by Thomas Enger
‘Who are you?’ Bjelland stammered. ‘What do you want?’
The man didn’t answer.
Bjelland tried to process what was happening. The man in front of him had a similar face to the two who had tried to kill him the day before.
He swallowed.
‘I can just as easily shoot you here and now,’ the man said. ‘Not a problem for me.’
Bjelland looked around for help, but there was no one, no one running, no one walking their dog, no cars.
He took the first steps, heard the man following behind him.
Soon they were at the car park.
‘Stop here,’ the man said.
Bjelland stopped, continued to look around to see if there was anyone who could help him, anyone he could alert. But he saw no one.
‘Hands behind your back.’
Again, Bjelland obeyed. Wrist to wrist. Something hard and sharp was wound around them. Then the man opened the side door of a silver van and indicated with his head that Bjelland should get in. He did as he was told, and sat down on the back seat. The door slammed beside him. The man got into the front.
‘Where are we going?’ Bjelland asked. ‘Who are you?’
‘Don’t you worry about that,’ the man said, catching his eye in the rear-view mirror.
And that was when Bjelland recognised him. He’d seen his face all over the papers in the past few days.
Durim Redzepi.
The man the police thought had killed Iver Gundersen.
The man who had also tried to kill Henning Juul.
Bjelland swallowed and scanned the back of the van to see if there was anything he could use as a weapon. Something to help him cut through the cable ties around his hands. He had to find something, he had to do something. If not, he would die.
Durim Redzepi waited until he was out on the motorway, then dialled the number. It rang for a long time before there was an answer.
‘I’ve got him,’ Redzepi said. ‘And I’ve sent the email to Juul, but I don’t know if it’s enough.’
There was silence for a moment.
‘OK,’ the man said. ‘Take care of Bjelland, and we’ll talk again later.’
Redzepi shook his head.
‘How do I know you’ll keep your word when I’ve done what you need me to do?’ And then he added, before the man could answer: ‘I want to meet you. I want to look you in the eye when you tell me what you know about my girls. I’m doing nothing with the carpenter until you promise you’ll meet me. And I want my money. What we agreed on the phone earlier today.’
The man at the other end sighed.
‘And I want it in euros. Cash.’
This time, the silence lasted for some time.
‘OK,’ the man said. ‘Take Bjelland with you to the cabin. I’ll meet you there.’
Redzepi cocked his head. How did the man know about the cabin?
Who cares, he thought, and pulled in behind a taxi in the inside lane.
‘And Durim?’
‘Yes?’
‘Deal with Bjelland before I get there.’
52
Henning knew he was driving faster than he should, but the adrenaline haring round his body made it hard not to.
It all added up.
It all fitted.
And now that he’d warned Nora and seen, via the link that was sent in the email, that she was no longer at home, and had hopefully gone somewhere safe, it was impossible not to follow through the thoughts he’d had when he spoke to her on the phone.
Henning wondered if he should call someone, but the only person he’d had any real contact with in the police was Bjarne, and he didn’t know if he could trust him or anyone else in the main station. He could perhaps talk to Pia Nøkleby, but he still needed evidence. And as yet he had no idea how he was going to get it.
Including a stop for petrol, it took Henning just over an hour to drive to Tønsberg. He discovered that Little & Light, the baby clothes shop where Anne Cecilie Hellberg worked, was in the shopping centre next to the Hellberg Property offices. That’s handy, he thought, and prayed that no one from the offices would spot him as he drove past and parked.
There was nothing to indicate that anyone had, when he walked into the shopping centre and found Little & Light up on the first floor, beside a flower shop. The shop wasn’t big, maybe fifty square metres or so, but it was packed full of clothes for children. Henning felt his stomach knot, knowing what would happen to Nora if he wasn’t extremely careful in the next few hours.
Henning couldn’t see the woman he’d come to talk to, so he wandered around the shop until another assistant came over and asked if she could help.
‘I was looking for a baby hat,’ Henning said.
‘Yes, they’re over here, let me show you.’
He followed her without paying much attention to where they were going, instead looking around. And thinking.
‘Was there anything in particular you were after?’ asked the blonde woman, who looked like she was in her early twenties.
‘Not really,’ Henning said. ‘But maybe you can help me. A man came in here and bought one on Saturday. Quite tall with shoulder-length messy hair, dark, old corduroy jacket.’
A smile twitched on her lips.
‘Oh yes, I remember him.’
Henning could just imagine Iver looking around the shop, smiling at the customers and assistants.
‘He was one of Anne Cecilie’s customers. They talked for quite some time.’
Henning nodded.
‘Is she working today?’ he asked. ‘She normally works on Thursdays and Saturdays, doesn’t she? Would be great if I could talk to her.’
The woman looked at him, then turned and walked towards the till.
‘I’ll just go and see if she’s finished her lunch,’ she said.
‘Thank you,’ Henning replied. ‘I’ll wait here.’
The woman disappeared into the back room, and after no more than thirty seconds came back. Anne Cecilie Hellberg was right behind her.
She stopped as soon as she saw Henning.
Like the last time, the colour drained from her face, and the friendly saleswoman smile suddenly disappeared.
‘Hello again,’ Henning said.
He’d picked up a pink baby hat.
‘Have you got a couple of minutes?’
Anne Cecilie Hellberg looked at her colleague, who shrugged – he was the only one in the shop, apart from a young couple who were wandering around between the shelves, dreaming of their future.
She came over towards him.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.
Henning scrutinised her hands, her face, her eyes. She was, if possible, even thinner than the last time they’d met.
‘Did he buy one like this?’
Henning held up the baby hat.
‘Who?’
‘Iver Gundersen. My colleague who came here last Saturday. Who was killed the following day.’
She put on a bewildered face.
‘Your colleague just told me that he was here,’ Henning told her.
Anne Cecilie Hellberg tried to catch the other assistant’s eye, but she was busy with the young couple. They were guessing whether it was going to be a boy or a girl; it was easy to see the bulge under the woman’s jacket.
‘What did he ask you, Anne Cecilie? What did you talk about?’
Again, she avoided his eyes. In fact, she looked as though she might burst into tears. Henning remembered how she’d behaved when he was at their house. At first he’d thought she was ill, because her hands were shaking so badly and she didn’t seem to know what to do or say.
Now he understood.
She was afraid.
Nervous.
But why? Because Iver had been there?
‘I’d like you to leave,’ she said.
Henning shook his head.
‘Not before you tell me what you spoke about.’
Once again, she looked over to
her colleague for help. Henning positioned himself in front of her, filled her view.
‘Why did he come here to talk to you?’
She clutched her own arm, held tight.
‘I’m happy to go elsewhere and talk, if that’s easier for you.’
Henning tried to look her in the eye, but she kept turning away.
‘We could go to the back room, for example.’
He motioned in that direction. Anne Cecilie Hellberg nodded briefly. He let her lead the way. Her legs seemed to be struggling to keep her body upright. She was bent forwards, as though something was pushing her down towards the floor. From behind the counter, they went into a small, cramped room that smelled of old coffee. On the table was a coffee cup, emblazoned with the Hellberg Property logo, and a plastic container with the remains of some salad in it. Anne Cecilie Hellberg sat down on one side of the table, and Henning on the other. He leaned towards her, adjusted his arm in the sling. He looked at her hard, waited for her to start talking.
She folded her hands. Stared at the table.
‘Your colleague bought a small white hat,’ she said. ‘That was how he opened the conversation. He put the hat down on the counter and said, “I’d like this one, please.” And then he smiled.’
Henning could picture it clearly. Iver had an easy charm.
‘And then he asked if I’d been down to Natal recently.’
She didn’t raise her eyes as she spoke.
‘At first, I wasn’t sure what he meant, so I asked. He said he knew about our flat down there and that it was in my name. Then he asked about a number of other things that were also in my name.’
‘What other things?’
She hesitated before saying, ‘A luxury boat in France. A foundation in Singapore. Another one in Switzerland. He showed me some printouts he had with him, which confirmed it. I was confused. I knew nothing about it. And told him so.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, William has always looked after our finances, so I told your colleague that he’d have to talk to my husband.’
Henning watched her while he waited for her to continue.
‘Then he looked at me and smiled. And that was it, he thanked me for my help and left.’
Henning studied her; she was sincere, but incredibly nervous. As though she was frightened that he might do something to her.
Anne Cecilie’s colleague stuck her head round the door.
‘Oh, there you are. Can you mind the till for a while? There’s quite a few customers in here now.’
She glanced quickly over at Henning, who nodded curtly. Hellberg hurried out, and Henning sat there alone in silence. He could see it all now; Iver getting straight to the point, as he always did, with the unsuspecting person. He wanted to see her reaction. Wanted to gauge how much she knew.
And he’d got his answer. She’d said he should ask William Hellberg. And Iver already knew that Tore and Charlie had been given help over the years by someone with brains. Someone who knew them and knew the property business. Who knew Daddy Longlegs.
And that was why Iver had gone to Preben Mørck, Henning reasoned. He wanted to confront him, perhaps, to find out if he’d drawn the right conclusions. Get a statement for the article he wanted to write. Make Mørck nervous. Try to get a source that could help him build a comprehensive and detailed case against William Hellberg.
But of course that didn’t work; Mørck had just as much to hide as Hellberg. So they made sure that Iver was killed.
A few minutes later Anne Cecilie Hellberg was back. She sat down again. Seemed even more subdued and anaemic than before.
‘What did you do after Iver had been here?’ Henning asked. ‘Did you talk to your husband?’
She fidgeted with her fingertips before she answered.
‘He said he’d done it so that he, or rather we, wouldn’t have to pay so much tax.’
‘And no more than a day later, my colleague was dead.’
Henning didn’t ask any questions this time, just looked at her. It seemed she was battling hard not to break down.
‘What did you think then?’
She didn’t answer.
‘That it was a coincidence?’
She still didn’t react, just twisted her fingers more and more, then started to pick at a splinter on the surface of the table, which she eventually pulled off.
‘Let me ask you another question: was your husband at home yesterday evening?’
Anne Cecilie immediately looked up at him. She was about to answer, but then stopped herself. Henning wondered if she knew what he was alluding to, and had decided not to answer in order to protect her husband.
‘Preben Mørck was killed last night,’ he said.
She lowered her eyes. For a moment, Henning was scared that her colleague would come in and interrupt the conversation, but that didn’t happen. Instead, a tear trickled down from the corner of Anne Cecilie’s eye.
She looked up at the clock that was hanging on the wall. Dried the tear.
Just then, Henning heard some movement out in the shop. He guessed it was the other assistant coming to ask for more help – after all, it was the middle of the working day – but it wasn’t.
It was William Hellberg.
Henning’s eyes widened. He turned towards Hellberg’s wife. Her eyes were now glued to the floor. And he realised what had happened when Anne Cecilie was out in the shop for a few minutes.
She’d let Hellberg know.
William strode into the cramped room.
‘Hello, Henning,’ he said, with a great sigh. ‘You don’t give up, do you?’
Henning couldn’t get a word out. He looked at Anne Cecilie Hellberg.
He thought about Nora.
‘You were sent an email earlier on today,’ William Hellberg said. ‘Did you manage to read it before you came here?’
Henning nodded, then lowered his head.
‘Please,’ he asked in a quiet voice. ‘Please don’t do anything to her.’
‘I have no plans to,’ Hellberg said. ‘Certainly not right now. But that could easily change.’
‘Please,’ Henning repeated. ‘Don’t…’
‘You know what has to happen now?’ Hellberg asked.
Henning nodded.
Hellberg turned to his wife.
‘There’s a back exit, isn’t there? To save us going through the shop?’
She nodded, almost imperceptibly.
‘There’s a door further in,’ she stammered and pointed towards the back of the room. ‘It takes you out the back of the shopping centre.’
Henning didn’t follow her finger, he just thought about what might happen now. That this was the end, that there was no escape. He couldn’t ring anyone. He couldn’t do anything, because then it would affect Nora. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow.
But one day.
‘So what happens now?’ he asked, and looked up.
‘Now,’ William Hellberg said, ‘you and I are going for a drive.’
53
It was a short walk from police headquarters to Oslo Prison. Assistant Chief of Police Pia Nøkleby walked quickly, as she was keen to know what would happen in the next few minutes. Knut Olav Nordbø, who was responsible for communications in the Norwegian Correctional Service, had managed to get hold of an administrator, who was now sitting waiting for her in Nordbø’s office, ready to access Tore Pulli’s deleted telephone log.
Nordbø met her by the entrance, and they shook hands quickly before rushing in.
‘Thank you for managing to do this so fast,’ she said.
‘My pleasure.’
Nordbø, a man in his mid-forties, stroked his salt-and-pepper beard as they walked down the corridor and tried to find out from Pia Nøkleby what it was all about, but she was evasive and general, giving him the same standard phrases she usually saved for the press.
They got to Nordbø’s office, which smelled of a mixture of sweat and burnt coffee. The administrator,
a man called Reidar Linnerud, stood up, making his belly quiver under the crumpled polo shirt that was open at the neck. He had a round red face and a sparse amount of hair on his head. Nøkleby guessed he must weigh at least 120 kilos.
They shook hands.
‘I recognise you from TV,’ Linnerud said. ‘Only you’re more attractive in real life.’
He grinned.
Nøkleby tried to smile, but didn’t quite manage it. Flirting and compliments seldom worked when she was in uniform. It looked as though this had dawned on Linnerud, as he sat down again rather sheepishly. Nordbø’s chair creaked.
‘So, let’s have a look,’ he said, and tapped away on the keyboard in front of him. ‘It’s a good thing you’re doing this now. In a couple of months, it will all be gone. Wolf Communications…’
He looked up at her.
‘They run the system,’ he explained. ‘Not exactly the best name in the world, but…’
‘Reidar,’ Pia Nøkleby said.
‘Hm?’
‘Tore Pulli. I need to know who he called before he was killed.’
‘Ah, yes.’
He slapped his thigh.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘But what I was going to say is that the way the system works is that the prisoner is given a number so that outsiders, employees at Wolf Communications, for example, can’t go in and identify the prisoners. So, everyone gets an account.’
‘I see,’ Nøkleby said. ‘Nordbø, you’ve given him Pulli’s number, haven’t you?’
She looked over at him.
‘I’ve found it, yes. You said that getting a court order was just a formality?’
Nøkleby handed him the envelope she had with her. Once Nordbø had inspected the contents, he nodded to Linnerud and passed him a piece of paper.
He took it and immediately started to type the numbers into the computer in front of him. Pia Nøkleby followed intently on the screen, telephone numbers, columns. Just numbers, no names, but she was prepared. She had a list of the telephone numbers of the most relevant people in Tore Pulli’s contacts.
She soon recognised Veronica Nansen’s number, Pulli’s wife. She saw phone numbers belonging to Pulli’s lawyer and Henning, but other than those three, there was only one mobile phone number that came up repeatedly in the fortnight before Pulli died. He had called it four times.
