Pierced (29 page)

Out of habit he visits TV2’s website first and sees an advert that frames the home page, but initially there is nothing about Pulli’s death. Nor can he find anything about himself. In the news section he finds an interview which the news editor did with Guri Palme. An edited video with the final images of Pulli has also been uploaded. That must be Reinertsen’s footage, Thorleif assumes, but he can’t bear to watch it. He checks the other newspapers and sees that
VG
,
Dagbladet
,
Aftenposten
and
Nettavisen
are all running stories on Tore Pulli, but they don’t mention Thorleif’s disappearance either. He goes to
123news.
When the ads at the top half of the page have downloaded themselves, his eyes widen. One of the top news stories reads:

Eagerly he clicks on it and reads the introduction:

Everything that has happened in the past few days becomes even more real as he reads about himself online. Fortunately, the story is not accompanied by his photo. Below the introduction he sees the names of the journalists who wrote the article.

Strange, Thorleif thinks, that
123news
is reporting his disappearance when nobody else is. Perhaps he isn’t officially missing yet? It might be too soon. So why and how did
123news
know?

He rereads the final sentence and feels his stomach lurch when it dawns on him that the reporters have spoken to Elisabeth. Thorleif reads on:

In tears
, Thorleif thinks. Poor Elisabeth.

In a box to the right of the main text are links to various stories about the death of Tore Pulli. Thorleif clicks on them in turn and sees that Iver Gundersen wrote all of them. He is also the first to report that Thorleif is missing.

Thorleif opens another window and logs on to Hotmail.

‘Okay, thanks for your help.’

Ørjan Mjønes hangs up and puts a despondent hard line through the name of Jan Ivar Fossbakk. Above him four other names have already been crossed out: Benjamin Røkke, Syver Ødegård, Idun Skorpen-Wold and Sverre Magnus Vereide. Mjønes leans back and stretches out his arms, turning his head from side to side so the bones creak.

He gets up, shuffles across the shiny floor and enters the kitchen. From the fridge he takes out a carton of milk, finds a clean glass in the top cupboard and fills it up. He downs the milk in a couple of big gulps. He has more ticket inspectors to call, a task he never would have started if he didn’t know that they are trained to recognise faces.

Mjønes returns to the living room and sits down at the circular table where his laptop is open. Lying next to it is the list Terje Eggen was kind enough to provide him with which gives him the ticket inspectors’ names, their mobile numbers and the specific train line they were working on the day in question. Mjønes picks up the sheet and finds the next name on the list. Nils Petter Kittelsen.

‘Hello, yes?’

‘Inspector Stian Henriksen, Oslo Police,’ Mjønes says, in a commanding and grave voice.

‘P-police?’ Kittelsen stutters. ‘Has anything happened?’

‘I’m sorry for disturbing you on a Friday evening, but I’m investigating a murder which took place in Oslo yesterday.’

‘I-I see?’

‘We have reason to believe that the killer left Oslo on the train to Bergen, the train you are responsible for, around lunchtime yesterday. We’re trying to find out where the killer got off, and I hope that you can help.’

Mjønes hears Kittelsen swallow. ‘I’ll do my best.’

Mjønes looks down at the picture of Thorleif Brenden.

‘The man we’re looking for is approximately thirty-five years old, he’s just under six foot tall, and he was wearing dark-blue shorts, a white T-shirt and probably a hat or a cap when he left Oslo Central Station yesterday. Do you recall seeing a man who fits that description?’

There is silence for a while.

‘I really couldn’t say.’

‘Think carefully. It’s very important.’

‘I’m thinking,’ Kittelsen says intently, as he breathes hard into the mobile. Then he sighs despondently. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t think I saw him.’

‘He may not have been on your train,’ Mjønes says, trying to hide his disappointment. He takes the tip off the black felt-tip pen.

‘Was he wearing sunglasses?’ Kittelsen suddenly asks.

Mjønes stops and looks at the picture of Brenden. ‘He was.’

‘And a black baseball cap?’

‘He might well have been. Did you see him?’

‘I think I might have,’ Kittelsen says, eager now. ‘Pale skin, a goatee?’

‘That’s him!’ Mjønes exclaims, unable to suppress the elation in his voice. ‘Do you remember where he got off?’

Another silence.

‘There are so many passengers,’ Kittelsen says, defensively.

‘I know. But please try.’

‘I’m sorry, I—’

‘Do you remember if he was on the train for a short period or a long time?’

Another pause for thought.

‘He was there for some time, certainly.’

‘How long, do you think?’

‘A couple of hours, at least.’

‘Okay. More than three hours? Four hours?’

‘I don’t know,’ Kittelsen says, despairing at himself. ‘I’m quite sure that I saw him when we stopped at Flå, but I don’t think he was there when we got to Finse.’

‘How many stations are there between Flå and Finse?’

‘Six,’ Kittelsen replies immediately.

‘Okay. That gives us something to go on. Thank you so much, Mr Kittelsen. You’ve been a great help.’

‘Don’t mention it.’

Iver Gundersen is strolling down the small steep hill where Bogstadveien meets Josefinesgate, when his eyes are drawn to a sign on the right. A castle with a heart that frames the name Åsgard. Iver smiles to himself. Something of a trite fantasy to sell, he thinks.

It’s still early in the evening – it has only just gone ten o’clock – but it makes it less likely that the club will be busy.

Nora was unhappy that he had to work after their dinner, and she sulked even more when he refused to tell her why. They have had this conversation before. Iver doesn’t mind discussing stories they are both working on as they unfold, but it’s another matter when he is out chasing his own scoops. Then he never shares information with her. Nora has not quite accepted it. She thinks that he ought to trust her, says that she wouldn’t dream of stealing a story or an angle from him. But as far as Iver is concerned it’s a matter of principle. Besides, he doesn’t really believe that the scene of tonight’s assignment would have done much to lighten her mood.

Iver notices a red carpet that sticks out from the entrance to the strip club. He walks under a canopy and heads for the door. Two doormen in matching black suits and black T-shirts are standing outside. Bulging muscles. Earpieces in place.

Iver walks up some steps and into a room which opens diagonally to the left and offers booths where customers can seek refuge or simply sit and gawp without anyone seeing the beads of sweat on their forehead or their throbbing groins under the table. The bar stretches deep inside the room before breaking off to the left at an angle of ninety degrees. The stage is bathed in a pink and purple light, and it is small, no bigger than a kitchen floor. The traditional dance pole, longing to be caressed by sensual fingers, is mounted near the front. To the right there are more booths, some tables and chairs, and pictures of naked women on the walls. A spiral staircase leads up to the next floor where Iver imagines a similar layout, perhaps a private room – or twelve.

Iver nods to the bartender and introduces himself.

‘Even Nylund, is he here?’ Iver says and holds up his press card as if he worked for the FBI and the card automatically opened every door to him. The bartender, a man who proudly wears a white T-shirt with the Swedish flag emblazoned on his chest, says in Swedish, ‘I’ll check. Wait here.’

Iver makes himself comfortable on a bar stool, puts down his notepad and takes out his mobile, mainly to have something to do while he waits. He looks at two solitary men at separate tables some distance from the stage.

‘He’s just coming. What can I get you?’

‘A beer, please.’

The bartender turns around, takes a glass and starts filling it from a green spout. Iver notices the camera fixed to the ceiling above the bar and pointing at the booths. The lens stirs as if distracted by the rhythm pounding out into the room and suffusing the atmosphere with a sticky sensation of foreplay. A few minutes later a man sits down heavily on the bar stool next to him. Iver is caught off guard and spins to the left.

‘Oh, hi,’ he says. ‘Iver Gundersen,
123news.
’

‘Even Nylund.’

Right palm meets right palm, hard. Iver instantly regrets it, unsure as to where Nylund’s hands have been in the past few minutes.

‘Thanks for talking to me.’

‘Uffe, get me a Coke, will you?’

The bartender obeys without nodding.

‘So,’ Nylund says. ‘How can I help you?’

Iver studies Nylund and decides that the man conforms to the stereotype of shady club owners as he had expected. Nylund’s hair is greased back and sticks to his scalp in a failed attempt to disguise a bald patch; the hair at the back is gathered in a thin ponytail. He is skinny but has still chosen to wear an unbuttoned black linen shirt which reveals chest hair of the same colour and reminds Iver of pubic hair. Nylund’s stubble makes his ruddy face a shade darker.

‘Has there been any vandalism to the club recently?’

Nylund shakes his head sullenly. ‘Not that they’ve given up yet, those FASB bitches. If I had caught any of them red-handed, I would bloody well . . . ’ Nylund clenches his fist.

‘No, I don’t know what I would have done if someone had keyed my car, either,’ Iver says.

‘And they sprayed fire-extinguisher foam into my car.’

‘And you are sure that the FASB was behind it?’

‘On the fender someone had left a note saying Front Against the Sale of Bodies. What do you think?’

Iver smiles and nods.

‘What annoys me the most is that the politicians don’t distance themselves from that kind of behaviour.’

‘I heard that one of your doormen got into serious trouble?’

‘Yes,’ Nylund says, looking down. ‘He did.’

‘What happened?’

Nylund sighs. ‘It was the 8th of March, though you probably already know that since you ask. There was a mob outside the club. A bunch of feminists in need of a good lay who were going on and on about International Women’s Day and all that. The usual rubbish. Petter got angry, he tried to scare them off, but they wouldn’t budge. And then he lost it.’

‘He went to prison, didn’t he?’

‘Yes. He got a couple of months inside. There were a lot of witnesses, as you might expect.’

‘Where was he sent?’

‘Botsen Block, Oslo Prison. Why do you want to know?’

‘I’m just curious. I’m working on a story about Tore Pulli.’

‘Right. So that’s why you’re here, is it? Not to write about the vandalism and the attacks on my business?’

‘No. But I’m interested in that too,’ Iver lies. ‘I might do a story about it later. I agree with you. They shouldn’t be allowed to carry on like that.’

Uffe puts a glass filled with ice cubes and Coke in front of his boss. Nylund takes it and drinks in big gulps. ‘It’s a real shame about Tore,’ he says.

Iver nods and waits for Nylund to continue, but he doesn’t. Iver reflects on this for a while before he decides to cut straight to the chase.

‘We think he might not have killed Jocke Brolenius.’

Nylund bursts out laughing. ‘Oh, I get it,’ he says. ‘You’re one of those reporters who see conspiracies everywhere, aren’t you? Who can never take no for an answer but always takes
no
to mean
I’m lying
?’

‘Not at all,’ Iver smiles.

He loves reporters like that.

‘What makes you think Tore didn’t do it?’ Nylund asks.

‘There were several anomalies in his case that no one paid attention to. But there’s no point in dragging that up here. You followed the trial, I presume?’

‘On and off,’ Nylund says. He puts an ice cube in his mouth and sucks it. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you,’ he continues and puts down the glass on the counter as he crunches the ice cube between his teeth. This was a bad idea, Iver thinks. And a bad strategy.

‘Did Tore have any enemies here?’

‘No.’

‘That no came very quickly.’

‘Here we go again,’ Nylund sighs.

‘What?’

‘The
no
that really means
I’m lying.
’

‘Are you?’

‘No.’

‘Are you lying now?’ Iver holds up his hands and smiles apologetically. ‘Sorry, I couldn’t resist that.’