Exposed at the Back (13 page)

Chit-Chat

‘My client appealed against his detention, so that meant he was pleading not guilty.’

‘It’s not really the same.’

‘No, but that’s still how it is. He claims he’s innocent.’

‘What about all the evidence?’

‘It’s merely circumstantial.’

‘What about the witness? What about the weapon?’

‘I’ve no further comment to make,’ said Steinar, hanging up.

Dagbladet
, that bloody newspaper. The journalist wouldn’t give up. And he also seemed to have read the closed files. How did he manage to do that?

Steinar had realised that he would have to answer his phone, otherwise the journalists would only get more and more insistent. He generally succeeded in politely dismissing them, but this guy from
Dagbladet
was getting more out of Steinar than he’d like.

Steinar had taken a taxi to Åkebergveien again, but this time he went a few steps east of the police’s central custody facility. He was outside the main gate of Oslo Prison. He pressed the buzzer, explained his business and was let through the first gate up to the glass cabin where the guard sat.

‘Can I see some ID, please?’ asked the guard, who this time looked more like Dirty Harry than Tom Daley. Steinar showed him his driving licence.

‘So you’re here to visit Taribo Shorunmo?’

‘Yes, he’s in Department B. I called earlier and made arrangements.’

‘So I see. Have you been here before?’

‘No.’

‘In through that door,’ said the guard, pointing.

Steinar had to go through a metal detector, which he hadn’t needed to do in the police custody facility. His mobile phone was taken from him, and he was accompanied into a visiting room. Taribo came in shortly afterwards.

Steinar studied the Nigerian giant. He’d only been in for three days but already seemed to be affected by it. Solitary confinement could leave a real mark, and Norway was considered one of the worst places in Europe for using isolation as a corrective measure. Steinar had heard of prisoners whose hair had turned grey overnight, and others who had become completely apathetic.

‘Are you alright?’ he asked.

‘I’m fine.’

‘Is there anything I can get you? A Coke or something?’

‘Nothing. Just fix things with Stanley.’

‘I need one more day. I’ve got to check something,’ said Steinar, thinking that he’d better check how security worked at the prison. ‘About that witness who heard…’

‘I don’t want to talk about the case. Not before you’ve got hold of Mona and Stanley.’

Was he hiding something? Or protecting somebody? Or did he just not trust Steinar?

‘What do you want to talk about, then?’ asked Steinar.

Taribo wriggled further down into his chair. He crossed his legs, put his hands together and placed them behind his neck.

‘Tell me about the wildest football match you’ve ever played,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘Just tell me.’

‘Okay,’ said Steinar, scratching his nose. ‘That would probably be in Turkey in the Champions League against Galatasaray. I don’t think there’s a crazier place in the world to play football than Turkey. Or maybe your Bayelsa is just as bad?’

‘Tell me about Turkey.’

‘It was madness. It was a warm autumn evening in Istanbul and darkness had fallen. The crowd was in its element. The score was 0–0. I’d been given a yellow card after an aggressive tackle.’

‘Your usual,’ said Taribo.

‘I wasn’t the only one doing some hard tackles that evening. Anyway, there was a break in the game. I looked up at the thousand Ajax fans
who’d travelled, they looked like frightened chickens in a coop. There was an empty section of the stand on each side of them.’

‘Why?’

‘For security. Not that it helped. The Turkish fans have good throwing arms.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘They lit flares and threw them over the empty areas into the Ajax fans’ section. It reminded me of the footage from the Iraq War, with those missiles flying across the dark screen, almost pretty before they hit. It looked beautiful, but I was worried about the fans and what would happen next. The situation on the pitch deteriorated at the same pace as the commotion on the stands, but the match wouldn’t last much longer for me.’

‘What happened?’

‘More throwing.’

‘Were you injured?’

‘No. I was about to take a throw-in. Just as I was standing there ready to throw, I was hit repeatedly by coins. It hurt, so I stepped onto the pitch to avoid it. I looked at the ref and pointed at my back. He misunderstood and thought I was wasting time. 0–0 in Istanbul would’ve been a good result for us. He gave me a yellow card, my second, and I was sent off.’

‘Sent off?’ said Taribo, laughing.

‘Sent off.’

Steinar saw that as a good moment to leave Taribo. He seemed in good spirits, solitary confinement hadn’t done him too much harm yet. Steinar went out to security and was given his mobile. More missed calls. But he also noticed that he wasn’t searched on the way out. A plan was starting to take shape.

A Hundred Per Cent Chance

Steinar knew she was coming, but he was still shocked to see her standing there.

‘Hi,’ said Benedikte.

She was wearing a white blouse, with pleats that made it look like it needed to be gone over with an iron. Her denim shorts were very short, and her legs seemed longer than usual, plunging into her blue leather shoes, which were tied up around her ankles.

Steinar’s whole body ached. He hadn’t managed to do easy, relaxing gym work. Recovery sessions were a foreign concept to him. He was no longer used to doing two really tough sessions in two days. He brushed his right hand through his hair and scratched the back of his neck.

‘Come in,’ he said.

‘Only if you promise to tell me absolutely everything.’

‘What?’

‘Did you take any money?’

‘Come in first. I’ll tell you.’ He stepped back against the wall to make space for her. She went past and they sat down on the sofa. Benedikte scanned the living room before turning to him.

‘Well?’ she said.

‘Do you remember the documentary you showed me?’

‘Of course.’

‘The connection between my story and the one about the national skiing team was stronger than you thought. The documentary was probably supposed to be part two of a series.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What happened to me had to do with doping,’ said Steinar.

‘Were you doping?’

‘Do you promise this will stay between us?’

‘No.’

Steinar hadn’t told anybody about this, and there he was sitting in front of a sports journalist, thinking about telling her the truth that he’d kept hidden for 10 years. A story that Benedikte, with all her ambitions, could either bury or run as the main story.

‘Do you remember the man we saw in the video? The one you asked me if I’d seen before?’

‘Yes.’

‘It all started with him. It was an international match at Ullevaal. We were playing against Uruguay, and the score was 0–0 as we went into half-time.’ Steinar felt a lump in his throat. ‘When I got to my spot, I found an envelope. There were photos inside from my flat. Of the fridge. Of a hand dropping pills in some orange juice. In the orange juice I’d drunk at breakfast. A message was written on the photo in black marker pen: “Meet me in the players’ tunnel now.”’

Steinar met Benedikte’s gaze, but she was giving nothing away. ‘The manager wasn’t ready to give us our team talk yet, so I slipped out. The man from the video was standing half hidden behind an advertising poster, and he beckoned me over. He said four words: “Make sure you lose.”’

‘What did you do?’ asked Benedikte.

‘I refused.’

‘And?’

‘He gave me two options. I could either make a sloppy backwards pass, cause a penalty, score an own-goal, anything to make sure that Uruguay won the match. Or, option number two, I would be caught doping.’

‘After he tipped off the anti-doping officials?’

‘Exactly. And I did have something in me. I’d been feeling different all day. Invigorated. Involuntarily, of course, but nobody’s ever believed sportspeople who claim they’ve been doped against their will.’

‘So you ran off?’

‘I went into the changing room and told them I had kicked my last ball.’

‘Didn’t anybody try to stop you?’

‘What could they do?’

‘What happened next?’

‘I walked past a journalist from
VG
, who looked perplexed when I said I was quitting. He got caught up in his own question as I disappeared. I
took the Metro, wearing my full Norway strip. Nobody recognised me, there were no football fans on the Metro at that moment. I went home, had a shower, got changed and hailed a taxi to Gardermoen Airport. I took the first flight I could get out of the country. My career was in tatters.’

Steinar swallowed again, harder this time.

‘Why didn’t you go back to playing?’ said Benedikte. ‘Somebody like you must love football, and the maximum limit for doping cases is eight years. You look fit enough to play in the Second or First Division, anyway.’

It took Steinar a while to try to decide whether or not that was a compliment. He couldn’t make up his mind.

‘I love football,’ he said, ‘but doping and dopers are the worst of the worst, the lowest of the low. The fact I once had banned substances in my body, even if it was unwillingly, would have made me feel like a cheat if I played again. Maybe I loved football too much.’

‘I’ve got a couple of other questions,’ said Benedikte.

‘Okay.’

‘Are you two finished?’ asked Benedikte.

‘Are you talking about Mette?’

‘Yes.’

‘In that case, yes.’

‘Where is she?’

‘At the moment she’s hiking with a couple of friends in Guatemala. She’s a backpacker in her heart of hearts. She’s a good person, but we’re finished.’

Benedikte’s bare calves stroked slowly over Steinar’s thighs. She found a foothold and lifted herself onto his lap. She pushed him down until he was lying on the sofa, and moved too so that her mouth was above his. She turned her head, arched her back and pushed her breasts against him. He felt her breath on him. He saw the small birthmark by her ear. Then came the kiss.

‘Maybe waiting wasn’t such a good idea,’ said Benedikte. The next kiss was intense.

So soon? Steinar was happy that she’d come round. He’d been looking forward to it, of course he’d been looking forward to it, but her promise had also made him relaxed and more focused. And now she was attacking him like this. There was only one thing he could do. He dug his hands inside Benedikte’s denim shorts.

It felt so good, but something was still gnawing at him. One of Junior’s Duplo bricks had been left on the sofa, and as Benedikte put even more weight on Steinar, he felt a sharp edge digging between two bones in the small of his back. He opened his eyes while he carefully wriggled his hand out of her shorts and moved the piece of Duplo. He carried on kissing her, but his gaze fell on the DVD player’s digital clock display. It was 16:26. Time had got the better of him again, like at the Baltazar Restaurant, but he couldn’t run off. He deliberated back and forth over whether or not he should slip his hand back into her shorts, but then Benedikte opened her eyes.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘Shit.’

‘Sorry?’ said Benedikte, pulling back a little.

Steinar sighed. ‘You’ll have to come for a walk with me.’

‘O-kay,’ said Benedikte, frowning and leaving a long pause between the two syllables. Then she straightened her shirt and bent down to tie up the blue shoes that she’d somehow taken off without Steinar noticing. As she straightened her shorts, Steinar contemplated how he might be getting older, but still he was a fucking idiot. Bloody open goal.

It’d been so long since he’d last slept with a woman that, if he was honest, he hardly would’ve ruined anybody’s schedule.

Steinar led her along Lofthusveien and then down Kjelsåsveien. He glanced at his watch, and then at Benedikte’s legs, before swearing once more inside his head.

‘Did you see Taribo today like you said you would?’ asked Benedikte.

‘Yes,’ said Steinar, clearing his throat.

‘Did you get any further with him?’

‘Not really, he’s evasive.’

‘Next time you speak with him, turn up the heat.’

‘Maybe I should.’

They turned by the low-rise blocks just after the Rema 1000 supermarket. The parkland at Muselunden came into view. A couple of grown men were throwing frisbees at a basket, a sport they called frolf. Steinar took a deep breath, then led Benedikte over to the gate.

The message went through the nursery at the speed of light. ‘Junior, time to go home,’ the keenest young girls shouted, in competition with each other. Then Junior noticed and shouted ‘Daddy!’ at the top of his voice, holding his arms up to be lifted. As always, Steinar’s other worries disappeared.

Benedikte whispered so only Steinar could hear. ‘Got any more secrets?’

Part 5

12 October 2009

‘Hello. This is Per Kristian Boltedal from Dagens Næringsliv again. I’m still working on a story about your transfers and, as I’m sure you recall, we spoke last time about that Swedish keeper. This time I was wondering about the Nigerian striker from his local rivals.’

All that idiotic anonymous stuff. Sure, Golden used pseudonyms in his notes, but he had an obvious reason to do so, Boltedal didn’t
.

‘Oh?’ said Golden
.

‘I was wondering in particular about that aid programme.’

Fuck!

The project the journalist was digging into was a collaboration with the Nigerian agent Chukwudi. Bayelsa State in Nigeria was known for its oil deposits, but Golden had travelled round with Chukwudi and a couple of his pals, scouring the area for other commodities. By the time they were done, Golden Boys had the rights to seven 16-year-old talents. At least a couple of them would surely be good enough for the English Premier League
.

It wasn’t permitted to transfer footballers under the age of 18 from one continent to another. Besides, they would have to have played first-team international matches for Nigeria in order to get a residence permit in the UK. Luckily it was easier to get them to Norway, even before they turned 18
.

The solution was the Norwegian school system. Golden put the boys in private sixth-form colleges. The headmaster was given a few thick envelopes, so he didn’t ask any questions about why seven 16-year-olds from Nigeria should suddenly have their dreams fulfilled of attending a Norwegian school. Golden couldn’t quite work out why the Minister of Education and Research let this exploitation pass, but if the politicians didn’t react, then who would? PISA tests, or whatever they were called, didn’t exactly keep Golden or his colleagues awake at night
.

The Nigerian boys ate lunch in the school canteen now and then, but
otherwise they were never there, as the lessons were in Norwegian anyway. Their school fees still had to be paid though and, even if it was obvious that the boys were training with the Norwegian club, they couldn’t let the school fees be traced back there. Golden Boys had to put up 400,000 kroner a year, so after two years it was high time for one of the boys to turn 18 and start seriously knocking in goals in the top division. So Golden sent Chukwudi down to Lagos with a fistful of dollars, and the required selection for the national team would soon be taken care of
.

‘We’ve got an anonymous source who says that you’ve tricked the club out of millions in this transfer,’ said Boltedal
.

Bloody women. Golden was absolutely certain this leak had come from the club’s board, and from one of the two sanctimonious female members who sat on it. Gender quotas on Norwegian football boards were madness. There were practically no qualified volunteers, and all clubs had to have at least two. It could only lead to trouble. They didn’t understand how the economy of football worked
.

Golden thought he deserved his agreed 20 per cent cut of the transfer fees, but when the sale price worked out at 79 million kroner, his agency fee was simply too much for the Norwegian club. 15.8 million kroner couldn’t be swept under the carpet, the board wouldn’t accept it
.

‘Our source also claims that you paid the Norwegian club’s chairman under the table so that the money would go into a fund labelled “aid”,’ Boltedal continued
.

Bloody women. Bloody journalist
.

The club’s board had suggested paying Golden 1 million kroner as his agency fee. 1 million! He’d already spent that much in expenses. What were they thinking? Breaking even wasn’t how Golden had built his empire. He sat down with the club chairman and talked about the apartment complex Spain. They agreed that 1 million would be declared as the agency fee, and the rest would go into a so-called aid fund
.

The argument was put to the board that, since the club now had lots of money and still had six other players for sale soon, part of the money could go back to the impoverished area they’d come from. The aid fund would go towards developing facilities in Bayelsa State
.

This was acceptable for the board, but after a couple of online searches, none of them dared to travel to the rough region, so they agreed that Golden could keep them updated on developments with photographs. How difficult would it be to find a picture of an artificial grass pitch?

The money from the transfer was used to cover Arild Golden’s travel
costs, and the club chairman’s private holidays. Honestly, do they really need artificial pitches in Nigeria?

It had worked out, but it was still messy. Loose-tongued board members were grumbling about it, and amateurs like Chukwudi were always a threat. From now on, only Golden’s lawyers would have access to his deals
.

‘No comment,’ said Golden. ‘And if you carry on making insinuations like this, I’ll sue you from here to eternity.’