by Thomas Enger
‘It was Henning,’ she said, and looked at him. ‘Henning Juul.’
Andreas Kjær straightened up. He was more alert, guarded. He stubbed out his cigarette, quickly and vigorously. The horrible feeling that she’d had on the way up to the flat was reinforced.
‘You know him, don’t you?’
‘I’ve heard of him, yes,’ Kjær said, picking up his lighter from the table. ‘What did he want? Why did he come here?’
Pia Nøkleby studied him.
‘He wanted to talk to me about something,’ she said.
Kjær lit another cigarette, then threw the lighter down on the table.
‘About what?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Well,’ he said, and blew smoke out into the room. ‘I mean, it’s a bit odd, isn’t it, to come to your house like that?’
Pia Nøkleby didn’t answer. There was a moment’s silence.
‘He came because someone got into Indicia with my username and password. And changed a report.’
‘Really?’
He looked up at her, but couldn’t hold it for long. Took another couple of quick drags on his cigarette instead.
‘What kind of report?’
‘A specific incident on Markveien on 11 September 2007,’ Pia Nøkleby said. ‘The night Juul lost his son.’
She looked straight at him.
For a long time, without saying anything.
‘It certainly wasn’t me,’ she swiftly followed up. ‘But I’ve given some consideration to who it might have been.’
Kjær looked up at her from the sofa.
‘And what exactly do you mean by that?’
‘What I mean, Andreas, is that I wonder if this,’ she pointed from him to herself and back again, ‘has perhaps been about more than just a fuck.’
He stood up.
‘What are you saying, Pia?’
Andreas was a lot taller than her. Stronger, too. Still, she took a step towards him and said: ‘You are the only one who’s seen me log into Indicia here.’
He snorted.
‘You can’t honestly suspect me of…’ He stopped and rolled his eyes.
Pia Nøkleby had dealt with enough liars in her time – she could recognise an amateur over-reaction when she saw one. So she just smiled and watched him shift his weight from one foot to the other, take another drag on his cigarette as he glared back at her, affronted. But he couldn’t do it, and it didn’t take long before he turned away and went over to the window. He stood there smoking, as he pretended to look out at the town.
‘Why did you steal my password?’ she asked.
He started to turn, but then stopped.
‘Was it to incriminate me?’ she asked.
‘You? No, I…’
A few seconds passed. He turned and went over to the coffee table, where he stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray, then he carried on into the bedroom and returned with his mobile phone. He took out the battery and SIM card and put them down on the bookshelf. He took her phone and did the same.
When he’d finished, he stood with one hand on the bookshelf, as though he needed something to hold on to.
He didn’t look at her when he said, ‘They threatened me.’
She could barely hear him.
‘Who are “they”?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said.
‘How did they threaten you?’
He took a moment before continuing.
‘First they rang,’ he said. ‘Wanted me to give them access to Indicia. I would get good money, they said, but I refused, of course. Then they said they knew where I lived and things like that, and what my kids were called. What the dog was called.’
He shook his head and looked up at her momentarily, as though to reassure himself she was still there. And when he continued, his voice was even quieter.
‘Then one day, they cut the dog’s throat and left him on the veranda, so my kids would find him. They said next time it would be one of us if I didn’t help them. So I … did what they asked me to. I knew that you had access to Indicia, and…’
‘Why did they need to get into Indicia?’
Pia Nøkleby could hear how hard her voice had become. Cold. As though she was at work. She realised that it wasn’t easy for him to talk about it, but she didn’t give a damn.
‘Andreas, listen to me. I’ve just found out about your role in all this, and if I was smart, I would go straight to my superiors and tell them everything, about you and the people who’ve threatened you. But then I would also have to admit that I’ve known there’s been a certain security risk for a while now, without having mentioned it. In the best case scenario, you would lose your job, and in the worst, I would too. But whatever the case, we’re talking about major changes, and even though no one is served by this becoming public knowledge, there’s a real possibility that your wife would find out about what’s been going on for the past six months. And I’m guessing you’re not too keen for that to happen.’
Kjær’s head seemed to have sunk down between his shoulders.
Pia Nøkleby continued: ‘I would rather keep my job, too, and believe it or not, I have no interest in this affecting your family. So, as I see it, we – or that’s to say you, really – only have one choice left.’ She waited until he looked up at her. ‘Talk to Henning.’
Kjær was about to come up with some kind of protest, but she spoke before he could.
‘Tell him what you know about these people. If we’re lucky, he won’t write anything about our blunders.’
Kjær closed his eyes, as though he hoped the nightmare would be over when he opened them again.
‘I’m going to have to go to work now,’ Pia Nøkleby said, with a heavy sigh. ‘Do you know why?’
She didn’t wait for him to meet her eyes.
‘Because Henning’s closest colleague was killed a few hours ago.’
Kjær opened his eyes and lifted his chin.
‘It’s too early to say whether the murder has anything to do with Henning, but it may well do. Henning hasn’t been staying in his own flat recently, because someone is after him.’
‘So you think it’s safe for me to talk to him?’
‘I think it’s time to stop hiding, Andreas. It’s time to start pulling your weight. Seriously. People are being killed.’
‘Yes, and I’m trying to stop that happening to anyone in my family. Or me.’
Pia Nøkleby looked at him with increasing scorn. Even though it was easy enough to understand that he’d been thinking of his children all this time, he’d still put her in an impossibly difficult position. He had betrayed her and she would never forgive him. And she felt that it was actually quite a good thing that they’d got to this point.
‘I’m going to have a shower,’ she said. ‘And when I get out, Andreas, I’d like to hear that you’ve grown some balls.’
13
Trine closed her eyes.
Only now, as she was transported silently towards Oslo – long after Henning had left – occasionally feeling the rhythm of the wheels on the tracks and junctions, did she realise how exhausted and sleepy she was. She leaned her head in towards the window and tried to imagine that the world would somehow be different when she woke up. But the fields were still flying past half a minute later – cold, wet expanses that rolled towards the hills and mountains far away on the horizon. Everything was as it had been, except it was all different now.
She wasn’t afraid for herself, but she was scared about what might happen to Henning if he continued his hunt.
You should help him, Trine said to herself. God knows, she owed him. But how? What could she do when faced with people who wouldn’t bat an eyelid at killing?
The train swept past Kløfta, where Trine and Henning had grown up. The knowledge of what had happened in the house in Gjerdrumsveien, in Henning’s bedroom, made her shut her eyes again; she tried to block out the images that sometimes came to her, especially at night, but her father�
��s frightened eyes would not be blinked away. Or the sound of his bare feet as he crossed the floor when he’d pulled on his trousers, the careful knock on her door so as not to wake anyone else, the quiet in the house the next day. What happened later.
Trine had told Pål Fredrik about her father. Perhaps she should tell him about Jonas as well, now that it was all out, and Bodil Svenkerud. But she couldn’t make up her mind, not even when she got off the train at Skøyen and took a taxi home to Ullern. Pål Fredrik opened the door for her and pulled her into his arms as soon as she’d put down her things.
‘Hello, my love,’ he said, quietly.
‘Hello,’ she replied, suddenly on the verge of tears.
‘How are you?’
She pressed herself against him, didn’t want him to see her tears. She mumbled something about being fine, a good trip, but that it was better to be home again.
‘How about you?’
‘I’m fine,’ he said, and she heard in his voice what lay beneath the words. Security. A home. The tears welled up again, and she had to force them back.
‘Did you see Henning?’ he asked, shortly after.
Trine pulled back abruptly and looked up at her husband, and then it dawned on her why Pål Fredrik had not come to meet her.
‘Yes,’ she said, and relaxed into his arms again.
‘How did it go?’
She didn’t answer, just held him as close as she could.
After what happened to Jonas, Trine had thought about taking her own life. She just wanted everything to disappear – the realisation of what she’d done, the pain she’d inflicted on others. But Pål Fredrik had managed to pick her up, as she now felt confident he would do again. ‘What would you like to do, now that you’re going to be the Minister of Justice?’ he’d asked before she started the job. ‘What are you passionate about?’
And Trine had thought about Jonas, decided that she would fight for children to grow up in a safe environment. ‘Children’s rights,’ she’d said, and that was what had pulled her from the quagmire, the thought that she might be able to make a difference. And she’d managed to do a lot; she’d opened more children’s safe houses around the country and she’d gone to work with a sense of purpose and the desire to do something every day. But she’d avoided anything that might remind her of Henning. And the past.
To begin with, it was fine; Henning was off sick, and for a long time no one was certain he’d ever go back. When he did return to work again, she just avoided 123News, knowing that she couldn’t bear to see his byline photo, with all the scars. But obviously it was difficult to avoid him completely and it didn’t take long before he was part of the news scene again, both as a witness in the Henriette Hagerup case and as the leading reporter when Tore Pulli was murdered. And when Trine herself was caught in the media crossfire, he was the only journalist who tried to help her.
There was so much she wished she’d done differently. It might even be too late. She had the feeling she would never see him again, and so would never be able to repay him.
But now at least he knew the truth.
Even though she hadn’t dared tell him everything.
14
The city rushed towards him and then slipped by outside the taxi window. Colours and people, rain and umbrellas, street lights competing with an ever-darkening sky. The radio was on, but Henning wasn’t listening.
He had his bag on his knees and was clutching his phone, which he had turned off before he met Trine. Reluctantly he turned it on, even though he knew there would be a deluge of text messages and missed calls.
Bjarne Brogeland answered the phone as soon as Henning called, but he didn’t say anything, just breathed heavily over the static on the line.
‘Condolences,’ he said, eventually. ‘I know you worked closely together.’
‘Are you there?’ Henning asked. ‘At the scene?’
‘Yes, I…’
‘I have to get into his flat,’ Henning said. ‘See the place.’
‘Henning, you can’t…’
‘Can you meet me outside? I’m on my way there now.’
Bjarne sighed.
‘They’re still going over the flat, Henning. I can’t just take an outsider in. You know that.’
Henning moved the phone into the other hand.
‘It would be easier for me to tell if there’s anything unusual,’ he said. ‘I’m the one who’s been there the most in the past week or so.’
‘That may well be,’ Bjarne said. ‘Anyway, regardless of whether I can get you in or not, we still have to wait until forensics are finished.’
Henning looked out of the window again.
‘They might move things, take something away…’
‘They won’t,’ Bjarne said.
‘You never know. You can’t guarantee that, can you?’
Neither of them said anything for a moment. Henning felt the taxi driver looking at him in the rear-view mirror, but he didn’t look up.
‘Iver texted me earlier on today,’ he said, after a while. ‘He wanted to show me something.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know. We agreed that I’d go round this evening, when I’d…’
A few more moments’ silence.
‘Does it have anything … to do with your case, do you think?’
‘I don’t know.’
Bjarne asked Henning to wait a moment. Someone asked the policeman something; Henning could hear the mumbling in the background.
Iver had been killed in the middle of the day, on a Sunday. Someone obviously thought it was worth the risk. Iver must have found something, and it must be something to do with Henning’s search, he was sure of it.
What the hell could it be?
Henning knew that Iver had been concentrating on Rasmus Bjelland recently. It might be something about him. Maybe Iver had managed to track him down, get something out of him. Henning had to try to find Bjelland himself, to establish what kind of relationship he’d had with Tore Pulli, why he’d wanted to get his revenge, and if it had anything to do with everything else that had happened.
‘Would it perhaps not be better to meet at the police station?’ Bjarne asked, when he came back. ‘Then we can talk things through properly.’
Henning shook his head.
‘I can’t face the main station right now, Bjarne. Arild Gjerstad and all the others. Just can’t do it.’
‘You don’t have to have anything to do with them,’ Bjarne said. ‘You can just talk to me.’
‘Meet me at Iver’s then, we can talk there.’
Bjarne sighed.
‘I’ll be more useful at Iver’s than in the main station, you know that, Bjarne. Help me get into the flat, then we can go through it together. I have to find out what he was going to show me.’
The car stopped at some traffic lights. The engine automatically switched off, and there was silence. Henning could hear Bjarne breathing at the other end.
‘OK then,’ he said eventually. ‘I’ll meet you outside.’
Henning asked the driver to stop a block away from Iver’s flat. He needed some air. Needed to walk, needed to think. Out of the car, he lifted his face to the drizzle that slowly washed the salt from his cheeks.
Iver was dead.
Gone. Him too.
Henning wanted to call Nora, but she would hardly want to talk to him, not now, perhaps never again. He had ruined her life, first by not being the husband he could and should have been, then by not waking in time to save Jonas. It was his fault that the wrong kind of people were after him, it was his fault that Iver had been caught in the crossfire, and even if Henning managed to find them and get them put away, Nora would never get back what she’d lost. Every time they met, every conversation they had, would be a reminder.
His phone rang. It was Bjarne.
‘I can see you,’ he said. ‘Wait there.’
Henning ended the call and did as he was told. Soon he saw Bjarne striding past ten
or twelve journalists, all of whom tried to talk to him. He dismissed them with a wave and angry shake of the head, and hurried towards Henning.
Bjarne held out his hand when he got there.
‘It’s just so awful,’ he said.
Henning shook his hand, but said nothing. They stood in silence for a few seconds, neither of them bothered by the cold drops of rain.
‘Chaos over there,’ Bjarne said, and nodded towards the journalists. ‘Stick close behind me and don’t say anything.’
I wouldn’t dream of it, Henning thought.
‘OK,’ Bjarne said.
A row of police cars was parked just outside the cordon. In addition to the journalists, a crowd of curious onlookers had gathered. Henning kept his eyes to the ground as they got closer, hoped that no one would notice him, but too late; he heard someone call his name. Henning didn’t answer. Bjarne guided him past the two officers guarding the cordon.
‘Why is Juul going in with you?’ The question went unanswered. Instead, Bjarne muttered something to one of the police officers. Henning concentrated on Bjarne’s feet and his own. Sounds came and went through his head, loud, uncomfortable.
They passed through the archway into the back courtyard. A forensic technician was coming in the opposite direction. Bjarne said hello; his voice was like a sound file played at slow speed, deep and gruff.
Henning trudged up the stairs, without looking at anyone. Before they went into Iver’s flat, Bjarne turned towards him.
‘Iver’s not here,’ he said. ‘But there are still some remains. Wait a moment and let me see if…’
‘It’ll be fine,’ Henning said.
‘I don’t know how wise it is for you to see…’
‘It’ll be fine,’ Henning said again.
Bjarne looked at him for a few seconds.
‘OK,’ he said.
Then he pushed open the door.
Henning felt his heart thumping, faster and harder. He stepped into Iver’s flat and took his time to look around. Shoes, jackets, bottles by the cupboard. The open bathroom door, the light inside. The kitchen ahead of them, frying pan on the cooker, the smell of egg and bacon lingered. Plate by the sink, glasses in the washing-up bowl.
