Pierced (13 page)

She looks at him for a while before she nods.

‘Because?’

‘Because Tore has always been good at wrapping people around his little finger. And I know that he lies about all sorts of things.’

Henning moves to the edge of the chair. ‘Such as?’

‘Everything from little fibs and white lies to outright deception. Vidar used to get so annoyed with him because of it. When Vidar set up Fighting Fit, Tore was around and he helped out a bit. Whenever Vidar asked Tore if he had done something, picked something up or called the plumber, Tore would say yes, he had done it, but then it turned out that he hadn’t done it after all. It happened all the time.’

Henning feels his stomach lurch.

‘I could go on. Cinema tickets, hotel rooms. Once Vidar was helping out a musician friend of his who was looking for a rehearsal space, and Tore said he could fix it. And when Vidar asked Tore if he had taken care of it, Tore replied that everything was sorted. But when the guy turned up to practise, the room was already occupied. The man who ran the place had never even heard of Tore.’ She shakes her head. ‘People who do that really irritate me,’ she declares.

Henning nods and reasons that if you lie about the little things in life then the path to the really big lies isn’t a very long one. Once again he is overcome by a feeling that Pulli is playing him.

‘Do you know Robert van Derksen?’

Otnes snorts. ‘Have you seen his Facebook profile?’

‘I’m not on Facebook.’

‘He has posted some very impressive photos of himself, shirtless and glistening with oil.’ She pulls a face and shakes her head.

Henning thinks about the photos van Derksen had uploaded of himself on www.hardenever.no. ‘So he likes showing off?’

‘Oh yes. And he is extremely fond of the ladies. He even tried it on with me.’

When they wind up their chat a little later, Henning concludes that Otnes is still bitter but that at the same time she is starting to come to terms with Fjell’s death. There was no hatred in her eyes when she talked about Tore. Nor when she spoke about Brolenius. And he can’t see why she would keep secrets. If she had known who Brolenius’s real killer was, she would have told someone. Especially if she could have earned herself one million kroner by doing so.

The afternoon is warm and pleasant, and Henning decides to walk all the way home to Grünerløkka. It takes him an hour, and he stands under the shower for a long time when he gets back. He eats a slice of bread with jam while he checks his emails, scrolling quickly through the 128 new emails in his inbox. Heidi Kjus has sent some round-robin emails, he sees. Directives and targets. The memos she has carefully composed disappear with just a hard tap on the delete button. He instantly feels better for it. His mood improves even further when he discovers an email from Oslo Prison.

As soon as tomorrow
, Henning thinks, pleased. Perhaps then he can finally get some answers.

Aftenposten
is lying on the doormat right inside the front door. Thorleif picks it up and quickly flicks through the news section, then arts and finance, but he sees no ‘Your Say’ column, not on the back page – where it used to be – or in connection with any of the articles inside the newspaper itself. He goes through it again in case he was too sleepy and bleary-eyed to spot it the first time, but the result is the same.

He takes the newspaper to Elisabeth who is still in bed. ‘Are you sure it was
Aftenposten
?’

‘Eh?’ she grunts from under the duvet.

‘
Aftenposten.
I can’t find your interview.’

Elisabeth pushes the duvet aside and looks at him. Her eyes are two narrow lines. ‘Are you sure?’ she mumbles.

‘I’ve gone through the whole sodding newspaper twice.’

He gives her the paper. Elisabeth sits up and starts leafing through it herself. Thorleif is aware of a pressing need for coffee so he doesn’t wait for her to finish but goes to the kitchen, finds a filter and measures out coffee and water. Shortly afterwards Elisabeth comes plodding.

‘I couldn’t find it either,’ she yawns.

‘Are you sure it was
Aftenposten
?’

Elisabeth thinks about it. ‘Fairly. Perhaps it wasn’t for today’s edition,’ she says and yawns again. ‘Perhaps it’ll be in tomorrow. They might not do “Your Say” every day.’

It is possible that things have changed since the days Thorleif trotted up and down the streets of Eidsvoll on the lookout for potential interviewees who rarely or never agreed to be photographed or answer any of the idiotic questions the editorial team had thought up. But on the occasions it was his job to find people in the street for ‘Your Say’, it was always for the following day’s edition. It was usually the last thing he did before going home.

But Elisabeth could be right. Perhaps the column has simply been moved and will appear in the evening edition or later in the week. He bends down, finds some sandwich bags and starts making everyone’s packed lunch.

‘Did you ring the burglar alarm people yesterday?’ Elisabeth asks, as she shuffles around.

‘Eh?’

‘The burglar alarm. We have to get it fixed.’

‘Oh, right. No, I forgot.’

‘Don’t forget to do it today, please.’

At any given time there are 392 inmates in Oslo Prison divided between Botsen, Bayeren and Stifinneren – also known as A, B and C Block. Henning is due to visit Botsen, which consists of a main building with wings spreading out in a fan shape in addition to some smaller units. Everything is constructed in red brick. The prison, especially the entrance, is familiar to most Norwegians thanks to the famous Olsen Gang films, which traditionally opened with Egon Olsen walking out of the prison and down the avenue after being released – having already planned his next master stroke while inside.

Henning’s pulse quickens as he walks up the same avenue. He isn’t usually nervous before interviewing or meeting someone, but today he is.

Heidi Kjus welcomed his idea of talking to Pulli. She said that she had been thinking of suggesting it herself, but no one at the morning meeting, not even Iver, looked as if they believed her. Henning has practically forgotten about Heidi trying to take credit for his idea when he presses the button on the intercom outside the prison and introduces himself. Seconds later, the door slides open. Henning is met by a man in jeans and a stone-washed shirt who introduces himself as Knut Olav Nordbø. He has short hair, a mixture of brown and grey, neatly combed and parted to one side. He has no beard, but his skin is slightly flushed with some liver spots and moles. Nordbø exudes a vapour of stale nicotine and yesterday’s tipple. Red wine would be Henning’s guess.

He is ushered through an old door and down some stairs to a passage where he hangs up his jacket. Once Henning has handed over his mobile and press card, Nordbø disappears into a room. A short while later he returns with a visitor’s card which Henning pins to his shirt.

‘There we are,’ Nordbø says and guides Henning through two heavy concrete doors to the visitors’ rooms.

‘That’s it?’ Henning asks. ‘No body searches, no nothing?’

‘No,’ Nordbø says. ‘The penal code states that all inmates are entitled to meet representatives of the press to promote their case. And the system is based on trust.’

‘But in theory I could smuggle in all sorts of things.’

‘Indeed you could. But we would rather you didn’t,’ Nordbø smiles. ‘If you wait in there I’ll go and get Tore.’

‘Okay.’

Henning enters a small and narrow visitors’ room with a grey linoleum floor, yellow walls and a rectangular window with green and white curtains. It is furnished with a black leather sofa placed below the window and a coffee table and an armchair opposite it. A tall plant is gathering dust on the floor. At one end of the room there is a small, sad-looking box of plastic toys. He opens a green cupboard directly opposite and finds faded green sheets and hand towels.

It doesn’t take long before he can hear footsteps. Nordbø is the first to appear.

‘I’ll leave you two to chat,’ he says and smiles. Henning nods by way of a thank you and watches as Nordbø steps aside to make way for the mountain of a man who enters the room. Henning represses the urge to bombard the man with questions and stares at him instead. Tore Pulli is almost unrecognisable. He must have lost at least fifteen kilos. His steps are tentative. He wears a red baseball cap that doesn’t match any of his other clothes. Green shirt, blue tracksuit bottoms.

Henning takes a step forwards as he thinks about everything he has read and learned about Tore Pulli recently. The enforcer, the businessman, the friend, the liar. Which one of them is he now?

Pulli transfers a steaming mug from his right to his left hand and extends his free hand to Henning. Henning shakes it and looks him straight in the eye.

‘Hello,’ he says. ‘Henning Juul.’

Pulli’s handshake is firm and warm.

‘So this is what you look like,’ Pulli says.

‘What were you expecting?’

‘Well, I don’t know really.’

‘Most people feel awkward when they see my face.’

‘I’ve seen worse.’

Pulli walks past Henning and takes a seat on the leather sofa by the window. Henning takes the armchair opposite the coffee table and watches Pulli as he dunks a tea bag up and down in the steaming water. His hand movements are gracious and measured. His shirtsleeves have been folded up to his elbows and on the upper side of his right forearm he has a tattoo of a woman’s face with long wavy hair. Pulli always used to have a deep tan, but now his skin is pale. He takes off the baseball cap and reveals a scalp almost free from hair which he scratches quickly before putting the cap back on.

‘So,’ Pulli says, carefully sipping his tea. ‘I presume you’ve found—’

‘Before we start talking about that,’ Henning interrupts him. ‘I have a question. Or rather it isn’t a question, more a demand. If I’m to help you or try to help you, you have to give me something first.’

Pulli puts down the cup and smiles coyly. ‘Give you something?’

‘When you called me last Saturday, you said you knew something about what happened the day my son died. I need to know if I can trust you, if what you say holds true or if you’re just messing with me.’

‘I think you may have misunderstood,’ Pulli says and gives Henning a condescending look.

‘Not at all. You need my help. I need yours. Give me something, anything, which I can check out so I’ll know if there is more where that came from.’

Pulli looks at Henning in disbelief, but he says nothing.

‘What guarantee do I have that you’ll scratch my back if I scratch yours first?’ Henning continues.

‘You have my word.’

‘Yes, that’s all very well, but I know nothing about what your word or code of honour is worth, especially when you have nothing to lose. And you came to me, an investigative reporter who hasn’t been particularly active in the last couple of years, and that makes me suspicious. You already know that my son is dead, that there was a fire in my home, and you’re dangling the world’s biggest carrot in front of me. How can I be sure that you aren’t just playing me because you’re bored with the colour of the walls in here? I need to know if this is a scam, Pulli.’

Pulli takes a sip of his tea and puts down the cup. ‘If I tell you everything I know now, you’ve no incentive to help me.’

‘If you’re innocent, then yes, I do. I don’t like miscarriages of justice.’

Pulli smiles again. ‘I can’t wait that long.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘If I tell you everything today, you’ll be chasing that lead until you can’t get any further, and in the meantime you won’t give a damn about me. Besides, I’m not sure that you’ll get very far or live very long.’

Henning looks at Pulli. ‘So we’re talking about dangerous people?’

‘What do you think? You’re no use to me if you’re dead, and I don’t have very much time. My appeal is about to be heard.’

‘Okay, I hear what you’re saying. But—’

‘It was raining,’ Pulli says. ‘That day.’

Henning looks at him for a few seconds before he snorts. ‘Thanks, I already knew that. Anyone could have found that out.’

‘I was sitting in a car outside your flat that night. The windscreen wipers were going all the time.’

‘Why were you there?’

‘That’s not important right now. The point isn’t why I was there.’

‘So what is the point?’

‘The point is that I saw someone who had no business being there enter and go through to the courtyard.’

A knot tightens in Henning’s stomach. ‘How do you know he had no business being there?’

‘Because I know who he is.’

Henning straightens up a little. ‘Who is he?’

Pulli smiles. ‘Nice try, but this will have to do for now.’

‘No, it bloody won’t! How did you know he had no reason being there?’

Pulli sighs. ‘He didn’t live there, and, as far as I know, he didn’t know anyone in the building either. It wasn’t his kind of neighbourhood.’

‘But he knew me or he knew who I was?’

Pulli looks away before he takes another sip of his tea. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Come on, of course you do. I can see it in your face.’

‘No.’

Henning studies Pulli for a long time. ‘How did you know that I lived there?’

‘Eh?’

‘You were sitting outside my flat, you said, and you knew that I lived there. How did you know that?’