by Thomas Enger
‘Nora.’ He took a few steps away from Bjelland, ‘Are you alone?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you locked the door?’
Nora hesitated for a beat.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I always do. Why do you ask?’
‘Has anyone been round to the flat recently?’
There was silence on the other end for a moment.
‘No one apart from Mum and Bjarne,’ she said. ‘What is it, Henning? Why are you asking?’
Bjarne, Henning thought. Bjarne was going to make sure she was protected.
‘Nothing,’ he said quietly. ‘I just wanted … to check. What are you up to?’ He changed tack, steering her thoughts elsewhere. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m tidying a bit,’ she said. ‘Going through all the baby’s clothes I’ve got. I haven’t been able to face it until now. Jonas had so many lovely things.’
Henning closed his eyes. He hadn’t been able to look at the things he’d kept after Jonas died either. It was impressive that Nora could now, after everything that had happened.
‘Do you remember his little sailor outfit?’ she said.
Henning nodded, could hear her smiling at the memory.
‘Oh, he was so sweet in that outfit,’ Nora continued.
Then she was quiet again, and he heard her sniff.
‘It was Iver who prompted me to do it actually. To go through Jonas’s clothes.’
‘How’s that?’
‘He’d bought a baby hat just before he died.’
Henning nodded, but wasn’t really listening; he was too busy thinking about what he should do about the threat he’d just received.
He swore silently.
‘But really, I’m just trying to get time to pass,’ Nora said. ‘How are you? Where are you? Sounds like you’re by the sea.’
‘Yes, I…’
He tried to get the right words out.
‘Could you do me a favour, Nora?’ And then, before she had time to answer: ‘Can you go somewhere and lie low for a few days? Without letting anyone know, especially the officers keeping an eye on you?’
Again, there was silence.
‘What’s going on, Henning?’
‘I … don’t know,’ he said. ‘Yet. I don’t know.’
He turned around in a full circle. There was something lurking at the back of his mind that he couldn’t quite catch.
‘You’re not making sense, Henning, what’s wrong?’
‘I haven’t got time to explain right now,’ he said. ‘But can you do it, please? Can you go somewhere else?’
Nora didn’t say anything.
‘I’m not sure where I could go,’ she said. ‘It scares me when you say things like that.’
‘I can’t tell you any more right now,’ he said.
‘Do you want me to talk to Bjarne?’
‘No,’ Henning said quickly. ‘Don’t do that. Just sneak out and go somewhere where no one can find you. If you know of somewhere like that.’
Nora sighed.
‘You can’t expect me to do that without knowing why, Henning.’
‘It’s just to be on the safe side,’ he said.
‘But something must have happened, Henning, I can hear it in your voice. Why can’t you just tell me?’
He shook his head, unsure as to whether he should continue or not. He knew how stubborn Nora could be.
‘Has someone threatened you?’
He didn’t answer.
‘Are they threatening you by threatening me?’
Nora, Henning thought and closed his eyes. He should have guessed she’d put two and two together.
‘It would seem so,’ he said, quietly.
‘But … why don’t you want me to talk to Bj—’ She stopped herself and Henning knew that she’d understood.
‘Do you think … he’s got something to do with this?’
Henning exhaled heavily.
‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘I just don’t think it’s worth taking any chances.’
Neither of them said anything for some time. A gust of wind made the line crackle.
‘So, can you do that?’ he asked again. ‘Can you go somewhere without anyone knowing?’
She sighed.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘But I can try.’
The same ferry that had gone out to the islands a little earlier was now on its way back. Bjelland stood up and looked out over the fjord, then at their surroundings. Henning did the same. Saw a woman pushing a buggy along the path, still some way off. She stopped to straighten the baby’s hat.
Henning stood there with his phone in his hand and then it struck him. Everything at once, like a torrent in his mind.
‘The hat,’ he said quietly, to himself.
‘What did you say?’
It was Nora who asked.
‘You said that Iver bought a baby hat,’ he said, ‘just before he died. Do you know where he bought it?’
Nora didn’t answer straightaway.
‘Why are you asking about that, Henning?’
‘Please, Nora, just tell me.’
She took a deep breath and then exhaled loudly.
‘I’ve got the receipt here,’ she said. ‘The shop’s called Little and Light, and it’s in Tønsberg.’
In Tønsberg.
‘He bought it there on Saturday.’
Henning didn’t realise that his mouth had fallen open.
Holy shit.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to go. Can you do what I asked?’ he repeated. ‘Please go somewhere, so no one knows where you are.’
Nora hesitated before answering: ‘I’ll do my best.’
Thoughts were bombarding him from every direction.
‘But what are you going to do, Henning? If someone is threatening you?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Just get somewhere safe. I’ll call you later.’
Henning ended the call and hurried back to Bjelland.
‘I have to run, sorry,’ he said. ‘Straightaway, I have to check something.’
‘But…’
‘I’m not quite sure what you and I should do after today,’ he interrupted. ‘But you kept out of the way last night. Can you do that a little longer? And I’ll contact you by email as soon as I’ve … I have to check this out now.’
Bjelland looked at him, wide-eyed.
‘Yes, well … I guess so,’ he said.
‘Great. Sorry to rush off like this, but … I just have to.’
Then he turned and walked as fast as he could back to the car. He wondered what day it was. Thursday, wasn’t it?
He got into the car and sped off. He was so deep in his own thoughts that he didn’t notice the Lexus that was parked in a side street off the car park, its engine running. Nor did he see the silver grey van that drove into the car park just as he left.
49
Trine stopped in front of the entrance to a building she’d not set foot in since 11 September 2007. She hadn’t once thought that she would come back, had never thought there would be a need for her to do so, and certainly not of her own free will.
Well, it wasn’t exactly of her own free will.
She didn’t have much choice now, it was simply necessary. And it was something she should have done a long time ago.
The keys on her key ring jangled. She couldn’t understand why on earth she’d kept her mother’s keys there. Perhaps to remind her about what had happened, she thought, as some kind of punishment. It didn’t really matter, she was here now and about to go in.
She put the key in the lock and turned it. Opened the door, and as soon as she stepped into the hall, the smell hit her: stale air, cigarette smoke, food and meals that had long since been eaten. Trine took a deep breath and headed towards the stairs, even though her feet were reluctant. She forced herself up the first few steps, and then the rest followed, as though on autopilot. Soon she was at her mother’s door.
What will happen when I open the door? she wond
ered and studied one part of her surname on the nameplate. Trine didn’t know how she’d react when faced with the spineless old bat again. What she would think and feel. Fortunately, it was still quite early, so there was less chance of her mother having drowned her sorrows in drink.
Trine rapped on the front door at the same time that she put the key in the lock. Opened it. Went in. Saw the shoes in the hallway, all higgledy-piggledy. The doormat was crooked. The cupboard nearest the door was ajar, full of coats and jackets, an umbrella, more shoes, most of them worn and well used.
‘Hello?’
She tried to call, but her voice somehow didn’t carry, not properly. So she closed the door behind her and called again, louder this time. A noise from the kitchen made her prick up her ears. The rustling sound of clothes moving. Trine popped her head round the door.
And there she was.
Christine Juul.
She sat there and stared at Trine, her eyes wide and her mouth open. Both her hands on the table in front of her, as though she needed the flats of both of her hands to support her. Before she could say anything, she sobbed and started to cry. Christine Juul rose from the table and stumbled over towards Trine, tears streaming from her eyes.
‘Trine,’ she said. ‘Trine, Trine, darling.’
Again, Trine had no choice; she had to stand there, and accept the full weight of her mother, who weighed little more than fifty kilos, accept the arms that were thrown around her in a tight embrace, hugging, stroking. But Trine couldn’t bring herself to reciprocate.
Her mother pushed her away, as if to make sure it was true. Trine watched her face, her wet, searching eyes. She felt a happy sigh on her skin. The smell of the morning after and not enough food.
‘Is it really you?’
Trine didn’t answer, just felt slightly sick. It was exactly like the last time she’d been there to get Henning’s spare key. She’d wandered around the living room, listened to her mother go on and on about her neighbour, the people on the other side of the street, the cars that started too early in the morning, the haulage driver down on the ground floor who always came home late when he had a week off. And then all the questions about her job, how well she knew the prime minister, such a handsome man.
The kitchen was just as she remembered. A small, cramped sofa that no one ever sat on, a corner counter where the radio was playing, newspapers and magazines spread out over the table, empty bottles lined up on the floor, and the washing-up piled high by the sink.
‘But sit yourself down, sit down,’ her mother said, and pushed passed her, hurried over to the kitchen area and opened the fridge, rummaging for something to eat. But didn’t find anything. She opened one of the cupboards instead.
‘You don’t need to magic something up, Mum. I don’t want anything.’
‘Of course you’ll have something!’
‘I’m not going to stay long.’
Christine Juul didn’t seem to hear; she opened another cupboard, moved things around.
‘Would you like tea or coffee, Trine?’
‘Neither, Mum. I…’
‘Well, a glass of water, then?’
She turned to look at Trine.
‘I don’t have any juice, otherwise you could have had some.’
She beamed, revealing her nicotine-stained teeth. The repulsion that Trine felt for her mother rose up with renewed strength.
‘Why don’t you just sit down, Mum?’
But the woman refused to listen, she opened a drawer, moved a packet of crispbread, some jars of sauce, tins.
‘Argh, I can’t find it,’ she muttered to herself, filling the kettle with water and switching it on. She pulled out her own cup and quickly rinsed it out.
‘How lovely,’ she said, with her back turned.
Trine said nothing.
‘How are you, anyway?’ her mother twittered.
‘I’m fine, Mum. Thanks. But your son’s not doing so well.’
Trine’s mother turned round. Her smile looked as though it had frozen on her face. Then slowly it disintegrated.
‘And how is that handsome husband of yours?’
Trine sighed. Didn’t answer, just waited until her mother had sat down. Which didn’t happen until the water had boiled, the tea had been made and two cups had been placed on the table. Christine Juul pushed one of the cups over towards Trine.
‘Mum,’ Trine started, without taking the cup – she knew she had to swallow the rage that flared up. ‘This is the last time we’ll see each other.’
Christine Juul’s jaw dropped slowly.
‘But before I go,’ Trine continued. ‘I have a couple of questions for you. And you’re going to answer them, whether you like it or not.’
50
Pia Nøkleby was reading the preliminary autopsy report for Vanja Kvalheim when Arild Gjerstad, the head of investigations, came into her office.
‘Did they find anything in particular?’ he asked.
He stood behind her and read over her shoulder.
‘She had an abnormal lesion on her neck,’ she said. ‘A tiny prick on the hairline.’
She turned to him. Gjerstad seemed to know what she was thinking. Tore Pulli had been killed with a piercing needle that had been dipped in a deadly nerve agent, a poison that Ørjan Mjønes had bought in Columbia. It was not unlikely that he’d taken home more than one lethal dose. It was an incredibly quick and efficient way to kill someone, especially if you wanted to avoid any immediate suspicion.
‘We’ll ask the lab to look for batrachotoxin specifically,’ Pia Nøkleby said.
Gjerstad nodded.
‘I’ll call them straightaway,’ he said, and disappeared back into his office.
Pia Nøkleby leaned back in her chair.
Gjerstad had reminded her of something Henning Juul had asked just after Tore Pulli had been killed. If she could find out who Pulli had rung while he was in Oslo Prison. At the time, she hadn’t given much thought to Henning’s request, in fact, she’d been a little irritated that he was telling her how to do her job.
But Henning thought that Pulli had called someone from the prison, someone he had tried to blackmail into helping him. And the fact that, in the end, Pulli had chosen to ring Henning – a journalist who had been on his back trying to uncover how he earned all his money – showed how desperate he was and that he’d tried every alternative.
So who had Pulli spoken to from prison, other than Henning, his lawyer and his wife?
Nøkleby turned around and pulled out a file that said NORWEGIAN CORRECTIONAL SERVICE from the shelf behind the desk. Opened it and leafed through the pages, until she came to one that gave contact information. She ran her finger down the page until it stopped at the name Knut Olav Nordbø.
She dialled his number.
‘Nordbø, can I help you?’
‘Hi, this is Assistant Chief of Police Pia Nøkleby from Oslo Police.’
‘Hello.’
‘I was just wondering about something. Prisoners’ phone logs … I know that the prison service has access to the logs on an internal computer system, and that the logs are deleted when a prisoner either dies or is released. But do the deleted logs disappear altogether, or would it be possible to access them again if necessary?’
Nordbø’s chair creaked.
‘Yes, it’s possible,’ he said. ‘But not if it’s longer than six months.’
Pia Nøkleby straightened up.
‘Is that something you could do?’
‘No, you’d have to ask the administrator.’
‘Could you find out who that is?’
‘Yes, it’s … I can do that. But I can’t just ask him to call up the files you need. You’ll have to…’
‘Get a court order, I know, that’s not a problem. If you can get the administrator to come to your office, or wherever they can get hold of the data, I’ll meet you there.’
There was silence for a moment.
‘Time is of the essence, Nordbø, so
I’d be grateful if you could prioritise it.’
The chair creaked again.
‘There’s not a lot going on here today, so…’
‘Good,’ Pia Nøkleby said. ‘See you shortly.’
51
Rasmus Bjelland. Roger Blystad.
He’d got so used to calling himself Roger that it was hard not to, even in his head. But there was no doubt about who he was going to be in the new life he was going to lead, when he was free.
Bjelland waited for ten minutes after Juul had gone, then he walked back. His shoulders felt more relaxed, his step lighter. It had done him good to tell his story, to share the thoughts he’d carried alone for so long. His hope and belief that he could live a normal life again had been renewed.
Juul might be able to help him; perhaps he would manage to expose whoever it was behind all this, and make the accepted truth that Bjelland was an informer disappear forever. The police might also accept that he killed in self-defence. It wasn’t a given that he’d end up in jail again, even if he admitted what he’d done.
This normal life would be without Mariana, without his mother, maybe even without Helene, but at least it would be on his own terms. He could try to set up another business, start with small jobs, then slowly build it up, see how things went. In Brandbu or somewhere else.
He turned away from the sea and walked along the asphalt path, kicking a fir cone that had fallen from a nearby tree. A man came jogging towards him with white earpieces in his ears. Bjelland kept a keen eye on him as he got closer, but then he ran past, leaving behind a trail of muffled drums, guitars and angry voices.
Bjelland longed to run too, without always feeling that his fate hung heavy on his head, or the knowledge that the next day would be just like the last. He considered taking a little wander around the highly desirable streets of Bygdøy, now that he was out here, but then told himself that it was probably best to keep his movements to a minimum.
Then he heard footsteps behind him and a voice saying ‘don’t move’ in broken Swedish. Bjelland couldn’t help himself; he spun round. The man who had spoken was standing there with a gun in his hand, partially hidden inside his jacket.
‘Walk towards the car park,’ the man in front of him said, but Bjelland’s feet had become glued to the ground.
