by Thomas Enger
He could very quickly see that there was no one there; all was quiet, there were no lights on, and everything was as he remembered, down to the position of the shoes by the door and the number of bottles in the plastic bag by the green cupboard.
Henning went through the flat quickly, picking up what he needed – an extra jacket, a pair of gloves, some more money – and the car keys. He couldn’t remember where he’d parked the yellow car that he’d bought only a few weeks ago, but he eventually found it in Fossveien, just by the entrance to the old sailcloth factory.
Henning had just got in when his phone vibrated in his jacket pocket. A text message from Bjarne.
Thought you would want to know: Charlie Høisæther has been reported missing by his girlfriend in Natal. Didn’t come home last night. BB
Henning sat there and wondered what it might mean. Had Charlie’s past caught up with him? Had the truth about his game in Natal got out? Had someone taken revenge?
OK, Henning wrote in reply and started the car. There was a beep before he even managed to manoeuvre out of the tight parking space.
Where are you?
Henning didn’t answer, started to drive instead.
It wasn’t easy with only one working arm, but somehow he managed. Twenty minutes later he left the car in the big parking place by Huk.
Huk was where they’d met, Henning and Bjelland, in autumn 2007. They’d sat by the white restaurant that had originally been built as a bathing house for Vidkun Quisling, the Norwegian Nazi who seized power during the Second World War. The seagulls had screeched and boats had glided silently past further out on the water. Airplanes had left white trails in the otherwise perfect sky.
In many ways, it seemed fitting to meet in the same place, Henning thought. Where it all started. Hopefully now, the final pieces would fall into place.
Henning was there early, primarily because he hated being late, but also because he wanted to make sure that they were alone. In summer, Huk was possibly the most popular beach in Oslo, with throngs of people visiting from morning to night. They came with disposable barbecues, Frisbees and guitars, not to mention alcohol and other highs. But there was no one there now, no one other than a man walking along the asphalt path towards him, about 100 metres away – a man who looked as though he was keeping a cautious eye on his surroundings.
It had to be Bjelland, Henning thought. The last time they met, Charlie Høisæther’s joiner had been chubby with a receding hairline and thin hair. All that was gone now, the extra kilos, the wispy hair, but the man on the path moved with the same wariness as before, the same guarded expression and searching eyes. The same quick step.
About 30 seconds later, he stopped, a little hesitant, in front of Henning, as though he wasn’t quite sure he’d come to the right place. He held out a similarly hesitant hand.
‘That bad, huh,’ Bjelland said, looking Henning up and down. And Henning realised that he didn’t look the same as he had two years ago either.
‘Yep, afraid so,’ he said.
Bjelland let go of his hand and turned around. A man in a dark jacket had appeared but was walking in the opposite direction. And soon enough they were alone again.
Bjelland turned back to Henning.
‘I wasn’t sure if you’d … want to meet me again,’ he said.
‘Why?’
‘Because…’
He looked out over the water. A small wave broke on the rocky shore.
‘Because of your scars,’ he said.
Henning knew what he was thinking. The last time they met marked the start of the events that would eventually lead to Jonas’s death. And he might very well have blamed Rasmus Bjalland for it, he could have hated him, but what good would that do? It wouldn’t bring Jonas back, and the decision to delve deeper into the Tore Pulli story had been his own. If anyone was to blame for Jonas’s death, other than the people who got Durim Redzepi to start the fire, it was Henning himself.
He pointed to some smooth rocks by the water. ‘Shall we sit over there?’
Bjelland glanced at Henning before nodding, then looked around. A ferry was moving slowly round the point. They sat staring out over the fjord.
‘You’re a difficult man to find,’ Henning said.
‘With good reason,’ Bjelland said.
Henning looked at him, waited for him to talk.
‘After we met last time,’ Bjelland started, with a sigh, ‘and especially after I’d seen what had happened to you and … your son, I realised that I had to lie low if I wanted to live. Not that I had much to live for, but … well, you want to stay alive, don’t you? You get scared, so you try to protect yourself.’
Henning nodded.
‘I found out about your wife,’ he said.
Bjelland looked away for a few seconds. Henning waited for him to say something. He had to wait a while.
‘It was my car she was driving,’ he eventually said, almost in tears. ‘I didn’t think they’d come after us so quickly, but … they did.’
He shook his head.
‘My only comfort is that she probably didn’t even know or feel anything before it was over.’
Bjelland picked up a small stone from the ground and rolled it between his fingers. Henning studied the man who looked as tired as he felt. Bjelland had great circles under his eyes.
‘And that’s why you wanted to talk to me two years ago,’ Henning said. ‘You wanted revenge?’
Bjelland glanced over at him.
‘Something like that.’
‘And now you’ve contacted me again. What’s happened in the meantime?’
Bjelland sighed.
‘Two guys came to my door last night,’ he said, and lowered his eyes. ‘They tried to kill me. I…’
Henning looked over at his hands. The scabs on his knuckles.
‘I’m so tired of it all,’ Bjelland said. ‘Tired of being on the run. Tired of having to look over my shoulder all the time. And I’m pretty sure you and I have the same people after us.’
Henning was sure of it too, but wanted to hear Bjelland’s theories, to see if they echoed his own.
‘Especially after what happened to your colleague.’
Bjelland threw the stone out into the water.
‘Iver Gundersen phoned my mother,’ Bjelland continued. ‘He was trying to get in touch with me. My mother and I, we…’
He looked away again.
Took a few deep breaths.
‘Mum had a secret email address that she never used anywhere other than at work,’ he said. ‘And I, well, I’ve been living under another identity for the past two years, so whenever something popped up to do with me, she let me know.’
‘So your mother told you that Iver wanted to get in touch?’
Bjelland nodded.
‘And even though I’ve been lying low, I’ve tried to keep up to date – especially after Tore Pulli was killed. I saw that you were on the case again, and that you were working closely with Gundersen. According to my mum, he wanted to talk to me about Charlie Høisæther and my bankruptcy in 1996, what kind of collaboration we’d had after that, and I realised you’d got someone to help you dig around, to investigate anything to do with Tore – just like you did two years ago.’
Bjelland paused.
Henning took the opportunity: ‘So you contacted Iver?’
Bjelland nodded.
‘I sent him an email, yes.’
‘Why did you do that?’
‘Because I’d started to think about it.’
Bjelland sighed deeply, leaned forward and tugged at some grass that was growing in the cracks between the stones.
‘At first I was pleased that Tore was dead. Until he was killed, I was sure he was the one who started all the rumours about me in Brazil.’
‘Before you go on,’ Henning interrupted. ‘Tell me about that. Tell me what Tore had to gain from doing that. As far as I know, he was busy with his own things in Oslo at the time.’
; ‘Yes, but he was doing a lot more,’ Bjelland said. ‘He’d had a long list of clients as an enforcer and still knew lots of people who were involved in criminal activities and needed to do something with their dirty money. They went to Tore, and he sent the money to Charlie in Brazil – where it was then poured into various property projects.’
‘Money laundering, in other words.’
‘Right. Tore made a bit from it himself, but after a while, the same clients didn’t see the need to go via Tore – they now had their own route, direct to Charlie, and several of them even started up for themselves down there in Natal. So Tore was getting less and less money, and I don’t know if you know, but he was in a lot of debt by the end. From gambling and the like.’
Henning looked up at a seagull that swooped overhead.
‘Yes, I had heard that.’
‘Whatever, towards the end of my time with them, Tore and Charlie were arguing a lot about money. Tore thought it was unfair that he didn’t get any compensation for the business he’d generated for Charlie. I know that he wanted a flat, among other things, as payment or thanks for all his help. But I didn’t have much to do with them the last six months I was down there. Mariana and I had started our own business.’
‘And that wasn’t so popular, perhaps?’
Bjelland shook his head.
‘No, everything changed between us then. I actually think that Charlie fancied my wife even before we got married, but he wouldn’t admit it. That’s basically why I didn’t think Charlie had anything to do with the rumours about me; he would never had done anything to put her life in danger.’
Maybe that’s at the bottom of it, Henning thought, the real reason why Charlie and Tore fell out. Charlie loved the woman that Tore was partly responsible for killing.
‘So Tore wanted more money,’ Henning reasoned out loud, to himself and Bjelland. ‘He wanted fewer players in Natal, so that potential clients would come to him, and everything would be like before.’
‘That’s what I thought, as well.’
Bjelland stood up and looked around. Then he slowly sat down again.
‘Like I said, for a long time I thought it was Tore who pulled the strings, as had always been the case when Tore and Charlie did business.’
Bjelland let the blades of grass slide between his fingers and then he clapped his hands lightly to brush off any dirt.
‘But then when Tore was killed, and in such a sophisticated way, I started to wonder.’
He moved a little closer, so that he was sitting directly opposite Henning.
‘I don’t know if you found out which murder Tore was involved in, but…’
‘I think so,’ Henning interrupted. ‘Bodil Svenkerud, 1996.’
Bjelland smiled momentarily, and nodded.
‘I saw it all,’ he said. ‘From a window on the third floor. I’d just started to do up a flat in the building where she lived. It was a hit-and-run, poor woman, she was literally run over.’
He shook his head.
‘Killing her was Tore’s idea. Charlie told me a few years later, when he’d had a bit to drink. But if you think about it – it wasn’t a particularly smart thing to do – to run over an old lady like that, on the street. Anyone could have seen them.’
‘But you saw them, and you … didn’t tell the police?’ Henning said.
‘No, I did, it was me who called them and spoke to them. At that point I didn’t know it was Charlie and Tore’s work. Anyway, they got away with it, and afterwards they had the sense not to do business together for a while – at least, not in Norway. Charlie moved to Brazil and that was where they started the little joint venture that made them rich, Charlie, in particular. And it was actually quite a smart game. It certainly worked.’
Henning moved a little. The rock they were sitting on was starting to feel cold and hard.
‘And they did really well for years. Then in 2007, there was a police operation and almost everyone who dealt in property was hauled in by the police. Only a few got away with it. And Charlie was one of them. Then suddenly there were all these rumours that I was the informant, because I was one of the ones the police didn’t charge. Which was also a pretty smart move, if you look at it objectively. With a bit of luck, I would be killed, the people down there in Natal would have their scapegoat, and that would be the end of it – plus, there would be less competition as a result.’
‘But then your wife was killed instead, and you came back here.’
Bjelland nodded.
‘My point is: Tore and Charlie could behave like complete idiots sometimes, and be super sophisticated at other times. And, of course, people get smarter as they get older, but still, there was something that didn’t fit. I found it hard to believe that they could think up such a refined plan on their own.’
Henning thought about what Trine had told him, about the threats she got on the phone. Someone had been smart enough to record the phone call they’d made to her that day, a recording that would later link her to an unsolved murder which, if it fell into the hands of a newspaper, could ruin her career. A smart move, at short notice, just after they’d done something that wasn’t so smart.
Henning knew where Bjelland was going.
‘So then you thought that maybe someone other than Tore was responsible for the rumours about you? Which led to your wife being killed. Someone who might have been part of the whole Natal deal from the beginning in 1996?’
Bjelland nodded.
‘Tore might well have spread the rumours, but I think that someone else gave him the idea.’
‘So that’s why you contacted Iver. You wanted him to find out who was behind it all.’
Bjelland nodded again.
‘You don’t have any theories yourself? Not even after all those years in Brazil?’
This time Bjelland shook his head.
In which case there must have been someone invisible pulling all the strings, Henning thought. It could have been Daddy Longlegs, only Henning had always seen Daddy Longlegs as a middleman, and he was dead now.
And Charlie was missing…
Henning wondered if Iver had managed to sniff out this person.
‘So you and Iver corresponded by email?’
Bjelland nodded.
‘He asked questions, and poked around, but I couldn’t tell him much more than what I’ve told you now. I don’t know who was behind it.’
Which is why they took Iver’s laptop and mobile phone, Henning thought. They were scared that someone else would get hold of this, either in the form of a document or an email – even though the main player was unknown.
‘OK,’ Henning said. ‘So we’re sitting here again, my colleague is dead and someone is after both of us.’
‘Yes,’ Bjelland said. ‘And I thought that we could maybe join forces in some way or another.’
‘And how do you see that working?’
Bjelland shrugged.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘But I did think that you could maybe tell my story, either in your paper or to someone you trust in the police. I’m not going to risk talking to them; I killed a man last night. I would never survive more than a week in a Norwegian prison, because of the gangs that are in there, who still think I was the informer in Natal.’
‘So you want to use me as your microphone stand again.’
Bjelland sighed.
‘Call it what you like. I didn’t know what else to do. I’m scared, and I can’t face living in hiding any longer.’
He rubbed his fingers against his thighs, as though he needed to generate some warmth.
‘We don’t have any evidence,’ Henning said. ‘And right now, people around me have a tendency to end up dead.’
Bjelland picked up another stone, studied it briefly and then threw it into the water. They watched the rings widen on the surface of the water, before they too disappeared.
Henning got out his phone and saw that Bjarne had tried to call him again. He’d also received an
email. As there was a natural pause in the conversation, he opened his email account. The sharp light and reflection from the water made it difficult to read, so he held the phone closer and squinted.
The subject was NORA.
Nothing else.
The email had been sent from an address that was made up of lots of numbers and an email server Henning had never heard of. There was only one line of text in capital letters:
FINAL WARNING
The reference was clear.
On the evening that someone had broken into his flat, a similar message had been left on the inside of his front door – a message that Henning had only discovered as he jumped through the wall of flames into Jonas’s room.
The message was from Durim Redzepi.
The man who had set fire to his flat.
There was a picture file attached. Henning opened it, held the phone even closer to his face so he could see what it was.
It was a photograph of a photograph.
An ultrasound picture.
It had been placed on a kitchen table and he immediately knew where the photograph had been taken.
In Nora’s flat.
And beside the ultrasound image of Nora’s unborn child was a box of matches.
‘What is it?’ Bjelland asked.
But Henning didn’t answer. He was thinking about Nora, about what he should do. There was absolutely no doubt what the picture meant: if Henning didn’t let things lie, Durim Redzepi would kill Nora and her unborn child, in a fire, just as he’d done with Jonas.
‘What is it?’ Bjelland asked again.
There was also a link in the email. Henning clicked on it.
The photographs were unclear and jumpy, but again, he had no doubt about what he was seeing. Live pictures from Nora’s flat, from a camera somewhere on the ceiling, in the lampshade, perhaps. He saw her wandering around the flat, and some big boxes on the floor. There were piles of clothes lying around. Small clothes.
Henning closed the feed and dialled her number straightaway, got up and walked back and forth in front of Bjelland while he waited for an answer. Luckily it didn’t take long.
‘Hi, Henning,’ she said.
