Exposed at the Back (5 page)

Soul of Fire

‘It doesn’t look good,’ said Dr Ramstad, putting his hand on Steinar’s shoulder. Bjørnar Ramstad and Steinar were childhood friends, having grown up together in Lofthusveien, in the East End of Oslo. Practically every time they’d met as adults, they’d argued about which neighbourhood Lofthusveien was in, whether it was Grefsen or Årvoll, but not today. Steinar nodded ever so slightly before drawing his breath and opening the door to room 3206, on the second floor of the Cancer Centre at Ullevål Hospital.

Steinar’s old coach, Ståle Jakobsen, was sleeping in bed. Jakobsen was a football coach of the most politically incorrect school. He wouldn’t have given a damn about giving a seven-year-old a dressing down for a poorly executed tackle, and ideas such as squad rotation or prizes for everybody weren’t part of Jakobsen’s ideology. Nevertheless, warmth was the quality that Steinar associated with him most.

He turned back to Bjørnar and whispered: ‘Bloody hell, he’s fat!’

‘Yes.’

‘How did he get so fat?’

‘How long has it been since you last saw him?’

‘A few years.’

‘Same here. So I made some enquiries. He’s barely left the sports centre over the past few years. He stopped eating his dinners and was living almost exclusively on energy bars and XL-1 energy drinks.’

‘He loved that indoor pitch. He was the one who got it built, after all. He even threatened to beat up people from the council’s planning department, and they coughed up the money in the end. What he did was a political miracle here in Oslo, where it’s only skiing that gets the real money.’

Steinar thought about the old sports centre just beyond Årvoll
School, towards Trondheimsveien, with its indoor synthetic grass pitch. The centre that had meant so much to him when he was growing up.

‘Lung cancer,’ said Bjørnar.

‘You can’t get lung cancer from being fat, can you?’

‘No, but that’s what he’s got anyway, and it’s at an advanced stage too. I’ve spoken with the doctor dealing with his treatment. It’s not operable, I’m afraid.’

‘But I can’t remember ever seeing Jakobsen with a cigarette.’

‘Smokers make up 80 per cent of cases. 20 per cent are down to other causes.’

‘How did Jakobsen get it, then?’

‘I’ve got a theory, but I need to investigate a bit more first. Can we meet up tonight? Seven o’ clock at Magneten?’

‘Okay.’

‘Then I’ll tell you what’s killing him.’

Fair Play

Benedikte’s white iPhone 4S rang. She looked at the display. It was Per Kristian Boltedal from the financial newspaper
Dagens Næringsliv
finally returning her call.

Boltedal was known as one of Norway’s best investigative journalists. Corruption among business leaders was his speciality, but his greatest passion was football. Every other Sunday on the stands at Ullevaal Stadion he did the customary
jenka
party dance with the rest of Klanen, the Vålerenga supporters’ club.

‘Benny Bly! Long time no speak! How’s it going?’

‘Fine thanks, but I need some help.’

‘And here was me thinking you just wanted a wee chat.’

‘What can you tell me about Arild Golden?’

‘He’s dead.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘I’m only pulling your leg, but Benedikte, you know you’re a rival too, I…’

Benedikte interrupted him: ‘I just need it for background information.’

‘Alright. What do you want to know?’

‘I’m especially interested in Golden Boys.’

‘Golden Boys is Arild Golden’s agency, easily the biggest in the Nordic market and one of the biggest in Europe. I’ve tried, but have barely been able to find out anything else at all about the company.’

‘How can that be?’

‘Golden Boys is registered in Guernsey and the board’s made up of two English lawyers who refuse to comment.’

‘What kind of structure do you think the company’s got, then?’

‘Its accounts and the details of its ownership aren’t public. There
are many ways to hide these, for example through an agreement with the lawyers, or with the shares being owned by a foundation in Liechtenstein or somewhere. And, if you’re really paranoid, you can use bearer bonds.’

‘What are they?’

‘Whoever physically holds the bonds owns the company.’

‘Could these have been kept in Golden’s office?’

‘Anywhere. It’s probably most common to keep them in a safe-deposit box. The point is that if you want to keep details about ownership a secret, then they’re impossible to find. Just imagine if Golden kept those bonds deposited in a Swiss bank and memorised the account number and the code needed to access them. Then we’ll never find out anything about the company’s structure or what happened to the money.’

‘What about his address and phone number?’

‘I’ve spoken to Golden on the phone several times, but I can’t manage to trace any record of his number. As for his home, he spent so much time travelling outside Norway that he didn’t have to be registered as a resident. I can’t even find any documentation on his transfers. Just rumours.’

‘I like rumours.’

‘Per Diesen and Everton.’

‘Is he going there?’

‘Was going there. Everton were about to buy him this month, but now that Golden’s dead it seems as if the planned transfer will suffer the same fate.’

‘Why?’

‘Golden sold players in turn. The last two had gone to West Ham and Aston Villa, and next on the list was Everton and Diesen. What’s more, the Everton manager Brian Fulton suffers from a gambling addiction, and Golden knew how to exploit that.’

‘What’s that got to do with it?’

‘Golden bribed Fulton, not to mention other football executives, both in England and in Norway. That’s why there was never any correlation between which players the clubs needed and the ones they got.’

‘But that’s illegal, isn’t it?’

‘That’s how football works. It’s not how good you are that decides where you end up playing. It’s how creative your agent is, how selective his morality, and how many contacts he’s got. With Golden gone, so
went the tasty morsel of a few extra tax-free million, and so there was no more space left at the end of Everton’s subs’ bench.’

‘Why does nobody report these things?’

‘Who’d want to do that? The agent sits on every side of the table, and it’s not so hard to agree with yourself. We’re talking about a business that’s rotten to the core.’

‘Do you know about anything else that might have led to his death?’

‘I said that everybody was fine with it, but Africa is usually the exception. It’s impossible to work down there as much as Golden did without making enemies.’

‘Have you got any rumours about that, then?’

‘Nothing about Golden himself, but I have heard of other agents taking young girls as payment.’

‘What for?’

‘They promise young lads a professional career in Europe in exchange for sex with their sisters. I’ve heard of a Belgian agent who set up a small harem in Africa while the girls’ brothers were in transit, unable to get through the visa checks. We haven’t managed to link anything like that to Golden but, as I mentioned, you can’t operate in Africa for that long and stay legal. By the way, I think one of your colleagues from TV2 was working on an African angle to the story.’

‘Do you know what it was about?’

‘Something about a footballer from the Cameroonian under-17 national side who was kidnapped and forced to play for a team in Egypt. A totally normal transfer for African football.’

‘Normal?’

‘An incredible amount of these things are going on and nobody seems to care, but apparently, in this case, there might have been a trail back to the Golden Boys system. The company wanted to develop the player through the Egyptian team, which they pretty much controlled, and then sell him on in Europe. Maybe you’ll find something in the TV2 archives?’

Benedikte thought that African football was all about children dribbling a ball on orange-coloured sand, and the players who were exported from African football were supposed to be like George Weah. He’d come from the slums of the Liberian capital Monrovia and was 22 years old when he was bought by Monaco. The FIFA rules state explicitly that it’s illegal to transfer players under the age of 18 from one continent to another. In reality, Barcelona, the world’s best club for
player development, was tearing 11-year-olds away from their families in Cameroon.

Benedikte thanked Boltedal for the information and promised to return the favour.

A few hours later, she had her phone back in her hand. ‘Get to the point, straight to the point,’ she told herself, dialling the number.

‘Hello, Steinar speaking.’

‘This is Benedikte Blystad from TV2 here. Your name’s come up in connection with the Golden case.’

‘What?’

‘Meet me at the TV2 offices in Karl Johans Gate tomorrow at 12 o’ clock,’ she said, hanging up.

I Know What’s Killing Him

Steinar was waiting at Magneten, the pub in Torshov, which was almost like a little town of its own within Oslo, with a butcher, a theatre and a sports shop in three parts criss-crossing the busy Vogts Gate.

He couldn’t remember ever having been in this pub before. When he was young, he’d shunned alcohol to become a good player, and after his career he’d had other things to do. Going to the pub with friends was a rare event. TV screens hung on the walls, one showing a repeat of Everton vs. Birmingham. There was also black and yellow Skeid memorabilia on the wall. ‘The Real Pride of Oslo,’ read one of the pennants.

Bjørnar Ramstad came down the stairs and across to Steinar. He chucked down the pink sports supplement from
VG
on the table, with Arild Golden on the front page. ‘SEE WHO STANDS TO GAIN FROM GOLDEN’S DEATH,’ read the headline. It was four days since he’d been killed. The police hadn’t released any further information and the newspapers were speculating wildly.

‘What a sick story!’ said Bjørnar.

‘Madness,’ said Steinar, skimming through the article, which mentioned most people in Norway. It was almost as if it would be an insult not to be on the list.

‘The first one’s on me,’ said Bjørnar, heading to the bar.

Steinar looked at Golden’s face. The short conversation he’d had with Benedikte Blystad was playing on a loop in the back of his mind. What did she mean? He turned the sports paper upside down.

Bjørnar lanted a lager in front of Steinar. ‘Tell me about that playoff,’ he said. ‘Don’t forget I was a medical student in Sweden back then.’

‘Up in that place Luleå or wherever? Call that studying?’

‘Umeå. And it was hard.’

‘Hehe, I’m only joking.’

‘But that play-off, what happened? How did you do it?’

‘It was 1999, and I don’t think there have been many bigger sensations in Norwegian football history than when us lot from little Årvoll FK found ourselves in a play-off for the top division, for Tippeligaen,’ said Steinar, enjoying a long sip of his lager. ‘Clubs like Årvoll are usually stable fixtures in the Third Division, possibly making a rare appearance in the Second Division, but the indoor pitch changed everything. Everyone who was there in 1999 had started on that indoor pitch in 1984, aged seven. But you know that much; you were one of us too.’

‘For a while, anyway,’ said Bjørnar.

‘We were the first team to have Ståle Jakobsen as our head coach, and we were going to be the best in Norway. Nobody was allowed to go on holiday or attend confirmations, funerals or weddings. And, in the end, nobody wanted to either. We were part of something bigger. When I think of it, you were the only one I remember who quit. Why did you?’

‘Jakobsen said I was academically gifted and should focus on that path instead.’

‘Was he keeping an eye on your marks at school, then?’ asked Steinar, barely managing to hold back his laughter.

‘I know school was an excuse to chuck me out. I wasn’t good enough.’

‘You got a pretty good job, though.’

‘But not the same kind of experience as the rest of the guys did. I would gladly have swapped my education for one year as a pro.’

They’d all been marked by football in some way. Even Bjørnar, who was now a doctor, couldn’t get over the fact that he never made it as the new Johan Cruyff.

‘Jakobsen took us up from one age group to the next,’ said Steinar, ‘and we became like a single organism, with one movement automatically triggering another. I knew exactly what would happen if the ball was in defence or midfield. As a youth team, we won the final of the Norway Cup 4–0 against Bayelsa United from Nigeria.’

A man in stained denim who’d been sitting alone at the next table without a drink got up, walked over to the TV and switched off the Everton vs. Birmingham match. He grumbled something under his breath and sat back down. Bjørnar frowned before nodding at Steinar, who continued.

‘Vålerenga, Stabæk, Lyn, Skeid, Lillestrøm. They were all interested in our players. Representatives from the top clubs were at our pitch on
a daily basis. I remember one time Jakobsen chasing away a Lillestrøm executive, shouting: “Don’t you fucking touch my lads!”’

‘I can picture that.’

‘He also chased away Årvoll’s existing first-team players. In those days, Årvoll was an average Third Division team with a stock of players in their late twenties. They could still stay but, as Jakobsen told them in his typically subtle way, they wouldn’t do any more training or play any matches. Everyone who got to play was 17 or 18, so bigger, heavier opponents wore us out physically for the first two seasons, but in our third season we were promoted, and we went through the Second Division unbeaten. It was us against the rest of the world. We had one mission: to win. We were a team of 11 practically insane footballers whether we were playing away against Levanger, at home against Bærum or travelling away to Strømmen Stadion. Even before the last league round, long after our promotion had been secured, Jakobsen stood there with his top off, pounding his chest, telling us: “Now it matters more than ever.”’

‘Which year was this again?’ asked Bjørnar.

‘We went up from the Second Division in 1998. Then came our legendary 1999 season in the First Division, on Linderud’s astroturf. On the touchline we had a speaker with a megaphone and a portable cassette player with a tape of Prince’s classic hit “1999”, which we played during half-time. The start of the season was beyond all our expectations, and by halfway through we were top of the league. Then Ajax called.’

‘Did they call you personally?’

‘Yeah, I didn’t have an agent. Ajax had been following me for two years, and it was my boyhood dream. The team that had won the Champions League four years earlier with almost exclusively home-grown players. There was no better club to join, but I was terrified of telling Jakobsen.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He started crying.’

Bjørnar looked at Steinar as if he were lying. Steinar started to smile, then tilted his head and nodded, confirming Bjørnar’s suspicions.

‘No, he told me that he knew he couldn’t keep me forever, but it was a tough thing to take nonetheless. I stammered a few words to the effect that I hadn’t made up my mind yet. Then Jakobsen looked at me harshly and said: “You’re going!”’

‘Why?’

‘He couldn’t compete. He didn’t want to. Jakobsen came along to Amsterdam, negotiated my contract and got them to agree that I’d finish the season I was playing with Årvoll. It was a bizarre situation. An Årvoll player on his way to Ajax, and Jakobsen negotiating with them as if he’d never done anything else. Later that evening I lost him in the centre of Amsterdam, but that’s another story altogether.’

Bjørnar laughed.

‘We had a few injuries during the autumn and had to keep making changes to the team. We still ended up in third place and met Kongsvinger in a play-off match. We travelled to Gjemselunden, drawing 0–0, meaning we had one foot in the top division. For the second-leg match, 2,150 spectators came to Linderud, which was practically impossible, but they piled one on top of the other around the pitch. We were leading 1–0 until the 92
^nd
minute, when Johan brought down Kongsvinger’s striker, and I’m not lying when I say that it happened two yards outside the penalty box. The referee awarded a penalty. Of course we all protested wildly, all except Jakobsen, who stood absolutely still. The Kongsvinger player was seriously arrogant and took a two-step run-up. He managed to fool our keeper and chipped the ball straight into the goal. It happened as if in slow motion. We just managed to take the next kick-off before the referee blew his whistle. One ref’s mistake away from the top division. I completely lost it and got a five-match ban for starting a fight. Ajax were about to cancel my contract.’

‘I remember. It got a lot of space in the Swedish papers too. But what about Jakobsen? Didn’t he snap? You said he just stood there calmly, watching.’

‘After calming down, I took a long shower. I was the last one there as I left the dressing room. Jakobsen took me aside and said: “I’m glad.”’

‘What?!’

‘He said that the team would fall apart the day one of us left, and then the top division would be too big for the club. That’s why he was also going to quit as first-team manager. Since he thought it was better for the club that we hadn’t made it, he couldn’t carry on.’

Steinar shook his head, took a last sip of his lager and saw that Bjørnar’s glass was empty too.

‘Let me get you another. Same again?’

Bjørnar nodded. Steinar went to the bar and held up two fingers,
even though the place was almost empty and the barman would quite easily have heard him. Steinar paid and went back to their table.

‘As I mentioned before,’ said Bjørnar, ‘Jakobsen’s going to die, and I think I know what’s killing him. He put me down as his next of kin, so I’ve got more access than I would normally have. His condition made me read up on synthetic turf and its health risks. Have you heard of PAHs: Polycyclic Aromatic Hydrocarbons?’

Steinar shook his head.

‘They’re carcinogenic compounds that can be found in artificial turf. In the rubber. It’s the rubber that’s most dangerous, and the indoor pitch gets extremely dry with the enclosed air and poor ventilation. This makes these substances swirl around even more, and Jakobsen’s been breathing them in for years. The indoor pitch, which he loves more than anything on earth, has slowly but surely been killing him.’

‘What do you mean by rubber?’

‘Chopped-up old car tyres.’

‘Huh?’

‘I see it’s a while since you last trained on artificial turf. So they can control how much the ball bounces and reduce the pain from falling, they use rubber granules. The cheapest way to produce these is by grinding up discarded old tyres. An average pitch will have something like 100 tonnes of granules spread across it.’

‘Why is it dangerous?’

‘Because car tyres contain more than 60 different chemical substances, a number of which are linked to cancer risks or other health problems.’

‘But aren’t there guidelines on how you should dispose of tyres?’

‘Sure, car tyres are supposed to go to approved tips. There are strict rules about it: they mustn’t be dumped in the countryside or in the sea. The upshot is that it’s a bit odd they can be used in synthetic grass pitches or as a soft surface in playgrounds or nursery schools,’ said Bjørnar.

‘Nursery schools too?’

‘This stuff’s being used all over the country. Children are playing on it, falling and bleeding on it. The youngest ones are even licking these surfaces with highly aromatic oils and PAHs leaking out of them, not to mention nonylphenol, zinc and all kinds of other crap.’

‘Why hasn’t the indoor pitch been closed?’

‘Because all the research on the health risks of artificial turf is
being hushed up, discredited. Some researchers at the University of Connecticut demonstrated a link between synthetic turf and a risk of cancer, only to find the outcome of their research toned down to avoid panic. Someone called Dr Daum from Chicago Children’s Hospital found a link between artificial turf and MRSA. The
New England Journal of Medicine
has found the same too. And the thing with medicine is that when something’s been proven, then there are thousands of other dangers that we can’t prove.’

‘Why has this been hushed up? With so many young people playing on synthetic pitches, you’d think people would look into the health risks.’

‘Partly, but everyone’s so happy with synthetic turf. Politicians gain in popularity when they open a new pitch. There are positive side effects in terms of combating child obesity and idleness. Everyone likes sport, and nobody wants to admit they’ve made a mistake. Still, I’m taken aback when I see statements like the one made by the Norwegian Institute of Public Health.’

‘What did they say?’

‘They said something about it not being dangerous and that people didn’t have to replace the rubber now, but they still recommended not using tyres in future. That’s like saying they haven’t got a clue.’

‘I still don’t quite understand why this is just being ignored.’

‘It’s hard to prove it beyond all doubt. Even just diagnosing an illness is an uncertain business, while etiology, finding the cause of an illness, is harder still. We know that tyre rubber causes lung irritation and allergic reactions to the eyes and skin, we know it’s led to cancer and impaired development, as well as liver and kidney damage. It’s even been linked to autism. But it’s harder to prove that an illness might originate from the ground rubber granules in synthetic turf. The number of MRSA patients might be rising in parallel with the number of artificial grass pitches, but can we prove the link? My opinion is that we need to use our heads. If there are so many chemicals that are proven dangerous present in artificial turf and in the granules they use to cover the pitches, then there’s a risk. I’m convinced this is how Jakobsen got lung cancer. I can’t prove it, but I’m convinced about it. And what’s really ironic is that the other kind of astroturfing has a lot to do with it.’

‘The other kind?’

‘Astroturfing was an expression first used in the United States about fake grassroots movements, ordinary people coming forward to sing
the praises of some product or another. Think about how many positive stories you’ve read about synthetic grass. Local council leaders cutting ribbons and happy children in the sunshine on a perfect green mat. The Language Council of Norway should really consider introducing “astroturfing” as a new word in Norwegian.’

‘But what’s the motivation behind hushing it up?’

‘The similarities with the tobacco industry are frightening. For decades, smoking was made to look harmless. What for?’

‘Money?’

‘Exactly. The tobacco industry suppressed research, positive reports were bought, film stars went on smoking and critics were subjected to smear campaigns. Enormous sums of money were involved. The same goes for artificial grass. Have you thought about how much money’s in it? Hundreds of pitches that need to be replaced every five years, on average. Hundreds of new ones every year. Indoor pitches. A couple of hundred seven-a-side pitches. Almost 2,000 multi-use games areas. All this is a breeding ground for a cynical new billion-kroner industry that doesn’t want the research to get out. An industry with all the power invested in that man there,’ said Bjørnar, grabbing the sports supplement from the table and pointing at the photo of Arild Golden. ‘If I were the police, I’d look for the people who got their hands on Golden’s rights to build artificial pitches.’