by Thomas Enger
As they talked over each other, he clicked onto Golfbox – one of the websites he had saved under favourites. He clicked back and forth and stared at the screen in disbelief. Not a single tee-off time available at Bogstad later in the day. On a normal weekday, too.
‘Ah well,’ he said to himself and leaned back in his chair. There would always be other opportunities.
7
A man with garlic breath and a beer gut bumped into Nora and mumbled an apology.
She hated this shop. The shelves were too close, the aisles too narrow. There was hardly room for customers or shopping baskets.
She looked down at her own basket. Bread, a bag of rice and two chicken breasts – one for today and one for tomorrow. She picked out a bottle of sweet chilli sauce and then went to wait in the queue for the till.
What had she expected? That he would nod and say, ‘I’m really happy for you, Nora?’
Anything would have been better than the empty look he gave her just before he stood up and left. He didn’t hear, or didn’t want to hear her following him, begging him to stop. He simply carried on walking, almost reeling, as though he was drunk and wearing uncomfortable shoes.
So now what? What was going to happen now?
Nora paid and went home, put the food on the worktop, put some rice in a pan, added salt and water, then rubbed pesto onto one of the chicken breasts. She needed to eat. While she waited, she sat down on the sofa with the ball in her hand and channel-hopped between bad soap operas. She didn’t think about Henning, didn’t think about Iver, didn’t think about anything.
The rice started to boil, the chicken started to spit.
What if Hedda was dead?
The thought was shocking. For the two years that they had lived together, Hedda had probably been the most important person in her life, certainly the one she spent most time with. And yet now, twelve or thirteen years later, it was strange how little she felt. How had that happened? Had they argued about something before Hedda moved back to Tønsberg?
Nora shook her head. She would remember an argument. More likely, they had just started a new chapter in their lives, found new friends, new flatmates. Time was strange like that. It smoothed over everything, erased things, made anything you didn’t nurture difficult, or worse. Nora had thought of Hedda several times since their college days, but she’d never actually picked up the phone and called her. And the more time that passed, the harder it became.
Hedda had been a good friend. They had laughed a lot together. And, when she made up her mind to do something, she was enterprising and focused. Like the time they decided to paint the flat; it only took them two days. Hedda threw herself into the task and was far more careful than Nora.
She was not the type to open up to people, however. She was curious and enjoyed being with other people, but not even Nora could say she knew a lot about her life. She never talked about her feelings; the furthest she’d go was to say whether she liked or didn’t like whoever she’d been on a date with. And she never talked about previous boyfriends. Nora had often wondered why. If, perhaps, Hedda had a problem trusting people, for example.
But was she someone who would commit suicide?
Even though people could change considerably over time, Nora just couldn’t imagine Hedda was capable of such a thing. True, she had been living a very different life, but Nora always believed that everyone had something essential about them that didn’t change over the years and wasn’t influenced by what happened around them. And, generally, Hedda did what she set out to do. The fact that she was determined to make Norwegians like a wine she had fallen for on holiday was yet another example of her strong will and perseverance.
Nora turned the chicken breast in the pan, saw that the pesto had browned, just the way she liked it.
‘No,’ she said to herself. ‘Hedda did not kill herself.’
It just wasn’t like her.
8
When Henning opened his eyes, he had no idea where he was or how he’d got there. It took a moment or two before he realised that he was lying on a bench outside the Deichmanske Library in Grünerløka, and that it was nearly six o’clock. He also realised that he must have had one of his blackouts.
He had the last one when Iver Gundersen rang to tell him that Tore Pulli was dead. Henning had gone out, he discovered later, in his slippers, and had then woken up a few hours later with bleeding feet because he had stood on some glass. His neighbour, 78-year-old Gunnar Goma, had found him on the stairs and managed to get him back up to his flat.
The last thing that Henning remembered this time was that he had been sitting in a café with Nora and that…
Oh my God.
Nora was pregnant. Nora was fucking pregnant.
Now that the world had stopped turning, it was as if a wound had opened up in his stomach. Nora was pregnant. And what was worse: Iver was going to be a dad. Iver, who could barely look after himself. Who rarely took anything seriously. Who eyed up beautiful women as they passed.
Henning sat up and rubbed his hands over his head. So that was how easy it was, to start again with someone new.
It was a while since he’d felt the need, but now he wanted to drink himself senseless and wake up in a gutter somewhere with a bump on his head and a broken heart.
Or maybe not wake up at all.
He had lost Jonas and Nora; his own mother thought he was a killer; and Trine, his sister, didn’t want anything to do with him.
What was the point?
What was the fucking point?
The hunt, he thought. That was the point. He had to find the answers. He couldn’t give up before he’d found them.
Grünerløkka was greyer than usual as he started to walk home. A wet heaviness threatened to envelop him, but Henning didn’t care; he actually quite liked the rain. Which was something.
He stopped. There was a buzzing in his inner pocket. He fished out his mobile phone, almost surprised that no one had stolen it as he lay sleeping on the bench. Geir Grønningen had sent him a message. And it wasn’t the first one either.
Henning opened the most recent.
How about it? You ready to meet Pontus?
Henning blinked a couple of times, then went back to the first message.
Have managed to get a meeting with Pontus. Meet me at the Ladegården bus stop at seven.
Henning checked his watch. It wasn’t too late. He even had time to go home and have a shower first, get something to eat. He thought it over for a moment. A meeting with Pontus. The Mean Motherfucker.
Henning tapped in his reply: Absolutely.
9
Dusk had started to fall over Oslo by the time Henning got off the 32 bus in Bispegata, at the stop that was called Ladegården, even though the old manor house lay a little way off. There wasn’t much here to bear witness to any former glory. The bus stop was nothing more than a pole with a sign, and if you wanted to sit down while you waited, there were a couple of concrete blocks that had been left by the roadside. Two portaloos stood nearby.
On the other side of the road, the view to Grønland was obstructed by double-storey portacabins. Huge, yellow cranes stretched up towards the mackerel sky. Behind the cranes, several buildings were under construction.
Oslo was one big building site.
Through the bushes that lined the road, Henning could see the surface of the artificial lake, which had been made to replicate the old shoreline of medieval Oslo. The water had taken on dark evening tones: the surface was completely still, so it looked like oil. Somewhere in the distance a seagull cried; it was joined by others, before silence fell again. There was something lacklustre and flat about the city, as though it was tired of waiting for something to happen.
It was easy to spot the big man as he came sauntering down Bispegata. He was wearing exactly the same clothes as he had been earlier in the day, and although his tread was heavy, there was something light and confident about him.
‘You didn’t need to c
ome with me,’ Henning said, when Geir Grønningen reached him.
‘Oh yes, I do,’ he replied. ‘You can’t go to see these boys on your own.’
Henning arched an eyebrow.
‘Seriously, you can’t.’
Henning looked at him for a short while.
‘Where are we going?’ he asked.
‘In there,’ Grønningen said, nodding.
They walked past the portaloos and came into an open, tarmacked area the size of a football pitch. There were dark skid marks on the ground where cars had spun round, burning rubber. Even though Henning couldn’t see anyone, he still had the feeling they were being watched.
There was a garage on one side, and behind it, what appeared to be warehouses. A few cars were parked in the marked spaces and outside the closed metal doors. Piles of folded cardboard boxes, great sheets of chipboard, and pallets were stacked up outside – some were empty, others still full and covered in plastic. He could hear voices, but saw no one.
‘Do you know what free fighting is?’ Grønningen asked.
Henning hesitated.
‘It’s a kind of martial art where everything’s allowed,’ the giant of a man told him before he could reply. ‘Kicks, elbows. The Swedish enforcers here do it. It’s not exactly legal, but that’s why they like it. And this is where they do it. Every Monday and Thursday, seven o’clock.’
Grønningen waved his hand around. Henning tried to make out what he was pointing at, but could only see the brick wall that rose up into the sky. The bricks were more brown than red, and here and there the windows were missing.
‘A real “fight club”, then.’
‘Yep, could say that. They beat the shit out of each other but they’re still good mates after.’
‘And that’s where we’re going?’
Grønningen nodded.
‘Great,’ Henning said.
‘Hey – it was you who wanted to talk to them.’
They fell into a silence in which all they could hear was their shoes on the tarmac. Henning pushed back his shoulders and breathed in deeply.
They passed a big green Mercedes van that was parked by the fence. The driver’s cab was full of boxes and clothes. Grønningen led him to the left of the building, past rusty blue containers, more empty pallets, the door to a sheet-metal workshop, and a roller door, which was grey at the bottom and brown at the top. There was no sign of life. No cars outside, no motorbikes. There was complete silence.
‘Are you sure it’s here?’ Henning asked.
Grønningen nodded and walked straight over to a matt-blue door.
‘Have you been here before?’
‘Nope, but I know the guy who rents it out.’
Grønningen rapped on the door with his knuckles three times then took a couple of steps back.
The door was opened soon after by a man with a swollen lip and a drowsy expression on his face. He had no hair on his head, but plenty on his face. His fair beard was flecked with blood, which flashed like a warning light. He said nothing, just looked both of them up and down.
‘Hi Nicklas,’ Grønningen said.
The Swede didn’t answer, just continued to stare at them.
‘Is Pontus here?’
The Swede smiled. He stepped forwards, looking around, then indicated that they should stretch out their arms.
He searched Grønningnen first – thoroughly. The Swede took his mobile phone.
‘You’ll get it back after,’ Nicklas said.
Grønningen nodded reluctantly.
Then it was Henning’s turn. He stood with his legs apart to make things easier for the Swede. Felt his strong hands on his legs, round his ribcage, in his pockets. He took Henning’s phone as well, then made a follow-me gesture with his head and opened the door for them. He gave Henning an extra hard stare as they went in. The Swede’s breath smelt vile, as though he’d been eating rotting herring.
They were at the top of a dark set of stairs, which led down to a dimly light hallway. Henning could hear muffled sounds from below, then a shout and some clapping and cheering. He followed Grønningen, certain that his footsteps could be heard for miles. The noise in the basement didn’t stop, though; in fact, it increased – Henning heard moans and whoops, laughter and cheers, the sound of punches and kicks, bodies falling to the ground.
The room downstairs was like something from a film. It was basic, with great, square beams and a concrete floor. The light came from a single bulb hanging in the middle of the ceiling. It felt as though the floor was covered in a thin layer of dust and gravel, and it smelt of a mixture of raw fruit and sweat. The smell didn’t bother Henning. What he saw straight ahead of him did, however. He counted seven people standing in a kind of ring around two men who were in the process of killing each other; at least, that was what it looked like. Both had bloodied faces; one of them had a great gash above his eye. Neither of them was wearing any protection, be it boxing gloves or mouth guards. There were no coaches in the corners, ready to throw them towels or give them a drink from a plastic bottle. The floor was not covered in any way; it was just bare concrete.
No one seemed to care that Henning and Grønningen had come in. Everyone was focused on what was happening in the ring. The two fighters slammed each other to the floor, sat on each other and pummelled each other frenetically. Each punch would have been enough to send Henning sailing, but these men continued to fight, spitting and pulling faces, roaring, hissing and growling at each other, as they picked themselves up from the floor and caught their breath before starting another round. They looked for openings, a tentative kick. Then they locked together again. One got his arms round the other’s torso, lifted him up and threw him to the ground. His opponent’s head smashed against the concrete. Henning heard a crunching sound. He was sure that the man lying underneath would die.
Then one of the onlookers clapped his hands. And immediately there was silence. The fighters stopped fighting and the ring opened up. The man who had clapped turned to look at the new arrivals.
Henning felt himself shrinking, all the strength leaving his legs.
‘So,’ said the man who clapped. ‘I see we have visitors.’
The man stepped out of the shadows. The single light bulb seemed to shine on him alone. The others drew back. The man had a shaved head, and was bare-chested with tattoos everywhere; and even though he was clearly not the fittest, even though he was as round as he was tall, Henning did not doubt for a moment that he was strong. Very strong. He had a scar on his chest and his shoes – or boots, rather – clicked as he walked. Sharp edges and pointed toes. He stopped about a metre in front of them. Looked at one, then the other, with a callous smile on his lips. He focused on Grønningen. Took a step closer.
‘Hi Pontus,’ Grønningen said.
Pontus didn’t answer. His smile had vanished. His eyes flashed with aggression, but Grønningen stood his ground; perhaps it helped that he was seven or eight centimetres taller than the Swede, who Henning feared might explode at any moment.
Henning noted Pontus’s face. He had a scar on one side of his upper lip. A gold tooth. A monster nose. Like Grønningen, he had a goatee, which he had plaited from his chin. Part of one ear was missing. Henning didn’t dare think how or why he’d lost it, or what had happened to whoever was responsible.
The others had now moved a step closer, too, but Henning couldn’t see their faces clearly. They were watching Pontus’s every move. The big brute looked like he was studying every single pore on Grønningen’s face.
‘Well, gotta hand it to you,’ Pontus finally said. ‘Coming here like this,’ he swung his arm round to indicate the room, ‘that takes some nerve.’
‘Thanks for agreeing to meet us,’ was Grønningen’s reply.
Pontus took yet another step closer. There were no more than a few centimetres between their faces now. When Pontus carried on speaking, his voice was quiet and intense.
‘Now tell me why I shouldn’t give you a headbutt,
right here.’
‘You can if you like,’ Grønningen said, his eyes riveted on the Swede. ‘If you think it’ll help.’
‘Yeah, I do actually,’ Pontus said. ‘It would help a lot.’
‘But it wouldn’t bring Jocke back. And I had nothing to do with Jocke getting killed. You know that.’
Pontus looked like he really was considering giving Grønningen what he suggested. They stood staring at each other for a few long seconds, as though they were professional boxers posing in front of a camera.
Then Pontus took a step back, gave an almost imperceptible nod and turned his attention to Henning.
‘And this is the journalist?’
Grønningen told him it was. Henning swallowed hard, tried to straighten his back, stand tall. He didn’t know what to do with his hands as Pontus moved closer. Shaking hands was hardly the norm with these people. He put them behind his back and immediately felt like an old man. Clasped them in front, put them on his hips, stuck them in his pockets.
‘I know who you are,’ Pontus said, and stopped a couple of metres from him. ‘You’re the one who found out who killed Jocke.’
Henning tried to answer, but found his throat was too dry. He coughed and tried again.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ he said, and felt proud for a brief moment – a feeling that was probably misguided in the present company. The Swedes stood around them, arms crossed, while they waited for the boss’s next move.
‘Nice work,’ Pontus said. ‘Who’re you out to save this time?’
Henning thought for a few moments before answering. ‘Myself, I think.’
‘How come?’
Henning looked down while he considered what to say, how much he should tell.
‘My son is dead,’ he said, and lifted his eyes to look at Pontus again. ‘He’s dead because someone set fire to my flat. My theory is that the people who did it are the same people who killed Tore.’
‘And so you’ve come here? This is where you think you’ll find Tore’s killer?’