Pierced (23 page)

When he has finished eating, he notices that the light in the sky is starting to lose its intensity. The shop is probably shut now, but it doesn’t matter now that he has had a meal. He won’t need anything else until tomorrow so he spends some time making himself at home. The cabin is fitted with a composting toilet, and there are instructions on the bathroom wall which he reads before using it. Afterwards he showers in lukewarm water and dries himself with a towel he finds in one of the bathroom cupboards. Soon he starts to feel better.

There are plenty of books and other types of reading material in the cabin. He also finds a map of the area which might come in useful. In the tool shed he noticed both fishing equipment and several boxes of hooks.
If I’m to stay here for a while
, Thorleif thinks,
perhaps I should try to catch a trout or two.

There is a television in the cabin, but he decides not to switch it on. The glare from a television screen could be easily seen from outside, even from afar. Initially he considers not switching on any lights at all in order not to alert the neighbours – should any have arrived during the evening – but it won’t be viable long term.
I can’t just lock myself in
, he thinks.
I have to find out what is going on – if anything is, what the police are doing, what the media is saying. How will I be able to do that?

The hotel he passed on the main road will definitely have internet access, and, given the time of year, the guest computers are unlikely to be in great demand. But can he really run the risk of going there?

Thorleif thinks about the man who forced him to kill Pulli and asks himself if it’s true that he knows nothing about him. He must have said or done something which Thorleif can use to his advantage. They spent several hours together. There has to be something he can do without compromising his family or himself.
Think, Thorleif
, he says to himself.
You have to think.

He inhales and realises at that moment how exhausted he is. He goes to one of the bedrooms and lies down, covering himself with the pale-blue duvet without putting on bed linen, and closes his eyes. Minutes later he is asleep.

Iver Gundersen lets himself into his flat and heaves a sigh as he dumps his shoulder-bag on the floor up against the wall. He kicks off his shoes, goes over to the fridge to get a beer, flops into an armchair in the living room and turns on the television. He downs most of the beer in four gulps, then drinks a few more mouthfuls. He realises that one beer won’t be enough tonight.

He should really be with Nora, but he hasn’t got the energy to play the lover after working twelve or possibly thirteen hours. All he can manage is to let the evening come. He wouldn’t be able to lie next to Nora, sensing her expectation of intimacy, their arms wrapped around each other, her breathing wafting across his face as they sleep. She can’t sleep, she says, unless she is burrowing into his naked arm or shoulder. Preferably while snuggled up to his throat.

Nora also happens to be a particularly restless sleeper, her arms and legs sprawled all over the place or violently flung aside – often without warning. And when he wakes up – early, as he always does when he sleeps at her place – she will cling to him until he spoons with her, holding her, gently caressing her back and side. It’s never enough. No, Iver thinks. He definitely hasn’t got the energy for that performance tonight.

She was annoyed, of course; Iver could hear it in her voice. Or not annoyed as such, more disappointed. But at least Nora knows what it’s like to be with someone who doesn’t care what day of the week or what time it is when a story breaks. Not that there is much left of that particular side to Henning Juul.

They never discuss her, but even so Iver knows that Henning finds it hard to have to work alongside the man who replaced him. Iver has never asked Nora if she still has feelings for Henning because he can tell from looking at her. Anything else would be strange given how their marriage ended. Never stir up a hornet’s nest, Iver reminds himself. Not if you don’t want to get stung.

He sits up when TV2’s nine o’clock news begins. He saw how the channel hinted at footage of Tore Pulli’s death during the early evening news, very clever of them. He always enjoys seeing pictures of a subject he is covering himself. Live images of a person only seconds before their life ends adds an extra dimension to a story. He turns up the volume and hears Guri Palme’s dramatic voice over the broadcast.

TV2 has nothing new or spectacular to report about the death itself, Iver soon ascertains, but then again they don’t have to. They already have the cream. He sees Guri’s panicky, clumsy reaction, how she disappears off screen and calls for help. There is nothing fake about her behaviour. This is reality TV at its best.

It is some years since Iver and Guri were at Oslo College of Journalism together. Guri was the kind of girl who would have her hair styled for the school photo, who asked the stills photographer to include her cleavage in head shots and who would spend a week on a tanning bed before a recording, whether it was college work or private. She went to the gym four times a week, at least, concentrating on her stomach, bottom and legs.

But she was also bright – Iver had spotted that immediately – and ambitious. Two very helpful attributes if you want to get ahead in their profession. And it didn’t take many bonding beers with lecturers or media personalities before Iver understood that Guri had an appetite for men that could only further her career.

Consequently, he was rather mystified when he started noticing Guri’s probing eyes on him, her penetrating gaze, her too-quick and false giggling whenever he made a remark that could generously be interpreted as amusing. There were brief, furtive glances over piles of books in the reading room. And the inevitable happened. After a drunken night on the town they collapsed into bed together – without any clothes on.

They were never an item, far from it, but while they were at college they hooked up every now and then to take full advantage of each other. It was good and uncomplicated. It’s like that with some people: there is an indefinable attraction, a spark whenever you look at each other, and you can’t help but give in to it.

After graduation they started job hunting. Guri had had a student placement at TV2, and to begin with she took all the shifts she could get there. But she was looking for her break, the scoop that would make her name. One night, after they had expended some excess energy and were lying in bed pillow-talking, she shared her concerns with him. ‘I need a scoop,’ she had sighed, blowing smoke up towards the ceiling. Her forehead was glistening in the glow from the street light that seeped in through the curtains. He was momentarily lost contemplating her smooth skin.

‘Perhaps I can help you,’ he heard himself say and regretted it immediately. But there was no way back. At the time Iver was brimming with confidence having already broken several stories that had made the headlines. And, as is often the case when a reporter has written several high-profile stories, the reporter becomes noticed and people bring him tip-offs that lead to more scoops.

One tip-off he hadn’t yet managed to investigate – and neither did he know when he would find the time to – concerned an employee in a construction company in Sørlandet who had – allegedly – received a number of private gifts from a subcontractor as a kickback for securing the subcontractor in question work on a road-building project worth billions. Guri found out that the employee, a forty-seven-year-old man from Vennesla, was one of the construction managers on the project and the ‘thank yous’ he had been given included a private garage at his home address in addition to several deposits paid into his bank account at various intervals. In total, the gifts were worth just over 300,000 kroner. The man had tried to cover up the bribes with fictitious invoices.

Guri created a stir, wrote several excellent follow-up articles about corruption in Norway and interviewed the world’s leading non-governmental anti-corruption organisation, Transparency International, who announced later that year that Norway was the most corrupt country in Scandinavia. Guri also secured an interview with the Norwegian-born French magistrate and politician Eva Joly, a famous anti-corruption scourge and the topic was hotly debated both on
Tabloid
on TV2 and on other news channels. It might not have been a major scoop, but it helped Guri get noticed. Shortly afterwards, TV2 offered her a permanent contract.

She had arrived.

Guri started dating a senior TV2 executive, Iver met Nora, and since then they have stayed out of each other’s beds. But Iver knows that the spark is still there, a delicious tension that simmers between them. And Guri is well aware that she owes him a favour.

The picture of Tore Pulli freezes on the screen as Prison Governor Børre Kolberg tells viewers that he can’t discuss Tore Pulli’s medical history before the journalist announces that an autopsy will be carried out on Pulli’s body as is standard procedure when a death is unexplained. Iver turns off the television, lights a cigarette and mulls it all over before he picks his mobile up from the coffee table and searches for Guri Palme’s number amongst his contacts. He stares at her name for a while before he presses
call
. And he thinks it’s definitely just as well that he isn’t with Nora tonight.

After hours of mindless TV-watching, Henning’s brain starts to work again. At eleven o’clock that evening he opens FireCracker 2.0, the program Henning’s source within the police wrote a couple of years ago for their confidential two-way communication, and checks to see if
6tiermes7
is logged on. The minutes pass. Then there is a ding-dong sound as if someone had rung the doorbell.

Henning’s fingers hit the keyboard.

MakkaPakka: Do you know what killed Pulli yet?

6tiermes7: Come on, what do you think?

MakkaPakka: That it’s way too early. Was there any blood at the crime scene?

6tiermes7: No.

MakkaPakka: Anything suspicious at all?

6tiermes7: Not that I know of.

MakkaPakka: Police interviews?

6tiermes7: They haven’t got that far yet.

MakkaPakka: Why not?

6tiermes7: TV2 refuses to release the tapes without a warrant. But here’s something interesting for you. A member of TV2’s staff has gone missing.

Henning sits up.

MakkaPakka: Someone who was there when Pulli died?

6tiermes7: Yes.

MakkaPakka: Who is he?

6tiermes7: His name is Thorleif Brenden. He’s a cameraman.

MakkaPakka: Any previous convictions?

6tiermes7: No, or he would never have got into the prison.

MakkaPakka: Okay, but do you know anything about him at all?

6tiermes7: No. He hasn’t put a foot wrong his whole life.

MakkaPakka: So what are you doing about it?

6tiermes7: Nothing at the moment. He hasn’t been missing for very long. But we’ll put out a missing-person bulletin, I imagine – if he doesn’t turn up over the weekend.

Interesting, Henning thinks. Very interesting indeed.

MakkaPakka: Now for something completely different: do you know where Rasmus Bjelland is these days?

6tiermes7: Didn’t he apply for witness protection?

MakkaPakka: Yes. That’s why I’m asking.

6tiermes7: No. Not a clue. Do you want to talk to him again?

MakkaPakka: Not really sure. But I wonder if the people looking for Bjelland might be behind the arson attack on my flat. Knowing if he is still alive would be a good start.

6tiermes7: It could take some time. I might not be able to come up with anything.

MakkaPakka: Okay. I’ll just have to be patient.

6tiermes7: Stay healthy.

MakkaPakka: You too.

Though it is late in the evening, the weather is still warm. Ørjan Mjønes lights a cigarette, blows smoke out through his nose. He is just about to take a second drag when the public telephone on the street corner starts to ring. Mjønes squashes the embers with the tips of his fingers and puts the cigarette back in the packet. He goes inside the telephone booth and lifts the handset.

‘Hello?’

‘Congratulations.’ Langbein’s voice is flat.

‘Thank you.’

‘Have you tied up all the loose ends?’

Mjønes hesitates. ‘Not all of them, but—’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s not a problem. I’m in control, there’s nothing to worry about.’

‘I’m paid to worry.’

‘Yes, but you can trust me.’

‘I’ve made that mistake once before.’

‘Okay, I understand why you say that, but it’s never going to point back to you or the deal that we have.’

‘I don’t like loose ends.’

‘Neither do I. That’s why I’m going to fix it.’

‘I’ll call you in seventy-two hours. If your problem has gone away, you’ll get the rest of your money.’

‘But—’

‘Same number. Same time.’

Mjønes doesn’t have time to protest before the line goes dead. He hangs up the handset hard, shakes his head and walks out into the night.

A big part of him is tempted to let Brenden run, let him play his own game, since he evidently doesn’t understand how this works. Brenden has ruined everything for himself. Brenden killed Tore Pulli. If the police should ever manage to discover how Pulli died, and if they suspect that he might have been murdered, they will be looking for Brenden precisely because he is missing. They will probably want to interview him anyway, for the same reason. It doesn’t look good to disappear on the day that you were in a room with a convicted killer who collapses and dies. And if the police find him, Brenden will be too scared to talk. He knows that his family will be harmed if he reveals anything about the duress he was under.

The best solution, Mjønes thinks, would be to give Brenden enough time to start yearning for his family and his old life. He has no experience of lying low. Sooner or later he will have to come out or someone will find him. The cash Brenden withdrew won’t last for ever, regardless of how careful he is. And when the media starts running their missing-cameraman stories or the police decide to issue a warrant for him, the chances that someone will recognise him are high.