Pierced (11 page)

‘Well, I’m not really sure,’ he begins.

There is silence all around him. The eyes of everyone in the meeting room make the skin on his forehead tingle.

‘There’s not much happening at the moment.’

‘So nothing for us today either, Henning?’ Heidi Kjus asks.

‘It’s very quiet out there. It has been an uneventful summer.’

Kjus looks at him over the rim of her glasses and pushes them further up her nose. He hasn’t noticed the glasses until now either.

‘I’m aware of it,’ she says. ‘But then you have to go out and find the news. We can’t just sit here hoping for stories to drop into our laps. We need to chase them. Talk to people. Our number of hits have been disappointing this summer.’

‘They always are.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘I have an appointment later today,’ he continues, and takes a sip of his coffee. ‘I’m meeting a source.’

It’s the oldest reporter excuse in the book, but it usually works.

‘Which story is this?’

‘I can’t tell you anything at this stage.’

Heidi is about to say something, but stops herself. ‘What did you just say?’

‘If I get what I’m hoping for from my source, it could turn into a story. But until then I’m keeping my mouth shut.’

‘Just so,’ Heidi says, offended, and shakes her head almost imperceptibly, but enough for everyone around the table to register it. She draws a long hard line under Henning’s name on her sheet. ‘Then you’re on cuttings duty until further notice.’

Henning’s jaw drops. ‘Cuttings duty?’

‘Yes. You know what cuttings duty is, don’t you?’

‘Yes. Of course I do.’

‘There’s no one from the cuttings team here today. Ill health, holiday and blah blah blah. Plus Egil is taking time off in lieu. I’ll send you NTB’s news list shortly, Henning, and the list of today’s stories to everyone else.’

Henning sees that Iver is grinning from ear to ear.

‘Quick, quick,’ Heidi says, making get-out-of-here gestures with her hands. ‘I’m off to an editors’ meeting and half the day has gone already.’

Chairs are pushed back, and they stand up. Henning is the last to leave. ‘Cuttings,’ he mutters to himself. ‘Lucky me.’ Another time he might have kicked up a fuss or spent a minute or two before the meeting inventing a story, a follow-up – anything – to give Heidi the impression he was busy. But cuttings duty is practically a no-brainer. He can spend the time between cutting and pasting stories doing further research on Tore Pulli and the people around him. Henning knows he has barely scratched the surface.

The secretary’s friendly smile reaches all the way down the handset. Henning thanks her and waits for her to route the call through the switchboard at the offices of Johnsen, Urne & Olsvik. Henning has been there before, but now that Heidi has put him on cuttings duty he doesn’t have the time to visit Frode Olsvik, Pulli’s solicitor, in person.

He produces two stories during the first two hours of his day at the office, one about bad weather hampering the search for survivors after a plane crash in Pakistan which has so far claimed the lives of 158 people and a brief eight-liner about four men charged with the gang rape of a woman in a basement flat in Nordstrand last weekend. News-agency stories both of them. Henning forgets all about them when Olsvik’s well-upholstered voice winds its way down his mobile. Henning introduces himself.

‘Good morning, Juul.’

‘Hi. Do you remember me?’

‘I do,’ the lawyer says, and clears his throat. Frode Olsvik is a defence lawyer who would have fitted right into an episode of
LA Law
in the late eighties. He wears tailor-made suits, braces and treats his guests to a large selection of single-malt whiskies from crystal carafes in his drawing room. But despite working long hours he appears to have both a happy wife and well-adjusted children, something Henning has picked up from other crime reporters who are Facebook friends of Olsvik.

‘My condolences,’ he says. ‘I heard about your son. How are you?’

‘Thank you, I’m not too bad.’

‘I saw that you had returned to work.’

‘Where did you see that?’

Olsvik laughs. ‘Even though I don’t have much time for your paper, I do occasionally socialise with your boss. It’s nothing personal, you understand.’

‘Perfectly. Can you spare a minute?’

‘One, yes, but no more. My next client is due shortly.’

‘Okay, I’ll try to be brief. It’s about Tore Pulli. How long is it until his appeal will be heard?’

‘Let me have a look—’

Fingers leaf through a diary.

‘We’re starting next week. Why? Are you planning a feature on him?’

‘I don’t know‚ to be honest. But could I ask you a question first, please? Off the record, did he do it?’

Olsvik laughs out loud. ‘You know very well I can’t answer that question, Juul.’

‘Haven’t you ever asked him?’

‘I never ask my clients that question. They are legally entitled to a good defence whether they’re guilty or not.’

‘But Pulli claims that he is innocent and that he was set up.’

‘He does.’

‘What do you think about that?’

‘What do I think about that?’

‘You must have met some villains in your time. Many of them must have sworn to you that they were innocent, and most of them would have been lying through their teeth. Given Pulli’s past, then—’

‘I can’t discuss that with you, Juul,’ Olsvik cuts him off.

‘Okay, fair enough,’ Henning replies. ‘What’s Pulli’s explanation as to why his fingerprints were found on the knuckle-duster?’

Olsvik delays his reply for a few seconds. ‘Haven’t you read the verdict?’

‘No, I . . . I haven’t got that far yet.’

Another silence.

‘Well. It was Tore’s knuckle-duster. His old one.’

‘Which he used when he was an enforcer?’

‘Yes. He claims that someone must have stolen it.’

‘When?’

‘He doesn’t know.’

‘But it was his knuckle-duster that was used during the attack?’

‘Yes. Traces of Brolenius’s skin and beard were found on it.’

Henning thinks about this, and he grabs a pen by the notebook without quite knowing why. Heidi appears from around the corner. Henning lowers his voice.

‘The murder weapon was never found. What was Pulli’s explanation for that?’

‘Pulli thinks it’s inconceivable that the prosecutor would believe that he would hide the murder weapon elsewhere only to return to the crime scene later. That was one of the reasons why we appealed the verdict immediately.’

Henning ponders this. ‘Will you be introducing any new evidence for the appeal? Information that wasn’t available first time round?’

‘Not at the moment. Juul, I have to go—’

‘Just one last quick question if I may, Olsvik.’

Olsvik sighs theatrically before agreeing.

‘Has your client ever spoken to you about . . . about me?’

‘About you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘I don’t know. But has he ever done so?’

‘Eh, no. Not that I can remember.’

‘Has he ever mentioned my son?’

‘Your son? No,’ Olsvik says. ‘Why do you ask that, Juul?’

A clammy, lonely feeling overwhelms him. ‘Forget I asked. I was just curious.’

Henning informs Heidi before he leaves for the police station. On his way he calls Pia Nøkleby. She is by no means the only assistant commissioner at the police station, but he has had more contact with Nøkleby than with anyone else there since his return to work.

‘Hi Pia, it’s Henning Juul.’

‘Hi Henning.’

‘Do you have a couple of minutes?’

It takes a while before she replies: ‘Yes, I think so. What’s it about?’

‘Would you come outside, please?’

‘Outside where?’

‘Out on the grass. I’m outside the station.’

This is a lie – he hasn’t got there yet – but it will take her some time to get down from the fifth floor.

‘Now?’

‘Yes, please. I’m bored standing here on my own even though the weather is nice.’

Another pause.

‘I’m due in a meeting very shortly, but—’

‘I’ve bought you an ice cream.’

Lie number two.

‘Have you now? But I’m on a diet.’

‘On a diet? You?’

‘Ha-ha.’

Henning laughs, even though he knows it sounds false.

‘Okay, give me a couple of minutes. I feel in need of a break.’

‘I’m on the bench to your left as you come out. Hurry up, your ice cream is melting.’

‘Yes, all right, I’m on my way.’

Nøkleby walks briskly past a group of smokers occupying their usual spot a short distance from the main entrance. A blue cloud of cigarette smoke rises towards the sun. Henning waves when he sees her.

As always, the assistant commissioner is in uniform. Her sunglasses emphasise her bone structure. Henning hasn’t noticed it before, but she is actually rather attractive. Distinctive cheekbones, not too defined, just enough to endow her face with shape and character. When she comes closer, he sees that her skin is unblemished and lightly tanned. She has no bags under her eyes though he knows how hard she works. Her dark hair is cut short over her ears and neck and combed into a neat side parting to the left without a fringe to block her view. Her glossy hair has a touch of auburn. She fills out the uniform, not too much, but not too little either.

Nøkleby sits down next to him.

‘Hi Henning.’

‘Hi.’

He hands her the ice cream: strawberry soft ice in a cup which he bought in a kiosk across the road.

‘I took a wild guess that you liked strawberry.’

‘All girls like strawberry,’ she smiles.

Henning watches her rip off the cellophane from the spoon that comes with the ice cream. She raises the cup to him.

‘Thank you very much.’

‘Don’t mention it.’

‘Are you trying to bribe me?’

‘Yes. Is it working?’

‘Let me taste the ice cream first and then I’ll tell you.’

Henning smiles again as he watches her scoop out the soft ice. She swallows a mouthful and closes her eyes.

‘Not bad. Not bad at all.’

Henning laughs. Nøkleby raises her eyes towards the avenue that leads up to Oslo Prison.

‘I presume you haven’t just come here to eat ice cream.’

Henning takes a bite of his own ice cream. ‘I’ve started looking into the case of Tore Pulli,’ he says and swallows. Nøkleby eats another spoonful and looks at him.

‘There was evidence at the crime scene that indicated that Pulli did it, while other clues pointed elsewhere. I’m just curious: did you consider other suspects?’

Nøkleby smiles indulgently. ‘We didn’t just find one piece of evidence and build the case on that alone – if that’s what you’re implying.’

‘It wouldn’t be the first time.’

‘Not since I’ve been here.’ Nøkleby licks her lips and puts down her ice cream.

‘Some of Tore’s friends wouldn’t agree with you. They go so far as to claim that the police have been hunting Tore for years.’

‘Hunting?’

‘Yes, trying to frame him.’

‘For God’s sake,’ she scoffs. ‘Anyone who says that has been watching too many American movies. The police in Norway don’t frame people, Henning.’

‘The press regularly run stories about substandard police work, inappropriate charges, evidence going missing – being planted even, in some cases. Do you really think it’s that strange that people in the street don’t have total faith in the ethical and moral integrity of today’s law enforcers? That some people might think that a case such as Pulli’s is as much about saving face as it is about the truth?’

Nøkleby doesn’t reply. Her arms are folded across her chest. The colour of her cheeks has darkened. For a while they watch the green area outside the police station. Near the pavement a man is pushing a lawnmower up and down.

‘It wasn’t my intention to criticise you, Pia,’ Henning says, after a long pause.

‘No, I know.’

‘Pulli called the police himself, didn’t he?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you trawled the neighbourhood looking for the murder weapon?’

‘Obviously.’

‘Why did Pulli return to the crime scene to call the police?’

‘Probably because he couldn’t find his knuckle-duster.’

Henning looks at her for a long time. ‘Do you think that sounds convincing?’

‘No, not totally convincing, but plausible. I’m perfectly aware that a man like Tore Pulli realised that he would have a problem explaining himself after killing Jocke Brolenius. It was widely known that he had asked Brolenius for a meeting. That’s why he concealed the most important piece of evidence against him, the murder weapon, before coming up with this conspiracy theory that someone stole his knuckle-duster and gave Brolenius a Pulli punch to fit him up for something he hadn’t done.’

‘You’re forgetting that Pulli tried to prevent Brolenius getting killed in the first place.’

‘Yes, I’ve heard that story too. It could have been his plan all along, getting people to testify that he had been working to avert a bloodbath so we were more likely to buy his conspiracy theory.’

‘But you didn’t.’

‘No.’

‘Something of a gamble, I must say.’

‘You may be right. But you’re forgetting that Brolenius very likely killed Pulli’s friend. No one can convince me that Tore Pulli didn’t want revenge.’

Henning nods quietly.

‘And there’s one more thing: during his initial interviews, Tore Pulli claimed that he turned up at the factory exactly at the agreed time of eleven o’clock that night and that Brolenius was already dead when he arrived. But Pulli didn’t call the police to report the death until 11.19. So tell me this: does it take nineteen minutes to discover a body and call the police, or does it take nineteen minutes to kill someone, conceal the murder weapon and then return to the crime scene to pick up anything you have forgotten?’

Henning doesn’t respond immediately. ‘But in that case why call the police at all?’

‘Because he had come to the conclusion that showing his hand was his best chance of getting off. He knew he would be our prime suspect. But nobody bought his story.’