Pierced (12 page)

Nøkleby gets up. ‘Pulli did it, Henning.’

Henning doesn’t reply.

‘I’ve got to get back,’ Nøkleby continues. ‘If you’re going to write about this, I want copy approval if you quote me. You haven’t made any notes.’

He nods.

‘Thanks for the ice cream,’ she says. ‘It was really good.’

‘And quite sickly.’

She smiles, waves and walks away. Henning gets up too. He shakes his foot, which has gone to sleep, and watches her stride towards the entrance at a brisk pace. He notices with a certain degree of fascination that he likes what he sees.

On his way back to the newspaper, Henning reviews his conversation with Pia Nøkleby. She has a point. If Pulli is adamant that he arrived at the factory at the agreed time, he has a problem explaining the nineteen minutes. Henning wonders if he can trust him at all.

He gets himself a cup of coffee, sits down by his desk and starts thinking about Vidar Fjell. Who was he really?

Henning finds out that Vidar Fjell’s parents, Linda and Erik, live in Lillestrøm. Erik is a professor of Nordic Studies and works at the University of Oslo, but he can find no information about Linda other than a home telephone number she shares with her husband. A rusty female voice answers after a few rings.

‘Hello, it’s Henning Juul from the internet newspaper
123news
. Can I have a few of minutes of your time?’

‘That depends,’ she replies, with that buttoned-up, brusque voice that many people switch to the moment they realise they are speaking to a journalist.

‘It’s about your son.’

There is silence.

‘Why are you writing about Vidar? Now?’

‘I don’t know yet. I’m working on a story where Vidar’s name keeps cropping up. I—’

‘What kind of story?’

‘Tore Pulli’s appeal.’

Linda Fjell snorts. ‘Vidar is dead. That’s bad enough without you journalists bringing it up all the time.’

‘I—’

‘I don’t want to talk about Vidar,’ she interrupts him sharply.

‘What about your husband then? Is he at home?’

‘No,’ she replies, swiftly.

Henning can hear that she is about to hang up.

‘I’m sorry to call you about this,’ he says, quickly. ‘I don’t know you, and I don’t know your husband. But I know how you feel. I’ve lost a child myself.’

There is silence. Henning closes his eyes, tries to will away the images that surface whenever he mentions Jonas. Scenes he never saw but which he can’t stop imagining.

‘I know what it’s like,’ he says, gently. ‘And nothing helps.’

He can hear her breathing, heavy and tortured.

‘So how do you manage?’ Linda Fjell asks him after a pause.

Henning is incapable of replying straight away. ‘Who says I’m managing?’ he whispers, finally. When he continues his voice is soft and slow. ‘But I try to make my boy as alive as I can. For me that means thinking about him as often as I can bear it. I talk about him when I get the chance. And I talk to him sometimes – even if it’s just inside my head. If I don’t do that then I might as well be dead too. I still draw breath just to keep the memory of him alive. It deserves that. And he deserves it.’

Neither of them says anything for a while. Henning feels in need of a shower. ‘Is it okay if I ask you some questions about Vidar?’

Linda Fjell heaves a sigh. ‘Okay,’ she sniffs.

‘Good. Thank you so much.’

‘I don’t really know what you want to know, but—’

‘Perhaps you could begin by telling me something about your son.’

‘Ah.’

‘Perhaps we could start with the place where he worked,’ Henning says to help her get started. ‘His gym.’

‘Fighting Fit,’ she says, proudly. ‘It was his pride and joy. He did everything himself, almost. He was never tempted to sell out to a chain or anything like that. No, not Vidar. He always wanted to do things his way, ever since he was little. Did you know that his gym was a place where young people who had been in trouble could work out?’

‘Yes, I knew that.’

‘Vidar practically dragged them in off the street. At his funeral they were queuing all the way out to the cemetery. There wasn’t room enough in the church. Vidar had so many friends.’

Henning can hear how she grows with every word. ‘Did he have a lot of close friends too?’

‘Yes, he did.’

Linda Fjell reels off the names Henning was expecting to hear: Robert van Derksen, Geir Grønningen, Petter Holte, Kent Harry Hansen. But not Tore Pulli. Henning asks if Tore was one of Vidar’s close friends.

‘No.’

‘Pardon me for asking,’ he says after a short pause. ‘But how do you know that?’

‘Because real friends are there for each other.’

‘And Tore wasn’t?’

‘No.’

‘In what way was he not there for Vidar? After all, he was convicted of avenging your son’s killing.’

Linda Fjell snorts. ‘Is that how you prove what a good friend you are? By killing people? I’m talking about something completely different. Some years ago Vidar had problems at the gym, money trouble. The rent shot up, and the grant the council gave him through the Inner City Project wasn’t enough to cover it. Tore had so much money he didn’t know what to do with it. Vidar went to see Tore to ask for his help. And you know what he said? He said no, that’s what he said.’

‘Are we talking about a lot of money?’

‘I don’t know. I never knew the actual sum involved, but it was definitely not more than Tore could have managed. And do you know what Tore did next? He bought himself a brand-new motorbike. He already had three or four or whatever! Dear God.’

Henning notes down the word ‘mean’ on the pad in front of him.

‘How did Vidar take it?’

‘How do you think? He was upset, obviously.’

‘Hm.’

An uncomfortable silence ensues. A few minutes later, when Henning ends the call, he is left with the feeling that Pulli might not have been all that popular – even before Vidar Fjell was killed.

The first time the Brenden-Haaland family marked the start of a new school year by eating out, Julie had just been born and they were forced to abandon their celebration before the waiter had even brought the menus. Little Julie screamed her head off and refused to be consoled. At home they could cope with a crying baby, but in public was another matter.

The following year was more successful. Thorleif managed to eat almost half his food before they had to leave. The third year was even better when Julie insisted on having her own meal and swallowed four or five mouthfuls before declaring she had had enough. Today, as Pål proudly announces that he is now in Year Four, Thorleif is actually starting to think that his family can behave like civilised people in a restaurant and enjoy a meal without ruining the experience for the other diners.

They follow a petite young woman with short hair down the stairs at Pizza Di Mimmo, who seats them in the furthest possible corner. Once they have ordered, a sort of calm descends upon their table.

‘Do you know what happened to me today?’ Elisabeth says with an animated expression.

‘No?’ Thorleif replies.

‘I was interviewed.’

‘Who by?’

‘
Aftenposten
, I think it was. It was one of those “Your Say” features.’

‘I didn’t know
Aftenposten
still did that.’

‘Neither did I.’

Elisabeth beams. ‘The topic was crime and immigration, I think. Or maybe it was the other way around. Or it might have been organised crime, I don’t know. Anyway, I was asked if I or anyone in my family has ever felt threatened. I answered no – of course.’

‘Did they ask you anything else?’

‘I can’t really remember.’

Thorleif looks at her while she thinks about it.

‘Yes, now I can. The question was, “How far are you willing to go to protect your family?”’

Thorleif looks at her. ‘Is this a joke?’

‘No.’

‘And what did you reply?’

‘What do you think? I would do whatever it takes, of course. Wouldn’t you?’

Thorleif nods slowly. He used to laugh at people who claimed they would do whatever it took to protect their girlfriend or children – or both. He seriously doubted that they meant what they said or had any idea what it might involve. So he never used the expression himself.

Not until he had children of his own.

‘When are they running it?’ he asks.

‘Tomorrow, I think.’

‘Then we had better get up early,’ he says and smiles. In the mirror the short-haired waitress approaches with bouncy steps. He straightens up a little and looks at Julie’s expectant face. She makes only sporadic contact with the seat underneath her. Pål licks his lips. Thorleif gazes at his children. Until the moment when something deep inside him starts to melt.

The knife-sharpening business, Skjerpings, is located in Kurveien in Kjelsås, a northern suburb of Oslo. Kurveien is a street where yellow concrete blocks press against the mountainsides. White and blue terraces stick out like open drawers. Outside the ground-floor flats, privet hedges struggle to conceal tiny gardens where barbecues and tricycles occupy most of the grass.

At the end of the street, a Nissan Micra with Skjerpings logo and web address on a sticker on the left rear window is parked on the drive in front of a garage. At the top of a small hill to the left Henning can see a large, black log cabin.

He takes a deep breath and starts walking up the steps. When he reaches the cabin, he can see the blue water of Oslo Fjord on the horizon. The whole city lies at his feet. It strikes him what an incredibly beautiful city Oslo is – as long as you look at it from afar.

At the front of the cabin he finds a doorbell labelled
skjerpings.no.
Soon he hears footsteps coming down a staircase. The door is opened.

‘Hi,’ a woman with long red hair says. Pretty dimples. Lots of attractive freckles. She doesn’t look like someone who could have taken out a man like Brolenius. But if somebody kills your boyfriend, Henning thinks, there are no limits to what you can do. Especially if you earn your living by making murder weapons even sharper than they already are.

‘Are you Irene Otnes?’

‘Yes, that’s me. Can I help you? Do you have some tools you need sharpened?’

‘No. I was wondering if I could have a chat to you about Vidar Fjell?’

Her warm smile vanishes instantly.

‘My name is Henning Juul, and I work for the internet newspaper,
123news
.’

Otnes frowns. ‘Why do you want to talk about Vidar now?’

‘I’m working on a story about Tore Pulli. His appeal is coming up, and much of the evidence against him is circumstantial. It is based on his relationship to Vidar. I was . . . working on other things when he was killed, but now I’m back, and I’m trying to get an idea of what happened.’

She looks at him. A cat rubs itself against her legs before it darts out on the flagstones.

‘If it’s convenient? I really need your help.’

Otnes hesitates before she nods. ‘We can sit over there,’ she says, pointing to an arrangement of plastic chairs. A parasol casts a dark shadow over the grey flagstones.

‘Thank you so much.’

Otnes goes back inside to get a jacket and comes out again. Henning smiles as they sit down.

‘Lovely house,’ he remarks.

Otnes beams with pride. ‘Thank you.’

‘And very unusual for Oslo. A proper old-fashioned log cabin. Do you live in this enormous house all on your own?’

‘I have my cat,’ she replies and smiles quickly as a gust of wind takes hold of her hair. An awkward silence passes between them.

‘So you run a knife-sharpening business?’ Henning continues.

‘Yes, I do. It’s not very common, especially if you’re a woman. And these days people just buy new knives when their old ones get dull. The throwaway society. We have it too good in this country.’

Henning nods in agreement. ‘Is it mainly knives you sharpen?’

‘Yes.’

‘What about axes?’

‘No, hardly ever. If someone had brought in an axe, I think I would have remembered.’

‘And you don’t remember an axe?’

‘No. Why do you want to know about that? I thought you were here to talk about Vidar?’

Henning pauses briefly before starting in again. ‘I have to be honest with you, Irene, I didn’t just come here to talk about Vidar. The circumstances surrounding his death seem quite clear. I’m more interested in what happened afterwards. With Jocke Brolenius and Tore Pulli.’

‘Yes, that’s when it all fell apart,’ she says and shakes her head softly.

‘How do you mean?’

‘I’m thinking of the discussions we had in the weeks that followed.’ She shakes her head again.

‘You were very outspoken, I understand, seeking to avenge Vidar’s murder?’

‘Yes, I was angry and upset. But I look at it from another viewpoint now. After Brolenius was killed, I realised it made absolutely no difference. I was still upset.’

Henning nods.

‘I’ve heard that Vidar went to Tore to ask for financial help for Fighting Fit. Is that true?’

‘It is, yes.’

‘But Tore said no?’

She shakes her head in contempt. ‘Tore liked to think of himself as a big shot, you know. He took his business very seriously. He wouldn’t make any investment unless there was a guaranteed profit at the other end.’

‘Did Vidar and Tore fall out over it?’

‘No, it would have taken a lot more than that. They had known each other a long time.’

Henning nods quietly. ‘Do you think Tore is guilty?’

‘I don’t really know how to answer that.’

‘A simple yes or no would suffice.’ Henning attempts a smile.

‘I don’t think I want to say anything about it.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because of Veronica. I don’t want her to read about me in the paper. We’re friends, you understand, and I’ve always supported her. I wouldn’t want her to find out that I don’t believe her husband is innocent.’

‘This won’t appear in the paper, I promise you. So you believe he did it?’