Pierced (15 page)

He had summoned up the courage to ring Anthon Ravndal just before he left work, but it didn’t make him feel any better. He doesn’t know what he had expected, if he would get straight through to the Swedish-speaking East European or if Ravndal was the man behind the wheel of the car that appeared to follow him the other day. The same man who probably interviewed Elisabeth.

‘Are you the owner of a BMW estate car with the registration number BR 65607?’

‘Eh, yeah. What about it? Have you found it?’

Ravndal’s voice went from being sceptical to hopeful in one second.

‘Found it? What do you mean?’

‘My car was stolen four days ago. Are you calling from the police?’

‘Stolen?’

‘Yes! It was . . .
who is calling? What’s your name?’

Thorleif was tempted to hang up immediately, but he couldn’t do it. Instead he introduced himself and explained how he had seen the car, but without mentioning his suspicions.

‘The car is probably halfway to mainland Europe by now,’ Ravndal said. ‘The last thing the police knew was that it passed a toll road in Vestfold.’

They finished the conversation and agreed to keep in touch should either of them find out what had happened to the car.

‘The guy who interviewed you,’ Thorleif says, interrupting Julie who is in the middle of a story about a number game at her nursery. ‘Did he give you his name?’

Elisabeth turns to look at him. ‘I know a few people on
Aftenposten
,’ he says by way of explanation. ‘Perhaps it’s someone I know.’

‘If he did, then I don’t remember what it was,’ Elisabeth says.

‘And you can’t remember what he looked like either?’

‘Well, he was certainly very tall. Dark hair. He looked a little like Furio from
The Sopranos
.’

‘The Italian with the ponytail?’

‘Yes. The one Carmela was so keen on. He never did anything for me, personally, but—’

Elisabeth eats a mouthful of her cod fillet, then piles potato with melted butter and sliced carrots on to her fork.

‘Did he speak Norwegian?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The man who interviewed you. Did he speak Norwegian?’

‘Of course he spoke Norwegian! Hello, he works for a Norwegian newspaper. What kind of question is that?’

In that case there must be more of them, Thorleif concludes and pokes at his food. The voice on the telephone made it very clear that Thorleif must not talk to anyone. But how will he manage that?

‘Did you remember to call the security company today?’

‘It was a really busy day at work,’ he lies. She rolls her eyes at him. ‘You’re welcome to fix the alarm yourself, if it’s so urgent,’ he adds.

‘You know very well I haven’t got a clue about such things.’

Thorleif doesn’t reply.

‘By the way, I’m going out tonight. Perhaps you remember that?’

‘Eh?’

‘I’m going out and you’re putting the kids to bed.’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Had you forgotten that too?’

‘No,’ he replies, reluctantly.

‘For God’s sake, Thorleif, I told you several days ago!’

‘I’m sure you did. It’s not a problem. You go out if you want to. What are you doing? Where are you going?’

‘It’s my mums’ night out tonight.’

Thorleif sends her a baffled look.

‘With the other mums from Pål’s football team,’ she explains. ‘You dads should do it as well. It’s good fun.’

Thorleif doesn’t reply but locks his eyes on a spot on the doorframe behind her. Thank God she’s going out, he thinks. That way he won’t have to lie to her more than necessary.

As soon as Henning gets home, he sits down at the kitchen table and plays the recording of his conversation with Pulli. He listens to it a couple of times and notes down items to follow up. He registers with irritation that he forgot to ask one or two important questions.

It dawns on him that he should make a chart of the key people in Tore Pulli’s life to make it easier for him to keep track. He tears a sheet off the pad and starts writing.

 

In addition there are Irene Otnes and Robert van Derksen, various girlfriends and boyfriends, the staff at Fighting Fit, people who work out there, other friends who might potentially know something. There are just too many of them, Henning thinks. He really needs help. Pulli’s appeal is coming up very soon.

Henning recalls the conversation he had yesterday with Frode Olsvik, Pulli’s lawyer. The first question Henning asked him was ‘Do you remember me?’ because they hadn’t spoken for a long time. Pulli asked Henning the very same question during their telephone conversation last Saturday, but Henning didn’t think anything of it at the time. Now that the question has resurfaced, the choice of words intrigues him. Is it really what you would say if you were a celebrity and you hadn’t spoken to the media for some time?

Henning shakes his head. No, you would say, ‘Do you know who I am?’ Pulli’s question indicates a kind of relationship that belongs in the past. So why would Henning remember Pulli?

Brogeland jokes that Henning has a photographic memory. It’s not all that far from the truth. Henning has forgotten a great deal, but he rarely forgets a face and a name. The only thing he can’t remember clearly – with the exception of the memories of his late father – are the weeks before Jonas died.

Henning looks up from the sheet. Is it possible that Pulli and I had something to do with each other in those weeks? Could that explain why Pulli was sitting outside my flat that night?

Thorleif jumps when the door opens.

‘Hello, Daddy,’ Julie says, her hair wet and tangled. She is stark naked.

‘Hello, sweetheart. Bath time with Martin again?’

She nods eagerly.

‘What happened to your clothes?’

She stops; her face takes on the oops expression. ‘I forgot.’

‘Then go back upstairs and get them.’

‘But it’s Martin’s bedtime.’

‘Then we’ll have to get them tomorrow. Come on, let’s go to the bathroom. It’s your bedtime too.’

‘But I don’t want to go to bed.’

‘It doesn’t matter what you want, sweetheart. You’re going to bed.’

‘But Daddy. I haven’t had any dinner yet.’

Thorleif sighs. ‘Okay. What do you want?’

‘Crisps.’

‘Crisps? But Julie. What day is it today?’

She thinks about it. ‘Saturday?’

‘Nice try,’ he laughs. ‘You can have crispbread. Or an apple. Your choice.’

‘Ahemmmm. An apple.’

‘An apple it is. But afterwards it’s straight to bed. Okay?’

‘Okay, Daddy.’

‘Sit down then.’

‘But Daddy. I need to put my pants on first.’

He laughs again. ‘You go put on some pants, and while you do that I’ll peel you an apple.’

She races into her bedroom where one drawer after the other is opened and closed with a bang. Soon she comes running back, yanking her Hello Kitty pants as high up her waist as she can. Suddenly she stops and pulls a face which quickly transforms into deep toddler distress.

‘What happened?’ Thorleif says anxiously and rushes over to her. Julie is clutching her big toe as the tears flow. He realises immediately what the problem is. Those damned cracks in the floorboards, he thinks. Everything gets stuck in them. They have been talking about getting them fixed for ages, but they never have the money. Thorleif consoles his daughter as best he can. Soon the crying subsides.

When Julie has sat down and taken the first apple slice, his mobile beeps on the windowsill. Thorleif picks it up and sees that he has a text from an unknown number. A feeling of nausea spreads through his body. He downloads the photo. The contours of a dimly lit room gradually emerge. Several glasses on a small, round table. A painting on the wall at the back. The details are blurred, but he can make out a group of smiling women. His eyes stop at a woman in the centre.

Elisabeth.

He looks at her more closely than at any of the other women in the photo.

The football mums.

A message appears under the photo:
Your girlfriend is lovely. Do you want her to stay that way?

Thorleif is pacing up and down the living-room floor, constantly checking his watch and his mobile. It’s almost 11.30.
Bloody woman
, he thinks.
Why the hell isn’t she back yet?

She hasn’t answered a single one of his calls, but this is typical of her and not in itself cause for alarm. Every time Elisabeth leaves the house, especially when she is out with a girlfriend – or three – it’s as if the rest of her world ceases to exist. In many ways, he envies her ability to switch off. Thorleif feels compelled to check his mobile at regular intervals. But not so Elisabeth. And especially not now when he needs her more than ever. What on earth is keeping her?

Once the children were asleep Thorleif considered going out to look for her to reassure himself that she was still in one piece, but he decided against it. If they found out it would only make matters worse. And where would he look? Elisabeth never told him where she was going. She could be anywhere in Oslo.

Thorleif looks at his watch again.
I have to do something
, he thinks. What if something has happened to her on her way back? What if they have talked to her, threatened her even?

Downstairs, the front door slams.
Thank God
, he thinks. It has to be her. The sound of footsteps gets louder. On the other side of the door Thorleif hears the familiar jingling of keys. He opens the door and grabs her shoulders.

‘Oh!’ Elisabeth exclaims. ‘You frightened me.’

Her breath is saturated with alcohol.

‘Has it never crossed your mind that people might need to get hold of you when you’re out?’

Elisabeth is about to step inside the flat, but she stops. ‘Eh?’ she says, looking vague. ‘Did you try to call me?’

‘Yes, I tried calling you! Several times. Didn’t you check?’

‘No, I—’

Thorleif huffs and marches angrily into the kitchen.

‘And hello to you, too,’ she says and closes the door behind her. Thorleif turns on the tap.

‘Was it something important?’ she asks as she kicks off her shoes.

Thorleif fills his glass with water.

‘What’s happened? Is everything all right?’

‘No, everything is not all right!’ he shouts when he has swallowed a mouthful.

‘Well, go on then. What is it?’ she says, following him into the kitchen. ‘Has something happened to the kids?’

‘No, they’re—’

Thorleif wipes his mouth and turns away, unable to look her in the eye.

‘Well, tell me then. What’s happened?’

Thorleif hesitates for a long time. ‘Nothing,’ he says at last. ‘Only I got . . . scared.’

‘Scared? Why?’

He shakes his head. ‘Oh, forget it. I just think you should pick up when I call or text you.’

‘But, Thorleif,’ she says and mimics Julie’s voice as she takes a step closer. ‘I like having fun, Daddy. Don’t you understand?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘I need a bit of space from time to time, too.’

‘I know, but our life and what we have together – it’s . . . it’s—’ He shakes his head. ‘There are times when I need to tell you something important or I need a quick answer and then it’s bloody irritating that you don’t pick up!’

‘I know. I’m not very good at it.’

‘No.’

‘I’ll try harder. Okay?’

She takes another step towards him. Her eyes are inviting. Thorleif looks at her with reawakened tenderness. He pulls her close and holds her tight for a while.

‘Did you have a good time?’ he says, pushing her away from him.

‘It was great. But I think I might have had too much to drink,’ she says, taking the water glass from his hands.

‘Yes, I can smell it,’ Thorleif says, waving his hand under his nose. He grows serious again, desperate to ask if she noticed anything suspicious or anyone watching them, but he drops it. Instead he looks at Elisabeth gulping water and gasping for air when she has emptied the glass.

‘Poor Hilde,’ she says when she has got her breath back. ‘She was rather embarrassing. She doesn’t get out much these days. And there was this guy who . . . well, I don’t know—’

Thorleif looks straight at her.

‘I think he fancied one of us. He bought us all a round. Several rounds.’

‘Did he?’

‘I’m sure I’ll pay for it in the morning,’ she says and rolls her eyes.

‘What did he look like?’

‘Eh?’

‘The guy who was buying the drinks? What did he look like?’

‘I can’t really remember. Why do you want to know?’

‘Well, I—’ Thorleif evades her eyes.

‘Calm down, it wasn’t me he was interested in. Chance would be a fine thing.’

‘Hey, hey, don’t talk about yourself like that. I won’t have it.’

Elisabeth smiles through swimming eyes.

‘Did he speak Norwegian?’

‘
Did he speak Norwegian?
Why do you keep asking me that?’