Pierced (6 page)

His grandfather, Sverre Lorents, who had worked as a carpenter all his life, advised Pulli to invest in property, and he entered the market at a favourable time. He reinvested the money he made in larger ventures which provided him with even greater profits and enabled him to continue down the same road. Soon he no longer needed to rely on his enforcer activity to make a living. Nor was it beneficial to his legitimate business interests to have at least one foot firmly anchored in the criminal underworld. In 2004, he shelved his knuckle-duster, or, more precisely, he hung it on the wall of his study. And then he met Veronica Nansen. They married two years later, and the tabloid press regarded their wedding as the highlight of its year.

Nansen is the owner of Nansen Models AS, a popular supplier of girls for a variety of glamorous assignments. Before that, she earned her living as a high-profile model and hosted a reality-TV show that promised to give young, skinny and very ordinary girls the chance to make a living from their looks.

Henning would not normally call anyone on a Sunday, but given that the matter affects both him and Tore Pulli he has no scruples disturbing Veronica Nansen. After many long rings the telephone is answered by a woman whose voice is rusty with sleep. ‘Hi, sorry for disturbing you. My name is Henning Juul.’

Henning’s other hand drums the table impatiently while he waits for her to reply. ‘I don’t know if Tore has—’

‘I spoke to Tore yesterday,’ Nansen says sharply. ‘I know who you are.’

Her words sow a seed of guilt without him quite knowing why, but he shakes it off.

‘So you know that I’m also—’

‘I know that you’re giving Tore false hope. It’s the last thing he needs right now.’

‘False—’

‘As far as I’m concerned, he’s free to seek comfort in a pipe dream that someone outside the prison walls will ride to his rescue, but I’ve no time for people like you.’

‘People like me? You don’t even know what I—’

‘Oh, yes, I do. You’re attracted to mysteries, aren’t you? Riddles nobody has managed to crack. And now you want to turn up and save the day.’

‘Not at all—’

‘Tore doesn’t need this now.’

‘So what do you think he needs?’

‘He needs to prepare himself for his appeal. He should be trying to find out how to challenge his sentence rather than—’

Nansen fails to find a suitable ending.

‘So he’s guilty?’

‘Did I say that?’

‘No, but—’

Nansen interrupts him with a snort. ‘If you knew what I know, you would have done Tore a favour and turned down the job. He has been through enough.’

Henning changes tactics. ‘Have you ever been to prison?’ he asks. He hears that she is about to reply, but interrupts her. ‘Have you sat in a room no bigger than a broom cupboard where your door is locked at 8.40 every night, knowing you won’t be able to leave until seven o’clock the next morning?’

Her sigh is heavier and more laboured than he had expected. ‘No, but—’

‘Sometimes hope is the only thing that keeps you going,’ he continues. ‘If Tore believes that I can help him, then I don’t think – with all due respect – that you should try to oppose it.’

His comment verges on the pompous, but it works. He thinks.

‘I’m just trying to be realistic,’ she says eventually.

‘Okay, I understand, but could we at least have a chat about his case? You probably know him better than anyone, and perhaps you know more about the case. And just so you know, I haven’t decided if I’m going to take this job yet.’

‘You’re right,’ she says quietly, after a long pause. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be so abrasive. It’s just that—’

‘Forget it,’ Henning says. ‘Is there any chance that we could meet? Today preferably, if that’s all right? I know it’s a Sunday and all that, but—’

‘Could you be here in half an hour?’

Surprised at her sudden co-operation, Henning looks at his watch. ‘I can.’

‘Can we play the snake game? Please, please, pleeeeease!’

Thorleif Brenden hears his daughter’s voice from the bedroom while he takes out plates from the kitchen cupboard. Glasses and cutlery are waiting on the table with cold cuts, cheese, orange juice and milk. The oven is on. A saucepan with water and eggs splutters on the cooker, but the sounds from the bedroom drown out even the dulcet tones of Norwegian songbird Marit Larsen from the Tivoli radio on the windowsill.

The snake game
, Thorleif thinks, and smiles. The kids never get bored with it, even though Elisabeth has been playing it with them for years. First with Pål, then with Julie. And now with both of them. Thorleif hears a hissing sound, and the expectant squeals from the children who are hoping – or dreading – being bitten by their mother’s hand snaking towards them under the duvet. The game usually ends in tears, either when Julie is kneed in the stomach or her eye is poked by a stray finger. Even so, the tears are always forgotten by the next time.

Thorleif bends down and sees that the bread rolls are golden brown on top. He turns off the oven and takes them out. His stomach rumbles with hunger. The eggs are almost done so he goes through the living room and into the bedroom.
Hissssss
. He can hear suppressed giggling that could erupt at any minute.

‘Breakfast is nearly ready,’ Thorleif says just as the snake strikes. The room is filled with panicky squeals of laughter.

‘Just a bit more!’ Pål pleads.

‘The eggs will go cold.’

‘Just two more minutes! Please!’

Thorleif smiles and shakes his head while he looks, unsuccessfully, for Elisabeth’s eyes somewhere in the sea of bed linen.

Hisssss
.

The room explodes in new shouts of glee.

Marit Larsen has long since finished singing when Thorleif cuts the bread rolls in half and puts them in a brown wicker basket.

‘Smell my hands, Daddy. I’ve washed them.’

Julie toddles into the kitchen, climbs up on her Tripp Trapp chair and holds out her hands to him. The tears from the snake game are still fresh on her cheeks. He puts the basket on the table and sniffs them. ‘What a good girl you are.’

Her face broadens into a smile. Across the table Pål’s eyes take on a wounded expression. ‘You never tell me I’m a good boy when I wash my hands.’

‘That’s because you’re eight years old, Pål. You learned to wash your hands a long time ago. By the way, have you washed them this morning?’

Pål doesn’t reply, but his sulky face gradually changes into a mischievous smile.

‘Then you go and do it straight away.’

Pål gets up and runs to the bathroom. He bumps into Elisabeth who is coming from the opposite direction.

‘Remember to dry your hands properly!’ Thorleif calls out after him. ‘And hang up the towel when you’re done, please.’

He looks at Elisabeth. The night still lives in her eyes, but her face instantly lights up when she sees the breakfast table.

‘Oh, how lovely,’ she beams as she admires the food. ‘Candles and everything.’

Thorleif smiles.

‘What would you like to drink, Julie?’ he asks his daughter.

Pål runs back in and sits down. The water is still dripping from his hands.

‘Milk, please.’

Thorleif takes a glass and is about to fill it.

‘No, juice,’ she says. ‘I want juice.’

‘Sure?’

Julie nods adamantly. Pål leans across the table and helps himself to half a bread roll before he grabs his knife and tries to slice off the top of his egg. ‘Who boiled the eggs?’

‘Daddy,’ Julie replies.

Pål groans. ‘Mum is better at boiling eggs.’

‘Absolutely,’ Thorleif replies. ‘Mum is better at everything.’

‘Not at spotting roe deer,’ Julie points out.

‘No, definitely not when it comes to spotting roe deer,’ Elisabeth joins in. ‘Once we saw twenty-five of them along the road when we drove home from Copenhagen. Twenty-five!’

‘Is that true?’

‘Absolutely! Daddy was the first to spot nearly all of them.’

‘Is that true, Daddy?’

Thorleif nods and smiles proudly as he removes the top of his egg.

‘And not just roe deer. Cows and sheep too.’

‘And wind turbines,’ Elisabeth interjects. Thorleif smiles and sprinkles a little salt on the scalped egg. Around the table the rest of the family help themselves to rolls, butter, cheese, jam and cold cuts.

‘So,’ Thorleif begins. ‘What are we going to do today? Any suggestions?’

‘Can we go to the cinema?’ Pål asks.

‘I want to go swimming,’ Julie counters.

‘We’ve been doing that all summer. Can’t we go to the cinema? It’s been so long! Please.’

‘Going to the cinema is expensive,’ Elisabeth says. ‘Or it is if we all go.’

‘Mum is right,’ Thorleif says. ‘What would you like to do today, Mum?’

‘Bogstad Farm is open to visitors. I saw it in the paper. Perhaps—’

‘Is it?’ the children shout in unison. ‘Can we go there? Please? Can we? Can we?’

Elisabeth studies the children for a little while before her eyes find Thorleif’s.

‘Do you really think Bogstad Farm is cheaper than going to the cinema?’ he smiles.

‘No, but we can’t spend the whole day indoors when the weather is so nice.’

‘We want to visit the farm, Daddy. Please. Pleeease.’

Thorleif looks at his children in turn. ‘Okay,’ he says. The children whoop and start jumping up and down on their chairs immediately. ‘But then you need to eat a big breakfast first. One bread roll each, at least. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Daddy!’

Thorleif takes a bite of his bread roll and feels the crust between his teeth while he looks at Elisabeth, at all of them, one after the other. It’s Sunday morning. Everyone is happy.

Can life get any better?

Ullevål Garden City lies in the borough of Nordre Aker and was built shortly after the First World War as a residential area for the working class. The intention was that the workers would leave their tenements in favour of bigger houses with their own patch of garden, but it didn’t take long before the better-off hijacked the idyll. Since then house prices in the area have been among the highest in Oslo.

It’s a lovely part of town, Henning thinks, as the cab comes to a halt on John Colletts Plass. Living in Ullevål Garden City bestows a certain status on its residents even though he doesn’t think that was the reason Tore Pulli and Veronica Nansen bought a home here. The properties are well maintained, plants climb up the walls, and the whole neighbourhood is characterised by immaculately landscaped gardens and attractive cafés.

It doesn’t take him long to identify the brick building where Nansen has chosen to remain despite her husband’s jail sentence. Perhaps it’s about holding on to what they had. Henning rings the bell and is admitted immediately. He wheezes as he climbs the stairs to the second floor where the front door has been left open for him. He enters a hallway with a large wardrobe concealed behind spotless mirrors. Further into the flat a chandelier sparkles from the ceiling even though no light is coming from its bulbs.

Veronica Nansen, wearing loose-fitting grey jogging pants, a pink top and a thin grey zip-up hoodie, appears in his field of vision. She has a pink baseball cap on her head, and her ponytail dangles from the back.

‘You found it, I see,’ she says, and smiles briefly.

‘Oh yes,’ Henning says, still panting, and smiles. His scars stretch, and he is aware of her looking at them as they shake hands. Her hand feels small, like the hand of a child.

‘Coffee?’ she asks.

‘Yes, please,’ Henning replies and follows her into the kitchen. There are warm-grey slate tiles on the floor, an integrated wine store, a heating cupboard for plates, a steam oven, a sophisticated espresso machine and two stainless-steel ovens, one of them extra wide. The island in the centre of the kitchen alone is bigger than Henning’s bedroom.

‘Let’s sit down here,’ Nansen says, indicating tall slim bar stools with shiny chrome legs and bright yellow seats and backrests. ‘The living room is a mess,’ she says, and it sounds like an apology. Henning, who always feels ill at ease in the presence of expensive objects, scales the chair and tries to make himself comfortable. Clumsily he rests his elbows on the surface of the table where a bowl of brightly coloured fruit is tempting him.

‘Nice house,’ he says. ‘Or, rather, nice flat.’

‘Thank you.’

Her voice is devoid of enthusiasm. She is probably used to being complimented, Henning thinks, and he watches her while she starts the espresso machine and finds two cups. She is shorter than he had imagined and refreshingly free of make-up. He had assumed that a woman for whom every pavement is a catwalk, or at least it was once, would make an effort to pose in male company, but Veronica shuffles her feet and slumps slightly. Her hunched shoulders make her look as if she has a puncture. Perhaps her guard is down when she is at home, Henning thinks. Perhaps that’s the one place where she allows herself to be exactly who she is.

Soon the aroma of freshly brewed coffee spreads across the kitchen. Henning thanks her when she puts a cup in front of him.

‘Tore said you’re a journalist,’ she says, half-asking half-accusing, and sits down opposite him.

‘Yes. I work for
123news
.’

‘
123news
? As easy as 1, 2, 3?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid so,’ Henning replies.

Nansen takes out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter from the pocket of her hoodie. She offers Henning a cigarette, but he shakes his head.

‘Good place to work, is it?’

‘No,’ he replies, and smiles quickly.

‘Why not?’ she says, and lights up. Henning stares at the flame.

‘I don’t know if I would like it anywhere in the media, to be honest.’

‘So why are you in this line of work?’ she asks, and blows out hard blue smoke through pursed lips.

‘It’s the only thing I’m good at.’

‘I don’t believe that. Everyone has hidden talents.’

‘In that case my talents are very well hidden.’