by Thomas Enger
Slowly he levered himself up and put his feet on the floor, hobbled over to the table where the painkillers were, and took two. The wooden panelling on the walls in front of him seemed to move.
He caught sight of his reflection in the window. His face was drained of any colour. He had big circles under his eyes. It looked like he’d aged fifteen years in the course of the past two weeks.
‘Keep going, just a little bit longer,’ he said to his reflection.
Henning thought about 6tiermes7.
Tiermes was one of several names for the Sami god of thunder, who, according to mythology, ruled over life and death, a god who could call on thunder, kill trolls, who could wreak revenge. Then he thought about who might know that he’d been called in for questioning at the main station at four o’clock, and who might have told Durim Redzepi and his driver. It seemed they’d been waiting for him.
One of the last things 6tiermes7 had written the evening before was that he or she would try to log on around the same time this evening. Henning looked at the clock on the TV screen, which was still on. About half an hour to wait. He swallowed another tablet, went over to the wardrobe and looked inside, found a dark-brown fleece and pulled it onto his good arm, then draped it over his shoulder and the sling and staggered into the TV room. He felt like he was drunk.
The house was silent.
‘Bjarne?’
Henning stumbled a bit, trying to keep his balance while he waited for an answer. It didn’t come. He took a couple of steps towards the stairs. Still no answer.
Henning concentrated hard, but could still only hear the faint humming of the fridge. The wood in the walls creaked, a sound that made Henning jump. He was used to similar noises from home, but the sound of timber moving always made him wonder, for a moment, if he was not alone.
He went down into the kitchen. There was a handwritten note on the table.
Had to go to work. Didn’t want to wake you.
Help yourself to what’s in the fridge.
Don’t worry, you’re safe.
BB
Henning looked out of the window. All he could see was a hedge, the neighbouring house with a light in one of the windows, stars in a dark sky. He checked to see if he had any money. Found two 200-kroner notes in his trouser pocket and put them on the island in the middle of the kitchen.
Where was his phone?
He couldn’t remember if Bjarne had taken it with him. So instead, Henning used the house phone in the hall to call for a taxi. He asked them to send a car to Tennisveien as soon as possible.
Henning went back into the kitchen and gulped down a couple of glasses of water. He had to hold onto the counter in order not to fall over. He stood like this for six or seven minutes, then he ventured outside. The cold air made him realise how hot he was. He stumbled down to the garage. A taxi was parked outside the tennis hall. With great difficulty, Henning walked towards it and somehow managed to get into the back seat.
‘Could you look up the address for Ann-Mari Sara for me, please?’ Henning asked, as the car pulled out. The driver was middle-aged and Asian-looking, and he asked Henning to spell the name for him. As he did this, they passed a car with two people sitting in it. It happened so fast that Henning didn’t see the faces, but he noticed that the engine was switched off.
‘Ivan Bjørndals gate, is that right?’ the driver asked.
‘Don’t know,’ Henning said, and tried to turn round. ‘But if there are no other addresses under the same name, that’s where we’re going.’
The driver typed the address into the GPS. The car behind them turned on its lights and pulled out.
‘And if you could put your foot on it, that would be great,’ Henning said.
The driver looked at Henning in the rear-view mirror and grinned.
Henning held tight and for a moment considered whether he should get the driver to call Bjarne. He turned around and saw that the car was behind them.
Was it Redzepi and his pal?
‘I’ll pay you extra if you can go a bit faster.’
The distance between the two cars increased. When they jumped a light, the car behind, a Lexus, had to stop, and then suddenly there were three cars between them.
They turned a corner and carried on at full speed, then turned into a bigger road, the driver still pushing the car over the speed limit. Henning felt certain that they’d managed to shake off the Lexus. He no longer felt the need to contact Bjarne.
Ten minutes later, they stopped in Ivan Bjørndals gate, to the east of the Aker River. Henning gave the driver a generous tip and got out. No other cars were moving on the street. He walked as fast as he could, but there was a slight delay between thought and movement, which made him unsteady. The brick buildings on either side of road seemed to loom larger in the dark. Henning noticed there were still plastic chairs and tables on the terraces. He saw lights in the windows.
The local greengrocer was open. A man came out carrying a blue plastic bag. Opposite, there was a restaurant with big windows. It looked warm and inviting, but there weren’t many customers inside.
Henning stopped to draw breath, he blinked a few times, then walked on to number 17, where he looked for Ann-Mari Sara’s bell. He pressed the button and waited, didn’t get an answer. She might still be at work, he thought. So he crossed the street and went into a poorly lit park area, where he stood under a tree and waited. He couldn’t do the fleece jacket up all the way, so it didn’t offer much warmth and his thin trainers did little to protect his feet from the cold ground.
Henning was freezing by the time Ann-Mari Sara finally appeared. He recognised her from Iver’s flat. She was small, with untidy hair and a quick step, as though she was always busy.
Henning moved out from the shadow and said, ‘Hi Ann-Mari.’
She stopped and looked up at him with alarm in her eyes.
‘Or should I perhaps call you by your internet name. 6tiermes7.’
Sara tilted her head and squinted, as though she wondered whether she’d heard right or not.
‘The Sami are generally proud of their roots,’ Henning said. ‘And you look like a woman who could have been born around 1967.’
She continued to look him square in the eye for a few seconds, then she glanced around and took a step closer.
‘Did I not make it explicitly clear that we should never meet?’
‘Yes. And that’s suited me very well. Until now.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘You knew that I was going to Tønsberg today,’ Henning said. ‘And as you seem to have access to all kinds of information at headquarters, it would be easy enough for you to find out that I was coming in for questioning at four o’clock.’
Ann-Mari nodded pensively and he saw the corners of her mouth twitching.
‘So you think I told someone. Who then came and shot you.’
Henning shrugged with his good shoulder.
She shook her head and pulled some keys out of her bag. She found the one she wanted, then walked towards the entrance. Suddenly she spun round.
‘Henning, tell me, how long have we worked together?’
And before he could answer: ‘How many cases have we drawn attention to? How many scoops have I given you?’
‘Loads,’ Henning said.
‘And yet you’re standing here, saying…’ She tried to find the right words. ‘That I am involved in trying to have someone killed?’ She pointed her thumb to her own chest. ‘And you, of all people?’
Henning didn’t answer, just registered that he was feeling dizzy again. He had to squint in order to focus on her, and he saw a woman who looked like she wanted to punch him. Her eyes were glistening, and her cheeks were flushed.
‘If that’s what you truly believe, Henning, then you can go straight to hell.’
Ann-Mari Sara disappeared out of focus again.
‘Then prove it,’ Henning said, and struggled to see better.
‘I don’t need to prove
anything.’
As she walked to the door, put her key in the lock, she shook her head and swore at him under her breath. Henning followed behind, and forgetting the state he was in, tried to go too fast; everything around him started to spin, and when he stopped abruptly, it was hard to keep his balance. As he fell to the ground, he saw the outline of a car a little further away, a car he recognised, that he had seen not long ago. He didn’t have time to notice anything else before something warm pressed down over his eyes and everything went quiet.
36
Nora sat in the kitchen and tried to eat something. Not for her own sake – food was the last thing she wanted – but for the baby. The banana tasted like cardboard, the yoghurt like bad strawberries, but she managed to drink a glass of milk – calcium and vitamin D were important. She also managed to swallow a couple of seal oil capsules with some water.
It was evening and the flat felt even quieter and darker than usual. She suddenly realised that she missed her mother. They’d agreed that she would come tomorrow, as it might be late by the time Nora got back from the hospital and talking to the police. Agnes would have fussed about and stirred up a bit of life, if nothing else. Filled the walls with sounds.
Nora decided to light some candles, so she went into the living room where she thought she’d left the matches, but the box wasn’t on the table.
She went back into the kitchen again and spotted the matchbox. On the counter.
She was sure she hadn’t left it there.
Nora got the acute feeling that someone else was in the flat, at that very minute. She listened. No movement, no sound, nothing to indicate that another person was there. But the more she thought about it, the more certain she was. Someone had been in her flat while she’d been out most of the day.
And now that the thought had taken root, she noticed a few other things that weren’t as they should be. One of the magnets on the fridge had been moved. She hadn’t hung the ultrasound photo there, had she? It was normally beside the sushi menu, not under the fridge brand name. The newspapers weren’t hanging over the edge of the counter, as they had been this morning.
Or was she imagining it?
They could have been looking for something, she thought, something they thought Iver had left here. But what could it be?
Nora went back to the living room, stopped and listened again. Nothing, no strange sounds. But still she went out into the hall and inspected the lock on the front door. There was nothing wrong with it.
But the umbrella.
It had been knocked over and was lying on the floor. When had she done that?
She blinked a couple of times. You’re going mad, she said to herself. Go back into the living room, sit down, breathe, and go through it all again.
Nora obeyed her own instruction and sat down on the sofa, concentrated on her breathing. She remembered her mother had taken down the ultrasound picture, looked at it and then hung it back in a different place, she was pretty sure of that. And she could well have put the matches somewhere else without thinking about it. There was no need to panic.
And in any case, there were people down at street level keeping an eye on whoever went in and out of the building, and they would have noticed if anyone had broken into her flat.
But had they been there when she was out?
She looked at her watch. It was quarter past midnight. That didn’t stop her from dialling Bjarne Brogeland’s number and asking.
‘No, they weren’t there,’ he said in a weary voice. ‘They’re working shifts and you were with me, after all, so…’
She heard a sharp intake of breath.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Well, I…’
She thought about it. It was highly unlikely that the people who had killed Iver and shot Henning would risk breaking into her flat when all manner of people from the press and police were looking for them. And in any case, she knew nothing, she wasn’t dangerous to them.
‘Is everything alright?’ Bjarne Brogeland asked, with more force in his voice.
‘Yes, I … think so.’
‘Think so? Why do you say that?’
Bjarne sounded suddenly more alert and slightly anxious.
‘Well, it’s just … I got the feeling that someone has been in my flat. But I’m sure it’s nonsense.’
‘Do you want me to come over and check? Or … should I send one of the officers up?’
‘No, no,’ she said. ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine. I’m probably just … a little frightened. Or paranoid, I don’t know. I’ll be fine. Sorry for calling you so late.’
Bjarne hesitated before saying, ‘That’s OK, I’m still at work.’
‘Oh right. Is there … any progress?’
‘We’re working on several leads,’ he said.
Vague, Nora thought, but then that’s the sort of thing the police said when they had no hard facts.
‘OK,’ she said, eventually. ‘Good night.’
‘Good night. Try to get some sleep.’
‘I will.’
They both hung up, and Nora took a deep breath, then leaned back in the sofa.
Put her hands on her stomach.
She hated to admit it, but the last ten minutes had really frightened her.
When Bjarne had come to the flat earlier in the day, he’d mentioned a carpenter called Rasmus Bjelland. Nora had planned to find out more about him, but should she really start digging around in something that had already got her partner killed? Weren’t there more important things to think about in the time ahead?
Henning was right, she thought, as she stroked her belly. She had to stay away from it all. It was too dangerous for them both.
37
Roger Blystad drove back and forth, around and around. Couldn’t bring himself to park the car and get out. Instead he stopped at a spot where he had a good view of the cemetery and could see the maybe thirty people, including the minister, who were gathered around a large mound of earth.
Blystad let out a sob.
He would have given anything to be standing there himself, singing, even though he never usually sang. To have shaken the minister’s hand and been given an overdose of the words that always sounded so strange and impersonal. He could never bring himself to say them to other people who’d lost someone. He wondered who they all were and how they knew her – if they were neighbours or colleagues. Or maybe someone she’d gone to school with. No doubt people he’d never met before.
It was a strange thought, that other people he knew nothing about had also in some way been connected to the most important person in his life.
He drove around the block again. When he got back, the small crowd was moving away from the grave. The minister had finished. She was in the ground.
Blystad sobbed again.
He let the engine run as he watched them leaving the cemetery. He recognised Uncle Lars and some other family members. But no one else. Some people got into their cars, others stood around talking. One of them laughed. Blystad wanted to get out and hit him. Never mind, on with the show. Go back to work, back home and watch TV.
He put his foot on the accelerator and drove off.
Durim Redzepi remembered how dark it had been in Vanja Kvalheim’s flat the day she died. He remembered hearing her come up the stairs, fumbling outside the door, the key slowly slipping into the lock – as though she was completely exhausted by a full day’s work at the Majorstua Clinic, and had no more energy left. The shock on her face when she’d come into the living room and seen the light from the TV reflecting on the ceiling, and then seen him and Jeton Pocoli sitting on the sofa.
‘Do you seriously record The Bold and the Beautiful?’ he’d asked.
It was a good opening line. Not threatening. But Mrs Kvalheim hadn’t been able to say a word, she just stood there staring.
‘How many episodes are there of this crap? 18,000?’
‘W-who are you?’
‘You don’t even need to watch thi
s shit to know what’s going to happen.’
‘W-what do you want?’
Redzepi had looked at the TV screen for a few seconds, before freezing the picture and throwing down the remote control. The sudden loud noise had frightened Mrs Kvalheim.
‘But I think I know why. Look at that guy there.’
He’d taken a few steps towards her as he pointed at the screen. Stopped right in front of her.
‘He’s the spitting image of your son.’
And then she’d started to cry. Vanja Kvalheim had probably just realised why he hadn’t bothered to cover his face. Why he was wearing gloves. Why they’d closed all the curtains. Why Jeton Pocoli just sat there looking at her.
‘Where is he, Vanja?’
‘Who?’
He’d laughed at this. So helpless.
‘Please,’ she said, ‘I don’t know where he is.’
And they had seen the tears in her eyes, her pleading face, watched when her knees buckled.
‘What do you reckon, Jeton – does she or doesn’t she know where the carpenter is?’
Jeton Pocoli had stood and taken a step towards her, then shrugged. Redzepi had produced a small box from his jacket pocket, opened it, taken out something that looked like a pin, which he kept in his hand. From the other pocket he’d taken out a small glass bottle that contained a clear liquid. It looked like water.
With great care, he’d slowly removed the lid.
‘I’ve only used this on a cat,’ he said. ‘D’you remember, Jeton?’
Jeton Pocoli had nodded.
‘It’s really nothing much.’
‘W-what do you mean?’
‘But we do know it works on humans too.’
Her lips had started to quiver when he dipped the pin carefully into the clear liquid, and then held the point up to the light, so that a drop fell on the carpet.
‘I believe you,’ he’d said, finally. ‘I really do believe you don’t know where your son is.’
At the same time, he’d nodded to Jeton Pocoli, who took another step closer and grabbed her by the arms.
