Pierced (5 page)

So, what happened?

Henning picks up his mobile and rings Bjarne Brogeland. The inspector replies after only a few rings.

‘Hi, Bjarne, it’s Henning Juul.’

‘Heyyy!’ Brogeland replies in a voice that reminds Henning of a stag party.

‘Are you busy?’

‘Not more than usual given it’s a Saturday. We’re on our way to Paradise Bay. Have you been there?’

‘Eh, no.’

‘Lovely beach, great water. How about you? What’s new?’

Henning places his thumb and index finger on the corners of his mouth and lets them glide down towards his chin. He hasn’t spoken to Brogeland since the Henriette Hagerup case, the girl who was stoned to death in a tent on Ekeberg Common earlier that summer. Given that Henning helped them crack the case, he feels entitled to call in a favour or two.

‘I’m working on an old story.’

‘That doesn’t surprise me, but for God’s sake, it’s Saturday! Don’t you ever stop?’

‘It doesn’t feel like a Saturday,’ Henning says, and realises he can’t remember when he was last aware that there was a difference between the days of the week.

‘The sun is shining, Henning. Buy yourself an ice cream. Get some fresh air!’

‘Mm. Listen, did you ever have anything to do with the Tore Pulli case?’

The voices of excited children in the background can be heard through the receiver. Henning tries to shut them out.

‘No, I was still working on organised crime at the time. Why?’

Henning pauses for a moment, not sure how to reply.

‘Oh, I was just curious.’

‘You’re never just curious,’ Brogeland scoffs. ‘What are you sniffing around after this time? Does it have anything to do with his appeal?’

‘His appeal?’ Henning replies, and frowns.

‘Yes, it’s being heard in a couple of weeks, if I’m not mistaken.’

‘Is it? No, it doesn’t have anything to do with that. Or, at least, I don’t think so.’

Henning holds his breath for a moment.

‘The guy is guilty as hell,’ Brogeland says.

‘How do you know?’

‘Does the name Jocke Brolenius mean anything to you?’

‘Just about.’

‘Then you probably know that he killed Vidar Fjell?’

Vidar Fjell
, Henning thinks, and runs the name over his tongue. It sounds familiar. ‘No?’

‘I thought you had a photographic memory?’ Brogeland teases him.

‘My camera is broken.’

Brogeland laughs. ‘You certainly haven’t lost your way with words. But here goes: Vidar Fjell managed a gym called Fighting Fit in Vålerenga. He was murdered a couple of months before Brolenius. Or perhaps a bit more. Pulli worked out at Fighting Fit and was a good friend of Fjell’s.’

Henning is aware that his cheeks are burning hot. ‘Why was Fjell killed?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘But Brolenius was a Swedish enforcer, am I right?’

‘Yes. The Swedish gangs dominated Oslo quite considerably at the time, you probably already know that . . . Alisha! Don’t go up there, you could kill yourself if you fell down!’

Brogeland’s voice disappears for a moment. Henning remembers the case now. Fjell was killed not long before Jonas died. He had done a little bit of research on the story, but he can’t remember when he stopped.

‘But if Brolenius was killed to avenge the murder of Fjell, did anyone later avenge Brolenius?’

‘There was a rumour going around that somebody had knocked over Vidar Fjell’s gravestone, I seem to recall, but nothing more than that. I don’t suppose there was much point in carrying out a revenge attack once Pulli had been arrested. Why are you working on this story now?’

‘I don’t know if I am.’

‘Hello, you’re calling me on a Saturday.’

‘Yes, I’m – sorry.’

‘Yeah, right. Tore Pulli had this woman, I recall. Damn—’

‘What?’

‘Why is it always the biggest arseholes who get the hottest chicks?’

Henning makes no reply.

‘Anyway, talk to Assistant Commissioner Pia Nøkleby,’ Brogeland continues. ‘She’s totally in charge of the case. And all other cases, for that matter.’

‘Good idea.’

‘But wait until Monday, please,’ Brogeland hastens to add. Henning says
mm
and hangs up.

It’s not going to be easy
, he thinks.
Murders and revenge killings in gangs that are practically impenetrable – especially if you’re a journalist. But if Pulli is innocent, then someone managed to kill Jocke Brolenius in a style that framed him. That in itself was no simple task. The killer would have to be devious and without scruples. And this killer would almost certainly not like it if I tried to stir up the past.

The distant headlights of a fast car weave their way in between the tree trunks and cast a white veil over the approaching autumn. Ørjan Mjønes grips the steering wheel hard and checks the mirrors to make sure that he isn’t being followed. It would be something of an achievement if he was, he thinks, given the speed he is travelling.

The clock on the sat nav shows 02.15, and it is some time since he left the nearest main road. A loud but brief rumble under the tyres tells him he has just driven over a cattle grid before the tyres resume spraying gravel at the verges.

Mjønes knows that the others have already arrived. It has been a while since they last worked together, but he knew that they would be just as ready for action as he was. Flurim Ahmetaj is there because he knows everything about computers and surveillance equipment and has easy access to them. Durim Redzepi, because nobody is better at getting in and out of someone’s home than he is. And Jeton Pocoli, because he is a master at following people. In addition, he has bedroom eyes and a bad-boy image, which makes it easy for him to chat up Norwegian women. The reports he has supplied so far suggest that these skills in particular will prove useful.

As far as these men are concerned, it has always been a matter of showing up to a table already set, to a plan already laid, and they do what they are told to and what they are paid for. This has never motivated Mjønes. He lives for the craftsmanship. The preliminary work, gathering pieces of information, fitting them into a bigger picture, planning for the unexpected. It is during this phase that he feels alive. And when everything works according to plan, his plan, it makes him delirious with happiness. His favourite pastime is reading about himself in the newspaper afterwards and being absolutely certain that the police will never be able to catch him.

Mjønes slows down, turns into a narrow track, and a red-painted cabin appears a couple of hundred metres further down the road. He pulls up next to two motorbikes and a dark-blue BMW estate. Mjønes smiles and shakes his head, takes a long look at the desirable car before he steps out on to the makeshift car park. He glances at the cabin where the light is still on and the murmur of conversation fills the night.

Mjønes takes the cage and the backpack from the boot of his car. He walks over to the cabin, doesn’t bother to knock, but pushes down the door handle firmly and enters. The arm of a short, thin man on the sofa reaches swiftly for a pistol lying on the table in front of him. He cocks the weapon and points it at Mjønes.

Twice in one week, he thinks. It’s becoming a habit.

‘Relax, Durim, it’s only me.’

Durim Redzepi looks at Mjønes for a few seconds before he lowers the pistol. Mjønes smiles and takes a few steps inside. Playing cards and chips are spread across the oval table. The smoke from countless cigarettes hangs like a blue cobweb across the room.

‘Who is winning?’ he asks and sets down the cage, inside which a tortoiseshell cat is dozing on its stomach. He also removes his backpack.

‘Flurim has the most chips,’ Redzepi says in broken Swedish. A man with a Mohican turns to Mjønes. His broad smile reveals a pointed silver stud in his tongue. The men’s attention reverts to their game.

‘Hurry up, it’s your turn,’ Ahmetaj says with the same East European Swedish accent, addressing a compact man in grey tracksuit bottoms who is leaning on the table while he contemplates his next move. A hairy stomach is visible under his white T-shirt. Jeton Pocoli taps his nose with his index finger before he puts down two cards and pushes all his chips to the centre of the table. ‘I’m all in.’

The men around the table stare at him in disbelief.

‘You’re bluffing.’

Pocoli shakes his head.

‘Screw you.’ Redzepi runs his hand over his stubbled head, throws his cards on the table, picks up a can of beer from the floor and lifts it to his lips. Ahmetaj looks at Pocoli, searching for signs of bluffing. He scrutinises him for a long time before he heaves a sigh, looks at the chips in front of him, grabs a large chunk of his own pile and shoves them into the pot.

The last card is played. Ahmetaj’s hopeful look dissolves instantly. ‘For fuck’s sake!’ he groans and tosses aside his cards. ‘Just my rotten luck.’

‘Luck, or the lack of it, has nothing to do with it,’ Pocoli gloats as he scoops up the chips with a broad grin.

Mjønes laughs and goes over to the kitchen in the corner. He looks at the messy row of empty beer cans and takes out a plastic carrier bag from one of the drawers. One by one the cans disappear into the bag.

‘Okay,’ he says when he has made the place look reasonably tidy. ‘Have you done everything I told you?’

‘Do you have the money?’ Ahmetaj doesn’t look at him, but interlocks his fingers at the top of his Mohican. It shines, even in the modest lighting in the room. Mjønes opens his backpack, takes out a wad of banknotes and runs his finger quickly over them. Fifty notes. He takes out another five wads and throws two to each man.

‘If we pull it off, you’ll get the same again,’ Mjønes says while the trio around the table count their money. Ahmetaj nods happily.

‘The equipment is over there,’ he says, pointing to a black bag.

‘What about his email? His mobile? His bank accounts?’

‘Already taken care of.’

Mjønes nods and looks at Pocoli. ‘Anything specific I need to know?’

‘I’ll brief you later.’

‘Okay.’

Mjønes’s eyes shift to Redzepi.

‘I’m ready when you are.’

Mjønes nods again. Everything is as it should be. He sees no point in explaining the plan to them in detail even though he is itching to do so. They are supplying a service. End of story. And yet he can’t resist giving them a preview.

‘Why did you bring the cat?’ Pocoli asks him.

Mjønes smiles. ‘To check that I didn’t buy a pig in a poke.’ Mjønes laughs at his own joke, but the card players stare blankly at him. ‘Right, I realise you don’t speak Norwegian. But I promise you, you’ve never seen anything like it. It’s quite—’

A contented smile plays at the corners of his mouth. He puts his hand inside the backpack and produces two identical boxes the size of a matchbox, which he puts down on the table.

‘What are they?’ Redzepi asks.

Mjønes touches the first box with his index finger. ‘Piercing needles,’ he says.

‘And the other?’

Mjønes smiles and opens the second box. ‘You really don’t want to know.’

With reverential movements he takes out an ampoule sealed with a small plastic cap. He unscrews the top, takes out a piercing needle and dips it in the clear liquid with the utmost care. He holds the needle, with the tip pointing upwards. The needle gleams.

‘Who wants to do the honours?’ he asks and looks at them before he nods in the direction of the cat. The eyes around the table light up immediately. He assesses them in turn.

‘Durim,’ he decides. Redzepi smiles and gets up. Mjønes hands him the needle. ‘Watch yourself.’

Redzepi takes a step backwards and is extra careful to avoid the point of the needle.

‘No screw-ups this time.’

Mjønes looks at him long and hard. Beads of sweat force their way out of the pores of Redzepi’s forehead. He pinches the needle so hard that his knuckles go white.

Calmly, he approaches the cat in the cage. Behind him the others get up and move closer. Redzepi’s look is one of deep concentration.

He opens the cage and looks at the sleepy animal, which barely raises its eyelids to look back at him.

‘Meow,’ Redzepi says, softly.

Then he aims the needle at the cat’s neck.

And pricks it.

Henning wakes up early Sunday morning after a dreamless sleep. He goes to the kitchen to make some coffee. While he showers he turns over in his mind the information he found on Tore Pulli the previous night.

Pulli’s parents died in a car crash a few days after his eleventh birthday, and it was left to his grandparents, Margit Marie and Sverre Lorents, to try to turn young Tore Jørn into a good citizen. The boy’s life had, however, already taken a wrong turn. As the youngest member of a tagging gang, he constantly had to prove his place. In his early teens he was involved in a series of minor burglaries. He started smoking cigarettes and moved on to cannabis. He was quick to start fights. He drove a moped long before he was legally allowed to. His path to the biker gang was a short one. And it was at that point that he took up bodybuilding in earnest.

One evening, when Pulli and his biker friends had been drinking heavily, Fred Are Melby – a notorious enforcer – came over to Pulli and started talking to him. Pulli, who was eighteen or nineteen years old at the time, thought this was cool until Melby’s fist connected with his temple and floored him. Pulli quickly got back on his feet and proceeded to beat Melby to a pulp, including breaking his jaw with a lightning fast jab with his elbow.

In the days that followed Melby’s discharge from hospital Pulli was expecting some form of retaliation, but it never came. Instead, Melby offered him a job and promised to teach him everything he knew about the business. Pulli had got his foot in the door. Melby encouraged him to perfect his fast elbow move, thus establishing Pulli’s signature trademark. Later, Pulli discovered that the initial provocation had simply been a kind of initiation test.

For six years he worked as a debt collector. Loan sharks and dodgy builders knew that they could trust him, and as his reputation started to precede him he no longer had to resort to violence to collect on his clients’ behalf. As soon as people heard Pulli had been hired, they paid up. However, brute force alone wasn’t enough, even though Pulli now regarded his body as a temple and never touched a drop of alcohol. He soon learned the importance of charisma, and the combination of strength and knowledge was – in his eyes – unbeatable. For that reason he read not only all the literature about weapons and combat techniques he could get his hands on but also biographies on great military leaders and personalities. Pulli enjoyed huge respect within his circle, and in the course of time he came to be a wealthy man.