by Thomas Enger
‘I’ll just go down and make a couple of phone calls,’ Bjarne said. ‘Shout if you need anything.’
‘There is one thing,’ Henning said.
Bjarne turned to look at him.
‘What’s that?’
‘Do you know any Samis? Are there any Samis who work for the police?’
Bjarne frowned.
‘Samis? As in the Sami people – the Laplanders?’ He looked at Henning with puzzled eyes. ‘You’re joking?’
‘No.’
‘You want to know if I know any Samis?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because I want to know.’
Bjarne looked at him perplexed.
‘I know one,’ he said, eventually. ‘A girl – or rather, a woman.’
‘Who is she?’
Bjarne continued to study him.
‘She’s called Ann-Mari Sara,’ he said. ‘A forensic technician from the crime investigation service who’s been seconded to us for a while. We met her briefly at Iver Gundersen’s flat. Why do you ask?’
Henning thought about it. He remembered Sara, of course.
‘No particular reason,’ he said.
Bjarne burst out laughing.
‘No, right,’ he said. ‘And there’s a virgin with three children living just down the street.’
Henning sighed. He would have gladly told Bjarne what he was thinking, as he’d helped him so much, but he couldn’t say anything. Not yet.
‘Thanks,’ was all he said. ‘For everything. You’re a good man, Bjarne.’
‘Tell that to the taxman.’
Bjarne smiled and went downstairs. Soon all was quiet around Henning. He breathed deeply and relished the feeling of being alone, without having to fear that someone might burst in through the door at any moment.
He sat down on the bed. His head was still spinning. He needed more painkillers, couldn’t think with all that pulsing and thudding, so he got two tablets out from the bag that Bjarne had brought with him. There were a couple of bottles of water in the bag as well and, not without difficulty, Henning managed to unscrew the lid from one. He swallowed the tablets, turned on the TV and read about himself in the captions on the screen, even though he was as yet unnamed. Assistant Chief of Police Pia Nøkleby said that there would be a press conference later on that evening.
Henning relived the moment when he saw the mouth of Redzepi’s gun, the sting in his chest. He was tired, so he lay down. His shoulder felt like it would explode, but he closed his eyes, saw the colours on the inside of his eyelids churning, round and round and round. A peace fell over him and then once again, darkness.
33
That evening, Roger Blystad did something he hadn’t done for a long time. He went down to Brandbu and found a seat in the Sandbeck pub.
A football game was being broadcast on a large TV screen, so he sat as far away from it as he could, but it was impossible to avoid the noise. The pub was fairly empty, and it didn’t take long before he was half cut. At regular intervals, the barman came over and replaced the empty glass he had turning in his hands with a full one, as he thought about his mother and her funeral the next day.
When his grandfather died in the late eighties, Blystad had been in Amsterdam setting up a drugs delivery to Norway. His mother had phoned late in the evening to say that the cancer had finally got the better of the tough old man.
Blystad had sat in silence for a long time after, thinking about what a fine man his grandfather had been. Then he felt the need to walk, to find a bar that was still open and to raise a glass to him. So he’d ended up sitting in Café Pollux, and had a couple of beers. It was a fine farewell, even though he was hundreds of kilometres away.
Which was why he’d wanted to have a couple of beers in honour of his mum now. But once he’d sat down, he’d found it hard to stop at two.
It did cross his mind how stupid it was to sit there in the open when what he should really be doing was getting ready to leave. To drive far away from Brandbu as quickly as possible. But it was liberating and it felt good not to give a damn. He liked the feeling of living on the edge, not quite being in control.
But he would be stupid if he didn’t do anything. He’d met Alfred in the supermarket. Iver Gundersen was dead. And now his mum was gone too.
How many more warning lights did he need?
It was half-time in the match, and an advert blared out over the loudspeakers. The glasses and bottles twinkled in the mirror behind the bar. A man was sitting on a stool in front of the taps, both hands round his glass. It looked like he was searching for the meaning of life in the froth. Blystad heard the odd burst of laughter, but no conversation he could follow.
A baby was crying on TV. And again, he thought about his mother. She had cried a lot. Every Christmas Eve, when that boys’ choir sang on TV, her eyes welled up, but he always got the feeling it wasn’t related to the music.
He sat there drinking until everything was blurred. Perhaps that’s why he didn’t hear the voice at first, which belonged to a woman who was trying to get his attention. It was only when he saw something waving in front of his eyes that he raised his head a touch, and looked straight into a face that he recognised, but couldn’t place.
‘It is you,’ she said, and smiled.
Blystad blinked a couple of times.
‘You do recognise me, don’t you?’
Her smile was teasing.
‘Of course,’ he said, rifling through his memory.
‘Helene,’ she said. ‘You came to my house a few months ago – changed the weatherboard cladding on the south wall?’
Blystad clicked his fingers.
‘That’s it,’ he said, and tightened his grip on the glass. ‘Sorry, I…’
‘Ach,’ she said, poo-pooing it, ‘I’m used to no one paying attention to me.’
She pretended to cry, which made him smile. And God, it was good to smile. Helene revealed her uneven teeth. But he liked the fact they were wonky, and that it looked like she smoked. She was wearing an almond-coloured Stetson, a short jacket and tight trousers.
He actually liked pretty much everything about her.
‘Are you here on your own?’ she asked.
‘Yes, I…’ He looked down.
‘I’m here with some girls,’ she said. ‘We haven’t seen each other in a hundred years, but all they’re talking about is their kids.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘So just say if you’d like a little company.’
He glanced up at her, saw the look in her eyes. He remembered how chatty she’d been. He’d thought then that she was lonely, recalled the painful gratitude when he’d said yes to a cup of coffee after he’d finished the work.
She lived alone, had presumably done so for a while – Blystad hadn’t noticed any men’s shoes in the hall. The whole house had felt like a hangover from the seventies, something she’d inherited. Helene herself could hardly be more than thirty-five. But there was something cheerful about her. Her face made him think of the sun.
‘I … don’t think so,’ he said. ‘Not today.’
It sounded like a rejection, and in a way it was. But still she stood there.
‘You look sad,’ she said, gently. ‘Like you could do with a bit of comforting.’
Again, the underlying invitation. Another time, Blystad thought. Any other day. But right now, he wanted to be alone.
‘Well, let me know if you change your mind. We’re sitting just over there.’
She smiled, he raised his glass to her, and she swung her hips as she sashayed back across the room to her friends. Blystad sent her a sheepish smile before buying another beer and settling down to meditate on his mother.
It was a few months since he’d seen her. At the opera house at midday on the fourth of August. He’d found her down by the water. She’d given him a big hug and started to cry straightaway – as she always did. Blystad had chuckled in her ear and told her she mustn’t do that. ‘I know,’
she said. ‘But I can’t help it.’
They’d sat there for several hours; she’d taken a picnic with her for both of them. And then she’d shed a few more tears when he said he had to go. They’d agreed when and where to meet again: Frogner Park at midday on the twelfth of December, so it would be easy to remember. They only had minimal contact via email.
I have to give her a proper send-off, Blystad thought. He couldn’t go to the funeral itself, but he had to be there. See her. The coffin. Be near her one last time. Lay some flowers on her grave.
And he realised then how sick and tired he was of being on the run. Sick and tired of keeping a low profile, not engaging with people. Like Helene. Girls in cowboy hats. He didn’t actually like Stetsons, not on men or women, but she’d worn it with a teasing smile. As though she was perfectly aware that it didn’t suit her, and that was the whole point. She’d made him smile. He could count on one hand the number of people who had done that in the past two years.
It would have been nice not to care about a thing, he thought. Just to live, be, not worry about the consequences. Maybe he should just say ‘here I am’ and see what happened – he immediately stopped that thought experiment. It would not end well.
He had to think of something.
He couldn’t live like this any longer.
34
Charlie Høisæther was in the bath, alone, when the phone rang. He half expected it to be Isabel calling to say she was sorry that she’d been so difficult before she went to work – it was just that she wanted to do more than dance at Senzuela, now that everyone knew she was his girlfriend. ‘I’m tired of disrespecting myself,’ she’d said, ‘and surely it’s not good for your business having a girlfriend who’s an exotic dancer.’
‘Well, then maybe I shouldn’t,’ he’d replied, and later regretted it. Isabel had started to cry and then ran out of the flat.
But it wasn’t Isabel on the other end, it was Freddy. Charlie sat up in the tub and let the water run off his arm and hands before he put the phone to his ear and said, ‘Talk.’
‘You wanted to know who was driving the stolen Audi that’s been parked outside your apartment recently,’ Freddy said. His voice sounded miles away. ‘Well, the driver’s sitting on a chair in front of me right now. He’s a bit out of it as Hansemann gave him a bump on the head. We can carry on having fun, if you like, but I thought maybe you’d have some questions you’d like to ask yourself?’
Charlie stood up. The bathroom mirror clouded over, but he could still see the outline of his well-rounded paunch. He got out of the bath and opened the door out into the hall.
‘Pick me up in 10 minutes. Hansemann can keep an eye on him in the meantime.’
‘OK, boss.’
As usual, Freddy sped through the streets and it didn’t take long before they stopped outside a half-finished building to which Charlie had managed to get keys. The previous owner had had plans for a shopping centre, but then went bankrupt before the project was complete. Charlie didn’t know what he wanted to do with the site yet – it was far too small for his leisure complex – so while he bided his time for the right idea to come along, the place was perfect whenever they needed to talk privately to someone, one on one. The closest neighbours were well out of earshot.
Charlie and Freddy walked down the spiral driveway that should have led to the shopping centre’s underground car park. The road was not surfaced, so they kicked up a dust cloud. There were a few lit bulbs down there, and ahead of them they saw a young man sitting on a chair with his hands tied behind his back. And behind him, a large, fair man with a goatee beard and huge tattoos on his arms. Hansemann was wearing a black, short-sleeved linen shirt and black linen trousers – clothes that would hide a splash of blood or two.
‘Mister High, I swear…’
‘Shh,’ Charlie said, and walked slowly towards the young man, who couldn’t be more than eighteen or nineteen. His skin was brown, childishly smooth and he was sweating. A thread of blood was trickling down from one nostril, and there was a large red patch in the middle of his forehead.
Quite literally, as Freddy had said.
‘What’s your name?’ Charlie asked.
‘Eduardo.’
The fear in his voice made him sound feeble.
‘What else, Eduardo?’
He tried to straighten up.
‘Eduardo de Jesus Silva.’
‘Where are you from? Nazareth?’ Charlie asked.
Freddy and Hansemann laughed, even though Charlie had used the same joke before.
‘I’m from Natal,’ the boy said, in broken English.
‘How old are you, Eduardo?’
‘Nineteen.’
‘And do you want to be twenty?’
He nodded quickly.
Situations like this were always easier with young people, Charlie thought. A few simple threats were often enough for them to find out all they needed to know.
‘So, tell me, who do you work for? Is it someone in Norway?’
Eduardo shook his head.
‘I don’t work for anyone.’
Freddy took a step closer, balled a fist and punched it against his other palm. Eduardo de Jesus Silva paid attention.
‘Please, Mr High, I don’t know what you…’
‘You clearly know who I am.’
Eduardo nodded.
‘Everyone knows who you are.’
‘Who do you work for?’
‘No one. I…’
‘Why are you following me?’
‘I…’
He looked away, at Freddy, and then turned to Hansemann, who put his great hands on the back of the chair and leaned forwards.
‘I’m not following you,’ he stuttered.
‘What are you doing then?’
‘I…’
He closed his eyes. A pearl of sweat ran down one of his cheeks. A few long seconds later, he said, ‘I was dreaming.’
Charlie stood there and studied him. His eyes widened and the furrows in his brow deepened.
‘My family’s never had anything. My mum and sister clean other people’s houses, rich people – some of them live where you do. That’s how I heard about you. My dad, he doesn’t even have a job, all he does is…’
Eduardo de Jesus Silva looked away for a moment.
‘And you…’ he continued. ‘You’ve got it all. You live on the top, you … you’ve always got the best women, you never pay for your drinks…’
He took a deep breath.
‘You’ve got it all,’ he repeated. ‘So when I say I was dreaming, I was dreaming that I was actually … well, that I was you. That I had everything you have.’
Charlie stared at him. Nobody should dream about having his life, he thought.
‘Why did you drive off then outside Senzuela the other night?’ he asked. ‘When Freddy came over to talk to you?’
Eduardo looked up at Freddy.
‘Look at him,’ he said. ‘He’s a mountain. And everyone knows that he’s dangerous.’
Freddy gave a crooked smile.
‘So what you’re saying is, you were scared?’
He lowered his head slightly, then nodded.
‘He had his hand in his inner pocket,’ Eduardo said. ‘Everybody knows he carries a gun.’
Charlie nodded slowly. He felt an enormous relief; he had nothing to fear, except that Henning Juul was still alive.
‘So, what am I going to do with you? I don’t need scaredy cats.’
‘Please, Mr High, just give me a chance, I know I can help you,’ he pleaded.
‘How?’
‘I know the town,’ was his quick and eager answer. ‘I know people. I can do anything you ask me.’
Charlie looked at his slight body, his thin face. The wind could probably blow him over. A slap would break him.
‘The car you’re driving,’ Charlie said. ‘How did you steal it?’
Eduardo de Jesus Silva took another deep breath.
‘A f
riend of mine knew where the owner used to park it. I broke into his house and stole the keys.’
‘Without being caught?’
‘I wouldn’t be sitting here otherwise.’
Eduardo attempted a smile, but gave up as soon as he saw it had no effect. The first glimpse of cockiness, Charlie thought. He’d stolen a car exactly the same way in Norway when he was seventeen. He’d also dreamed of another life, a better life.
‘I don’t employ criminals,’ he said, then turned around and started to walk away.
‘Please, Mr High…’
But Charlie just carried on walking. Freddy followed.
‘What do you want me to do with him, boss?’ he asked, when he caught up with him. ‘Shall we…’
Charlie lifted a hand as a sign that Freddy should stop talking. When they were out of earshot from the others, Charlie stopped and turned around.
‘See if you can find something for him to do,’ he said. ‘Anything. Let’s see what he’s made of.’
Freddy stared at him. ‘Are you sure, boss?’
Charlie thought about it.
‘No,’ he said. ‘But do it, all the same.’
35
When Henning woke up, he lay there blinking for a while, until the ceiling came into focus and he remembered where he was.
He had no idea why this particular thought struck him now, so soon after he’d woken, but he realised that it was a while since he’d been to see his mum. Henning had stayed away after she’d more or less accused him of killing his own father; he’d contacted social services to make sure she got what she needed in terms of food, cigarettes and alcohol. But because she’d refused to say any more about her accusation – had given him no reason for saying what she’d said – he hadn’t been able to bring himself to see again. Now he found himself wondering if she knew he’d been shot, if she’d heard it on the news or if someone had contacted her.
If she cared.
