by Thomas Enger
Henning looked from side to side, turned around, looking in every direction, and realised that he had walked almost the full two and a half kilometres from Skar to Øyungen Lake without any sign of Kjær. The big lake opened out in front of him, with camping sites and shelters along the shore, and a dam to stop too much water flowing down towards the city.
But no Andreas Kjær.
Just when he felt it had all been a waste of time, he heard footsteps behind him. He spun round.
The policeman looked different from when he’d last seen him, largely because it was now daylight – it had been dark in the entrance to the building on Fossveien. Henning had gone to Andreas Kjær’s home to ask him a few questions about the night of the fire, the night a report was made about Pulli sitting in a car outside Henning’s home. But Kjær hadn’t been home. So Henning had talked with Kjær’s kids and learned that someone had recently killed their dog. Put it on the veranda for the kids to find. It was obvious to Henning then that pressure had been put on Andreas Kjær to stay quiet about something. And when Andreas Kjær had turned up, it was clear he wanted Henning to stop digging.
The man who had thrown Henning up against the wall that evening and told him to stay away from him and his family, now scoured the shore with eyes that looked as though they hadn’t seen much sleep for a while.
‘Should we go over there?’ Kjær asked, pointing to the dam.
‘Why not?’ Henning said.
Kjær was wearing running clothes, black trousers and a sky-blue jacket that rustled as he walked.
‘Have you got your phone with you?’ he asked.
‘I left it in the car,’ Henning told him.
They walked down a gentle slope. The dam rose up a couple of metres to their left, perfect for anyone with a sense of adventure and balance to walk along. As they got closer to the sluices, the thunder of fast-moving water increased.
They stopped in the middle of a wooden bridge. The water poured over the edge of the dam in an arc that cleared them by several metres. Kjær got a packet of cigarettes out from his jacket pocket and lit one with a lighter that he then returned to a trouser pocket. He scoured the surroundings before taking a step forwards and leaning against the side of the bridge.
‘What’s your deal with Pia?’ he asked.
Henning watched the water thundering down below them, then carry on to a quieter stretch as the river headed towards the city. He positioned himself closer to Kjær.
‘I know what’s at stake for you both,’ he said. ‘I’ve promised not to write about anything you tell me, on the condition that you tell me everything.’
The policeman gave him a disconsolate look.
‘I don’t really have much to tell.’
‘You changed the Indicia report about Tore Pulli from 11 September 2007, the evening I lost my son.’
Kjær shook his head. ‘Not exactly,’ he said.
Henning turned towards him.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I didn’t change anything.’
The muscles in Kjær’s face tensed.
Henning waited for him to continue.
‘You know that they threatened me. My family. They wanted access to Indicia.’
‘Yes.’
Kjær sighed.
‘The bloke who called spoke Swedish with an Eastern European accent. I don’t know his name. After they’d killed the dog, I agreed to meet him one evening, and I managed to sneak a laptop out from the station, one that I knew had Indicia installed.’
Kjær took a last draw on his cigarette and then threw it into the water. He scrutinised the trees along the river as though he expected someone unwelcome to jump out at any moment.
‘We agreed that I would get a room at the Scandic Hotel out in Asker, and that I would wait there for five knocks on the door. Which I did. And I opened the door to two men who looked more or less the same. Quite short, strong. They both had guns. They were both wearing hoodies.’
Henning thought about the two men that the police wanted to talk to in connection with Iver’s murder. Kjær’s description was almost the same.
‘I’d managed to get Pia’s username and password, and I’d already logged on to Indicia when we sat down. The man who spoke Swedish took over the computer, while the other one made sure that I couldn’t see what they were doing on the screen.’
Henning listened carefully to every word Kjær said.
‘But I did manage to see that he went into a report and that there wasn’t much written there, maybe five or six lines, only I couldn’t see what it said.’
Again, Kjær looked around. There was no one nearby.
‘So I don’t know what he deleted.’
Henning considered what he’d said.
‘Do you think you’d recognise them if you saw a picture of them?’
Kjær took his time.
‘Possibly,’ he said. ‘I don’t know. Let’s put it this way: I tried to have as little eye contact with them as possible.’
Henning thought about the report after the fire in his flat, which concluded that the cause of the fire was unknown. The cursory, routine police investigation had found nothing, and by the time Henning had felt strong enough to start asking questions himself, the Indicia report, the details, had been changed.
‘When was this?’
‘You mean when did it happen?’
‘Mm.’
Kjær squinted up to the left.
‘Now, when was it, let me think. Some weeks ago, maybe? Maybe more.’
Some weeks.
So that meant the information hadn’t been considered dangerous or incriminating until two years after the report was written. About the time that Henning had finally reached a point when he thought he had no choice but to examine the circumstances of his son’s death. About the time that Tore Pulli had been killed, and about the time that Henning himself had had two attempts on his life. Which meant that the information in itself was worth the risk of threatening a policeman and all that that entailed, and that it was urgent.
They stood together, looking around for a few moments. Henning remembered the patrol car Kjær had sent to Markveien that evening, where Pulli was sitting, monitoring Henning’s movements. He also knew that the police had checked Pulli’s car and knowing who Pulli was, and wondering why he was sitting in the same place, several nights in a row, thought it necessary to report the fact.
‘Was there any spoken communication between you and the patrol officer who wrote the report about Pulli being on Markveien those few evenings?’ he asked.
Kjær shook his head.
‘But then I didn’t ask for any particular feedback. If there had been anything important, I would have heard about it.’
‘So the fact that my flat went up in flames ten minutes later wasn’t important enough? You didn’t think that there might be a connection?’
Kjær looked at Henning.
‘Fires happen all the time in this town, Juul. You have no idea how many callouts we get, every day, every night, and as a rule it’s just someone who’s forgotten to turn off the hotplate. It would be easy enough to miss it, especially as it’s not the force’s primary responsibility.’
But it was shoddy police work, all the same, Henning thought, not to check Indicia for any details that had been reported that evening. That should be standard procedure.
They were both silent for a few moments.
‘Is there anything else you’d like to know?’ Kjær then asked.
Henning thought about it.
‘Just one thing,’ he said. ‘You said that he deleted something.’
Kjær wrinkled his nose.
‘Just now. You said you didn’t know what he’d deleted. How do you know that he deleted something? How do you know that he didn’t just change the details instead?’
‘Well…’
The policeman shifted his weight.
‘I just assumed he’d deleted something because…’
He seemed to think about it.
‘I heard the keyboard. You can hear the difference between someone writing something and someone deleting something. Or moving up and down through the text with arrows, for that matter.’
Henning considered this claim, and agreed that he was probably right.
‘And you were sitting beside him when he was doing this. How long did it take?’
Kjær shook his head.
All of a sudden, he looked more alert.
‘When I think about it, it was actually really quick. Just a few taps on the keyboard, I’m guessing the arrow keys, and then a firm, decisive click. As though something was being deleted. And that was that. They got up and left.’
Henning thought through what Kjær had just said. No more than a few taps. What could be so important that it had to be removed, and yet it didn’t take more than a moment to delete?
The answer was simple.
A name.
Tore Pulli had not been alone in the car that evening.
24
Twenty-five minutes after Andreas Kjær had continued his run, Henning got into Iver’s car, sweaty and tired. He didn’t start the car straightaway, but instead rested his hands on the wheel and took some deep breaths. He removed his mobile phone from the glove compartment and saw that Bjarne had called, and that he’d sent him a text message as well.
Booked an interrogation room for two pm. Good if you could come a bit before. BB
Henning looked at his watch. Nearly half past eleven. Going to Tønsberg and back would take about three and half hours, probably even longer, but he would rather do that than hang around killing time at the police headquarters.
So Henning didn’t answer the text. Then, just as he was about to put his key in the ignition, something caught his attention. Iver’s car was full of rubbish – old newspapers, half-empty bottles, coins and squashed cigarette packets – and on top of some old parking tickets in the mid-console lay a business card that made Henning very curious indeed.
Preben Mørck. The lawyer.
The man Henning suspected was Daddy Longlegs.
When had Iver got that?
Henning checked the parking tickets under the card. One of them prompted him to start the car and head towards the centre of Oslo. Tønsberg would have to wait for the moment.
Preben Mørk’s office was no more than a stone’s throw from the Oslo Courthouse, and when Henning arrived, the lawyer was not around. His secretary – a woman with long dark hair who was sitting straight-backed like a priestess – told him that Mørck would probably be back in about fifteen minutes. He’d gone out to meet a client, she said, and had called only minutes ago to say he would be a little delayed.
‘I don’t think he has time to speak to you today,’ she continued. ‘His schedule is…’
‘Not to worry,’ Henning interrupted, ‘I just have a quick question for him, then I’ll leave.’
The secretary scowled at him, but Henning turned away before she made any further attempt to get rid of him.
Preben Mørck was lawyer to the wealthy Hellberg family from Tønsberg, and Henning had met him there briefly, when suspicion fell on the mother of the family, Unni Hellberg. There was evidence to indicate that she had orchestrated the death of her sister-in-law, Ellen, sixteen years earlier, and that she had contracted Tore Pulli to carry out the murder.
Henning thought it highly unlikely that a woman like Unni, who hardly frequented the criminal underworld, would have contacted Tore Pulli herself. She had presumably used a middleman, someone she knew and trusted, who in turn knew who to contact.
The family lawyer, for example, whom she’d known for years.
And Tore was a childhood friend of Unni’s son, William, as was Charlie Høisæther. So it was more than likely that Mørck, who had spent a lot of time with the family over the years, knew both Tore and Charlie.
Henning approached the secretary again.
‘How does it work?’ he asked when he got to the reception desk. ‘Do you make a note of everyone who comes to see Mørck?’
‘You mean some kind of log?’
‘Mm.’
She shook her head.
‘We’re only a small firm, and as you saw for yourself, there’s no reception downstairs. So, if you’re wondering if I know who’s been here, well, I’ve got Mørck’s diary. Most people who come actually have an appointment.’
Henning ignored the thinly veiled criticism. Instead he looked over at a small stack of business cards on the desk. He picked one up and studied the gilt lettering that said Preben Mørck, Lawyer.
‘Well, if I wanted to know who was here on Friday, could you tell me?’
He put the card down again and gave her the most charming smile he could muster.
‘In principle, yes, but I’m afraid I can’t.’
‘That’s a shame. Perhaps you could tell me then if someone like me came by on Friday? Who didn’t have an appointment?’
The secretary hesitated before saying, ‘I wasn’t here on Friday.’
‘That’s a shame too.’
Just then, the door opened and Henning smiled broadly at the lawyer who walked in. He stopped in his tracks as soon as he saw Henning. Preben Mørck was wearing a full-length coat, with a navy blue scarf round his neck, which he hung up on the coat stand. He put his briefcase down and placed his coat on a hanger.
‘Hello, Mr Mørck,’ Henning said, while wondering at the same time if this could really be Daddy Longlegs, who gave jobs to people like Ørjan Mjønes and Durim Redzepi? This tall man, who looked utterly harmless? In fact, he didn’t even look like a lawyer, more like a man who hated wearing suits, and didn’t fit the one he was wearing. The jacket was a few sizes too big, and his thin arms seemed to drown in the sleeves.
‘My secretary has undoubtedly already told you that I don’t have time to…’
‘Yes, she has,’ Henning said. ‘I’ll leave right away. I just wanted to ask one quick question, if that’s OK. Maybe two.’
He smiled as disarmingly as he could. Mørck took a deep breath.
‘Be quick then, I’ve got a teleconference in…’ he looked at the clock.
‘Four minutes,’ his secretary piped up behind Henning.
Mørck picked up his briefcase again and then stood about a metre away from Henning.
‘So, how can I help you?’
Henning studied him for a moment. Is he alarmed to see me? Nervous? Nothing in his eyes or demeanour gave anything away. Mørck just stood there, waiting for his questions.
‘You’ve no doubt heard that a colleague of mine was killed yesterday,’ Henning said. ‘Iver Gundersen?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Mørck replied. ‘Terrible business. My condolences.’
‘Thank you. I just wondered if you’d ever met him personally?’
Mørck didn’t answer straightaway.
‘If I’d met Iver Gundersen?’
‘Yes.’
He thought about it.
‘Very possibly. After all, he’s – sorry, was – a journalist. Why?’
‘Has he ever been here?’
Henning indicated the office. Again, Mørck took a moment to think.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Well, has he or hasn’t he?’
‘No,’ Mørck said. ‘Not that I can remember.’
Henning studied his face.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘That’s it. No more questions.’
‘Really?’
The lawyer laughed.
‘Journalists seldom run out of questions, Juul, so is that really all you wanted to know? And what does that mean, the day after your colleague was killed?’
‘Nothing at all, Mørck, I was just curious. I know that he came to see someone around here on Friday, and that he parked just up the street, but that of course doesn’t mean it was you he came to see. Thank you for taking the time. You better make sure you don’t miss your conference call now.’
Henning smiled, turned an
d headed to the door.
‘Bye,’ he said. ‘See you again, no doubt.’
He closed the door behind him, but didn’t go down the stairs to the street. Instead he pulled out the ticket he’d found in Iver’s car, from the same car park where he’d parked only half an hour ago, which showed that Iver had been there only last Friday. And Mørck’s business card had been on top of all the rubbish in Iver’s car – and the card looked just as new as the one he’d just seen in the office.
Iver was here on Friday, Henning thought. Everything seemed to point to that.
So why hadn’t Preben Mørck admitted it?
And what was Iver doing here?
25
Bjarne called again just as Henning drove out of the Hanekleiv Tunnel on the road to Tønsberg. He pulled into the inside lane behind a silver Nissan Primera and picked up his phone.
‘Where are you?’ Bjarne asked. ‘Sounds like you’re in a car.’
‘Yes,’ Henning said. ‘I … I’m going to meet someone.’
‘Right. And who would that be?’
‘I’m going to see if I can get hold of William Hellberg.’
There was silence for a beat.
‘But he lives in Tønsberg.’
Henning didn’t answer.
‘Did you not see the message I sent you earlier on today?’ Bjarne asked, his tone more aggressive.
‘Yes, but I was already on my way,’ Henning lied. ‘Can we not do it later in the afternoon? Four-ish or thereabouts?’
Bjarne sighed.
Henning could hear from the background noise that the policeman was in the office. He heard a mouse click.
‘I’ll see if we can delay a bit,’ Bjarne said. ‘But get back as soon as you can. I’m not the only one waiting for you here.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ Henning said. ‘How’s the investigation going? Have the two guys you wanted to speak to come forward?’
‘No.’
‘One of them sounds like Durim Redzepi,’ Henning said. ‘Do you remember I told you about him?’
There was another silence.
‘He’s one of the people we’re checking up on, of course,’ Bjarne said.