Exposed at the Back (7 page)

‘I’m sorry, but I haven’t seen those ones,’ she said.

‘What about
Pippi Longstocking
? Surely all girls have seen that. The police officers Kling and Klang. They try to arrest Pippi, an eight- or nine-year-old girl, to put her in a children’s home, but they can’t catch her. They also lose their bike to thieves and just cause trouble. Do you remember them?’

‘Of course I remember Pippi, but maybe not all the details.’

‘The point is that we learn early. Postman Pat’s always up “early in the morning, just as day is dawning”, Fireman Sam’s “the hero next
door”, but the police are totally incompetent. The message is clear: we’ve got to fend for ourselves. The police are idiots.’

Benedikte smiled, then fell silent. Her eyes were sparkling green, a colour that reminded him of Glasgow Celtic. It felt like looking into them for too long would burn him. Her eyes pierced him as she leant closer, leaving him no escape.

‘The police might be idiots,’ she said, ‘but Pippi’s not. Pippi’s tough, she gets straight to the point. She’s not afraid to ask difficult questions. I think Pippi grew up to be a journalist. I like Pippi. I’m a fan. So enough of this bullshit. Why did you show up in a documentary about Golden? And why do you refuse to tell me why you stopped playing?’

Steinar stood up, he wasn’t ready for this. He wasn’t ready to tell her everything.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I…’

He ran out. He’d just remembered the most important thing of all, and he’d have to owe her for the lunch, this couldn’t wait.

He ran across the street as fast as he could and up to the nearest taxi. He gave the driver the address and told him to step on it. The driver did his best, but the traffic ground to a halt at Carl Berners Plass. The new junction was completely jammed by a dislocated bendy bus. Steinar paid, jumped out and started running. He sprinted through the park in Torshovdalen with the tough climb towards Sinsen Station, on through the underpass below the ring road, over the grass to the path through Muselunden and up to the gate.

He leant on his knees for a few seconds, got his breath back and went through the gate. Jenna, the 22-year-old Swedish assistant, looked at Steinar disapprovingly, tapping her finger on her watch. When she opened her mouth, she spoke with a dialect that could have belonged to Pippi Longstocking herself, but her temper came from somewhere else. Still, all Steinar’s agitation vanished when a two-and-a-half-year-old bundle of energy came running along with outstretched arms, shouting.

‘Daaaaaddy.’

Part 3

23 July

Arild Golden never went more than two days without exercise. He laced up his shoes and went jogging through Smithfield, heading south towards St Paul’s Cathedral. He then followed the Thames east, trawling his way through the streets of Whitechapel, then back to the west and his starting point, the Zetter Hotel in Clerkenwell
.

Golden always stayed there when he was in London. It was an area with small cafés, advertising agencies, innovative restaurants and a wealth of interesting options for jogging routes. He loved jogging along the street and discovering a new neighbourhood. Besides, in this part of London he was spared having to bump into half-drunk Norwegian football fans digging to find out who he was going to sell next
.

He took a shower, put on his suit trousers and shirt but left his jacket and tie in his room. He went downstairs to reception and into the hotel restaurant. The Everton chairman, James Sterling, was sitting there waiting
.

Sterling was the complete opposite of Golden, as unfit as it was possible to be, and Golden wondered what had attracted him to the world of sport. Golden had pseudonyms for everybody in his work notes, and Sterling was referred to as ‘Mr Gastric Bypass’, but Sterling was also the executive ultimately in charge of Everton’s finances
.

Golden sat down, shook Sterling’s hand across the table and ordered a bottle of water from the waiter
.

‘So, Mr Golden, will I be getting any money this time?’ asked Sterling
.

‘Of course not.’

‘Come on, how much longer are you going to use this against me?’

Golden felt nothing for the man but pure disgust. Not that this mattered at all in terms of business, of course. Sterling was one of two men he had to control in order to push through Diesen’s transfer, but he felt no need to tread carefully with the man
.

‘They were under age,’ he said. The pictures that Golden’s partner had obtained were extremely revealing, what you could call perfect blackmail material, and Sterling had not done nearly enough for them to be handed over to him
.

Sterling leant so far back he was practically horizontal in his chair. His voice trembled just a little as he spoke
.

‘But I wasn’t to know that.’

‘They were pretty girls. And I’m sure it’s hard to distinguish a 15-year-old Ukrainian from one who’s 20-something. But that’s still what they were, 15 years old. And the pictures, they’re extremely eye-opening. I just wonder whether it’s the Sun or the Mirror who would offer the most.’

‘I’m so ashamed about it. I would do anything to have it undone.’

‘That won’t make the girls any older.’

‘How long are you going to punish me for?’

‘Don’t think of it as punishment. You’re getting an outstanding player, after all.’

‘Terribly overpriced, I suppose.’

‘I’ve got three demands,’ said Golden, leaning towards Sterling. ‘Firstly, you’ll support the transfer wholeheartedly. You’ve seen Diesen and you’re convinced he’s the man for you. Secondly, all the money will go via the Golden Boys office in Guernsey. None of it is to be transferred directly to the Norwegian club. And, finally, I’ll act as Everton’s official representative when we sign the papers on 1 August.’

As usual, everything would remain unwritten until the official signing
.

In Shadow and in Sunlight

Steinar had taken Junior swimming on a Sunday at Tøyenbadet once before. They weren’t about to go again. It had been so packed with people that it was impossible to stay in the water in any other position than vertical. Whichever way they’d tried to lie back, somebody was blocking them.

The theatre, cinema or soft play were the other options. Soft play would mean jumping around for three hours but, for some strange reason, Junior never got tired. He didn’t need to go to bed earlier after an outing like that, and neither did it make him less active before bedtime. It really only acted as a warm-up.

The theatre was his favourite, especially the puppet theatre in the old tram depot at Torshov. But Junior had already seen the current play twice, while the cinema only had 3D films, and Junior refused to wear the glasses.

The boy toddled past Steinar with his hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets. He sighed, bowing his head towards the ground. Any further now and he might tip over.

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

Junior looked up at his father and shrugged, sending his shoulders almost unnaturally far up towards his ears.

Steinar had decided as early as 1986 that, if he ever had a son, he’d name him after the Brazilian midfielder. Now it was Steinar who sighed.

‘Shall we play football?’ he asked.

‘Yeah!’ shouted Junior, jumping for joy. Steinar had the feeling that whatever he’d said after ‘shall we’, Junior would’ve shown just as much enthusiasm.

‘Come along with Daddy,’ said Steinar. They went to the basement door. Steinar opened it, switched on the light and looked down the
steep, slippery stairs. Why hadn’t he put down carpet, or at least some strips of tape to stop them sliding? He put on a pair of trainers and carried Junior down.

Steinar had taken over the house from his parents a few months before Junior was born. They thought it was nice that the next generation of the Brunsvik family would grow up there. It was also a matter of necessity, as Steinar’s mother had a rheumatic disorder that meant she had to spend much of the year in a warmer climate. The bartering over their large flat in Calahonda, in southern Spain, had put another dent in Steinar’s savings.

In the basement, there were tins of paint that had been there for 20 years. There were unpacked tools, and rolled-up architectural plans for a kitchen extension. All part of various projects that Steinar’s father liked to plan but never had the energy to see through.

Over in the corner was a padlocked storage room made out of light-coloured wood. Steinar’s father had eaten humble pie and got a joiner to put it up after years of nagging from Steinar’s mother.

The key was in a crack in the wall down by the floor. Steinar bent down and teased it out. He moved his hand over the woodwork, put the key in the padlock and turned it. Junior had never been in the storage room and held on tight to Steinar’s trouser-leg.

On one wall was a clothes drier, on which hung all the shirts Steinar had got in exchange after UEFA cup matches, internationals and decisive league matches. There were also football shirts going right-back to when Steinar was a little boy. He took down an old Brazil shirt and put it on Junior. It fit him.

Straight in front of them was a bookcase. There were scrapbooks marked by year: one for each year up to 2002. One shelf was dedicated to programmes from matches Steinar had played. Steinar had never sent any of them home, and his parents hadn’t visited him that often either.

On their left hung the football boots, which also spanned the years up to his final season. Steinar took down a pair of Adidas Copa Mundial boots. The leather was soft. They’d been polished regularly.

‘Look Daddy, a ball,’ said Junior, who had his head buried in a large bag. He took out the deflated leather ball and went out of the room. Steinar checked the bag’s contents, finding several more balls. Some small, worn-out plastic balls from his childhood, some tennis balls he used to juggle with, and a match ball from the Champions League
clash with Hamburg in 2000, in which Steinar scored a hat trick and was given the ball to take home.

A loud clang tore Steinar away from his nostalgia. He ran out of the room and saw that Junior had hit the snow shovel, sending it crashing to the ground. Junior looked down.

‘Sorry,’ he said.

‘It’s alright,’ said Steinar, putting back the shovel. Then he went to fetch a more suitable small plastic ball. He gave it to Junior and started to pile up the old paint tins into two stacks. Then he put an unused Jordan paintbrush extender over the top.

‘Can you get it in the middle there?’ asked Steinar, pointing.

Junior got the ball ready but, because the basement floor sloped down towards the drain in the middle, it started rolling away. He tried again. The floor was rough, so if he managed to put the ball down carefully enough, it might just work. Steinar watched him without interfering. Junior concentrated intensely, and eventually the ball stayed still.

He then took two steps back. His little body began to shiver. He ran towards the ball and closed his eyes just as he kicked it. The ball flew into the bottom of one of the stacks of paint tins, hitting it on the inside, and trundling into the makeshift goal.

‘Gooooooal!’ shouted Junior, running around with his hands in the air.

Who taught him that? Who’d given the boy such a clear idea of what a goal was?

Steinar went back into the storage room. He fetched the smallest pair of boots. They fit Junior’s feet perfectly.

‘Let’s try it on the lawn,’ he said, carrying Junior, as well as a couple of plastic balls, out into the sunshine.

Football Xtra

‘Arild Golden’s death has left a power vacuum in Norwegian football. Who’ll take his place?’ asked Benedikte, looking at the panel on that day’s edition of
Football Xtra
. There were two former Tippeligaen players, another who’d played professionally in England and a recently sacked top-division manager.

Her question was aimed at nobody in particular, and nobody chose to answer. Benedikte continued, but turning to face the man who’d once played in England.

‘One of Golden’s core business areas was developing astroturf pitches. Some people think the expansion in astroturf has gone too far. What’s your opinion?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, you’ve played in England where all the matches are played on real grass. Do you think synthetic grass will ever be on a par as an alternative?’

‘The only thing that worries me about astroturf is global warming.’

‘Global warming?’

‘Because astroturf gets warmer than grass does, so that means the whole planet gets warmer, doesn’t it?’

Benedikte nodded. He might conceivably have a point in that replacing large areas of grass with astroturf also meant less CO
²
would be absorbed. But how do you follow up an answer like that?

She heard a brief order in her earpiece: ‘Pass to Tromsø now.’

‘Something’s happened up at Alfheim Stadion in Tromsø. Over to you, Stig Nilsen.’

‘Fucking hell!’

‘Stig, you’re live on air.’

‘I know, but can you fucking believe that idiot of a referee’s awarded
a penalty? Please excuse me if I’m being unfair by calling a referee an idiot, but come on, he must be totally fucking retarded.’

The last time Tromsø played at home, Nilsen had used the word ‘dick’ three times in some form or another within a 40-second item. It was only because of the numerous texts and e-mails they received about how ‘genuine’ and ‘down-to-earth’ he was that he was still on the air.

‘I’ve never seen a more useless ref. That guy must have both eyes and half of his head shoved up his own arse. I mean, that so-called foul happened five yards out of the box. And there wasn’t a bloody soul anywhere near. But wouldn’t you believe it, it looked as if he’d been shot with a bazooka right in the forehead. Any normal ref would’ve given him a yellow card for diving and that would’ve been it, but no, this ref’s given a fucking penalty. Sick bastard!’

The live pictures on the monitor on the studio floor showed the players crowding round the referee. It would take some time before the penalty could be taken, so Benedikte asked the studio guests if they thought it was a penalty. The interruption gave Bertil Olsen the chance to remind Stig Nilsen yet again about where he should sit. All the reporters should have the stadium in the background and look straight into the camera while they were live. That made for the best picture, but of course it did make it difficult for them to see what was actually happening in the match while they were doing their report. The penalty kick was near at hand. Benedikte handed over to Alfheim Stadion and, as expected, found herself staring straight into the back of Stig Nilsen’s neck.

‘Stig, Stig?!’ she said. She glanced over at the live pictures. The player scored.

‘Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit… shit…’

That last, meaningful ‘shit’ hung in the air. Benedikte handed over to the Color Line Stadion in Ålesund.

Then the break.

There was a message on Benedikte’s screen from the controller of TV2. ‘Get Nilsen to calm down before the second half!’

It was Benedikte who’d got to know Nilsen and had recommended him to TV2. He was her responsibility. He was like a little brother getting into trouble, one who didn’t quite fit in, wasn’t managing with school or life in general. That’s what people from his particular background were like. Stig Nilsen was an ex-goalkeeper.

He’d played 15 seasons at Tromsø, turning down good offers from abroad three times. He was an eternal hero in the northern city, the gateway to the Arctic, and his intention was to follow his playing career with another as the club’s goalkeeping coach.

His plans had changed suddenly a year before. In a huddle for a corner, Vålerenga’s centre-back Marius Bjartmann had ended up on top of Nilsen, who landed with his knee in a very unfortunate position. Several ligaments, his menisci and other cartilage had been seriously damaged. Nilsen couldn’t kick a ball anymore, and the only thing that still worked was his mouth.

‘Hi there,’ said Benedikte when she had him on the line.

‘Have they been on at you again? Can’t we just say that we’ve had a chat? That you’ve told me off and I’ve promised to pull myself together?’

‘But can you, though? Can you tone it down a couple of notches?’

‘Depends on the ref.’

‘Give it a try. By the way, while I’ve got you on the line, do you know Steinar Brunsvik?’

‘I knew him. We played together on the national youth team. Best player I’ve ever seen.’

‘Do you know why he quit?’

‘Can’t say I do. What I remember most of all is that he was nuts!’

‘What?’

‘I’ve never even seen an animal with a temper like Brunsvik’s.’

The guests came back into the studio after the advertising break, and the make-up artist, Karianne, gave them all an extra layer of powder. After a few rounds of questions, Benedikte handed back to Stig Nilsen in Tromsø, just as his old team’s Finnish captain and midfield anchor, Mattis Niemi, caught his right foot on the astroturf.

‘Oh shit. Mattis has injured himself. It looked bloody painful and I know all about what it’s like to get injured on this pitch. One wrong step and you slide about like a cunt out there.’

Benedikte took over from the studio to discuss what a possible injury to Niemi might mean for Tromsø, but then a symbol on the screen started flashing. Something else had happened in Tromsø.

‘Now the Tromsø lads are down to 10 men on the pitch, and Odd’s just scored again. It’s a scandal. The astroturf’s new this year. I’m damned if I know how many times they’ve replaced the turf, but it just seems like they get a crapper brand every bloody time. I played all those wonderful years on proper grass here at Alfheim. Never a single bloody
injury. Then along comes the astroturf, and I get injured. And now my damn ligaments flare up more often than seagulls shit on the hot dog stand. Poor Mattis. Bloody fucking astroturf. There’ll soon be more synthetic grass than real grass in this country. Give it another couple of years and there’ll be sheep grazing on the rubbish too. Or maybe that’s where polyester comes from?’

Benedikte let Nilsen carry on. She was thinking about artificial turf and injuries, but also illnesses. And then she remembered the hospital. Those panicked trips there in the middle of the night. The injections. The nausea. And the stress. All those white coats running. At night they looked like ghosts.

She heard a voice shouting in her head but she didn’t know what it was. Stig Nilsen got to carry on swearing for a few more seconds until Benedikte realised it was Bertil Olsen’s voice in her ear: ‘Geeet hiiiim ooooff! Nooow!’

She pulled herself together and said: ‘We apologise for the poor sound quality from Tromsø.’

The opposing team, Odd, had brought their score up to 4–0.

At that same moment, a piece of breaking news scrolled along the bottom of the screen: ‘Police have arrested a man suspected of the murder of Arild Golden.’