Cursed

by Thomas Enger

  ‘What stage is she at?’

  Iver turned, leaving the bacon to its fate. ‘Fourteen weeks, I think. Or … oh, I’m not sure.’

  The kitchen table was wooden and full of old scratches and dents. Henning ran his finger over the surface, then round his glass and the jug of water.

  He remembered that period. Fourteen weeks. The first critical stage was over, and you could talk about it; they had only just started to dare thinking about themselves as potential parents. They had started to plan – where the baby would sleep at night, if they knew anyone with a spare pram, anyone who could pass on baby clothes. They had also started talking about a name. And of course, Nora noticed the physical changes; she never complained, though, just got rounder and more radiant. She glowed. Iver gave the bacon thirty seconds more before taking it out of the frying pan, then cracked four eggs in its place, and stirred a little in the pot on the neighbouring hotplate.

  Henning poured a glass of water and drank it. It wasn’t the first time someone had tried to kill him without succeeding, but it had been pretty damned close. A small cut to his forehead was the only injury he had to prove it. If Iver hadn’t been there, Henning wouldn’t be sitting where he was now. He didn’t like being indebted to anyone.

  Iver put the bacon, eggs and beans on a plate, cut some slices of bread to go with it, and then they ate in silence. It was a long time since Henning had eaten anything so good.

  ‘I don’t normally even warm them up,’ he said, pointing at the baked beans.

  ‘Your poor stomach.’ Iver smiled.

  Henning laughed.

  When they’d finished, Iver cleared the table and put the pans in the sink.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Tell me what’s going on.’

  Henning folded his hands on the table in front of him. Before starting, he thought about what he was going to say, what he should leave out.

  Nothing, he decided.

  So he told Iver about the tip-off that Rasmus Bjelland had given him; about the fire, and the note on the door that said ‘first and last warning’; quickly glossed over what had happened with Jonas, and carried straight on to Jocke Brolenius’s murder and the phone call Henning had received from Tore Pulli in prison. Then he told Iver about Tore’s murder and Ørjan Mjønes’s arrest.

  Henning held nothing back. He told Iver about the report that someone had messed with, the break-in at Veronica Nansen’s flat, the camera that had disappeared and the photographs that appeared to be missing. It was a lot to take in, but Iver looked as though he was keeping up. At least with the important things.

  ‘So you think it’s this Daddy Longlegs – or someone who works for him, who’s trying to kill you?’

  ‘I’m not entirely sure,’ Henning said with a shrug. ‘But it’s definitely a possibility. I haven’t managed to find out who Daddy Longlegs is yet.’

  Iver nodded slowly, but then shook his head. ‘Fucking hell, Henning, this is crazy.’ He stood up, took the jug of water over to the sink, turned on the tap.

  ‘I know,’ Henning said. ‘And I shouldn’t really have told you any of that, because it might put you in danger, too.’

  ‘Suppose so,’ Iver said, sticking his finger under the tap. ‘But it’s what I live for, after all. Stories like this.’

  He put the jug under the tap and filled it again. Turned off the tap and sat down, before pouring some water into Henning’s glass first, then his own.

  ‘I don’t think Nora would be very happy if she found out that I’d told you,’ Henning said, taking his glass.

  Iver put the jug down. ‘So she doesn’t know what you’re doing?’ he asked.

  ‘She knows about Pulli,’ Henning said, and flicking some drops of water from the side of the glass. ‘But she didn’t really believe me. Or that’s to say, I think she didn’t want to believe me. But what do I know?’

  ‘So what’s the key thing you need to find out? What do you need to know first?’

  Henning took a sip of water. ‘Have you ever heard of a guy called Charlie Høisæther?’

  Iver thought about it.

  ‘He used to be big in property development here,’ Henning expanded. ‘About the same time that Tore Pulli made a name for himself. They were childhood friends. If you want to help me, I need to find out if the two of them ever did business together and, if so, in what way, and if anyone suffered as a result. According to Rasmus Bjelland, Pulli thought nothing of climbing over corpses to get what he wanted, and I’m pretty sure he meant it literally.’

  Iver nodded.

  ‘I also need to find out what kind of relationship Charlie has with the Swedish League in Natal, other than that they might have bought apartments from him there.’

  Iver emptied his glass.

  ‘Do you think you can manage that?’ Henning asked.

  ‘I’ll certainly give it a damned good try,’ Iver said, and smiled.

  Then he was suddenly serious again. ‘But you need protection, Henning.’

  Henning shook his head. ‘I’ve not got enough to go to the police yet.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of the police.’

  Henning glanced at him.

  ‘I was thinking a gun. Next time, they might be more up-close and personal, and then you’ll need something more than my strong arms to protect you.’ He made it sound like a joke, but his face was serious.

  ‘I don’t like guns,’ Henning said.

  ‘Nor do I,’ Iver assured him. ‘But do you know what I like even less?’

  Henning didn’t flinch.

  ‘Dead friends. You need a way of protecting yourself, Henning. You need a gun.’

  Henning locked his fingers together. Remembered that Veronica had said exactly the same. Maybe they both had a point.

  Iver yawned. ‘Sleep on it,’ he said. ‘I’m certainly going to do just that.’

  Henning nodded.

  ‘Are you staying up for a while?’

  Henning didn’t answer at first. ‘Don’t know that I’ll be able to sleep yet.’

  Iver took a step towards the bedroom. ‘If you need a bit of distraction, my TV is full of bad channels. Not much porn, mind.’

  Henning smiled.

  ‘See you in the morning,’ Iver said.

  He had opened the door to the bedroom, when Henning said his name. He turned around.

  ‘Thank you,’ Henning said. ‘For…’

  He couldn’t finish the sentence.

  ‘Ach,’ Iver said, and waved his hand. ‘Whatever.’

  32

  Nora started the day by reading all the online newspapers she could find, and quickly concluded she still had the scoop. She was the only one who provided detail about the police having strong leads – clues that they were following up. The other papers had only picked up on the case in the small hours, and all they had managed to do was quote her. It was always fun to be quoted.

  At a quarter past eight, she sat down for breakfast in the dining room. The plate in front of her was full: she’d picked up slices of bacon, a mound of scrambled eggs and a couple of pieces of smoked salmon. She also had a large glass of juice and an almost overflowing cup of coffee. It might be a while before she had anything else to eat.

  Her plan for the day was simple: as soon as she’d finished breakfast, she would go and buy some emergency clothes, then she would go back out to the Hellbergs’ summer house at Hulebakk, take some pictures of the police who were searching the property, then send them over to the news desk with a good, tantalising headline. Then the internet people could add the material that she had already produced. That would make it to around fifteen or twenty lines, and it might even become a top story.

  When Nora reached Hulebakk, feeling like she’d eaten a horse, the iron gates were open and there was a row of cars parked outside. There were also cars outside the garage. Nora spotted Cato Løken’s car, parked by itself some way off. She was about to take out her mobile phone when she heard dogs barking among the trees.

  No
ra walked towards the noise. There were no cordons yet, but it didn’t take long before she bumped into a uniformed policeman.

  ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Aftenposten. What’s happening?’

  The man – tall and dark with a beard – looked at her sceptically.

  ‘Have they found anything?’ she asked, when he said nothing.

  ‘I don’t know,’ was his reply.

  Nora knew what he was thinking: here already, vultures. That was generally what the police – especially the men – thought of journalists.

  The noise got closer. Dogs barking, branches snapping. A voice called from among the trees: ‘The dogs have picked up a trace.’

  Nora’s right hand went to her mouth.

  Hedda, she thought. Poor thing. And before she could stop herself, she was crying. She took a few steps away from the police officer and tried to pull herself together. You’re at work, for goodness sake, she said to herself. She pulled out her phone and typed a quick text to her editor: ‘Seems body has been found. Will call as soon as know for sure. Will send pictures ASAP.’

  Detective Inspector Cato Løken stepped out from the group of officers. He wasn’t surprised to see her there. He had his professional mask on.

  ‘We’ll have to cordon off the whole area,’ he said to the two officers standing closest to him, who then nodded and rushed off to the nearest police car for some red-and-white tape. Nora took some pictures, trying as hard as she could to stop her hands from trembling. She didn’t manage it, though, and had to hold the camera with both hands to get a reasonably sharp image. She sent these to the news desk with as high a resolution as possible, using the email function on her mobile phone. The grey, autumn sky and matt-green trees created a gloomy atmosphere that was perfect for a murder case. She began shaking again, appalled at herself for having such a thought.

  Løken continued to give instructions. Nora knew that it was only a matter of minutes before the competition showed up, so she walked towards him and called his name. Løken pulled a face and lifted a warning finger, but once he had finished telling a couple more people what to do, he came over to her.

  ‘Is it Hedda?’ Nora asked, even though she was certain she knew the answer.

  Løken looked deep into her eyes. ‘You can’t write anything about this yet,’ he said in a firm, hushed voice. ‘But I can tell you that we’re a hundred percent sure it’s not Hedda we’ve found.’

  Henning hadn’t slept anywhere other than his own flat for at least a couple of years. And before that, he’d only rarely stayed with anyone other than Nora.

  Iver’s flat was just as he’d imagined it would be. It definitely bore the marks of a bachelor; to be more precise, the absence of a woman was evident. Nora was no doubt here every now and then – he’d seen an extra toothbrush in the bathroom – but the big loudspeakers in the living room said it all.

  He looked at his watch. It was late morning. Iver had left for work ages ago. There was a note on the living-room table to say that he would call later.

  The events of the previous evening came back to Henning: the car’s bright lights, the screeching tyres, Iver’s shout, the silence that fell over Seilduksgaten afterwards. It had all happened so fast, been so close. He was lucky to be alive.

  Henning went into the kitchen and opened the window to let in some air. He looked out over the grey town – a town that appeared to be at a standstill from this viewpoint, up high; but the chimneys on the horizon were smoking, and, if he listened, he could hear the traffic singing a song about a city that never slept. Not really.

  Could he actually live anywhere other than Oslo?

  He would prefer to be somewhere where as few people as possible knew him; another country, perhaps. It would be easier that way, and he quite liked the idea of life as a loner – it was appealing. But he knew he couldn’t leave his mother. Not while she was still alive. Who would buy her groceries; supply her with alcohol, and with the cigarettes that exacerbated her lung disease? Which reminded him, he should go and see her soon. He dreaded even the thought of it. She never thanked him for all he did for her. And was always ready with some accusatory comment. The old bird might keep going for another twenty years, at least, for all he knew; so, no, moving seemed out of the question.

  Henning went into the bathroom, had a piss and splashed some water on his face. It helped to ease the residual puffiness. But he was just as tired and dozy when he sat down and turned on his mobile. He’d received a couple of text messages from Iver. ‘Awake?’ and ‘Call me when you wake up.’

  Henning couldn’t face talking yet, so he downloaded his unread emails – twenty-three in all. One was from Atle Abelsen, his hacker friend.

  Hi. The guy in the photo is called Durim Redzepi. He’s from Kosovo, did a runner to Sweden because he’s wanted for double murder in his own country. Responsible for several jobs in Norway. The police in Oslo are after him. If this guy is on your tail, go hide or get a gun.

  Double murder, Henning thought. That wasn’t small fry.

  He closed the email and dialled Iver’s number.

  ‘Hi,’ Iver shouted. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fine,’ Henning said. ‘And you?’

  Henning heard Iver get up from his chair.

  ‘Not a good day for news,’ Iver said. ‘I’m falling asleep here.’

  Henning could hear the normal newsroom buzz in the background.

  ‘But I’ve looked up Charlie Høisæther,’ Iver carried on, clearly moving through the office. ‘And I’ve found something strange. Or perhaps not so strange, when you think about it – but a curiosity, shall we say.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  Iver closed a door and there was silence behind him.

  ‘Do you know who William Hellberg is?’

  Henning mulled on the name.

  ‘He’s the brother of that girl who’s missing in Tønsberg,’ Iver continued, before Henning had had a chance to think it through.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Henning said, and then remembered what Nora had told him. ‘What about him?’

  Iver gently cleared his throat. Then he said: ‘Well, his wife owns a flat in Sports Park in Natal. And guess who lives next door?’

  33

  Nora took a step back as she tried to take in what Løken had just said.

  ‘You mean, it’s not Hedda?’

  Løken looked around. ‘The body we found has been there for a long time,’ he whispered.

  If it’s not Hedda, Nora reasoned, if the body’s been here on the Hellbergs’ property for a long time, well then it might be Hedda’s aunt, Ellen Hellberg.

  Nora shared her thoughts with Løken.

  ‘It’s far too early to say anything.’

  ‘But is it a woman or a man?’

  ‘Impossible to say.’

  Which meant there wasn’t much left of the body, Nora thought.

  ‘What about clothes?’ she asked.

  Løken turned away.

  ‘I can’t comment on that.’

  ‘Any indication whether the person was killed or not?’

  ‘That’s for forensics to decide.’

  Løken started to walk away. Nora followed.

  ‘When will you get an answer from them?’ she asked.

  ‘Don’t know. We have to get the body out of the well first. And I don’t have time to talk to you right now.’

  Nora let him go and stood there thinking. It had to be Ellen Hellberg, she told herself. Who else could it be, if it wasn’t Hedda? But if you wanted to commit suicide, would you jump down a well?

  Some people might, she mused, as it would be impossible to get out. But wouldn’t someone have found her in the meantime? They must have looked for her, after all.

  Perhaps not right here, she thought. The wooded area was sizable and presumably the well hadn’t been used for years.

  As Nora looked at her watch, two cars came tearing down the road towards the gate. She guessed it was Tønsbergs Blad or VG’s Vestfold team. The broad
casters would be here soon as well, and all attention would be focused on relations in the Hellberg family. Georg was still being held in custody at Tønsberg police station, suspected of being connected to Hedda’s disappearance in some way. What would he think if it did turn out that his mother had finally been found?

  The cars parked nearby. It was tempting to stay, but Nora knew that the police would keep a tight lid on the discovery and would wait until a press conference was called before they said anything. And that could be several hours yet.

  The more she thought about it, the more certain she was that there was more to be gained from poking around in the family history. She hadn’t done much more than scratch the surface.

  Nora rang the office and updated them, suggesting that they should send more people down. The news editor immediately agreed. Nora put her phone back in her bag and started to walk towards her car.

  Yes, she thought to herself before she got in, you have to do it. But before she pulled out onto the road, she made a pact with herself: this would be the very last time she would do what she was about to.

  Veronica Nansen kept the phone tucked between her shoulder and ear as she clicked on the mouse; a calendar covered half the screen in front of her. Her eyes ran through the dates.

  ‘How nice that you want Andrine,’ she said to the client at the other end. ‘She’s already got another job that day, but I’ll ask if she can still fit you in.’

  ‘Perfect, thank you.’

  ‘Let’s leave it there, then, for the moment.’

  Veronica hung up, wrote Andrine’s name and RING in capital letters on the notepad in front of her. The VIP girls’ evenings were very popular: makeover evenings for small groups, with a fashion show, make-up and styling, and a professional photo session with all the participants at the end; photographs they could use as profile pictures at work or on social media. More often than not the latter.

  Operation Self-Confidence. Everyone wanted to stand out in the group picture; everyone wanted to know how to disguise a double chin, highlight their cheekbones, look five kilos slimmer, or ten or fifteen. Everyone wanted to be supermodels and experience a little bit of Hollywood in their living room. And she, Veronica Nansen, could give them just that.