsteps enter the cabin, but no voices. The bedroom becomes crowded and claustrophobic. Thorleif looks up at two men of East European appearance.

‘You’re bleeding,’ one of them says.

‘Of course I bloody am,’ the man with the ponytail snarls.

Thorleif is still on his knees, wheezing. His eyes look around for the knife, but it is beyond his reach.

It’s over, he thinks. This time it really is over.

‘Take him outside,’ the man says. ‘And clean up the blood. Damn!’

It grows dark in front of Thorleif. One of the men towers over him. He closes his eyes and waits for the sharp blow to his back or his neck or perhaps an arm tightening around his throat. But the man helps him to his feet. Thorleif opens his eyes again and looks straight at a man slightly shorter than himself.

‘Come with me,’ the man orders him.

Thorleif looks at him apathetically‚ but allows himself to be led outside.

‘W-where are we going?’ he stutters.

Neither of them replies. Soon Thorleif is outside in the night air. Above him the stars are twinkling.

‘What do you want us to do with him?’ one of the men asks.

Thorleif watches as the man with the ponytail glances around before looking up the mountain. He makes a nod with his head.

‘You’re joking?’

‘No,’ he says and pulls a face. He clutches his shoulder. Blood drips from his hands.

They stay where they are until the third man comes outside. Even in the faint light Thorleif can see the bloodstained paper towels in the plastic bag the man is carrying.

‘You’ll have to finish him off without me. I’ve got to get this seen to,’ the man with the ponytail says, pointing to his shoulder.

Thorleif looks up at the mountains with acceptance. If he concentrates, he is sure he can see Pål’s face up there. His son is smiling and laughing, with that special light that radiates from his eyes when he is happy. Julie is next to him with dimples in her cheeks, Thorleif sees her now, she is waving eagerly to him. Just like she does at nursery. Behind them, Elisabeth is happy, beautiful and gorgeous. She holds up the bookmark he gave her, the first token of his love after they started going out, a red heart-shaped bookmark with no wording.
So you’ll always know where you are and where you have me
, as he said to her. And there is the Ketsh shepherd with his blasted dogs. But Thorleif knows that throwing stones at them won’t help him now.

Slowly they fade away. Thorleif looks at the moon, or is it the sun? Or perhaps it’s Morocco.

Yes, it’s Morocco
, he thinks.

And he knows with a conviction stronger than anything he has ever felt that it
is
possible to love someone as far as that.

It is five minutes to one in the afternoon. It means Petter Holte is unlikely to be at home, Henning thinks, since Sunday workouts are sacrosanct. He stops outside a block of flats in Herslebsgate and presses the doorbell for Tore Pulli’s cousin. There is no answer. Henning tries again and waits thirty seconds before he accepts defeat. Then he presses all twelve buttons on the intercom, betting that at least one of the residents will do what he himself always used to, which was to just let people in.

Seconds later, Henning closes the door behind him with a satisfied smile and enters a hallway where three prams block the stairs. Arabic music wafts through an upstairs keyhole. Henning battles his way up. On the third floor he stops and knocks on Holte’s door. He tries the bell too, but without success. Henning inspects the door and the lock. It is a regular Yale lock.

Some years ago, he wrote a story about how easy it is to break into someone’s home. It took only a few Internet searches to learn that the most effective way to pick a standard lock was through a method known as lock-bumping, a technique invented by a Danish locksmith a quarter of a century ago. The secret lies in using a blank key, known as a bump key, and cut it so its teeth glide into the lock. But rather than push the key all the way in, you insert the key one notch short of full insertion, and then you give it a firm whack with a hammer or similar. The friction created when the teeth are bashed bumps the pins in the lock the same way balls on a snooker table scatter when you break. This allows you to turn the key and open the door.

Henning tested the method first on his own front door and later at the house of some friends. When his friends eventually accepted that he had done them a favour by breaking into their home, they were happy to provide quotes for his article. Henning has kept the blank key on his key ring ever since, and he decides that now is the right time to put it to use again.

He isn’t sure what he hopes to find in Holte’s flat, but it’s impossible to get these people to talk to him, and he has to find out more about who they are.

Henning puts on a pair of latex gloves, takes out the hammer he brought from home, slides the key in place and gives it a whack that echoes against the walls. Then he turns the key and opens the door. Piece of cake.

The silence that follows confirms that he is alone in the flat. In the hallway two pairs of identical boots are lined up next to a pair of worn trainers. A black Alive Force leather jacket gleams at him from a hook. A white horizontal line across the chest and some white squares decorating the middle of the upper sleeve make the jacket look like something out of a science-fiction movie. Henning can easily imagine Holte wearing it.

Henning starts to explore the flat. There is a small kitchen to the left filled with dirty plates and glasses. The cooker is speckled with food stains and fat splashes. Empty bottles under a blue wooden table. Beer and Coke Zero, a couple of bottles of tequila, empty jars of Metapure Zero Carb. The walls are unfinished. No burglar alarm as far as Henning can see.

He goes into the living room where two heavy dumb-bells lie on the floor next to the fireplace. In front of the television is a messy pile of DVDs, a mixture of action movies and exercise videos with muscular men on the cover. At the centre of the room, a clothes horse laden with socks, underwear and T-shirts dominates the space. On one T-shirt three monkeys are covering their eyes, ears and mouth respectively while appearing to find something hilarious; ‘That’s what friends are for’, it says on another. And a Metallica one, of course. The T-shirts are a size ‘small’, presumably so they will cling as tightly as possible.

Henning stops and listens again, but he can’t hear any noise coming from the outside. He starts on the shelving unit in the living room, rifling through the drawers and finding takeaway menus, cables and a box with a video camera inside it. He opens the drinks cabinet, checks behind books, looks in the drawer under the TV unit, behind the sofa, under the sofa, inside every cupboard, but he finds nothing of interest.