Exposed at the Back (15 page)

Morning Star

‘I saw you on that breakfast show,’ said Arnold Nesje.

‘
God Morgen Norge
.’

‘What?’

‘It’s called
God Morgen Norge
,’ said Benedikte, not quite sure why she was pointing this out. It came automatically. She’d worked on the programme for a long time and felt some kind of pride in it. Once, at a party, she’d even made a long speech in defence of the programme’s red leather sofa.

The state broadcaster NRK’s equivalent was called
Frokost-TV
, a programme that disappointed its viewers time after time. NRK would surely try to work on it at some point, but they couldn’t get it right at the moment.
God Morgen Norge
wasn’t the poor man’s
Frokost-TV
, it was the other way round.

‘I didn’t call you to discuss TV programmes,’ said Benedikte.

‘I didn’t think so.’

‘I’m struggling.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ve got no experience with murder cases. Hypothetically, how do the police look for a murderer?’

‘Hypothetically?’

‘If you’d found a body, what would you do next?’

‘In that case I’d be what we’d call the first responding officer, and I’d write up a report on my observations. Actually, to start with I would’ve made sure that the body was dead, and if I had the slightest doubt I would call for a doctor.’

‘Let’s say there was no doubt.’

‘Then I would’ve asked the control centre to send crime scene protection and the forensic investigation unit.’

‘They’re the ones in the white spacesuits, right?’

‘Right. They investigate the crime scene and gather forensic evidence.’

‘What about potential motives?’

‘We don’t look for any motives at the start. We look for evidence that might link people to the scene of the crime, or that suggest a timeline of events. Objective evidence like video footage from CCTV cameras.’

‘Do you know if anything like that has been found in the Golden case?’

‘No suspects were picked up on camera.’

‘What happens next?’

‘A police officer will be appointed to take over after the preliminary investigation has been carried out. He’ll be given whatever information they’ve got, forensic evidence, in other words DNA and fingerprints, any witness statements there might be and police reports. Mobile phone data is also very useful.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘There might be data on the victim’s phone showing who he’s been in contact with. Base station tracking can also tell us where he’s been. In many cases this has led to important witnesses or even helped find the culprit.’

‘But let’s say that there’s no DNA, fingerprints or useful phone data from the killer. What would it be important to look for when interviewing witnesses?’

‘Obviously we’d try to see if there’s anything that sticks out. Did anybody threaten the victim? Debts: does he owe anybody money? Jealousy: is he having an affair? Might a jealous husband have something to do with it?’

‘So money and sex, basically,’ said Benedikte.

‘Yes, if you want to put it tabloid terms.’

Money and sex. They’d both reared their heads while Benedikte had been investigating Golden.

‘Why does this matter so much to you, anyway?’ Nesje continued.

‘The killing of Golden is the biggest story in Norwegian football for several decades, maybe even the biggest story ever. Doing a report on the transfer of a right-back from HamKam to Kongsvinger pales somewhat in comparison.’

Benedikte didn’t want to expand on her suspicions about the health risks of astroturf for now.

‘But the murderer’s been caught. Taribo Shorunmo’s been locked up.’

‘What proof have you got against him?’

‘Benedikte, you know that I can’t…’

‘Come on,’ said Benedikte, interrupting him. ‘I need some inside info.’

‘I could get sacked for less.’

‘You know that I won’t do anything to expose you. There’ll be no mention of “police sources” or anything like that,’ said Benedikte.

‘I don’t have access to the case files, but I’ve spoken with the officer in charge. He’s a good friend of mine. If any of the information I give you gets out, he’ll immediately know it came from me.’

Benedikte didn’t say any more. She’d reassured him that she wouldn’t name him as the informant, and she’d keep her word.

‘The door system kept a record of the number of visitors to Golden’s office,’ said Nesje. ‘On the day of his murder, Golden only let somebody in from the street once. The witness statement also indicated that Taribo Shorunmo was in Golden’s office that day.’

‘Did he only have one visitor? I thought Golden was supposed to be a very busy man.’

‘I suppose agents deal mostly over the phone.’

‘There are other ways to Golden’s office, though. It’s a big stadium. For example, you could go in through the hotel and then into the conference suite. Then you’d have a safe route from there.’

‘Not so easy on the day of the murder. The conference suite was closed off. A company had hired the restaurant for a seafood buffet. According to the general manager, the buffet was a bit more extravagant than the company’s budget suggested, so they were very careful not to let in any uninvited guests. But, of course, it’s Golden’s office we’re really interested in, and he was also careful not to let in any uninvited guests. There were surely quite a few of you journalists who might like to sneak in and have a look through his files. His office has an electronic lock. There was only one recorded visit at the time in question.’

‘Have you got anything else?’

‘We found a weapon at Taribo Shorunmo’s house known as a morning star.’

Benedikte started Googling this while Nesje continued, bringing up many different illustrations of the weapon. It looked like a giant medieval cotton bud with sharp spikes.

‘So you found the murder weapon,’ said Benedikte. Maybe it was Taribo Shorunmo who had killed Golden after all.

‘We won’t know for sure until the autopsy report is done, and it might still be weeks or even months until that’s finally finished.’

Benedikte looked up from the images on her screen. ‘What about a motive?’

‘They’re working on several theories.’

‘Which one would you see as most likely?’

‘The murder was brutal, it was carried out with such force. I think there’s something personal behind it. Real hatred.’

In or Out?

His mobile was taken off him again before he was taken into the meeting room at Oslo Prison. At least child welfare wouldn’t be able to get hold of him, Steinar thought. Concealer make-up, what had he been thinking?

Taribo came into the room and they shook each other’s hand. There was an air of exhaustion about him, but Steinar’s hand hurt just the same.

‘How’s it going today?’ asked Steinar.

‘I haven’t been able to sleep.’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘The smell, the sounds, the bed. And then I keep thinking about Stanley.’

‘I understand.’

‘You know, for the first time since I came here, I’m missing Nigeria. We used to live by the woods in a simple brick house with a tin roof. It felt like sleeping outdoors. I’ve never wished to be back there before, but that’s where I slept best.’

Steinar nodded then cleared his throat. ‘We’ve got to talk about the matter of payment.’

‘How much?’

‘The trial won’t cost you anything, I’m your court-appointed defence lawyer. But I will need payment as Stanley’s agent, and I’ve come up with a formula I think is fair.’

‘What would that be?’

‘Young players who don’t make much money shouldn’t pay anything. I’ll take 3 per cent of any earnings Stanley makes over 1 million kroner, up to a maximum limit of 100,000 kroner a year. If we can get the club to pay this fee, you won’t have to pay me anything.’

Taribo just looked at Steinar, speechless.

‘Do you think it’s an unreasonable amount?’ asked Steinar.

‘Are you kidding? Golden wanted 25 per cent. Of everything.’

’25 per cent? Is that really how much he was after?’ Steinar was genuinely shocked. For him, 100,000 kroner a year was the maximum an agent should be making from one player. He’d heard of extortionate fees from agents, but demanding 25 per cent of his salary was verging on criminal. If that’s how Golden acted in all his business dealings, there was probably no shortage of volunteers willing to take him out.

‘Like I said, 3 per cent,’ said Steinar, ‘but I need you to write a letter to your partner explaining that I’m on your side, so she’ll trust me too. It’s good that she’s got a healthy scepticism of football agents, but it makes my job difficult. Strictly speaking, you’re not allowed to write letters, so you’ll have to keep quiet about this. Deal?’

‘Deal,’ said Taribo. He wrote a letter to his partner and gave it to Steinar. ‘Won’t they search you?’

‘They didn’t yesterday. I’m hoping it’ll be alright,’ said Steinar, leaving the letter on the table. It was time to press Taribo, try to find out the truth. He drew his breath and leant forward.

‘Why were you at Golden’s office that day?’

‘Negotiations. That was when Golden made his demand for 25 per cent.’

‘You realise that gives you a motive? Disagreements about money are often behind things like this.’

Taribo’s eyes narrowed, his pupils growing as he leant forward too.

‘Had you met Golden before?’ asked Steinar. ‘When you were playing in Nigeria?’

‘No.’

‘I need to know the truth. Did you kill him?’

Taribo took to his feet so quickly his chair toppled over, hitting the floor with a crash. He leant over the table, towering above Steinar, and slammed down his right hand.

‘No!’ he said, nostrils flaring. Then he turned and walked towards the wall.

‘Do you know who might have done it? Are you covering for someone?’

‘No,’ Taribo said again.

Had he just hesitated before answering? Steinar wished he could have seen Taribo’s eyes at that moment. He let the man calm down
from his outburst before carrying on. ‘When was it you said that Stanley turn 15?’

‘On Sunday.’

‘I know the race is on to protect him from other agents, but turning 15 also marks something else.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s the age of criminal responsibility. Stanley can’t be punished for anything he’s done before.’

‘Get out!’

Steinar wondered whether he might have lost his client.

But Taribo let him take the letter with him.

An Accident

Benedikte took a window seat at Bar Boca, back in Grünerløkka, and waited for Bettina Robertsen. She had a sip of wine and felt the temperature rising in her cheeks. She fumbled to pick up the pages of an almost worn-out copy of
Dagbladet
. The large-print headline on the tabloid’s front page read: ‘HOW TO AVOID A HEART ATTACK.’ Golden wasn’t front-page material any more, now that Shorunmo had been locked up. The newspaper could let its usual fare dominate again, recipes for how to avoid cancer, cardiovascular diseases, stroke or diabetes.

In through the door came Bettina, Benedikte’s old classmate from Bjerke Upper Secondary School. Bettina had been the quiet, shy and artistic one in the class. The girl who was always doodling, no matter whether it was maths or Norwegian they were supposed to be studying.

Bettina had the habit of putting her hands in her trouser pockets and pushing out her stomach. She stood there, eyes scanning the middle of the room, until she saw Benedikte. Her smile lasted approximately two hundredths of a second, more of a short twitch on the left side of her lip. Bettina still used the same amount of black make-up as she had at school, which made Benedikte think of Halloween just as much now as it did then.

For the first few minutes Benedikte had to drag the words out of her friend. For their next round, they swapped the wine for something stronger and, one hour later, Bettina was tipsy and had started to talk about her job working on the graphics for
PDTV
as well as a number of other video productions for the
VG
website. After another drink Bettina was quite eager to tell Benedikte all about a forthcoming programme on magic tricks, and Benedikte made several attempts to bring the conversation back to where she wanted it.

‘Why are you so interested in
PDTV
? Do you need a new job?’ asked Bettina.

‘No, but I’m looking into everything that’s got to do with Arild Golden.’

‘Was he that large, pushy guy?’ asked Bettina. It was almost beyond belief that anybody in Norway hadn’t seen Golden’s picture in the past few days, but that’s what Bettina was like, focused solely on her own little world.

Benedikte tried to describe him anyway. ‘Golden was a handsome man, always wore a suit. A mobile phone in each hand, always talking into one of them. He’s only the one who’s been killed, you know.’

‘I usually block out names and other non-essentials. If you’d started by describing his cheekbones or shoulders, then I’d have known straight away. He dropped by the set a couple of times, but only for a few minutes. I wasn’t always there, anyway. I do the graphics, so I don’t need to see everything that happens. But that other guy also called himself an agent. It was so weird, people going round there calling themselves agents.’

‘Did you get the other man’s name?’

‘No,’ said Bettina, but Benedikte knew it couldn’t be anybody else but Ola Bugge.

‘Did anything ever happen that seemed odd to you? Anything suspicious?’

‘There was some footage that disappeared. Deleted.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. We installed some cameras in the flat and filmed some test footage to try out the system. This was just a few days before the series premiere. We were seriously behind and I didn’t think we were going to make it in time. I was supposed to get access to the footage so it would be easier for me to put together suitable graphics, but the footage wasn’t there.’

‘Did you ask anybody what had happened?’

‘I went to the executive producer. He said he didn’t know what had happened, but they’d have some new test footage ready in a few hours. They gave that to me, and I made the graphics. I didn’t have any more time to spend worrying about it, it was non-stop stress right up to the deadline.’

‘Who could have deleted the video?’

‘It’s quite likely it was an accident, but if somebody intentionally
wanted to do it, it wouldn’t be difficult. Most of us had access to the footage from the cameras, which had just been filming an empty apartment. It’s only when we start full production mode that they really keep an eye on what we’re filming.’

‘So was it just an accident?’ asked Benedikte.

‘I don’t know,’ said Bettina, with a hiccup.