by Thomas Enger
Lies, Henning thought, but he didn’t confront him with it.
‘I have to go now,’ he said. ‘I’m nearly in Tønsberg.’
‘OK. Come back as soon as you can then.’
‘Will do.’
William Hellberg lived in a highly desirable area on an island close to Tønsberg, where each house was bigger and grander than the next. Hellberg’s large black SUV took up the greater part of the cobbled driveway in front of the house where he lived. Henning parked beside a manicured hedge and rang the bell.
A thin woman in her thirties opened the door. Her lips were dry, her eyes were swollen and she was wearing no make-up.
‘Hi,’ Henning said, and introduced himself. ‘Is William at home?’
She tilted her head and looked up at him.
‘What’s it about?’ she asked.
‘It’s about a case I’m working on,’ Henning said. ‘I work for 123News. I dropped by William’s office in Tønsberg and they said he was working from home today.’
‘What case?’
Henning wondered for a moment if she was Hellberg’s personal secretary, but then he noticed the diamond ring on her finger and the fact that she wasn’t exactly wearing office clothes – jeans, a white top and grey woollen cardigan.
It was Hellberg’s wife.
‘It involves a few things,’ Henning said. ‘Including a murder.’
The colour drained from the woman’s cheeks.
‘Murder?’ she said, and pulled the cardigan tighter. ‘What on earth would William have to do with that?’
‘Nothing,’ Henning assured her quickly. ‘But he does know some of the people who might be involved. From a while back … in his past.’
The woman nodded slowly, studying him.
‘Did you say your name was Juul?’
‘Mm.’
‘One moment, I’ll see if he’s got time to talk to you.’
The woman pushed the door to, without closing it, and disappeared into the house. Henning took a step back. The well-maintained lawn around the house still looked remarkably green and summery although the scattering of leaves showed it was definitely autumn. And the house gleamed white, even though it was a grey day. The driveway looked like it’d just been swept, and a moped was parked next to the garage. Presumably it belonged to the son.
It took a few minutes before the woman returned.
‘Please, come inside and wait,’ she said in a rather thin voice. ‘He’s on the phone.’
‘Great. Thank you,’ Henning said, as he followed her inside.
Hellberg’s wife showed him into the living room, where he sat down on a generous sofa and placed his arms on the wide leather armrests. It made him feel he was lording it up, so he folded his hands on his lap instead.
‘Nice house,’ he commented.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘Lived here long?’
She paused before answering: ‘Six years.’
She moved a tablet that was lying on the sofa and put it down on a small table in the corner, by an armchair that looked like it might be an expensive antique.
‘Would you like a cup of coffee while you wait?’ she asked, without looking at him.
‘Yes please, I’d love one.’
The unnamed woman swiftly disappeared into the kitchen. A couple of minutes later she came back with a cup and saucer that she put down on the table in front of him, the porcelain clinking. Her hands were shaking.
‘I’ve had a little too much coffee today,’ she said, apologetically. ‘It always makes my hands…’
She gave them a little shake and tried to smile. The colour that had drained from her face a little while ago had still not returned. She looked ill, Henning thought, and for a second he felt slightly guilty to have barged in like this.
He took a sip of coffee.
‘It’s tempting to drink too much coffee when it tastes this good,’ he said, and smiled. ‘Are you also working from home today?’
‘No, I’m not working,’ she said. ‘I only work on Thursdays and Saturdays.’
Henning nodded.
‘Where do you work?’
‘In a children’s clothes shop in Tønsberg. I need … something to do as well.’
The woman gave another cautious smile.
Henning could well imagine it. The Hellberg family was very wealthy, so even though she probably didn’t need any extra income, it no doubt helped her self-esteem to contribute a little. Polishing the family silver must be pretty boring in the long run.
She pushed her shoulders back ever so slightly when her husband came into the room. Henning turned to greet William Hellberg, who came towards him with his hand out and a smile.
‘Henning,’ he said. ‘How nice to see you again. What are you doing down here?’
It was less than a week since they’d last spoken, at the hospital in Tønsberg, after Henning and Iver had found William Hellberg’s missing sister, mainly thanks to Nora. The gratitude and friendliness that Hellberg had shown Henning then did not appear to have waned.
‘Hello,’ Henning said, standing up.
They shook hands.
‘Sorry to disturb you at home,’ he said.
‘I’m the one who should apologise for making you wait so long,’ Hellberg said. ‘How are you?’
Henning gave a fleeting thought to Iver, but tried not to show it.
‘Not too bad, thanks. And you?’
‘Well … yes, I’m fine, thank you.’
Hellberg glanced over at his wife.
‘The past few weeks have been rather demanding, what with Mother and … well, all the rest,’ he said. ‘Which is why I’m working from home today. There’s so much going on in the office at the moment. Though it has started to quieten down now.’
‘Of course.’
They looked at each other for a few seconds, then Hellberg stepped past him.
‘Anne Cecilie, could you maybe get me a cup of coffee too?’
Hellberg gave his best salesman smile as he watched his wife go into the kitchen without a word. He sat down opposite Henning.
‘So,’ Hellberg said, the leather sofa squeaking under him. ‘What brings you to Tønsberg again, Henning? Are you looking for somewhere to live?’
Henning shook his head.
‘I’m here because of your lawyer,’ he said. ‘Among other things.’
Hellberg’s salesman smile disappeared, and he frowned.
‘Preben?’
Henning nodded.
The sound of a coffee machine could be heard from the kitchen.
‘And why’s that?’ Hellberg said.
Henning didn’t answer his question, and instead posed his own: ‘How well do you know him?’
Hellberg looked surprised, then laughed a little.
‘I know Preben very well, of course. He’s been the family lawyer for many, many years. Why do you ask?’
Hellberg gave him a searching look. On his way to Tønsberg, Henning had wondered about how far he should go. He was taking a chance by airing his suspicions, based on nothing but speculation, but then again, he didn’t have much time, and none of his potential sources were overly friendly.
So he shared his theory with Hellberg, namely that Mørck had been Unni Hellberg’s contact with Tore Pulli in connection with the Ellen Hellberg murder, and it was very likely that he was also the middleman for several other criminals in Oslo.
When Henning had finished, Hellberg shook his head and said, ‘That’s an absurd theory, Henning. I know Preben to be a good man through and through. And I find it hard to believe that he would be involved in anything like that.’
A moment later, Hellberg’s wife came back into the living room with a cup of fresh coffee. The cup was bigger and thicker than his, and didn’t have a saucer, but she held it with both hands. She gave it to Hellberg without looking at either of them. Her hands were no longer shaking.
‘Thank you, darling.’
He smiled up at
her. Anne Cecilie Hellberg retreated again, and William followed her with his eyes.
‘But then,’ Henning started, as soon as they were alone, ‘do you know of anyone else who your mother could have trusted in that situation?’
Hellberg took a sip of coffee.
‘No, but…’ He shook his head. ‘But it still sounds utterly farfetched.’ Hellberg met Henning’s eye. ‘Have you told your theory to the police?’
There was an aggressive edge to his voice now.
‘No,’ Henning said. ‘Not yet.’
He took a sip of coffee, and looked at Hellberg. The man wore a suit, even at home. He was running a hand over one side of his head, pressing his shoulder-length, slicked-back hair even more neatly into place. He got up and paced back and forth.
Henning wondered if he should mention Iver’s possible visit to Preben Mørck, but decided against it. Instead he moved the conversation onto a different track.
‘The last time we met, Hellberg, we talked a bit about Tore and Charlie, and the fact that they’d fallen out over a flat in Natal.’
Hellberg was apparently still lost in his own thoughts.
‘Sorry?’
Henning repeated what he’d just said.
‘Yes, yes, I remember that.’
‘Can you tell me anything about them?’
Hellberg frowned. ‘About Tore and Charlie?’
He took a few steps back towards Henning and sat down on the sofa again.
‘I’m trying to get a better understanding of their relationship,’ Henning explained. ‘How serious the conflict might be. I know that they did a lot together and that they’d done some deals that were not entirely legal, but … do you know if Tore was involved in Charlie’s business in Natal as well?’
Hellberg looked up at him.
‘How would that work?’
Henning shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
Hellberg shook his head
‘I very much doubt it. Tore certainly never said anything about it to me.’
Both were silent. Hellberg took some careful sips of coffee, and Henning wondered how to further the conversation.
‘So Tore beat Charlie up at some point, because of the flat we were talking about, and they had no contact after that, until Tore was killed?’
‘Not as far as I know, no,’ Hellberg said.
‘But I don’t get it,’ Henning said. ‘Was that all?’
Hellberg didn’t seem to understand his question.
‘Let me put it another way … I’ve been thinking about this,’ Henning said. ‘And I can’t quite believe that the argument they had was only about a flat.’
Hellberg held up the palms of his hands as if to say, I have no idea.
‘I haven’t spoken to Charlie for a long time,’ he said. ‘So I don’t know.’
‘But surely they’d disagreed or argued about other things before? Had Tore never thumped him before?’
‘No, I don’t think I ever heard either say anything bad about the other,’ Hellberg said, with a faint smile. ‘And even if Charlie could be a complete bastard when he was younger, he would never have dared cross Tore.’
Henning put down his cup.
‘Tell me more,’ he urged Hellberg. ‘What were they like when they were young?’
Hellberg breathed in and gazed up to the left. Then smiled.
‘Tore was naturally the centre of attention,’ he said. ‘Wherever we went. He was incredibly charismatic. The women…’
Hellberg’s smile broadened. Then he shook his head.
‘Tore was a classic leader, took up a lot of space. And people listened to him. If there was any disagreement about where we should go or what we should do, Tore decided and we did what we were told.’
He paused for thought.
‘I imagine it can’t have been easy for Charlie, always to be overruled and steamrollered. But you should ask him yourself.’
‘I’ve tried to get hold of him,’ Henning said. ‘He doesn’t answer his phone.’
Hellberg shrugged.
Charlie might like being the one who has the final say, Henning thought. The one with power. And at the time, Tore was struggling with money and debt and Charlie’s pockets were full. But that still didn’t explain why Tore had floored him. Veronica knew nothing about it either. She’d never met Charlie.
Henning asked Hellberg if there was anything else he could tell him about his two friends.
‘No, I’m not sure that there is,’ he said.
Henning waited a moment, in case more memories resurfaced. Then he finished his coffee and stood up.
‘I won’t take up any more of your time then,’ he said. ‘But if you do think of anything in relation to what we’ve talked about, I’d really appreciate it if you got in touch.’
Hellberg stood up as well. His face was thoughtful.
‘There’s no point in going any further with your Preben theory, I’m sure of that. He’s solid.’
‘Perhaps,’ Henning said. ‘But if you do think of anything, anything at all, it’s easiest to get hold of me by email.’
Henning didn’t want to give out his mobile number unless it was strictly necessary.
‘Right you are.’
Hellberg gestured for Henning to go first. He put on his shoes in the hall and then turned towards Hellberg.
‘Thank you for the coffee. Sorry to bother you again.’
They shook hands.
‘My pleasure,’ Hellberg said. ‘It really was no bother at all.’
Henning turned back and opened the door, then walked out into the day: the clouds were higher, and the sharp light hurt his eyes.
Hellberg followed him out onto the step.
‘Let me know if you ever consider moving down here, and I’ll sort out a good house for you.’
Henning looked over his shoulder at Hellberg, and saw that the smile was back on his face.
‘I’ll certainly do that,’ he said.
26
On the way back to Oslo, Henning thought about what Hellberg would do now, if he would challenge his lawyer straightway, or if he would choose not to.
Henning guessed it would be the latter.
It was just a theory, and regardless of whether it was true or not, it was dynamite enough to destroy the trust that had been built up over the years, perhaps even a friendship. And there had been too many scandals in the Hellberg family recently. Henning found it hard to believe that William Hellberg would want to create even more fuss without substantial proof.
Henning checked his mobile phone and saw that Bjarne had booked a room for four o’clock. That meant that he had plenty of time, even if there were traffic jams and delays on the way into the capital. He didn’t make any effort to get back faster, and instead looked around at the fields that stretched out on either side of the road as he drove. He saw some smoke snaking up from a chimney in the distance. It made him think of winter, which was fast approaching: the worst time of year in Norway, when darkness forced people indoors and curtains were drawn.
He wondered if he would be here when the snow came.
Or if the people who had killed Iver would get him as well. They’d already tried a couple of times.
Henning had never dwelled on the idea of his own death before Jonas was born, but when he became a father, all that changed. And he thought about it every day. He didn’t want to die.
Yet death wasn’t as frightening anymore. He’d even found himself longing for it, a way to find peace. He thought about what he would do if he survived the next few days and weeks. If he would stay in Oslo, if he could cope with being near to Nora and watching the child grow up. If he would continue to work as a journalist.
As he passed the toll booths at Fornebu, a thought struck him. He was sitting in Iver’s car, a car that Iver had obviously used a fair bit recently. And even though it was an old model, it still had an electronic pass that registered every time the car went through the tolls. Henning made a mental note to ment
ion it to Bjarne when they met. There was no way of knowing whether it would tell them anything other than that Iver had been out and about in Oslo, but it was worth checking.
Nora was lying on the sofa, half dozing, when the doorbell rang. The loud noise made her start and she sat up and looked around.
She’d been lying there all night.
And all day.
She hadn’t dared go to bed, scared that she would still be able to smell Iver on the sheet or pillow, scared that she might find a sock or a t-shirt that was his. The book on his bedside table – The House of the Mosque by Kader Abdolah – was a book she’d given him. She knew that the very sight of it would make her cry, and she couldn’t bear it. She’d cried enough.
She pushed back the blanket, put her feet down on the floor, and shuffled her way slowly to the intercom out in the hall.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello, it’s Bjarne Brogeland.’
The police.
No, she couldn’t face that now.
‘Can I come up?’ he asked.
Nora didn’t answer.
‘It’ll only take a couple of minutes,’ he added.
Nora sighed and put a hand to her forehead, which suddenly felt very hot. She moved her hand to her hip, which had gained some extra padding in recent weeks. She pressed the button, and listened to the buzz at the other end.
‘Thank you.’
Nora put the receiver back in its cradle and stood there waiting for twenty seconds until there was another ring. She pressed the button again, then opened the door, leaving it ajar. She would normally have panicked and looked around to make sure the flat was presentable, but her mother had done nothing but tidy before she left for work.
There was a gentle knock on the door, then Bjarne opened it and came in. He gave her a grave nod and said hello.
‘Hi,’ Nora replied.
Bjarne closed the door behind him and stood there looking at her. Nora couldn’t deal with his concern, so she pushed herself away from the wall and went into the living room. She heard Bjarne take off his shoes in the hall and then follow her in.
‘How are you?’ he asked.
She didn’t answer.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Stupid question.’
