by Thomas Enger
Kjær’s defenses are still intact and his eyes continue to smolder.
“Is that why they killed your dog? So you won’t tell anyone what you know?”
Kjær is about to say something, but he stops and takes another look around.
“Please,” Henning appeals to him. “You’re a father yourself; you fear for your children, that’s why you’re here. You want to protect them. But I lost my son that day, Kjær. So I’m sure you can understand why I need to know what happened.”
A car drives through the puddles in the street outside. Kjær’s gaze flits.
“I promise you, Kjær, no matter what you tell me it’ll stay between us.”
Again Kjær looks as if he is tempted to say something. His eyes search for a point on the ground.
“It . . .”
He looks up, he looks down. Out into the street and back again.
Then he fixes his eyes on Henning and stands with his back to the street.
“I don’t know who it was,” he whispers.
“You don’t know?”
“Hush,” Kjær hisses. “That’s all I can tell you.”
“Come on, Kjær.”
For the second time Henning is slammed hard against the wall.
“I don’t know,” he says with his mouth close to Henning’s ear. “Okay? I don’t know. And I don’t want to know, either.”
Kjær glances around again before he lets go of Henning.
“But they spoke funny.”
“Funny?”
“Yes. They spoke Swedish, but with an East European accent. That’s all I’m prepared to tell you. Now stay away from me,” Kjær says with renewed intensity in his voice. “Stay away from my family. If I see or hear from you ever again, then—”
Kjær points an angry index finger at Henning’s face. It stops, quivering, in front of his eyes.
Then he turns around and disappears out of the archway.
Chapter 90
Bjarne Brogeland savors the pleasant sensation of having solved a crime, of having tightened up the loose screws. It’s like hunting for your glasses for a long, long time before finally finding them and putting them on. Suddenly the world comes into focus again.
In Markus Gjerløw’s bank account they found a transfer of 3,500 kroner from Remi Gulliksen with the reference “PC purchase.” The police concluded that Remi must have bought Markus’s old laptop and uploaded pictures of his victims on it before leaving it in Markus’s flat to incriminate him.
Bjarne takes out the photographs of Remi’s childhood bedroom in Jessheim. His parents haven’t changed it much over the years. The few times Remi stayed the night, he always slept in it. And the picture of his dead brother on the wall always kept him company.
Bjarne can’t even begin to imagine what it must have been like to grow up with Werner’s eyes resting on him every time Remi went to sleep. According to Remi’s mother, his father always blamed Remi for his brother’s death.
Bjarne is happy and exhausted and should be heading home, but he walks down the corridor and knocks on the door to Ella Sandland’s office. She calls out “Enter” and smiles at him as he does.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi. Fancy a beer?”
Bjarne can see that she is about to say no out of habit, but she surprises him by hesitating before she replies.
“Actually, that’s not a bad idea. Just you and me, is it, or are any of the others coming?”
“Everyone else has gone home.”
Sandland nods. “Okay.” She smiles.
And Bjarne, who has been waiting to hear her say this for as long as he has known her, smiles and completely fails to disguise the excitement in his voice:
“Great! See you in five minutes?”
* * *
Henning is still standing in the archway, trying to calm himself down. A man glances at him as he walks past, but only for a second, then he is gone.
Slowly Henning makes his way back to the street. A gust of wind whistles toward him, but he is too preoccupied to feel the touch of autumn it brings. Cars go past him at a snail’s pace looking for spaces to park, but Henning doesn’t see them. He just wanders along, pondering, while pebbles, cigarette butts, and rubbish crunch under his shoes.
The people who threatened Andreas Kjær were from Eastern Europe. Now that could mean any number of countries, but it’s a beginning. Tore Pulli was going to reveal what he knew about whoever started the fire in Henning’s flat, but before he could do it, he was killed—a murder that was arranged by a man who had long been in cahoots with East European criminals.
Ørjan Mjønes.
Could he also be behind the threats against Kjær?
Chapter 91
The car brakes slowly as if the driver is trying to make the moment last.
Trine knows the perks will disappear now that she is no longer justice secretary. She will miss the car in particular. And the driver.
Trine finds his eyes in the rearview mirror.
“Thank you so much, Bjørn. It’s been great sitting here with you.”
“You’re welcome,” he says.
He sends her a pale smile. But instead of prolonging the agony, she steps out into an evening where drifting clouds liven up the darkening sky above her. She realizes that she is already longing for tomorrow.
As she expected, several journalists have gathered outside her house, but this time she isn’t intimidated by them. She holds up her head and nods to some, refusing to let herself be distracted by the questions they call out. She just aims for the door, where Pål Fredrik is waiting for her as usual.
And perhaps none of this would have happened if she had told him the truth in the first place. She would have been able to convince him, wouldn’t she?
Neither of them ever thought she would be able to get pregnant. They had tried for years without success. But then one day, she discovered she was. And she didn’t really know what happened, but suddenly she no longer wanted a child. The child became much more concrete. A new life. She didn’t know if she would be able to do it, if she would be a good mother. If Pål Fredrik had known then what he knows now about Trine’s family, perhaps that wouldn’t have been so hard to understand.
But she knew that Pål Fredrik desperately wanted to be a father and she robbed him of that chance. Without ever consulting him.
Now he takes her jacket, as he so often does, being the gentleman that he is. In a way she dislikes it, it makes her feel like a guest in her own home. And she is more than a guest. Or at least she wants to be.
He ushers her into the living room, where music from hidden loudspeakers fills the room. But it is music for other, more cheerful occasions, so she switches it off and steels herself before she turns to face him.
* * *
Bjarne Brogeland and Ella Sandland arrive at Asylet. The café is always busy on Thursday evenings, but Bjarne manages to get them a table for two near the fireplace. He orders two beers and folds his hands on the table while he tries to make eye contact with Sandland. Her eyes keep slipping past him, out into the room.
“Hey,” Bjarne says and smiles. “That’s my occupational hazard.”
“What is?”
“Being on the lookout for villains.”
“Ah.”
Sandland is embarrassed and laughs.
“Always on the job?” he asks.
“Always.”
A waiter brings their beers.
“Are you hungry?” Bjarne asks her.
He realizes that he wants to keep her to himself for as long as possible, but Sandland shakes her head. Bjarne nods to dismiss the waiter, who disappears immediately.
Silence descends on the table. Sandland takes a sip from her glass, sends her gaze on a new voyage of discovery before she suddenly turns it on him.
> “So—who will be our new justice secretary, do you think?” she asks.
Bjarne shrugs.
“It makes no difference to me. It won’t affect how I do my job.”
“But the way she resigned was really very odd.”
Bjarne makes a “whatever” gesture with his head while he thinks about Trine Juul-Osmundsen, his teenage crush.
“She can’t have been a particularly good boss,” Sandland declares.
“No, perhaps not,” Bjarne says quietly.
“Sexual harassment in the workplace,” Sandland goes on and looks at him. “I’ve got a friend in the force who was the victim of that. It was fairly low-key, but still very upsetting. Looks, comments, whispers, and gossiping behind her back.”
Bjarne suddenly feels the need to undo the top button of his shirt.
“And she told her boss, but you think he did anything about it?”
Sandland shakes her head before Bjarne has time to answer.
“A good manager would have done something,” she says, without taking her eyes off him. “A good manager nips that kind of thing in the bud.”
And now, for the first time, it is Bjarne’s turn to look away. He seeks refuge in his beer where the foam clings to the inside of the glass. He doesn’t know what to say next so he looks across the room. An early Thursday evening. Life and laughter. Good times.
Sandland raises her glass toward him.
“But cheers,” she says and smiles her most dazzling smile at him. Bjarne returns her toast and empties his glass.
A word has formed in his mouth when he looks at her again.
But he can’t get it past his lips.
FRIDAY
Chapter 92
Henning wakes up with a jerk, not entirely sure where he is. Then he recognizes the walls of his living room, the ceiling, the matchbox, and the Coke can on the table next to the sofa. And before he has opened his eyes properly, it comes back to him, the events of the last five days, everything he has found out. The past has risen like a multiheaded hydra and it bites and snaps at him from all sides.
Henning looks at the clock on his mobile and sees that much of the day has passed already. Fortunately he agreed with Heidi Kjus last night that he can come into the office late today. So he takes a long shower while he makes up his mind to deal with one question at a time. If the East Europeans who terrified the living daylights out of Andreas Kjær have links to Ørjan Mjønes, then someone must know who they are. As long as I get a name, Henning thinks, then I’ll be able to track them down.
Henning has just switched on the kettle when his mobile beeps. He checks the message, sees that it is from the 123news breaking news service.
Truls Ove Henriksen has been appointed as the new justice secretary following the resignation of Trine Juul-Osmundsen. Henriksen, who comes from Tromsø, was previously a political adviser.
Henning has barely heard of Henriksen, but he still clicks on the link that follows the text message. The main text doesn’t add much more information about the appointment itself, but Henning notices that Harald Ullevik, considered by many to be Trine’s obvious successor, has resigned with immediate effect. No reasons given other than he “has decided to leave the government.”
Henning smiles; he would love to be a fly on the wall in the Justice Department right now, but he has more important things to do.
* * *
Bjarne Brogeland’s voice is sleepy when Henning finally gets hold of him. He, too, would appear to be taking it easy today.
“Thanks for yesterday,” Henning says.
“You’re welcome.”
“I’m glad it ended the way it did.”
“Mm.”
“I’ve just got one question for you. The Swedish Albanian criminals Ørjan Mjønes used to work with. Have you caught them yet?”
Brogeland doesn’t reply immediately.
“You’re calling to ask me that now?”
“Yes.”
Again it takes a while before Brogeland says anything. Henning hears him yawn.
“Rough night?”
“Are you sure that it’s morning?”
“Quite.”
“Right, the Swedish Albanians,” Brogeland says. “I can double-check for you, but the last time we spoke about them, they were lying low. I guess most of them have left Norway.”
“Scared that they would be banged up as well?”
“Probably.”
“So, in theory, they could be anywhere.”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Okay.” Henning sighs and they hang up.
But even if they have gone underground, Henning thinks, it must still be possible to find them. It’s just a matter of asking the right people.
Chapter 93
Bjarne lay in bed all night, wide awake, staring at the ceiling. At one point he got up, went to his study, and sat down with the application he had prepared for Vestfold Police. He reread his bombastic statements, ambitions, and visions. Then he scrunched up the pages and threw them in the wastebasket.
Now he walks into the kitchen where Alisha sits in her Tripp Trapp chair doing everything but what she was supposed to do, which is to eat her breakfast. He stops and gazes at her tenderly.
So big and yet still so small.
And he doesn’t know if there is any point in trying to explain to her why the evenings come and go without him being there for her bedtime. But he owes it to her to try, perhaps tonight, even though he isn’t sure he knows the answer himself. If what he does makes a difference, if he helps make Oslo safer.
“Hi, girls,” he says and walks across to the cupboard by the window and takes out a bottle. He removes a few more until he finds the one he is looking for. Unopened and dusty. With a well-aimed puff he blows away a layer of gray household dirt and looks at the brown contents of the bottle that bears the good old Norwegian name Braastad Cognac.
“What are you doing with that?” Anita asks, sounding alarmed. “Surely you’re not going to drink cognac at this hour?”
“Of course not,” Bjarne says and laughs, then he rubs his eyes and stretches his hands high above his head. He finds a bag for the bottle.
“Where are you going?”
Bjarne gives her a kiss on the cheek and is still smiling when he says: “I’m off to see a friend.”
* * *
It is early evening when Henning makes another visit to the building where his mother lives, but this time he doesn’t let himself into her flat. Instead he knocks on her neighbor’s door. He hears footsteps and the door opens. The caretaker, Karl Ove Marcussen, a man with a beer belly; thin, longish hair; and six-day-old stubble that gives his face scattered patches of color, looks him up and down.
“Hi,” Henning says. “I’m Christine’s son.”
He jerks a thumb in the direction of his mother’s front door.
“Ah,” Marcussen says and nods. “You called me the other day.”
“That’s right.”
Marcussen nods again. His stomach wobbles.
“What the hell happened to your face?”
“Microlight flight accident,” Henning replies. “Dangerous things.”
“Oh, right.”
“Thanks for doing me that favor I asked you for. I don’t think my mother has been listening to the radio or watched TV in the last few days. But it’s safe again now.”
“So you want me to reconnect—”
“Yes, please. It would be great if you could, so she can carry on destroying her hearing. But here,” Henning says as he hands him a bag from an unnamed shop with black windows he visited on his way here. “A contribution to your collection, in recognition of all your help.”
The caretaker hitches up his trousers, takes the bag, and looks inside it. He smiles when he sees what kind of movies they
are. He is about to thank him, when Henning holds up his palms.
“Don’t mention it.”
Henning makes a Scout salute to Karl Ove Marcussen, thanks him again, and starts making his way home. But as he realizes it is coming up on 8:30 p.m., he is reminded of something his mentor Jarle Høgseth would often do when he was stuck on a story. He would return to the scene of the crime, usually at the same time as the crime had been committed, to take in the mood, see if a detail that wasn’t clear when there were police cordons everywhere might suddenly stand out. And the fire brigade’s report stated that the police had received a call about the fire in Henning’s flat at 8:35 p.m.
So he walks back to his old flat and stops outside the entrance he would so often go in and out of, usually accompanied by Jonas. He looks around and tries to work out where Tore Pulli must have parked in order to keep an eye on the building’s front door. There are several possibilities on both sides of the street. And Henning realizes how suspicious Pulli’s presence must have seemed to the sharp-eyed traffic warden who saw him sitting in his car in roughly the same place several nights in a row and why the traffic warden alerted the police.
Henning walks up and down the street, meets some people in party clothes with bottles that clink in shopping bags, a woman pushing a stroller, and sees cars whose suspensions groan as they go over the speed bumps. If I’d been Tore Pulli, Henning thinks, and I’d been sitting in my car, what would be my reason for being there? And why did Pulli get in touch with me while he was in prison? After all, we had never had anything to do with each other before the fire.
Once again he comes to the same conclusion: Pulli was watching him. And that’s when Henning gets a flash of inspiration. If he had been watching someone, how would he have gone about it?
He would have mapped that person’s movements. Made notes. Taken pictures.
What if Tore Pulli did the same?