Exposed at the Back (25 page)

Part 10

7 July 1991

While Arild Golden was waiting for his bag to arrive at Istanbul Airport, he thought through the coincidences that had led to this key first transfer. A transfer that he hoped would lead to a domino effect. A reputation as a dealmaking agent could attract better players and better clubs to take up his services
.

The whole thing had started two weeks earlier in the terminal at Paris Charles de Gaulle Airport. Golden had landed there for a connecting flight on his way home from one of his many trips to Nigeria
.

Sitting along from him was a man in his early fifties. He had greyish hair and a dark moustache and eyebrows. An expensive suit. Next to him was a sports bag that didn’t quite fit in, with a logo that Golden didn’t recognise but that made him curious. The man turned out to be the chairman of Turkish club Trabzonspor, and very liberal when it came to the Muslim rules on alcohol. His flight was delayed too
.

An hour later, Golden had shown the chairman that beer and rum made a good combination, while also getting him to buy the captain of the Nigerian under-18 national team, most of whom were represented by Golden. They agreed to meet for formal talks in Istanbul the week after
.

When the negotiations started, Golden realised why his fellow students and the lecturers at the BI Norwegian Business School had called him Goldfinger. He took over the negotiation room and instinctively saw how power was distributed in the club. Most importantly, he knew how much more time he’d have to spend with the chairman as opposed to the others who had less say
.

He also noticed that the negotiations went even better when the player went to the toilet. Golden made his first business note: players should never be present at the negotiations themselves
.

It was a lucrative deal for all parties, with the exception of the African
club. The contract was signed, and the chairman wrote the address of where the player should turn up on a small scrap of paper
.

Golden could feel that scrap of paper at the bottom of his trouser pocket. He’d gone through everything and was sure they hadn’t forgotten anything. His bag appeared on the carousel, as did the player’s two suitcases. Golden had decided to tag along with the player to his first training session, which was due to start in three hours. He would also join him to look for a flat and a car. His first transfer would be flawless
.

They got in a taxi and Golden passed the handwritten note to the driver, who gave it a long, hard look before starting the meter and setting off. An infernal racket came pumping out of the stereo speakers
.

‘Excuse me, sir, are you sure this is the right direction?’ asked Golden when they’d been driving for nearly an hour and seemed to be going further and further away from Istanbul
.

‘Hm?’ said the driver
.

‘How far to the stadium?’

‘I think maybe fourteen or fifteen.’

‘Minutes?’ said Golden, pointing at the minute hand on his watch. The driver shook his head and pointed at the shorter hand
.

They stopped. The driver pulled out a map, but not a city map. It was a map of the whole of Turkey. Trabzonspor turned out to be a club from the city of Trabzon, 560 miles east of Istanbul
.

They went back to Istanbul. Golden borrowed a phone at a hotel and got hold of the chairman at Trabzonspor, but it was too late. They wouldn’t make it to the first training session, and it was a breach of trust. They were going to tear up the contract
.

Golden pointed out that he still had his part of the contract, and that surely this mistake wasn’t sufficient grounds for dismissal. There were rules in football too, after all. The chairman laughed out loud on the other end
.

‘Good luck with FIFA, then,’ he said
.

Beyond the Placebo Effect of Acupuncture

Steinar lifted up Junior and carried him out of the house and over to the white van. He ordered Yakubu and Taribo to get in the passenger seats, sat Junior on Taribo’s lap and put the safety belt round them. He got in the driving seat.

The paramedics had taken Benedikte away at full speed. She was alive. There was nothing else Steinar could do for her now, other than avenge what had been done to her.

‘Where are we going?’ asked Taribo as they drove a slalom course past the apparently neverending roadworks just after Sinsen.

‘To Vallhall,’ said Steinar.

‘Then it’s probably quicker to drive down along Økernveien,’ said Taribo, pointing.

‘No, it’s not,’ said Steinar, carrying on along the outer ring road. Taribo nodded and put his hands round Junior like a protective airbag. Junior started laughing, turning his head to look at Taribo and pointing.

‘Newspaper,’ said Junior.

‘Shit,’ said Steinar, smacking the palm of his hand against the steering wheel. How was this going to affect Junior? Steinar had been impressed by the boy’s memory many times before. Whatever they did, the boy remembered it. ‘Been before,’ was his standard phrase if they returned somewhere. It didn’t even have to be a playground or something else that appealed to him, it could just as easily be a supermarket or a doctor’s surgery.

Of course it didn’t really matter that he recognised Taribo from the newspaper. Actually it was quite a nice thing, as Taribo was innocent
anyway, but Steinar was worried about how much Junior would remember the assault on Benedikte. He didn’t know much about how traumatic incidents like this might affect him later in life. A break-in, an assault, even an attempted murder. Steinar banged his hand against the wheel again.

Just before the new office building at Valle, Steinar bulldozed his own new exit from the ring road, driving over the grass, between some trees, over a cycle path and down towards the car park. He sped across it and slammed on the brakes outside the entrance to Vallhall, the indoor arena.

‘You look after the boy while I’m in there,’ said Steinar. The brothers nodded in agreement as Steinar went in.

‘Steinar Brunsvik again,’ said a thick voice, spluttering like a rusty old Evinrude outboard motor. ‘Have you come to sign with us?’

Steinar turned his head and saw Hjalmar Bakken sitting on the deep sofa to the right of the entrance.

‘Have the players gone?’ asked Steinar.

‘They went a while ago.’

‘Do you know Ola Bugge?’

‘What do you want with that pig?’

‘I need to talk to him.’

‘I think he’s sitting in the cafeteria,’ said Bakken.

Steinar started running and found Bugge sitting at a table. They’d never spoken, but Steinar had no time for courtesies, he slammed his hands on the table and leant over the football agent.

‘Where’s Marius Bjartmann?’

‘I can’t tell,’ said Bugge.

‘You don’t know?’

‘I do know, but I’m sworn to secrecy with my clients. I can’t just tell anyone where they are and what they’re doing.’

Steinar grabbed Bugge, lifted him up by his shirt collar and slammed him onto the cafeteria table.

‘He’s a killer. You’re going to tell me where he is, and you’re going to tell me now!’

‘In that case you’ll have to go to the police.’

Steinar slammed Bugge down on the table again. The girl behind the counter gave no sign of getting involved.

‘Tell me where he is!’

‘Go to the police!’

Steinar lifted Bugge from the table. He put his knee in his stomach, making him double over. Then he dragged him back to the entrance. His rage was back. It had been dormant all those years he hadn’t been playing football, but now it was really back. If it had been a match, Steinar would have got one of his red cards, but there was no referee here. Just an executioner and executioners worked alone, executioners had no linesmen.

‘Open up the dressing room,’ said Steinar.

Bakken did as he said.

‘Tape,’ said Steinar, and Bakken fetched some rolls of sports tape. Steinar tore off Bugge’s shirt and trousers and tied him to the massage table. He wound the sports tape several times round his chest, arms, hips and thighs. Bugge could barely move.

‘Get me the physio’s bag,’ said Steinar. Bakken went to fetch it.

Steinar went on: ‘Still sure you don’t want to talk?’

‘I protect my clients,’ said Bugge.

Bakken came back with the physio’s equipment. Steinar opened the bag.

‘I had a physio when I played in the Netherlands who was a psychopath,’ he said. ‘He liked to cause others pain. A simple massage with him was a form of advanced torture, and his favourite thing was treating periostitis, inflammation of the membrane around the bones.’ Steinar tapped Bugge’s lower leg before he went on. ‘The treatment involved him taking hold of the skin over the fibula and stretching it to increase the blood circulation and flush out the inflammation. The pain was colossal.’ Steinar pressed his thumb hard down along Bugge’s own leg. Bugge couldn’t disguise how uncomfortable it was. Then Steinar took out two long needles from the physio’s bag.

‘These are acupuncture needles, the famous 21 centimetre ones. You use these on buttocks to get deep enough into the fat layer. They’re used for treating sciatica, and I’m pretty sure they’re not meant to be used on inflamed bones.’ He leant over, aimed and pushed the needle slowly under the skin, down along Bugge’s fibula.

Steinar took the other long needle, holding it like a knife this time.

‘Last chance.’

Bugge shook his head.

Steinar used all his force to drive the needle down at an angle through the other calf and into the fibula. Then he took out the electrotheraphy device, attached the electrodes to the needles and pressed the button.
Bugge’s legs started to vibrate.

Level two was already enough to make Bugge scream. Steinar turned the machine so that Bugge could see it went all the way up to ten.

‘Where is he?’

‘I can’t tell you. I’m sworn to secrecy.’

‘Where is he?’ Steinar repeated, turning the current up to four.

At six, Bugge’s screams could be heard throughout the building, but he still wouldn’t talk. Steinar wouldn’t have thought that feeble doughball would be able to hold anything back. He’d thought a slight gust of wind would be enough to make Bugge spill the beans on everything. His normal feelings no longer functioned, and torture didn’t produce the desired effect. It seemed that there were only two things that could get a determined football agent like Bugge to talk. He’d either have to offer him money or intensify the torture.

Steinar tore off Bugge’s last remaining item of clothing and moved the electrodes.

The Hunt

Bugge talked. He started babbling deliriously about Nigerians, people with scars, cowboys and Indians. He’d told them everything he knew, but Bugge didn’t know everything.

Benedikte was in a life-threatening condition, and Steinar would forever blame himself if she didn’t make it. He’d been too slow to realise what was going on. Of course the killer was a centre-back, only a destructive defender could think of doing something as idiotic as training on a dry grass pitch wearing screw-in studs. Since Vålerenga’s other centre-back was that gifted Danish player, the killer had to be Marius Bjartmann.

‘Did you find him?’ Taribo asked Steinar when he got back in the van.

‘He’s gone. All I know is that he’s using one of Golden’s apartments. Bjartmann used it for his lover. Bugge thought he might have gone there, but he doesn’t know where it is.’

‘I did up one of Golden’s apartments once, he owned several in the same block at Manglerud.’

‘Do you remember where?’

‘In Plogveien. I’ll recognise the block when I see it.’

The wheels spun on the gravelly expanse in front of Vallhall. Steinar sped through the Vålerenga Tunnel, jumped when he saw the speed camera flash but didn’t slow down. He turned off at Galgeberg, where the old gallows used to be, and swerved the van into the other lane to overtake a slow-moving Volvo up the twisting road along Ryenbergveien, which continued onto Enebakkveien. He turned off just before the car dealership at Ryen and past the modern white-brick building that didn’t fit with the Rema 1000 supermarket occupying it. They raced towards the new block of flats at the bottom of the hill.

‘Stop!’ shouted Taribo. Steinar slammed on the brakes.

‘Which one is it?’ asked Steinar, pointing at all the blocks in Plogveien. He knew the road well. Mette had grown up here, just before the turn-off to Manglerudhallen sports centre. The name Plogveien meant ‘plough road’, and Steinar wished he were a plough, he wanted to pull out some weeds.

‘Look over there!’ said Taribo, pointing down Svartdalsveien.

Bjartmann was coming out of one of the low-rise blocks. Steinar put his foot to the floor, turning the wheel hard left at the same time. The sound of the van’s engine put the whole neighbourhood on alert, including Bjartmann, but he couldn’t get away from them now.

Bjartmann stood there like a rabbit in the headlights, then took off along the edge of the woods.

Steinar threw the van over the kerb where the downhill track turned to gravel. The woods opened up in front of them. Steinar caught a glimpse of houses in the distance, but he didn’t have time to work out which way he was facing. He lost control of the van on the gravel, skidding and stopping with the van blocking the track. Bjartmann vanished into the trees.

Steinar got out, opened the back door and took out his mountain bike.

‘One of you stay here with Junior, the other one follow me.’

The opening where the path began was quite narrow. Steinar had cycled along the trail once before, but found it too steep. He lowered his head and gripped the handlebars.

A curve of a street, Konows Gate, cut across the path. Steinar dashed straight into the road and spotted something approaching fast from the left. He squeezed on the brakes, twisting the handlebars at the same time hard to the right, and avoided the black Golf by a few inches.

Across the road Bjartmann headed for the second part of the trail, the bit that nobody uses, the steepest part.

Steinar pedalled as hard as he could to get the bike going again. Branches, nettles and weeds lashed at his face on the bends. The track was steep all the way, a small wooden bridge straight ahead of him.

When Steinar hit the bridge he saw that it led to a right-hand bend. A large birch tree just after the bridge. He jumped towards the tree, putting his shoulder to the trunk and letting himself ricochet off to the right. Miraculously, he landed back on the path. Then came a left turn. As he came out of it, he saw the path was blocked by a landslide
further on.

Could he make it? Steinar caught a glimpse of Bjartmann the path below him and carried on towards the landslide. There was a narrow gap between the rocks and Steinar managed to manoeuvre the front wheel through it, the back wheel taking a couple of violent blows.

Steinar’s relief at having got past the landslide was short-lived. Up ahead was another almost impossible right-hand turn. But there was a wire fence too, if he could get hold of it, he could use it to turn. He leant to the side, reached out his right hand and grabbed the wire, flexing his arm all he could. He knew it would hurt, but he wasn’t going to let Bjartmann get away.

Time stood still for a moment as the bike left the ground, leaving him hanging in the air by his right arm. He came crashing to the ground, but leapt back onto his bike. A sign told him the path was closed.

He struggled through hazels and rowan, or whatever all those trees were called, until the path opened onto a grassy field with a couple of goalposts and some benches. He spotted Bjartmann at the other end of the field. Moments later Steinar reached the same spot and realised too late that he was heading down some small, slippery steps. He couldn’t stop. He’d just have to try and stay on his bike, which was now going faster and faster, shaking terribly.

It was just a question of whether he’d survive this downhill stretch. His hands ached from the shaking of the bike, and the brakes smelt of burning rubber. He shot out through some bushes, bumping over stones and puddles and hitting a root that threw him and his bike into the air. He landed in the middle of the Alna River.

Both of Steinar’s wheels were punctured and the handlebars were twisted out of position. The river was shallow but fast-flowing. Bjartmann was standing on a small wooden bridge over the river, pointing down at him.

‘Stay away from me!’

‘You stupid, spoilt brat. You’re only 30 and make millions a year, why the hell would you kill somebody?’

‘I’ll tell you why. That dirty fucking cock jockey had started ignoring me. All he cared about was selling Per. You know how many games I’ve played in the top division? 250. It was my turn to be sold. I was the one who should be going to England to make some dough of my own. I’ve seen hundreds of players much worse than me turn into multimillionaires. It was my fucking turn! And he told me as much. That
fucking poof told me that such and such a team was interested. And, worst of all, I believed him. I was a fool. And you know what? They didn’t have the fucking guts to tell me that they were an item. Somebody else told me. You know what they said when I confronted them? That they “loved each other”. Fucking back-door bandits. So fucking sick. What do you think it would mean for me if it came out? You know how many nights we spend in the same twin room? Everyone would think that I was stabbing shit too with a stupid smile on my face.’

‘How did you do it?’ asked Steinar.

‘I cleared a ball up into the stands, and I couldn’t stand Hjalmar whinging about us losing balls all the time, so I climbed up to the VIP boxes. Through the window, I could see that Golden was in his office, so I climbed in to talk to him and explain how frustrated I was, but he was angry too. Angry that I didn’t accept the relationship between him and Per. Then it all turned black. I hit him as hard as I could. He was lying there and I trod on him. I felt his neck snap.’

Bjartmann’s eyes went up and down the river. He was weighing up different escape routes. He’d killed Golden and he’d also assaulted Benedikte right in front of Junior’s eyes.

Steinar threw away his bike and ran the first few metres to the bridge at lightning speed. Bjartmann set off upriver, past some railings. An acidic remark by a journalist in
VG
had compared Bjartmann’s turning speed to the Denmark ferry. Steinar had the muscles of a sprinter. He quickly gained ground.

About a hundred metres upriver he saw a narrow suspension bridge. It was several metres above a waterfall, the water foaming around sharp rocks. A fall there could be fatal. The bridge began to rock violently as they ran onto it. Bjartmann stopped half-way, grabbing onto the steel wires on both sides. Steinar threw himself at him, and they crashed together onto the wood. Bjartmann’s mobile dropped out of his pocket, falling over the side and into the waterfall. Bjartmann instinctively tried to grab it, in vain.

The collision had also made Steinar lose his grip. Bjartmann jumped up and kicked. Steinar just managed to move his head to the right so that the kick just grazed his cheek. Bjartmann lost his balance, and Steinar was on top of him, holding his left arm against Bjartmann’s collar bone and pushing him against the railing. Steinar raised his arm, made a fist and was ready to knock Bjartmann over the side and into the river. All Steinar’s hatred built up in his fist as he pulled it back. It
was like loading a crossbow.

This time, Bjartmann didn’t miss. He kicked Steinar straight in the balls. Steinar curled up on all fours. Bjartmann set off another volley, this time aimed at Steinar’s kidneys.

He lifted Steinar up. Now he was the one going to be thrown off the bridge. Steinar had thought he could beat him, but Bjartmann was younger and stronger.

‘Why did it matter to you?’ Bjartmann said.

‘For my client’s sake.’

‘That fucking Nigerian?’

‘That big fucking Nigerian,’ said Taribo, who’d come up the last few steps towards Bjartmann from behind. He twisted his arm like a python round Bjartmann’s neck, Taribo tightened his grip, biceps expanding and veins quivering. All colour left Bjartmann’s face, his arms and legs slumped. Bjartmann wilted like a flower.

‘Can I borrow this man?’ asked Taribo. ‘I thought he could stay in the forest for a couple of days with me and Yakubu.’

Steinar kept his eyes on Taribo for a moment.

Bjartmann had killed Golden and tried to kill Benedikte. Now that he’d been stopped, the worst of Steinar’s rage subsided. Steinar remembered that he was a lawyer and a father. So was Taribo. Steinar knew what it might cost them if they took the law into their own hands. He felt his breathing going back to normal. He glanced at Bjartmann. He really wasn’t worth it.

‘Bring him back alive,’ said Steinar.