by Thomas Enger
‘Hi,’ she said, in a thin voice.
Henning had so much he wanted to say – various words and sentences battled to be the first, but none of them won.
‘How are you?’ was all he finally managed.
‘OK,’ she said, and coughed. ‘I think.’
It felt strange and awkward, to be standing looking at Nora in a hospital bed with Iver sitting beside her. He looked around for a chair. Couldn’t see one.
‘Did Iver tell you about Unni?’ Henning asked.
She nodded. ‘So he was a murderer, after all,’ she said.
Henning looked up.
‘Tore Pulli, that is.’
He nodded and sighed at the same time.
None of them said anything for a while. The only thing that broke the silence was the hum and occasional bleep of the machines attached to Nora. Iver slapped his thighs and stood up.
‘I’m going to try and find a cup of coffee,’ he said. ‘Does either of you want one?’
Both Henning and Nora shook their heads. Iver give Henning a brisk nod as he closed the door. Nora tried to pull herself up in the bed, but the effort made her wheeze.
‘You’re fine lying down,’ Henning said.
She lowered herself down again, breathing deeply. Henning sat down on the edge of the bed.
‘What about the…’ He indicated her stomach.
Nora looked at him for a long time, then a tear slid out from one eye. ‘It’s fine,’ she sobbed. ‘It’s absolutely … fine.’
Henning put a finger on her cheek, wiped away the tear, and stroked some unruly hairs back into place above her ear. Then he took her hand, stroked it, down to the nails.
She was warm. She was beautiful. He sat there for a long time; it was hard not to think about everything he felt for her.
‘Have they found Patrik yet?’ she asked.
Henning shook his head. ‘The chances that he’s survived are minimal.’
‘You know, it wasn’t him – who killed Daniel Schyman.’
Henning gripped the rail of the bed, staring at her. ‘What do you mean?’
Nora shook her head, clearly exhausted. ‘It was Hedda. Patrik told me the whole thing when we were in the boat. I believe him.’
Henning frowned, unsure.
‘He did his best to save me, in the end,’ Nora went on. ‘He gave me the life jacket to wear. And he tried to save Hedda, too; it was an accident that she fell. I’ve told Løken.’
Henning nodded. He wanted to ask more, but Nora looked too weak to stand up to any more questioning.
There was a long silence. Henning felt her eyes on him. Studying him.
In the end, he bowed his head and said: ‘I don’t know if I can do this, Nora.’
‘Do what?’
‘Be here, or there, in Oslo or wherever, when…’ He pointed at her stomach again without looking at her. ‘I just don’t know if I can do it.’ Henning couldn’t face looking at her yet.
‘I understand, Henning. I really do understand.’
He started to fiddle with the duvet cover. ‘It’s not that I begrudge you it, Nora, or Iver. Or both of you, for that matter, I think it’s good, Iver’s a…’ He looked away again. Couldn’t find the words.
They said nothing for a while.
‘You don’t have to take everything as black and white,’ she said. ‘Not everything in life is written in stone. I know there’s nothing I can do or say that will make it easier for you to live in Oslo when Iver and I and this…’ Nora patted her stomach ‘…when this little thing grows and gets bigger and we move and do somewhere up and go to IKEA. Only you can do that.’ She gave his hand a squeeze and then let it go. ‘But it would make me so happy if you could still be part of my life, Henning. You’ll always be a part of me, even though I might not be a part of you.’
Henning looked down. Didn’t know what to say.
The room was filled with a heavy silence.
‘What are you going to do now?’ she asked, after a while.
‘Well, I guess I’ll go home,’ he said, and shrugged. ‘Get on with my leave.’
‘Whatever you do,’ she said slowly, ‘please promise me you’ll take care. OK?’
Henning looked at her for a long time, then tried to smile and nod, but didn’t quite manage. And then, without having planned it or even knowing where the words came from, he said: ‘I love you, Nora.’
Then he stood up and left.
64
Nora watched Henning go. She was left with a peculiar feeling – the feeling that she wouldn’t see him again, which was why he’d said what he said.
It made her shudder. And cry.
She thought about all that lay ahead. A new child, a whole new life. The responsibilities and obligations; sleep, lack of sleep, food, nappies, the first smile, the laughter and tears. And she wondered if Iver would manage to take responsibility for anyone other than himself, if she would cope with having him around, if they would both be able to deal with the hurt in Henning’s eyes if he did decide to be part of their lives. She so wished she could look into a crystal ball and see the future. There was no set answer. The certainty that there was no certainty made her heavy. Sad. Despondent.
She had to do her best to make it work. With Iver, with the child. With everyone.
There was a knock at the door. Hugo Refsdal popped his head round.
‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Is it OK to come in?’
Nora had guessed that Refsdal might show up, and had hoped that he wouldn’t.
‘Of course,’ she said, and thought about what Patrik had told her before they’d jumped into the ice-cold water, confirming what she had worked out for herself.
‘Come in,’ she said.
Refsdal had his son with him, who followed a step behind, his eyes on the floor.
‘You can sit over there,’ he said, pointing to the chair where Iver had sat. The boy went and sat down a few metres away from Nora’s bed, clearly not wanting to meet her eye.
There was no way she could tell Refsdal about what Hedda had done – not now; not with the boy sitting there. Løken would tell him soon enough, anyway. It was out of her hands, she supposed.
Refsdal came a step closer. ‘I don’t know how to thank you,’ he said.
Nora gave an embarrassed smile; she never knew how to react to praise or thanks. So instead she asked: ‘Have they … said anything about what to expect?’
Refsdal shook his head. ‘It’s difficult to say at the moment. She’s suffered a major brain haemorrhage, but because it happened some time ago now, they can’t operate. We just have to hope that, with time, she’ll wake up. One of the doctors said that he had a similar patient once who’d woken up after three months. So there’s still hope.’
Refsdal smiled, briefly.
‘But she seems to be in reasonable shape otherwise?’
Refsdal nodded. ‘The doctors are quite impressed by what Patrik has managed to do. He must have gone there several times a day to change the drips, and move her so she wouldn’t get bed sores. The doctor I spoke to said that he must have massaged her muscles as well, to keep them in shape.’
Patrik had taken extraordinary care of her, Nora thought, which was also why she had suddenly understood that he hadn’t killed Daniel Schyman. It wasn’t in his nature. Hedda thought mainly about herself; and, out of all of them, she had the greatest need for money. And she had always been very protective of her family, never wanted to talk about them.
And when she realised that Patrik wanted to bring everything out into the open, that he wanted to make sure that Daniel Schyman was paid all the money he was owed and should have had years ago, including interest, she took the matter into her own hands. That was why she had told her husband that she needed the break to get over her father’s death. In reality, she needed time to plan – and an alibi.
She had allied herself with Georg, persuading him to lend her his car so she could drive to Sweden and kill Schyman. Then she had gone back to Huleb
akk to look for the envelope that she thought Ellen had hidden out there – perhaps in one of her favourite books. But she’d also gone there to kill Patrik: the only person alive who could ruin everything for her and her family.
‘Anyway,’ Refsdal said, breaking the silence, ‘I just wanted to say thank you. And I am very glad that you’re alright.’
Nora smiled again. He stood up, went over to his son and stroked his head.
It pained her to see how happy Refsdal was now, knowing how awful it would be in the near future, and what might happen to his family when everything came to light.
Happiness was transient; it could never last. Not even having a coat of arms could protect you from that.
65
Henning was in no rush to get back to Oslo. Sitting in the car with traffic all around him was somehow comforting, and he gave his thoughts free rein.
But what was he going to do now?
Iver had given him a set of keys, so he could stay there while he figured out what the next step should be. He had to do something. And even if Bjarne Brogeland had said he would help, Henning couldn’t expect others to produce all the results. He had to keep the wheels turning himself.
The question was whether or not Henning should go to Brazil – go straight to the core – or if his chances were better at home. Whatever the case, he was so close now, he could almost see the finish line. He just needed to stay alive a little longer, dig even deeper and get the necessary documentation, then he was home and dry.
Maybe.
They’d tried to kill him twice without succeeding. Who knew when they might try again? He didn’t doubt that they would.
His mobile phone started to ring. It was Veronica.
‘Hello again,’ he said. ‘How’s things?’
‘Henning,’ she said, in a very serious voice. ‘How quickly can you get here?’
He frowned. ‘To your house?’
‘Yes.’
‘Very quickly, if it’s important.’
‘I’ve found something else in Tore’s stuff.’
‘Right. What is it?’
‘I…’ She paused before she continued. ‘I don’t want to tell you over the phone. Can you come?’
‘OK,’ Henning said, and accelerated. ‘I’m on my way.’
Three-quarters of an hour later, having stopped at a petrol station to buy a red-and-white baseball cap, he parked some way from the street where Veronica Nansen lived. He looked carefully in every direction before ringing her bell. It only took a few moments for Veronica to open the door. She didn’t come out, but instead ushered him in quickly. As soon as he was inside, Henning took off the baseball cap and ran his hands through his hair.
‘Disguise,’ he said, and waved the baseball cap.
Veronica smiled briefly.
Henning took off his shoes, hung up his jacket and followed her into the living room.
‘So what have you found?’ he asked.
Veronica turned towards him, waited a moment and then said: ‘Sit down first.’
‘Hm?’
‘Sit down,’ she repeated.
Henning raised his eyebrows.
‘Believe me, you need to be sitting when you see this.’
‘OK.’
She pointed to the computer that was ready on the glass table. The screensaver cast a blue light on the white leather sofa.
He sat down and Veronica disappeared into the kitchen. He heard a cupboard door being opened, the clinking of glasses, the tap being turned on. Henning looked at the computer, a photograph of Tore and Veronica on a motorbike somewhere, white cliffs and sea in the background.
He let his eyes wander while he waited for her to come back. The living room was huge and well furnished, with a massive plasma TV. The flat was full of expensive-looking things. On a small table beside the sofa was a large selection of glossy fashion magazines.
But Henning saw something else that made him start.
A business card. He leaned over, read the name.
Preben Mørck, Lawyer.
The Hellbergs’ lawyer.
Veronica came back into the living room carrying a tray. There was a jug of water and two glasses on it. She stopped, looking at him.
‘How do you know this guy?’ Henning asked, waving the business card.
‘Who?’ she squinted to read the card.
‘Preben Mørck.’
‘Preben? He’s my lawyer.’
‘For how long?’
Veronica sat down. ‘He’s helped me since Tore died. Why do you ask?’
Veronica poured some water into the glasses. Henning sat deep in thought.
‘Why did you choose him as your lawyer?’ he asked after a while. ‘Did someone recommend him?’
‘No. It was actually Preben who phoned me. He said that he knew Tore from before. Offered his services, said that the fact he knew Tore might make things easier.’
Henning felt hot all of a sudden.
He pictured Preben Mørck. Tall, thin. Like a Daddy Longlegs. And Unni wasn’t really the sort to go directly to Tore Pulli and say: kill Ellen Hellberg for me. She definitely would have used a middleman.
A lawyer, perhaps.
Henning held the image of the tall man in his mind. It fitted too well. And the fact that he’d become Veronica’s lawyer after Tore had died was questionable. Downright dodgy, in fact.
‘Why?’
Henning shook off the thoughts. ‘Nothing in particular, really,’ he said, and put the business card back down where he’d found it.
Veronica handed him a glass. Henning put it down on the table. She held his gaze for some time before she took a USB stick out from her pocket and held it up.
You need to be sitting when you see this.
Henning took the memory stick, put it in the USB port, then double-clicked on the icon that appeared on the screen. There was a folder, which contained several more folders. One of the yellow squares made his skin crawl.
JUUL.
Henning looked at Veronica. She was stroking her chin. He opened the folder, and saw that it contained 213 photographs. He marked them all, then double-clicked again. It took forever to open all the photographs, even on Veronica’s brand-new computer. Henning looked up at her while the machine did its work. Her eyes were serious.
The first pictures appeared. Henning saw the date: 09.09.07 16.43. They were photographs of him as he walked up Markveien, alone, with an old bag slung over his shoulder and a carrier bag in one hand. On the way home from work, Henning thought, as he felt his heart starting to race. The pictures were taken very quickly, showing more or less the same thing. The camera followed him all the way to the entrance of his building.
The next batch of pictures was from later the same evening, when Henning went out. The time showed 18.58. This time, Pulli had got out of a car and followed him – over the road at the traffic lights and in towards Birkelunden. All the way to the football pitch at Dælenenga, where he always sat high up in the stands, on the warped plank seats. Some hours later, Henning appeared again in Seilduksgaten, on his way home.
The same pattern was repeated the next evening, only from a slightly different angle. Pulli was parked in a different place, and there were fewer photographs. Henning was wearing almost the same clothes as the day before: faded jeans, the same old denim jacket in a slightly different shade from his trousers, a white T-shirt underneath, white trainers.
Henning clicked quickly through the photographs and came to the following day. Then stopped at a photograph that he should have been prepared for, but it made him gasp all the same.
It was a photograph of Jonas.
There they were, side by side, together. Henning was carrying his little rucksack, and Jonas was his usual energetic self.
Henning’s eyes filled with tears. He saw them walk up to their building. Jonas looking up at Henning, mid-question. The next picture: Henning with his hands out, mid-explanation. The following pictures were taken from the back, until the
y went inside.
It was close to silent in Veronica’s flat, only the faint humming of the laptop and the distant siren of an ambulance racing towards Ullevål Hospital.
Henning knew that Veronica was watching him. He forced himself to breathe normally.
He clicked on. It was darker now and the first photograph was taken at 19.06. Roughly the same parking place, the same angle. There were people in the street. Cars passing. Pulli had taken several photographs of a car that was parked a few spaces away.
It was a black BMW.
A man got out. He was short and lean, with a distinct, Eastern European appearance. Close-cut hair. The photographs were taken in profile, and there were lots of them.
Henning recognised him.
It was the man who had followed him on the tram. Who had been standing outside Sultan watching him. Who had walked off when Henning looked at him. Who had maybe also tried to run him over.
Durim Redzepi.
Henning clicked on. He saw the short man walking up the street, looking around. Farther down Markveien, he looked up, looked down Helgesens gate, then back again. Henning could see from the pictures that it was close to seven-thirty. About the time that someone broke into his building, his flat.
19.47: the same man still walking up and down, apparently waiting for something. He was talking on the phone, gesticulating. He lit a cigarette. 19.54: he came back towards the black BMW, stuck his head in the window; went back up to Helgesens gate. Stood on the corner, lit another cigarette.
20.01: the man walked towards a car that had stopped on the corner. The window rolled down. He stuck his hand in, took it back out, his fingers clutching something. Then he turned and walked back to the black BMW. The car he had met stayed where it was. The door opened, the driver got out.
Henning sat and stared at the photograph.
No.
It couldn’t be; it just couldn’t be.
His heart felt like a dry rock in his throat. Henning clicked onto the next photograph to make sure he hadn’t seen wrong.