Pierced (40 page)

He notes with satisfaction that the story receives top billing on
123news
’s home page, and, not surprisingly, their competitors are quick to pick it up. In a way, this is unhelpful, Henning thinks, since it will lead to added pressure on the police. It could also make it considerably harder to cover the rest of the story. But he had no choice. News is news. And if he is lucky, the extra pressure from his competitors will result in more information coming to light.

Henning calls Brogeland to hear if there are any developments but gets no reply. Nor had he really expected one. Instead, he writes him a text asking the inspector to ring him when he has a moment. When Henning has sent it, he starts to think about the killing of Jocke Brolenius. Robert van Derksen looked like the prime suspect right from the start though Tore Pulli was quick to dismiss this possibility. And Henning agrees to some extent. A man with such a massive need for recognition wouldn’t be able to keep a secret for two years. But could he have known something all the same – without being aware of it?

The air is stuffy and clammy even though Bjarne Brogeland and Petter Holte have only just sat down in Interview Room 1. A thin white microphone hangs from the ceiling. A camera is pointing at them from its position above the door in the neutral grey room. Brogeland knows that Gjerstad and several of his colleagues are probably sitting in the CC following events via a screen. He could have talked to Petter Holte in his own office, but everything becomes more onerous in an interview room.

‘Do I need a lawyer?’ Holte asks.

‘Do you think you do?’

Holte doesn’t reply.

‘We can get you a lawyer if you want one.’

‘I haven’t done anything wrong so why would I need one?’ Holte replies defiantly. Brogeland looks at the compact body in front of him. As always, it is encased in a layer of aggression, but there is something more. He’s scared, Brogeland realises.

‘Do you own a gun?’ he asks.

‘I’ve a weapon, yes.’

‘What kind of weapon?’

‘A Sig 9.’

Nine millimetres, Brogeland thinks. With the type of barrel that takes a silencer.

‘Have you got a licence for that?’

‘Yes, of course I do,’ Holte sneers.

‘How long since you last used it?’

‘A while,’ Holte replies and starts picking his nails. Tiny beads of moisture have found their way up through the brown and partly polished scalp.

‘Why did you argue with Robert van Derksen at Tore Pulli’s funeral yesterday?’

Holte looks down. His voice grows more outraged. ‘Robert nicked my girlfriend when I was inside. Besides, he was no friend of Tore’s any more. Him showing up was disrespectful.’

‘Did you go over to his flat after your workout yesterday?’

‘No.’

‘There was a lot of soil in your hallway.’

‘Yes, what about it?’

‘There was a lot of soil in Robert’s hallway, too.’

‘What’s so unusual about that?’

‘Nothing, possibly, but we found a shoe print outside his flat that matches the size of your feet.’

Holte looks up. His face takes on a frightened expression. ‘There’s no way that’s my shoe print,’ he says, getting angry now.

Brogeland doesn’t reply but watches Holte for a couple of seconds. The air becomes even more oppressive.

‘Okay,’ Brogeland says and gets up. ‘Wait here, please.’

He goes over to the workstation where he pauses the recording, steps out on to the red floor and goes to the CC. Gjerstad and Hagen turn around as he enters.

‘What do you think?’ he says.

‘There is enough to justify a search warrant,’ Gjerstad replies.

Searching a suspect’s home has never been Bjarne Brogeland’s thing. Trawling through drawers and bookcases, wardrobes and bed linen, hunting the one piece of evidence that will crack open or close a case. He appreciates the importance of this work, of course he does, but he is pleased that it’s rarely something he has to undertake himself. It simply makes him irritable and impatient.

Being in the field was another matter. They had no other choice than to be patient if they were to catch criminals or, as they call them, villains. And this type of work offered a completely different level of tension. Observing the interaction between the villains from afar, reading their codes. Who delivered what to whom and where? Who was talking to whom and when? In this way patterns would emerge which the police could use as a starting point for further investigations, to eliminate who was worth following and who wasn’t. But evidence found in a flat, fibres on the body. It’s too fiddly for him. Too feminine.

However, he took part in the search of Petter Holte’s flat because Holte was his collar. It was his information that led to Holte being remanded in custody, almost in record time. And the evidence found in Holte’s flat was more than enough to nail him for the killing of Robert van Derksen. That’s why Brogeland experiences a pleasant sensation all over as he returns to his office and lets himself fall into his chair. He takes out his mobile and discovers that he has a long list of calls and texts from known and unknown numbers. Brogeland realises without having to check the Internet that Henning Juul has broken the news about Robert van Derksen.

For a brief moment he feels the taste of disloyalty in his mouth. Nøkleby and Gjerstad want to manage the flow of information themselves, and in theory Brogeland can live with this. In fact, he is delighted that someone else is prepared to deal with communication. However, Juul is a special case. Even though he can be an absolute pest, he is a pest with a nose. And surely the bottom line is getting results. Like now.

Brogeland scrolls through his text messages and sees that Juul has asked him to call. He glances at his watch. He is about to resume interviewing Petter Holte, and he needs a little time to prepare.
But I can manage a quick call
, he says to himself and presses the green button. Juul replies a few seconds later.

Brogeland tells him about the arrest and the imminent charging of Petter Holte on the condition that none of this information ends up in print.

‘Are you quite sure it’s him?’ Juul asks.

‘We found a weapon in his flat which was definitely fired yesterday.’

‘Really? And what does he have to say about that?’

‘We haven’t confronted him with it yet. But it will be difficult for him to wriggle out of it given the other evidence.’

‘What other evidence?’

Brogeland hesitates before telling him about the soil in the hallway and a footprint that matches Holte’s size 6½ shoes. When Brogeland has finished there is silence.

‘What is it?’ he asks.

‘No, it’s just that I . . . I just think it sounds a bit odd,’ Henning replies.

‘Why?’

‘I don’t see why Holte would make it that easy for you. And, moreover, I think there is a link between the murder of Jocke Brolenius and the murder of Robert van Derksen though I can’t put my finger on it yet.’

‘There is nothing to suggest it, Henning. We need evidence. Like the missing murder weapon, for example. And, ideally, we need to place that axe in the killer’s hands, whether that person was Petter or someone else.’

Brogeland hears a sigh down the other end of the telephone, but Henning doesn’t elaborate on his frustration.

‘And there is always the possibility that Pulli really did kill Jocke. You mustn’t ignore that.’

‘No,’ Henning replies, glumly. ‘I won’t. I just can’t get it all to add up.’

Suddenly everything is happening at once, Henning thinks. Even the weather seems to be changing. An ominous dark cloud has appeared out of nowhere. Could Petter Holte really be responsible for the death of Jocke Brolenius as well? Henning can’t quite imagine how a man who has failed at practically everything in life could plan and execute such a sophisticated murder only to screw up completely when killing one of his oldest friends.

So Henning rings Geir Grønningen repeatedly that afternoon. Finally, he gets hold of him, and Grønningen reluctantly agrees to meet for a chat outside the supermarket in Grønland Torg. By the time Henning arrives it has started to rain. Grønningen has taken shelter under an umbrella, but Henning is oblivious to the downpour.

He decides to cut straight to the point.

‘The police have arrested Petter,’ he announces.

Grønningen reacts with disbelief.

‘Bloody idiot,’ he says, squeezing the handle of the umbrella hard. ‘I don’t know how someone can be that stupid.’

Grønningen shakes his head and looks ready to punch the first person he sees. Instinctively, Henning takes a step back.

‘What did he say to you after his row with Robert yesterday?’

Grønningen looks down at Henning, then he scans the surroundings for anyone who might see or overhear them. ‘I saw him whisper something to you when the earth was scattered on the coffin,’ Henning says to prompt him. ‘And afterwards he clenched his fist.’

‘Yes,’ Grønningen replies. ‘But that had nothing to do with Robert.’

‘Then what was it about?’

‘Petter said that if anyone dared to knock over Tore’s gravestone he would—’

Grønningen imitates Holte and clenches his fist. Henning remembers printing out an article about how Vidar Fjell’s grave was desecrated though he can’t remember the details.

‘But at the wake afterwards he started mouthing off again,’ Grønningen continues. ‘Said he was going to get Robert and blah blah blah.’ He shakes his head again. ‘But you need to know that’s just Petter. Even though he has a temper and does the first thing that comes into his head, he is still a softie. He has had plenty of opportunities to have a go at Robert, but he has never done anything about it.’

‘Why not?’

‘Probably because he knew that he couldn’t have handled it. Robert may not have been as strong as Petter, but he was much better technically. In close combat, for example, there is no doubt who would have had the upper hand.’

‘Perhaps that was why Petter chose to shoot him.’

‘Yes, but he could have done that any time. Why yesterday, when the whole bloody congregation had just seen him argue with Robert? It’s – it’s like asking to be caught.’

Henning nods in agreement. ‘Did he know the Pulli punch?’ Henning lifts up his elbow to demonstrate. Grønningen hesitates.

‘I think he might have practised it, but, like I said, Petter was no technical genius. He was just muscle.’

Exactly, Henning says to himself. And if Petter was too scared to take on a guy like Robert van Derksen, he was unlikely to have tried it on with Jocke Brolenius in the first place.

Something here isn’t right, Henning thinks.

Again his thoughts return to Tore Pulli. ‘Did you work out with Tore on the night that Jocke was killed?’

‘Yes, we always worked out together.’

Henning looks at him closely. ‘Did you have separate lockers?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you would lock them while you worked out, obviously?’

‘Yes, of course we would, we’re not idiots.’

‘Where did you keep your locker keys?’

‘That depended. People who had been members a long time were allowed to leave them behind the reception or in Kent Harry’s office. What Tore did depended on who was on duty. Tore put his trust in people rather than locks. Why do you ask?’

Henning ignores the question and mulls over the information he has just been given. ‘So, when you worked out, how would you know what time it was?’

‘We would check the clock on the wall.’

Henning looks up at him. ‘The clock behind the reception counter?’

Grønningen nods. ‘None of us wear wristwatches these days. We check our mobiles instead.’

Pulli probably did exactly that when he had finished his workout, Henning thinks, excited, to see if he had any messages or missed calls. That’s the first thing Henning does when he has been asleep or has had a shower. So it can’t just be the time on Pulli’s mobile that was wrong, he surmises.

The clock at Fighting Fit must have been wrong too.

Henning thanks Grønningen for his time and heads straight to the gym. He expects the place to be packed given everything that has happened, but it is practically deserted. He assumes the group must be in shock.

Henning takes a step on to the purple carpet. The tall woman behind the counter looks even more surly than usual when she sees who it is. Henning ignores her attitude and asks if Kent Harry Hansen is around.

‘Didn’t he make it clear that you’re not welcome here?’

‘Yes,’ Henning replies. ‘But I still need to talk to him. Where is he?’

‘Dunno.’

Henning nods, but his attention is drawn to the wall behind her. He takes out his mobile and compares the two clocks. They show practically the same time. No wonder, he thinks. If someone deliberately changed the clock the night Pulli was meeting Jocke Brolenius, then that person would have had to change it back again either later the same evening or the following morning at the latest. Anything else would have been a giveaway.

But who could have done it?

‘That clock up there,’ he begins. ‘Has it . . . do you know if it—’

Henning hesitates, unsure as to how to phrase the question.

‘Is it always precise?’ he asks, and realises instantly that his question is blatantly obvious.

‘I think so,’ she says without taking her eyes off the magazine in front of her.

‘Do you know if it has been too slow . . . in the past?’

Henning groans inwardly at his atrocious questioning. Behind him the weights clang against each other.

‘No idea,’ she says, sounding bored.

‘I’m only asking because I was wondering if it was very slow on the 26th of October nearly two years ago.’

She lifts her head, slightly less bored now.

‘That was the night Jocke Brolenius was killed,’ Henning informs her. ‘Were you working here that night?’

She snorts. ‘Do you think I can remember that?’

‘No, but please could you check who was? There is probably a list on your computer. A duty roster, possibly. Timesheets. Payroll. How many people work here?’