by Thomas Enger
He took out his mobile and saw that it was late and that Nora had sent him several text messages. He pressed his thumb down on the screen to unlock it.
He deleted all the messages without reading them.
13
In their eagerness to do their job, the desk editors sometimes ruined Nora’s copy. They rewrote things, made up titles and created leads that had little to do with the text, mucked around with the pictures and broke up the flow of the language. Nora had yet to meet a journalist who didn’t have a horror story to tell; so desk was often used as a swear-word, and not without cause.
But this time, the editors had barely moved a comma. The article about Hedda had been placed at the top of the print edition’s front page, and was just as it had been when she delivered it. And, from what she could see of the screen above Birgitte’s head, it had a good position in the online edition as well. But it was only now, as Nora read the words that she had written, that the story somehow became real for her.
Hedda was missing.
It hit Nora in a way she had not expected. She started to cry in front of Birgitte, and rushed over to her desk before the receptionist had a chance to ask what was wrong.
Nora managed to pull herself together before the morning meeting, however. It was decided that she would rent a car and drive down to Tønsberg to investigate a little, talk to Hedda’s family and friends, and check the tip-offs the team hoped would start coming in. She had plenty of time. Most people had just got to work and she couldn’t expect many leads until after lunch, when they would sit down and have a look at the online papers.
It took her nearly an hour and a half to drive to Norway’s oldest town. She parked in a large, open car park outside City Shopping. It was a few degrees warmer in Tønsberg than it had been in Oslo, but there was still a definite autumn chill. The trees on Nedre Langgate were being tossed and whipped about in a cold wind from the canal, which Nora could see just a stone’s throw away.
The Hellberg Property offices were next to the shopping centre where Nora had parked, on the corner of Tjømegaten and Nedre Langgate. There was a McDonald’s restaurant next door; Nora, who hadn’t eaten anything other than her usual three pieces of crispbread, resisted the temptation to wolf down a cheeseburger before walking to the door, which told her that Hellberg Property was open from 10 am until 7 pm on weekdays and 9 am to 3 pm on Saturdays.
A bell tinkled over Nora’s head as the door shut behind her; she stopped and looked around. This part of the premises was clearly dedicated to sales. In the window, there were details for a variety of flats – several of them already had SOLD splashed across them in big, red letters. There was a screen on the wall showing a further selection of properties.
Nora had expected the place to be a hive of activity, with buzzing phone lines and voices talking passionately about the west-facing balcony and Italian tiles in the bathroom; for the moment, however, there was only one agent there. He sat hunched over his desk and didn’t even look up when Nora came in, just continued to fiddle with his phone. His eyes were glazed.
‘Excuse me,’ Nora said, taking a step closer.
The man looked up reluctantly, slowly pushed himself away from the desk, put his phone down and then took a few moments to get up. Once he had straightened out his suit and pushed back his shoulders, she saw that he couldn’t be more than thirty and was rather short. There was scant evidence of facial hair, and he had a light-blue cravat that matched his suit. His hair was slicked back.
Nora introduced herself and said which paper she worked for.
‘Oh right,’ the man replied, looking down. ‘So it’s you, is it?’
Nora walked over to his desk.
‘I read your article this morning,’ he explained.
Nora looked down at his name plaque: FRITZ GEORG HELLBERG.
‘And you are?’ she asked, all the same.
‘…Hedda’s cousin. Everyone calls me Georg.’
Nora held out her hand.
He hesitated a moment before taking it. ‘I work for William, her brother,’ he said.
‘A real family business.’
He let out a quick laugh. ‘There are lots of other people who work here as well. I mean, we don’t only sell property. But William is the boss. The Big Brother.’
Nora gave one of her lopsided smiles, catching the double meaning.
‘Well, I’m in luck, then, if I can talk to more than one of you. Is he around? The boss, that is?’
Georg ran a hand through his hair. Nora wondered if it was greasy.
‘I think he’s in a phone meeting; I’m not sure how long he’ll be.’
Georg bent down to pick up an umbrella that was lying half open on the floor, then folded it up before putting it in a stand that housed several other umbrellas bearing the Hellberg Property logo.
Nora pushed her fringe aside. ‘Perhaps I could talk to you, in the meantime?’
She took a notebook and pen out of her bag. And even though he still hadn’t given her an answer, she asked: ‘Did you have much to do with Hedda?’
‘Yes, I … we hung out together when we were younger, especially in the summer holidays.’
He sat down on a chair, making it creak, crossed one leg over the other and leaned back a little, folding his hands in his lap.
‘Her father had a summer house out at Hulebakk, and he let us stay if there was room. So that was generally where we met. Certainly before we were teenagers.’
Nora pointed to the chair beside him and asked with her eyes if it was alright for her to sit down. Georg gestured his assent with his hand. She pulled the chair over and sat down opposite him, putting her bag down on the floor beside her. Georg leaned forwards, pressed a button on his phone. The screen lit up.
‘When did you last see her?’ she asked.
He pushed his phone away and picked up a white T-shirt that lay crumpled on the desk. Nora noticed that it bore the same light-blue logo as the umbrellas.
‘A couple of weeks after Uncle Oscar died, I think,’ said Georg, folding the T-shirt.
‘In what context?’
He put the folded T-shirt back down on the desk. ‘It was a dinner at Aunt Unni’s, out at Kalvetangen,’ he said. ‘Everyone was there.’
Nora made a note. ‘And how was Hedda then?’
Georg shrugged. ‘I guess she was just as normal. I mean, she … well, of course, she was affected by Uncle Oscar’s death; we all were. But I didn’t notice anything in particular.’
Nora bit the end of her pen, felt the plastic give between her teeth. ‘Did you talk to her?’
‘Just to say hello, really. I was sitting quite far away from her, so there wasn’t really the opportunity.’
Nora crossed her legs and swung her foot up and down; she needed to treat her boots before the winter, she thought.
‘Have you had any sightings yet?’ Georg asked.
‘I haven’t checked my email since I left Oslo. I just drove down,’ Nora told him. ‘But something always turns up in cases like this. People notice more than they think.’
‘So you think she’ll be found?’
Nora looked at him. ‘Don’t you?’
Georg shrugged again. ‘I don’t really know.’
He picked up his mobile phone again and pressed the top button. The screen light reflected on his clean-shaven cheeks.
‘My mum disappeared in the mid-nineties,’ he said. ‘Most of the family think that Hedda’s done an “Aunt Ellen”, that she’s just disappeared, simple as that – taken her own life. Made sure that no one will find her.’
Georg seemed to be even younger when talking about his mother. Nora could see the loss in his eyes, the vulnerability.
‘It must have been awful. For all of you.’
He nodded again.
‘Can I ask how old you were when it happened?’
‘Thirteen,’ he replied.
Nora wanted to ask how much Georg knew about why his mother had disappeared, but th
at wasn’t the reason she was there. She could imagine the situation, all the same. First the fear, then the hope, which gradually faded. Then the desperation, the grief. And then, eventually, the certainty that they would never know. Emptiness followed. Nora wondered if the same would happen with Hedda.
She looked around as she thought about what to ask next. On the wall, there was a framed photograph of some men in smart suits accompanied by elegantly dressed women. She quickly spotted Georg. He was sporting a cravat in the picture as well.
As Nora turned her head she saw a tall, thin man who must have slipped silently into the room. He was standing only a couple of metres from them, looking at them intently. Everything about him said ‘boss’. Nora realised that this had to be William, Hedda’s brother.
‘Could I have a word?’ he said to Georg.
Georg remained where he was, slouched and glazed. Then slowly he turned his head towards his cousin and pushed himself up with a quiet, but audible sigh.
‘Please excuse us a moment,’ William said to Nora, with a smile.
‘Of course,’ she said.
She followed them with her eyes as they left, William in front, Georg walking slowly behind. They stopped around the corner. She couldn’t hear them, but could see them in a mirror that hung on the wall by the entrance. William was the one who did the talking, and judging by his body language, he was anything but pleased. Georg looked up at his cousin, his face showing nothing, then he nodded and carried on into another part of the premises. William Hellberg straightened his jacket and then came back to Nora wearing a broad smile.
She stood up and put her bag over her shoulder, but kept her notebook and pen in her left hand.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘I do apologise. Georg said that you would like to talk to me.’
‘Yes, if that’s possible. My name is Nora Klemetsen; I work for Aftenposten.’ She held out her hand.
William gave her a firm, warm handshake. ‘Shall we go into my office?’
Nora didn’t need to be asked twice. She followed him up a short flight of stairs, around a corner, past a kitchen area and water dispenser, and a large meeting room. William turned at the door to his office and indicated that Nora should go in first.
‘Again, I do apologise,’ he said, as he closed the door and indicated that Nora should sit down. ‘We would rather only the closest family made statements about Hedda. I hope you can understand that.’
‘Of course,’ Nora said, and sat down on a deep chair with long arm rests. William went around to the other side of the large desk, opened one of the buttons on his jacket, sat down and pulled the chair up to the desk. Even though he was now sitting, he seemed to be twice as tall. The smile he sent her over the table was apparently genuine enough, however.
The room smelt of aftershave. Nora noted that William had a ring on his finger and was wearing a gleaming watch in which all the cogs and workings were visible. He also had a conspicuous scar on the back of his left hand. As though he had been branded.
On the desk there were photographs of a couple of little boys, and a gun dog with a lolling tongue. The room was clean and tidy, with fresh fruit on the table and a small fridge that contained a large bottle of champagne and some smaller bottles of rather exclusive water. A framed photograph of a farm in its blossoming spring glory had been given pride of place on the wall behind William.
He noticed that Nora was looking at it.
‘That’s Morsevik Farm,’ he said, proudly. ‘Just after the war, there was a man living there who had lost all his family. He had no heirs and didn’t want to stay there any longer. But, as you’ll know, allodial law puts restrictions on the sale of farms. It’s a complicated thing to understand, though, so he contacted my great-grandfather, who was a practising lawyer at the time, and asked for help. My great-grandfather then realised it might be smart to use his knowledge of property law to make a real business out of it. So he set up a company: Hellberg Property. The rest is history, you might say.’ William smiled. ‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’
Nora would have killed for three bars of chocolate and a Coke, but she declined the offer of coffee and instead asked if it was right that William and Hedda had spent some time together by Oscar’s bedside.
William shook his head.
‘We weren’t there with him at the same time; we overlapped as one of us arrived and the other left. I wasn’t actually there that often, though. One of my sons…’ William looked down at the photographs on his desk ‘…he’s got Kawasaki disease. My wife and I have been extremely anxious since John Travolta’s son died.’
Nora didn’t know much about the illness, but understood their worries perfectly well. She waited a moment before asking her next question.
‘I’ve heard that Hedda took your father’s death extremely hard.’
William put the tips of his fingers together so his hands made a triangle. ‘Yes, she was very close to Father.’
Nora wondered if she should give her condolences, but then decided it seemed a bit odd so long after the event.
‘And what are your thoughts about her disappearance now? Do you think it has anything to do with your father’s death? Was her grief too much to bear?’
William cocked his head to one side, and then the other. ‘I don’t know, really. Obviously, she was very upset, but I find it hard to believe that she took it that badly.’
‘Stayin’ Alive’ suddenly filled the room. Nora blushed furiously. She pulled her phone from her bag and ended the call without looking at the number.
‘Sorry,’ she said.
‘That’s OK.’ William lifted a glass of water that was standing by the phone and took a sip.
‘So you don’t think that Hedda has committed suicide?’
William put the glass down again. ‘Put it this way: Hedda has always been tough, a bit of tomboy really, if you know what I mean. When she was a child, she didn’t cry if she grazed herself or anything like that, and she always wanted to do what Patrik and I and our friends were doing. I’ve always seen her as being someone who can take a few knocks. Which is why it doesn’t make sense to me that she’d take her own life. But I can’t imagine why anyone else would want to harm her, so…’
‘What I find a little strange,’ Nora started, ‘is why she said that she was going to Italy for three weeks, when in reality she hadn’t even booked the trip. It was quite clearly a lie.’
‘No, I don’t understand it either. She might of course have been abducted by some madman. It does happen occasionally, unfortunately. A psychiatric patient, or someone like that.’ William looked away.
Nora thought she knew what kind of thoughts and pictures were going through his head, even if his calm, almost impassive exterior didn’t betray them. She couldn’t think of anything more to ask, so she stood up and closed her notebook.
‘Thank you for your time,’ she said, and held out her card. ‘If you think of anything else that you feel I should know, don’t hesitate to get in touch.’
William stood up, and took her card. ‘I will do.’
14
At some point during the night, Henning lost count, but when he finally got up a good many hours later, he was sure that he’d vomited at least ten times. It was obvious that he had concussion, and had probably broken a rib or five, but it wasn’t so bad that he hadn’t managed to have a few lucid thoughts in the hours he’d lain awake waiting for another wave of nausea.
He had gone through all the lawyers he knew who might give enforcement jobs to people like Jocke, and had come up with a likely candidate pretty fast: Lars Indrehaug, the lawyer who had defended Ørjan Mjønes, the man the police had arrested, suspecting he was the brains behind Tore Pulli’s murder.
Indrehaug was a good lawyer and a smart man, but Henning had never liked him. There was something about the tall man’s arrogance, his aura of invincibility – as though he was the blind goddess’s loyal squire and was only doing what duty required of him. But Henning also got the fe
eling that Indrehaug liked being the confidant of criminals, that he enjoyed their company; Henning had attended several court cases where he’d seen Indrehaug chatting happily with his clients outside the court in the breaks. It was only a hunch, of course, and nothing he would take to the bank, but in the course of the night, Henning had decided to look at Indrehaug more closely, to see if he could find anything that linked him to Jocke. And, therefore, to Tore Pulli.
When he’d arrived home the previous evening, Henning had tried to bandage himself and affix some plasters as best he could, but looking at himself now in front of the bathroom mirror, he saw that he’d made a poor job of it. One of the plasters on his temple was about a centimetre away from the cut. And he had managed to put a sticky end on the wound itself.
He looked terrible. His upper lip was swollen, and under one of his eyes it looked like an extra bag had appeared. He discovered that he had to move slowly. His head ached and he was still nauseous.
He dipped his hands in cold water and carefully washed his face. It felt unfamiliar to his fingers, as though he was touching a mask. With great care, he put on a new plaster. He was surprised that he didn’t have more cuts. But the more he moved, the more he understood that Pontus had not just punched and kicked his face and hip. He had beaten him black and blue all over.
He finished up in the bathroom and then drank three cups of coffee at the kitchen table, doing nothing apart from allowing his eyes to adjust gradually to the light that filtered in from outside. He wasn’t used to sitting so still; it was actually rather nice.
At around ten o’clock, he rang Lars Indrehaug’s office. An efficient, chirpy secretary called Mathilde told him that Lars was out at a meeting, but would be back by lunchtime. Henning was welcome to call again, but should be aware that they were having a fire drill between 12.00 and 12.30.