Exposed at the Back

by Arild Stavrum

  He flopped down onto his seat. The table shook. Benedikte’s drink was about to tip over, as Bugge turned his head the other way and shouted: ‘Waiter!’

  Seconds later, Bugge got up, went over to the bar and got himself a beer. He’d already drunk half of it by the time he flopped back down into his chair. He was breathing heavily, sweat running off his brow.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ said Bugge.

  ‘What are you using to blackmail Per Diesen?’ asked Benedikte.

  ‘What makes you think I’m doing that?’ asked Bugge.

  ‘Because Diesen’s trying to persuade Marius Bjartmann that they should both sign with you. A player with such a high profile as Diesen could easily get a big foreign agency to represent him, so you must be using something against him,’ said Benedikte, trying to read Bugge’s expression.

  ‘My theory,’ she continued, ‘is that you’ve got hold of compromising footage of Arild Golden and Sabrina from PDTV cameras that they didn’t know were there. And now you’re using those pictures to blackmail him. If it comes out that Sabrina was having a relationship on the side, it would ruin the whole illusion of them as Norway’s dream couple. H&M are planning a Nordic campaign with Diesen and Sabrina as their models. They would lose millions in advertising revenue. It might be the end of their relationship, but they can’t afford to let it happen in the full glare of publicity.’

  ‘You might be onto something,’ said Bugge.

  ‘Help me out.’

  ‘It’s not as straightforward as just Sabrina and Golden having an affair.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Getting the truth might cost you dearly, my love,’ said Bugge, checking her out. ‘Let me get you another drink. In the meantime, have a think about what you can offer me.’

  Benedikte hoovered up what she had left of her drink.

  Bugge came back with a mojito and a beer, but he still hadn’t worked out how to sit down normally. He came down heavily and too fast without putting the drinks down first.

  ‘Bloody hell. These cost me more than 100 kroner and then I spill half of them,’ said Bugge, shaking sugar and mint leaves off his wrist. ‘Good job I’ve just signed an international player. I need that money coming in, baby.’ He rubbed both thumbs and forefingers together before drying the rest of the mojito on his jeans.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Alex Mendy from Lillestrøm,’ said Bugge.

  Mendy was a left-back who had been on a couple of Norwegian national youth teams in the past year, but only on the subs’ bench. He’d had Arild Golden as his agent.

  ‘Have you signed many from Golden Boys?’

  ‘Actually, I’ve been offered a position with the firm. If I want, I could be Golden Boys’ new front man. We might even change the name to Bugge Boys.’

  Benedikte realised that it would be impossible to keep their meeting a secret. Bugge was far too keen on name-dropping, and now he was even closer to the Golden Boys system, and therefore closer to the case. She looked across at Nesje, sitting at the bar. He was still only half facing them, but she was sure that he had an eye on them. She would be safe here, but she couldn’t take Nesje with her everywhere.

  ‘You’ve got to tell me what you know. I need all the information you’ve got. And I can help you. What about an appearance on Football Xtra this Sunday?’

  Bugge took a long sip of beer, and it was clear that he was having trouble keeping a straight face. He laid down his glass and put his head back, while he scratched his neck with three fingers.

  ‘I don’t know if I need that exposure any more. Things are pretty much falling into place on their own. You’ll have to offer me something else.’ He put his hand in his pocket, pulled out a key card and put it on the table. ‘We’ve got plenty of time, baby. I had to book the room right through to tomorrow.’

  Benedikte leapt up. ‘We need some more to drink,’ she said.

  She went over to the bar and ordered another mojito, a beer and three shots of vodka. After paying, she kept her mojito and mixed the beer and vodka for Bugge.

  A couple of rounds later, Bugge was developing a slur. Benedikte hinted that they could go to his room. Bugge just nodded without any other expression. Had she got him too drunk? Was he going to fall asleep?

  And was it wise to be alone in a room with a man who could be the killer? Bugge had a motive, his business had taken off since Golden’s exit. But as they went past Nesje at the bar, she held up her hand in a disarming gesture. She’d manage on her own. Nesje also held up his hand. Benedikte interpreted that as meaning he would give her five minutes.

  Bugge insisted on taking the lift from the sixth floor down to the fifth. They walked along a narrow corridor with a black carpet and white rectangular signs with the room numbers on them. Bugge also insisted that Benedikte walk in front. He took hold of her shoulder and stopped her at room 603. Once inside, Bugge made an attempt to break the bed by sitting on it. Benedikte fled to the bathroom.

  Bugge had information Benedikte needed, information that might reveal who had killed Golden and that could guarantee her own safety, but how far was she prepared to go?

  She sat down on the toilet seat. The bathroom was high-tech, with a shower that looked like it needed a manual, volume controls next to the sink and deceptive mirrors on the floor that gave the impression you were looking straight into the room below. The most creative feature, though, was the frosted glass separating the toilet from the bedroom. It was fixed high up on the wall, and you could see both in and out of it. Benedikte jumped when she spotted Bugge pressing his face against the glass. She ran out.

  ‘I’ve got to pee,’ said Bugge. He went in and shut the door. Benedikte sat on a bench next to the TV. She pressed her fingers against her ears to minimise the sounds from the bathroom. He came back out from the toilet.

  ‘What are we talking about here?’ asked Benedikte.

  Bugge glanced over at the bed.

  ‘Forget it,’ said Benedikte.

  Bugge looked hurt, but then he just shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘One of my tits. You get to see one of them.’

  ‘Both tits, and I get to touch them for one minute,’ said Bugge.

  ‘No touching.’

  ‘Then I get to see them both for one minute.’

  ‘One of them, I said.’

  ‘Baby, you’re forgetting I’m an agent. Negotiating is what I do. You’ve got to budge too. You’ve got to give me more than just one tit.’

  ‘Fine. You get to see both. For 10 seconds. But that’s it. That’s all you get, and then you tell me everything you know. Agreed?’

  Bugge nodded, crawled up onto the bed and put some cushions together to support his back. He put both hands in front of his crotch, like a footballer in the wall against a free kick. Benedikte got up, sighed and looked down at the yellow plastic alarm clock which had a second hand. Bugge had stopped blinking. She took hold of her top around the waist and lifted it up.

  Benedikte kept her eyes fixed on the clock while she heard sounds from the bed that she wished to forget as soon as possible. Finally the time was up. She pulled her top back down again and looked at Bugge. He was like a still photograph.

  ‘Now talk,’ said Benedikte.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Bugge.

  ‘Talk.’

  ‘I’ve got to ask you not to disclose where you heard this information. We don’t take these things lightly in my profession.’

  Benedikte wondered whether the tradition of protecting sources might not go back a little further among journalists than it did among football agents, but she didn’t want to split hairs. She nodded briefly and Bugge continued.

  ‘I got access to some computer files, and from those I found out that Golden had slept with more surprising partners than Sabrina. She didn’t quite fit Golden’s preferences, let’s say.’

  Benedikte wondered how she could have been so slow on the uptake. She knew where Bugge was heading with this. They were mod
els. Male models. How could she have been so blind? It was so blatantly obvious.

  She’d really hoped the motive would have something to do with synthetic turf and its health risks. When Steinar had started talking about Ståle Jakobsen, artificial turf and cancer, her own medical past had led her astray. She’d been so sure that there was a conspiracy behind this, but murders tended to be more straightforward. They tended to deal with small personal matters.

  When Bugge finally said it, it was more like a confirmation of what she already knew: ‘Arild Golden was having sex with Per Diesen.’

  Part 8

  6 April 2004

  ‘Well, I understand you agents never take anything less than 5 per cent.’

  Arild Golden looked across his desk at the president of the NFF. They were talking about negotiations for TV rights. The financial value of football was exploding all over Europe. It was Sky that had set the ball rolling in Britain, and the time had come for Norway to follow suit.

  The current TV agreement, which would run out at the end of the year, had a combined value of 250 million kroner. The agreement was so far off the true commercial value of Norwegian football that Arild Golden could secure the same sum by sending just one e-mail, so the matter was quite simple. Was the top boss of Norwegian football really offering him 12.5 million kroner to send one e-mail?

  It was Golden who had invited the president to his office to discuss the TV rights, but he’d been unsure whether the president would even be interested in meeting him. Golden was under investigation by the NFF, suspected of representing more than one party in a transfer deal.

  The NFF could punish him in one of two ways, either by suspending his licence or issuing a fine. In themselves, these things were trivial. It would be no problem to pay another agent to put his name on the papers while Golden was suspended, and the fine would be an insignificant amount. The problem was that the penalty would attract the attention of the media and, worse, it might attract the attention of Økokrim, the authority that dealt with financial crime.

  His plan was to help the NFF free of charge. If he negotiated a better deal for the TV rights, maybe the association would allow the investigation against him to be forgotten at the bottom of a drawer.

  There were three potential partners to deal with. The state broadcaster NRK had long since indicated that they weren’t interested, which left Canal+, TV2 and TV3. Golden had already arranged meetings with all three the next day. And then along came this, a 5 per cent offer to start negotiations. If he got this deal, the football associations in Sweden and Denmark would also come knocking on his door. Soon he might be negotiating rights for the Olympics, the World Cup, skiing and handball. There were enormous opportunities to be had, and nobody had taken them.

  He cleared his throat. ‘I’ll need to ask for 12 per cent. Negotiations like these take a lot of work, and it’s not clear how much money we might be talking about.’

  ‘6.’

  ’10.’

  ‘I’m sure that you’re worth every penny, and if it’d been up to me, I would’ve accepted that. But I’ve got a board to deal with and they’ve authorised me to offer up to 8. No more.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Golden, shaking the president’s hand and leading him to the door. He spent the next few minutes looking out across Ullevaal Stadion. Three TV companies to deal with, he thought. Norway was such a tiny country. There were three companies to set up against each other, and those three meetings would make him tens of millions. At the back of his head, he was already kicking about the idea of 100 million kroner.

  Coming Out

  Steinar was holding a white coffee cup with red, yellow and blue squiggles on it. Junior had made it at nursery.

  The cup was also painted on the inside, and Steinar wondered what kinds of chemicals he might be ingesting. Before taking another sip, he wiped his finger over the rough surface where Junior had been so generous with the paint. The coffee tasted just of coffee.

  A short distance away from the house stood a big pine tree. Most of the bark had fallen off, and the thinnest branches hanging down were grey. The tree looked like a old man, but in reality it had gone one step further. It had been standing there dead for as long as Steinar could remember. Every day he looked for the tiniest sign of life. He knew it was pointless, but he always checked while he was drinking his coffee.

  The tree was on the agenda at the residents’ association meetings. Steinar had taken on the task of getting an expert opinion as to whether it should be cut down and, if so, when. It was a task he’d been putting off, and he would soon run out of excuses.

  Above the tree, dark clouds hung in the sky. There had been record high temperatures in Oslo that summer, with very little rain. Now it seemed as if all the summer’s humidity had accumulated in the black clouds enveloping the hill above at Grefsenkollen.

  Junior was sitting at the kitchen table, his yoghurt untouched. His fingers were busy pressing hard at Benedikte’s iPhone. He easily manoeuvred his way into the various apps. He spent minimal time on each app before his fingers sped across the screen looking for something else. Technology had developed to such a degree that the gadgets would soon be too small for grown-ups. They were better suited to a child’s fingers.

  In Steinar’s childhood, the Commodore 64 had been all the rage. He’d learnt to write programs that would fill the whole screen with one word or one sentence, not to mention the joy he and his friends had when they got hold of Tetris or some other basic game. Now Junior was sitting there, aged two and a half, operating a touchscreen smart phone as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  Steinar heard a noise. He went out of the kitchen and saw Benedikte coming down the stairs. She’d crept in after Steinar and Junior had fallen asleep the night before.

  Benedikte was wearing a Puma T-shirt that was far too big for her. As far as Steinar could see, that was all she was wearing. It reached down almost to her knees. She wasn’t wearing any make-up. She stretched, leaning on the big toe of her right foot, put her head back and yawned slowly.

  ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Per Diesen and Arild Golden were having a relationship.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Have you seen my mobile?’

  ‘Junior’s got it in the kitchen,’ Steinar said.

  Benedikte disappeared off looking for it.

  That Golden might be gay was something that hadn’t even crossed Steinar’s mind. Had Golden and Diesen been an item? In that case, how would that work for Diesen, playing on a football team?

  Steinar had spent much of his life in changing rooms. The kind of banter in there was still the kind he was most comfortable with, even after years of university education, countless study group meetings with challenging discussions and, more recently, a fair amount of experience as a lawyer. Even now, he knew that it was when he’d sat on those wooden benches and taken off his socks after a tough training session that he’d felt most at ease.

  Dressing room banter was macho. That doesn’t mean that girls and cars were all that they talked about, but it was a world of teasing, arguing over card games and throwing things across the room, with little space for talking about feelings. Steinar remembered a teammate who used to come in and shout ‘78’ or ‘82’ or whatever it was, updating them on how many women he’d slept with. He did it in such a way that the manager and any other uninitiated passers-by would hear it and wonder what the numbers meant.

  In a culture like that, it’s not that easy to talk about feelings, especially if it’s feelings for another man. They had plenty to say about players from other teams, but Steinar could only imagine what they’d say about one of their own playing for the other team. It was hard to imagine any part of modern society where the word ‘shame’ had more currency.

  Maybe gay men were being scared away from football. Maybe they preferred other arenas where they could feel safer around their colleagues. Or was the changing room closet really bur
sting with gay men?

  If a player shied away from tackling or turned his back when setting up a wall against a free kick, he was often called ‘gay’. In a Second Division match, Steinar had once been tackled to the ground, and the defender had held him down when he tried to get up.

  ‘Let go of me, you bloody poof,’ he shouted.

  There were some young boys standing nearby. From that day onwards, Steinar’s opponents would be ‘bloody idiots’.

  Steinar went into the kitchen where Benedikte was trying to retrieve her iPhone from Junior. He’d turned away from her and was holding his new favourite toy in an iron grip. Benedikte was trying to trick him with quick movements to snatch the phone from him. She looked at Steinar.

  ‘The hottest example at the moment is a Welsh rugby star who came out as gay. It was a sensation,’ said Benedikte. ‘Another example is that the FA even had to set up a special group to combat the widespread homophobia in English football. But it’s a hopeless task in England. We’re supposed to be a lot more liberal in Norway, or so I thought. Why was there that absurd level of interest when an unknown handball player came out? There’s only one Norwegian male footballer who’s done the same, and he had enough and quit straight afterwards. Nobody reacts the same way with women’s sport. Why is it so difficult for you men?’

  How was Steinar supposed to discuss this without appearing like a Neanderthal? He remembered some old jokes about women’s football, but steered himself away from them.

  ‘Have you read about Brian Clough?’

  ‘You mean the manager who picked on Justin Fashanu because he was gay? They found Fashanu in a garage after he’d hanged himself.’

  ‘That’s right, but Clough, with his boastfulness and incredible results, was still one of the greats. You know, they’re still making books and films about the man. He was manager at Nottingham Forest for most of his career, and you’d have to be totally mad about football to know the names of any other Forest managers. Many years later, Clough said that he regretted the way he’d treated Fashanu.’