by Thomas Enger
Pulli, a former muscle-for-hire turned real-estate broker, was serving fourteen years in prison for a murder he didn’t commit. Desperate to clear his name, he had reached out to Henning, claiming to know the people responsible for Jonas’s death. If Henning would help him, he had said, if Henning would find the real killer and clear Pulli’s name, he would then disclose what he knew about the fire.
Of course he’d jumped at the chance, Henning mused. Why wouldn’t he? But Pulli was killed in jail before Henning could meet his end of the bargain – and before Pulli had revealed the miserable secret he was harbouring. But the flood gates had been opened. What Henning had suspected all along had been correct: someone had set fire to his apartment. He was going to get to the bottom of it all, no matter what – without Pulli’s help, and despite the fact that memory loss meant Henning couldn’t recall the stories he had been following in the weeks leading up to that fateful day.
He’d worked with all the tunnel vision of a bereaved parent. Henning could see that now. He had finally managed to find an interview he had conducted in those weeks – with a carpenter who had been working for Charlie Høisæther, a friend of Pulli’s in the Brazilian real-estate business. This carpenter – Rasmus Bjelland – had fled Brazil following a police operation that had led to the arrest of several hard-hitting Norwegian gang members, who were laundering their drug money through apartment businesses in the Brazilian seaside city of Natal. These thugs were convinced it was Bjelland who had provided the cops with key information about their operations, and a price was put on his head.
Henning managed to track the carpenter down, but in the interview Bjelland had maintained his innocence. Even now, Henning could clearly remember believing him. And that was one of the points at which his investigation changed. The carpenter also told Henning that if he dug a little deeper into Tore Pulli’s past, he might just find out that he still had at least one foot in the criminal world. Go back to the 1990s, Bjelland told Henning, then you’ll see what kind of transactions Pulli was involved in when he first started to make a name for himself in real estate.
The bit firmly between his teeth – the truth of his boy’s death within reach, but still obscured – Henning was impelled to follow every lead, to rattle every cage, to put himself at risk. And he didn’t regret one single moment of that investigation. When he discovered that Pulli had been sitting in a car outside Henning’s apartment for three nights in a row before the day of the fatal fire, taking pictures and monitoring Henning’s movements, he became certain that it was Pulli’s business partners who were trying to prevent him from digging into the truth about Bjelland, the real-estate business in the Brazil, the drugs money and much, much more.
But it seemed these associates of Pulli would go to any lengths to silence anyone they thought might expose them. Not only was Pulli killed in prison, but a police report about Pulli’s actions on the night of the fire had also been altered by someone with access to the classified records. And Durim Redzepi – the very man now sitting in front of Henning in the boat – had been hired to track Henning down and to end his life once and for all.
After narrowly dodging two attempts on his life, Henning continued his quest with ever greater intensity, knowing that time was working against him. He had been unable to give up, driven by memories and love for his dead son. He hung his head, putting together the pieces that had led him to this boat. Pulli’s widow, Veronica Nansen, had supported his quest, and alerted him to another childhood friend of Pulli’s, William Hellberg – also a highly successful real-estate broker. After Henning and his ex-wife Nora had managed to find William’s missing sister Hedda, William, as a way of saying thank-you, disclosed that Pulli had broken Charlie Høisæther’s jaw during a fight about an apartment in Natal, and that the two of them were no longer friends.
The details provided by Hellberg made Henning certain that Høisæther was the man behind it all – that there were secrets in his life so dark, deep and dangerous, he would stop at nothing to protect them, including killing his old friend and business partner, Pulli. Henning had even believed that his own sister, Trine, had been involved in this tragic story, as Tore Pulli had taken a photograph of her outside Henning’s apartment on the night of the fire, handing something over to Durim Redzepi.
All of this felt like a lifetime ago, Henning thought to himself. But it had, in fact, all happened within the space of a short summer – just a few crazy weeks. And that was enough to bring him here. To his certain death.
During the last few hours everything had changed. And now, he was reconciled to his fate. He was convinced he could now die satisfied. His quest was over. He finally had the answers he’d been looking for.
None of them would bring Jonas back. None of them would take away the pain that lingered in his chest. Everything that meant anything to him belonged to the past now: the years he’d been a father; the years he’d been allowed to love Nora; the years she’d loved him.
Still, it was hard to let go, he thought, as the boat slid over the surface of the lake. He wondered if it would hurt. How it would all happen in the end.
No matter what, Henning told himself, die silently. Die with dignity. Don’t show him you’re afraid.
Redzepi took a few strokes with just one oar, the other resting, so the boat turned round. Then it stood still, the water lapping quietly at the prow. He pulled the oars in and got a hold of the body. He lifted it as though it weighed nothing, and threw it overboard like a bag of rubbish.
A heavy weight was attached to the body by a thick, rust-coloured rope. Redzepi dropped it into the water and the black plastic bundle immediately disappeared from sight.
Redzepi, businesslike and calm, then grabbed the rope coiled at his feet and started to tie a noose. He went to the back of the boat, pulled a grey concrete block from under a white tarpaulin, and put it down in front of him. There was a thick blue handle cast in the concrete. Redzepi fed the rope through it, then, without a single word, attached it to Henning’s right ankle.
It all seemed so simple, so practical, and Henning wondered if he should put up a fight. But his shoulder still ached. How on earth was he going to overcome a man with a knife and a gun?
Redzepi lifted the concrete block over the edge of the boat and dropped it into the water. The dull splash broke the silence that covered the lake like a blanket. The rope vanished quickly into the depths, as though strong hands were pulling it from below. Then Redzepi put his feet on what was left of the coiled rope at the bottom of the boat and stood up.
‘Your turn,’ he said, as if they were playing some kind of game.
Henning tried to stand up, but his legs wouldn’t do as they were told; he couldn’t feel them, couldn’t feel his feet in his shoes, the fabric of his trousers against his thighs.
‘Come on. I haven’t got all day,’ said Redzepi, then casually pulled out a gun and pointed it at Henning. He made a ‘get-up’ gesture.
Henning nodded and tried to push himself up. He succeeded this time. But the sudden movement made the boat rock. Henning had to step forwards to regain his balance. He took a deep breath and looked up again.
It was hard to see anything. The mist had come down now, obscuring the shore. It had to be thirty metres or more to land.
He cocked his head, thinking he heard something – a splash or something moving in the water. But it was nothing. There were no cars approaching. No branches snapping in the forest. No shouts that might bring a different fate from the one that was now so unavoidable.
Henning put a foot on the edge of the boat and made sure he was steady, even though the vessel rocked a little again.
The surface of the water in front of him was glossy. A thick, cold oil slick. The rope pulled down into it like a fishing line, heavy with new catch.
He jumped.
He held his breath and as soon as he felt the cold water envelop him, he started to kick, trying to push his way up. But the weight was pulling him down. He mustered all th
e strength he could and kicked hard with his legs. They surprised him by doing what he wanted them to. He managed to slow his descent, then centimetre by centimetre he used his good arm to thrust his way back up. He broke the surface of the water with a gasp.
He blinked furiously and gulped down air, trying to orient himself as he paddled and kicked and thrashed with one arm, not sure that he’d be able to withstand the pull of the weight that was dragging him downwards.
Henning stretched his neck and tried to breathe at the same time.
Then he found himself looking at the boat. He saw Redzepi lift his gun and aim, and it dawned on him that this man didn’t need to worry about blood or any traces of Henning anymore. In no more than a few seconds the muzzle of the gun would flash and Henning’s head would explode.
He pictured Nora’s smile, her beautiful face, the shine of her short hair. Her voice that made his body tingle. The warmth of her hands, how small they were.
He thought about Iver, and about Trine – about them playing in the water together at the cabin in Stavern, seeing who could hold their breath the longest.
And that was when he suddenly stopped kicking and let the water wrap round him like a shroud. He knew that no personal best time would help him now. That no one, nothing, could save him. And that he would rather die on his own terms.
That’s why he closed his eyes and let himself slowly sink down into the cold, black nothingness.
Contents
Title Page
Cast of Characters
Prologue
1 January 1996
2 October 2009
3
4 Three days later
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
Epilogue Eight days later
Acknowledgements
About the Author
About the Translator
Copyright
1
January 1996
Had it not been for the snow, it would have been pitch dark. The cars were tightly parked along the edge of the pavement, and the buildings towered into the sky. The street lights had either been turned off or were not working.
If she hadn’t lived there for over 50 years, Bodil Svenkerud might have been afraid – a lot went on after dark on the streets of Oslo these days.
But not in Eckersbergs gate.
She had never been afraid of anything there, and now she just wanted to get home and have a lovely cup of hot tea. It had been a long day.
Mrs Svenkerud urged her legs to keep moving on the soft snow. It was a disgrace that the roads and pavements weren’t cleared sooner and more often; she had the feeling they always left her street until last. The slippery, dry powder snow had brought her more or less to a standstill.
That was why when she spotted a gap between two parked cars, she went out into the middle of the road – after all, it was her street – having checked both ways first. She saw a car coming slowly towards her, but it was still some distance away. She had time, she reckoned, before the car got close, and even though she could feel there was ice under the snow, it was still easier to walk in the tyre tracks.
Mrs Svenkerud pulled her fur coat tighter, looked up at the building that was in front of her on the right, where she had lived for so long. This was where they had had their wedding party in 1957 – they couldn’t afford anything else. This was where they had had their children, and later played with their grandchildren, where life had raced by like a high-speed train. This was where the cancer cells had invaded Olav Sebastian’s body and reduced him to a morose, sick shadow of the great man he’d once been, a man who’d engaged in local politics, who’d run eight kilometres three nights a week, even when he was over 70, and who’d loved going for walks in Frogner Park on Sundays, especially when pushing little Sofus in his pram. This was where he’d said his final goodbye one beautiful late summer day in 1992.
There were lights on in some of the windows up on the third floor. So they’d started already, the joiners, but she was not going to let anyone force her out. She most certainly was not!
That was what she’d told the young adviser in Oslo Council as well, the one who hadn’t had time for her at first, but then had managed to squeeze in 15 minutes at the end of the day. The beautiful girl with dark hair – what was her name again? – had promised to take up her case as soon as she got to work in the morning. Were there no limits to how shameless people could be these days?
Mrs Svenkerud pressed on, and swung her arms to help her move faster. She was getting warm, and a thin layer of condensation had formed on the inside of her spectacles. She could just make out the crossing about 30 metres in front of her.
She looked back. The car was much closer now. Mrs Svenkerud tried to walk faster, but the snow was so loose and soft that it was hard to get a firm footing. She almost lost her balance, but fortunately managed to stay on her feet.
She looked round again. The car seemed to have speeded up. Surely the driver had seen her, with all the safety reflectors she was wearing?
She tried to wave at him, but the driver didn’t slow down; in fact, he did the opposite, and that was when she realised the car was going to knock her down.
She made a last-ditch attempt to get out of the way, but the ice was deceptive and slippery under her winter boats, and she didn’t manage to move before the car hit her side-on, throwing her up onto the bonnet. Her back was to the windscreen and she was forced up onto the roof, where she lay still for a brief second before the winter tyres bit into the ice as the wheels locked. She was thrown forward onto the bonnet again, and then rolled down onto the road, where she landed with her face in the soft, cold snow.
She couldn’t move, though strangely enough, it didn’t hurt; it was as though her whole body had been numbed. But she was bleeding from a cut on her forehead, and soon the whole side of her face was warm. The impact had also damaged one of the buttons on her hearing aid, and it was whining loudly, piercing her eardrum.
Mrs Svenkerud managed to haul herself up onto her knees. She felt the cold and damp seep through her trousers and long johns. She lifted her head and straightened her glasses, turned around and squinted at the car with its engine still running. She hadn’t noticed until now, but in the beam from the headlights, she saw that big white flakes had started to fall again.
Why didn’t the driver get out to help her?
The car reversed a few metres, then headed for her again. She couldn’t get out of its way; she knew she wouldn’t make it in time, even though the studded tyres were spinning on the ice and snow. Shouting wouldn’t help. She braced herself for the pain, and when it came, it was intense and paralysing. The weight and speed of the car made her skid across the road until she stopped close to the kerb.
And there she lay, unable to move while cold, white kisses melted on her burning cheeks. The glass in her spectacles was smashed and she could barely see. Fortunately, the ringing in her ears stopped and was replaced by silence, bringing with it a diamond-like certainty.
She knew what this was about.
There was no doubt about it.
She only hoped that the bright, helpful girl at Oslo Council – what was her name again? – would realise as well. That she would hear about this, and do something.
Trine, Mrs Svenkerud remembered as the car headed towards her again.
The girl in the council offices was called Trine.
Trine Juul.
2
October 2009
The light seeped in through the white curtains and bathed the bed in a faint shimmer. The woman lying next to Charlie Høisæther turned slightly and breathed in sleepily through her nose.
‘You’re awake already?’ she said in a drowsy voice, her face against the pillow.
‘Mm,’ he replied.
The light paled her cheeks as she curled up in a ball and pulled the thin duvet tighter. She stretched out a warm hand and found Charlie’s soft belly.
‘You always wake up so early,’ she mumbled.
‘Mm. You just go back to sleep.’
The curtains in front of the open window billowed in the wind that blew tirelessly off the Atlantic Ocean. The sound of the constant traffic rose all the way up to the fifteenth floor from the street below. Isabel opened her eyes, brown and dark. Charlie felt her look at him, more awake than before.
‘You were so restless last night,’ she said. ‘Were you dreaming?’
He shook his head.
‘What was it then?’
‘Nothing. You just go back to sleep.’
The truth was that he’d barely slept at all. There was so much going on at the moment. Tore was dead, and that journalist kept phoning and leaving messages. ‘Hi, I’d like to talk to you about Tore Pulli.’ ‘Hi, I’d like to arrange a time when I can talk to you.’ ‘Hi, would it be possible to have a few words about Rasmus Bjelland?’
