by Thomas Enger
But who did he work for?
‘But that’s not all that happened yesterday,’ Bjarne said, and pressed the remote control again. Another news site appeared.
Henning read.
Double Murder in Brandbu
Two foreign nationals were found dead at a house just outside the centre of Brandbu in Oppland. According to a spokesperson from Gran and Lunner police, the deaths are being treated as suspicious, but no further details have been released.
A press conference will be held later on today.
‘One of the victims was called Jeton Pocoli,’ Bjarne said, clearly engaged. ‘He’s somehow linked to Durim Redzepi. A gun was found at the scene, and some bullet cases, and the grooves on the inside of the cases match those on the cases that were found where you were shot.’
Henning tried to process this new information.
‘So Redzepi was there as well?’
‘Well, it was certainly the same weapon as the one he fired at you,’ Bjarne replied. ‘We’re trying to find the man who lived at the address where it happened. Apparently the owner is an old man, and he’d rented it out to a joiner.’
Henning turned away from the screen and stared at Bjarne.
A joiner.
‘So, it’s been quite a night, you might say.’
Bjarne was still keyed up.
But all Henning could focus on was what he’d just said.
‘What was he called?’
‘Who?’
‘The joiner.’
‘He’s called…’ Bjarne pulled a notebook from his jacket pocket. ‘Roger Blystad.’
Henning tasted the name. Not such a big leap, in terms of phonetics, from Rasmus Bjelland. He’d thought, certainly guessed, for a long time, that Bjelland had changed his name.
‘But you don’t know where he is?’
Bjarne shook his head.
‘We’ve put out a call to every district in the country that he’s wanted for questioning, so it would be quite a feat if we didn’t manage to find him.’
Henning tried to work out what could have happened. Someone who was connected to Durim Redzepi had been in Brandbu and had been killed…
‘It could have been self-defence,’ Henning said.
‘The thought also struck me. And there are things to indicate that there was a fight in the cellar, where one of the bodies was found. Several shots had been fired, among other things.’
Henning thought some more.
‘But there’s still no sign of Redzepi?’
Bjarne shook his head.
‘If I was him, I’d have left the country long ago. His face is in all the papers. He’s obviously just a foot soldier. But foot soldiers don’t like being arrested either.’
And now that Daddy Longlegs – his employer – was dead, there was certainly no reason for Redzepi to stay, Henning reasoned.
‘Have you managed to reconstruct Iver’s final movements?’ he asked. ‘Who he was in contact with, and the like?’
‘We don’t know,’ said Bjarne.
‘But what about where he’d been, then? His car, for example?’
‘We’re checking that, of course – I’ve been a bit busy with other things recently, so I’m not up to date on it right now.’
Henning wondered what ‘other things’ Bjarne was talking about.
‘I have to get back to the station,’ Bjarne said. ‘You know how it is. Meetings, meetings, meetings.’
‘Before you go,’ Henning said. ‘You don’t happen to know where my mobile phone is?’
‘No,’ Bjarne said, and turned off the television. ‘But give me two seconds, and I’ll see if it’s lying around here somewhere.’
‘Great. Thanks.’
46
Roger Blystad checked the time. Nearly eight o’clock. The last time he’d looked it was … nearly eight o’clock.
He sighed, lay down on the hotel bed and stared at the ceiling – his main pastime for the last twelve hours. The unfamiliar bed had not provided much sleep. At some point during the night, he had woken suddenly and sat up, certain that someone was in the room; he had even reached for a weapon he didn’t have, and looked for the intruder. It was only some time after the imagined danger that he could breathe normally again.
Blystad closed his eyes.
He could feel the past 48 hours in his body. In any other circumstances, he would have been able to sleep without a problem, but now his mind wouldn’t rest. The images were burned into his memory, and played on repeat to his inner eye.
Lots of people have lost their lives recently because of you, Blystad thought, and sat up. And, from what he’d read in the newspapers, it had been a close call for Henning Juul as well.
Blystad looked at the clock again, just after eight this time. Still no answer.
You can’t stay here much longer, he said to himself.
He decided to give it another hour. Then he would have to leave.
Bjarne came back into the room, and smiled as he waved with the telephone.
‘I found it,’ he said. ‘It’s been here since the last time. One of the nurses has even charged it for you. Talk about extra service!’
Bjarne came over to the bed and handed it to Henning. Henning studied Bjarne as he took it.
No.
Bjarne was still Bjarne.
There was a new scratch on the glass on his phone. Must have been when I lost consciousness, Henning thought, and heard Bjarne’s phone ringing. Bjarne fished it out of his pocket and answered, at the same time moving away from Henning’s bed.
Henning checked any missed calls and saw that Veronica had called four times, and Bjarne seven. Not many people knew his new number, so it wasn’t so strange that there weren’t more, but he had hoped that Nora might have rung.
Henning went into his email account and waited half a minute while the day’s emails ticked in. The first four were advertising, but the fifth one startled him. He glanced over at Bjarne, who seemed to be fully focused on what the person on the other end was saying.
It said ‘Rasmus Bjelland’ under subject.
He opened the email.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Rasmus Bjelland
Hi Henning,
Something tells me we’ve got the same people after us. Can we meet again?
Answer as soon as you can. I’ll be leaving soon.
Rasmus Bjelland
Roger Blystad, thought Henning. The carpenter. Who lived in the house where the two Kosovo-Albanians were killed yesterday.
He tried to write an answer, but it was slow work with only one functioning arm, and he didn’t manage to press send before Bjarne came back.
‘Is there anything else you need?’
Henning shook his head.
‘You just stay here then and get better,’ the policeman said. ‘We can talk more later.’
Then he disappeared.
Henning finished the email to Bjelland, and waited for five minutes. Then he pulled the cord that switched on a green light outside his room, and waited for another minute for a nurse to come in.
Henning pushed himself off the bed.
The nurse asked, ‘Do you need to go to the toilet again?’
‘No,’ Henning replied, feeling a little unsteady. He went over to the chair where his clothes were.
‘I need a bit of help to put my clothes on.’
The police officer raised his drowsy eyes from the book he was reading.
‘Why do you need to get dressed?’ the nurse asked.
‘Because I’m going out.’
The nurse hesitated. ‘I’ll have to talk to your doctor first.’
Henning shook his head and started to unbutton the hospital nightshirt.
‘My shoulder hurts, but everything else is working. I don’t have time to be here any longer.’
The officer put down his book and stood up.
‘And no,’ Henning said, t
urning towards him. ‘You don’t need to ask anyone if that’s alright. I’m perfectly capable of deciding myself whether I stay here or not.’
The officer didn’t answer, but got out his phone and left the room.
‘We can’t force you to stay, obviously,’ the nurse said. ‘But let me have a quick word with the doctor before you go, so we can be sure you don’t do anything you’ll regret.’
The nurse helped him to get dressed. It took some time.
Henning agreed to wait until both the nurse and officer had let their seniors know. The nurse was the first to come back. She gave him a nod and a smile.
Then the officer came back. He still had his mobile phone to his ear, as if he were in mid-conversation.
‘Brogeland wants to know where you’re going,’ he said.
Yes, I bet he does, Henning thought.
‘Tell him I’ll call when I know myself,’ he said.
Then he left.
47
The car radio was still on the Norwegian P4 channel, even though Durim Redzepi had crossed the Swedish border some time ago. Once every hour, the news reminded him of what had happened the night before, and each time he saw Jeton Pocoli’s face twisted with pain. And every time, Redzepi had reached the conclusion that he couldn’t have done anything else. It had been both compassionate and necessary.
He wondered if he’d managed to remove all trace of himself from the cabin. He’d started to rush towards the end because he just wanted to finish and go. Now that Daddy Longlegs was dead, the police would probably investigate every detail in his life, and as he was the one who’d organised the cabin for Redzepi in the spring, it was equally probable that they would come knocking.
But it didn’t really matter if they found anything or not, he was never going back. Gothenburg was his first stop. He’d dump the car there and contact a friend who knew most of the Kosovo-Albanians in Scandinavia, find out if there was work elsewhere.
It was a good morning for driving. Clear and still. The road was dry. Redzepi was driving at just over the speed limit, but he knew that the speedometer was always on the high side. He was overtaking a semi-trailer on a long, gentle slope when his phone started to vibrate in the centre console.
Redzepi had thrown away the phone he’d been using for the past few days, and this was his old one, the one he’d used before Daddy Longlegs asked him to switch. Redzepi didn’t recognise the number on the display, but so what – it could hardly be relevant to him now.
He pulled into the inside lane and tried to concentrate on the road and the traffic ahead, and he managed quite successfully for the next hundred metres or so.
But the phone wouldn’t stop ringing.
Redzepi picked it up and held it to his ear.
‘Hello?’ he said.
He turned down the volume on the radio.
‘Durim?’ said an unknown voice. ‘Where are you?’
‘Who’s asking?’ he asked, aggressively.
‘The person who pays your bills.’
Redzepi took his foot off the accelerator and let the car cruise for a while as he tried to work out if he’d heard the man’s voice before. It was clear, neither high nor deep, angry or gentle. It was completely neutral.
Hang up now, Redzepi told himself. It might be a policeman.
‘What do you want?’ he asked. ‘Who are you?’
‘Daddy Longlegs is dead.’
‘I know.’
‘He was shot and killed last night,’ the man said.
Redzepi started to wind down the window. He was about to throw the phone out when the man said, ‘It was me who killed him.’
What the hell was going on? How had this man got hold of his number?
‘And I need you to finish the job.’
Redzepi’s thoughts were racing.
‘Who are you?’ he asked, and just then, a memory surfaced. That job he’d done out at the Scandic hotel in Asker one day, on the petrified policeman’s laptop. The name he’d deleted from the Indicia report.
It was him.
‘You don’t need to worry about that,’ the man said. ‘But what you do need to worry about is doing your job properly. And it’s not finished.’
Redzepi shook his head and thought about his girls, what Daddy Longlegs had promised.
‘Not now that Daddy Longlegs is dead. You’ll have to sort it out yourself, I don’t care.’
He was about to hang up.
‘You don’t care about Doruntina and Svetlana?’
Redzepi said nothing.
‘Well?’
Redzepi’s grip on the steering wheel tightened.
‘I know about your family, Durim.’
He swallowed.
‘What are you saying?
There was a moment’s silence.
‘Henning Juul and Rasmus Bjelland are both still alive,’ the man continued. ‘Finish the job and I’ll tell you what Daddy Longlegs found out about your wife and daughter.’
Redzepi had to swing sharply to the left to stop the car from swerving onto the other side of the road. He ran a hand over his cropped hair. The most sensible thing would be to keep on driving, away from Norway, and let this guy sort out his problems himself.
But he knew their names.
‘You have to give me something first,’ Redzepi said.
‘Hm?’
‘How can I be sure that you know anything about my family?’
Another silence.
‘Your word’s not enough,’ Redzepi said. ‘You have to give me something first.’
For a second, all he heard was the static fuzz on the line, then the man at the other end sighed.
‘Daddy Longlegs got a man to check what your brother had done with all the money you sent,’ he said, eventually.
Redzepi felt his heart start to pound.
‘Why did he do that?’
‘Because knowledge is power, Durim. We always keep an eye on our investments.’
He was thinking hard.
‘What did he find out?’
‘I’ll tell you when you’ve finished the job.’
Redzepi shook his head.
‘That’s not enough. You have to tell me something that’ll convince me you’re telling the truth.’
There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end.
‘Your brother’s called Jetmir, and his wife is called Justyna and they have a daughter called Mischa. They live next to a big furniture factory in Koljovica Ere, on the outskirts of Pristina. I’m not going to say anymore, because as soon as you know what I know, you’ll just carry on driving – you’ll have no reason to come back and finish the job. And the clock is ticking, Durim. We’re running out of time.’
Redzepi considered this. The information about his family was correct. Maybe this man really did know something about his girls.
Redzepi realised it was a while since he’d accelerated. The semi-trailer had passed him again.
‘Well, what’s it to be, Durim?’
The very thought of turning around and heading back to Norway, to Oslo, where the police were hunting for him night and day, made him feel sick; his body broke out in a sweat. He wiped his forehead and thought about his dead friends. He wanted to avenge them.
He switched on the GPS; it showed a turnoff to the right up ahead, and a bridge where he could cross over to the other side.
‘I’ll do it,’ he said in a feeble voice.
‘Good. Do you have any idea about how to get hold of them?’
‘I think so. The carpenter, at least. Juul isn’t always easy to catch at short notice, but I’ve got something that might work.’
Redzepi explained what he was thinking. The man at the other end hesitated at first, but then said. ‘That doesn’t really get us any closer to Juul. It might even make him stay away.’
‘It’s the best I’ve got.’
Silence again.
‘Get the ball rolling then.’
After he’d been given some mor
e instructions, Redzepi put the phone down and pulled into a layby. He rang his friend in Gothenburg and asked if he could get hold of Flurim Ahmetaj. Ten minutes later, Redzepi got a call from an unknown number.
‘Brother,’ Ahmetaj said. ‘What is it now?’
Redzepi took a deep breath.
‘If I told you that you could stay exactly where you are right now, as long as you had your computer with you, and still earn a heap of money in no time at all … what would you say?’
He didn’t answer.
Redzepi knew that Ahmetaj seldom said no to good money.
‘You’ll get 10,000,’ he added.
‘If you’re talking euros, you’ve got a deal.’
Redzepi thought about it for a while, then he said, ‘OK.’
He heard a burst of laughter at the other end.
‘Now you’re talking my language, brother. What d’you need?’
‘I need you to send an email.’
‘An email? Should be able to manage that.’
‘And I need to know the carpenter’s exact position,’ Redzepi said. ‘You haven’t turned the trackers off, have you?’
48
It had become even colder, Henning thought, when he stepped outside. He tried to pull his fleece jacket tighter over the sling and around his body, but it didn’t provide much extra warmth.
It felt strange to be on his feet again, like he was on his way home after a long night on the town. So he took a taxi back to Seilduksgaten, as he was fairly certain that Durim Redzepi or any of the others in that gang wouldn’t bother to stake out his flat now – not after all that had happened.
But he couldn’t be 100 per cent sure, so he got off the street as quickly as possible, and prayed that he wouldn’t meet anyone on the stairs on the way up to his flat.
His postbox was stuffed full, but it would have to wait. He limped up the stairs and let himself in.
It felt odd to be there again. He hadn’t spent a night in his own flat for as long as he could remember. The last time he stood here in the hall, he had narrowly averted a gas explosion. One of the windows was still open. It was as cold inside as it was outside.
