Pierced (35 page)

In the bedroom he is met by the smell of stale sleep but resists the temptation to open the windows. Methodically, he searches the cupboards and drawers in there as well but discovers only what he assumes to be a jar of steroids. Under the bed all he finds is dust, a vacuum cleaner and a transparent plastic box with spare duvets and pillows. On the bedside table, a book by R. N. Morris is gathering dust. Henning has difficulties imagining a man like Holte devoting much time to literature, but then again crime fiction is considered light entertainment by some.

The bathroom smells of mould. The cupboard above the sink reveals only toothpaste, shaving foam, some lotions and dental floss. In the laundry basket he catches sight of a bloodstained T-shirt.
Iver’s blood?
he wonders. He is tempted to take the T-shirt with him, but he decides to photograph it instead.

He spins around when a bang echoes from the stairwell. He rushes back to the hallway and leaves the flat as quietly as he can. The footsteps come closer. Henning looks about him for another way out. As the noise coming from below grows louder, he kicks off his shoes and tiptoes upstairs. When he reaches the fifth floor he leans against the wall and holds his breath. The footsteps stop. Henning can’t be sure, but he thinks that someone is outside Holte’s flat. Perhaps he didn’t go to the gym after all.

There is a jingling of keys. Henning hears a key being inserted and turned, but the door doesn’t budge. It appears to be jammed.

He hears grunting coming from below, but he can’t identify the voice. The door finally opens with a bang before it is slammed shut again. Henning seizes his chance and doesn’t wait to put on his shoes but races down the stairs. His socks are so slippery that he nearly skids down several steps and he has to cling to the banister for support. It’s not until he is back on the ground floor that he stops and breathes a sigh of relief as he quickly glances upwards.

No one is there.

Light. Is that a light?

Dots far away. They are black, and they dance up and down. Something beeps. A pounding sound comes closer. His eyelids slide open. Yes, there is light. Something white appears. Gradually everything comes into focus, but he doesn’t recognise his surroundings. Where is he?

A fan whirrs in the ceiling. He senses movement by his side. He tries to turn his head. Movement is impossible, but he sees a bright, smiling face.

‘Hi, Iver. I’m glad you’ve finally woken up.’

The grip on his neck. The exploding pulse. Something hard hitting him in the face. He didn’t manage to dodge the punch. Damn.

‘My name is Maria.’

‘Hello, Maria.’ His voice is alien. As if it belongs to someone else.

‘I’ll let the doctor know that you’re awake and he’ll come to have a look at you.’

She appears to float across the floor, away from him.

‘Wait,’ he says in a rusty voice.

Maria turns around and comes back. Nice face. Pretty smile. He still can’t move.

‘Have I been paralysed?’

A warm smile.

‘Oh, no. No danger of that. You’re in plaster, and you have some bandages that will make it hard for you to move for a while. But you’re going to be fine.’

Iver feels himself sinking back into the mattress. ‘How long have I been here?’

‘Since Friday.’

‘And today is—’

‘Today is Sunday.’

Iver nods, gingerly. He remembers straight hair combed back, a man with stubble. A man who spoke Swedish. Jacob Aalls Restaurant. Dinner. The text message. To Henning.

Maria is about to leave the room when Iver calls out again.

‘Yes?’

‘Please would you do me a favour?’

Henning has only just stepped back out into the Indian summer when his mobile rings.

‘Hi?’ he says in a hopeful voice.

‘Iver is awake,’ Nora says.

‘He is?’ Henning exclaims. ‘That’s brilliant. Is he . . . is there any permanent damage?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Has he said anything yet?’

‘No, not very much.’

‘Have the doctors said anything about his injuries?’

‘No, I’m on my way to the hospital now. But . . . he wants you to come as well.’

Henning stops. ‘He said that?’

‘Yes, you were . . . the first person he asked after.’

Henning hears an element of disappointment in her voice, but he doesn’t want to address it at this moment in time. So instead he says, ‘Okay, I’m on my way.’

After regaining consciousness, Iver has been moved from the intensive-care unit to a side ward. Henning spends a long time asking for directions until he finds the right door, and when he finally arrives he hesitates outside it for a few seconds. Going in feels intrusive, like entering someone’s bedroom while they are still under the duvet. That Nora now shares a bed with Iver doesn’t make it easier, but he tries to ignore the image that conjures up.

Henning knocks on the door, opens it tentatively and enters. Nora is sitting on a chair by Iver’s bed. She lets go of his hand. Henning can barely see Iver’s eyes because of the swelling to his face. His lips look dry.

‘Hello,’ Henning says, sheepishly.

‘Hello,’ Iver and Nora reply in unison.

‘How are you?’ Henning asks him.

‘Good, I think. Or good enough.’

Iver’s voice is slow and feeble. His lips curl into a thin, crinkled smile. Henning looks around for a spare chair, but finds none. His eyes stop at a vase with fresh, long-stemmed flowers on the table.

‘I think I’ll go and get myself a cup of coffee,’ Nora says, standing up. ‘Would anyone else like one?’

‘No, thank you,’ Henning says, shaking his head.

Nora looks at Iver.

‘I don’t think I’m allowed to drink coffee yet,’ he says.

Nora nods. Henning waits until she has closed the door behind her before he approaches Iver’s bed.

‘I should have brought something, but . . . ’

His sentence hangs in the air.

‘What would that be? Flowers?’ Iver’s lips stretch again. They look as if they might tear open at any moment. ‘Sit down, would you please? I get stressed when people stand.’

‘Oh, yes, sorry, I forgot.’

‘Don’t worry about it.’

Henning smiles. ‘Christ, you look Swedish,’ he says as he sits down on the chair. The seat is still warm.

‘Why?’

‘Your face is blue and yellow.’

‘Ah.’

Iver’s lips crack into a smile again. A bad time to make jokes, Henning thinks. The silence starts to stick to the walls. Henning looks at Iver in the knowledge that he looked very much like him almost two years ago. But with one crucial difference. The chair by his bed wasn’t warm.

‘Do you remember anything that happened?’ Henning asks in an attempt to shake off the memory.

‘I remember being lifted up as if I weighed nothing at all, and then there was a bang.’

‘Did you see who it was?’

‘No, but he was strong. I wanted to wriggle free, but I never got the chance.’

Iver manoeuvres one arm towards a cable that lies across his stomach, lifts up a handset and presses the button marked ‘up’. The bed starts to hum, and slowly he is raised to a sitting position. Henning takes out his mobile. ‘Do you recognise this T-shirt?’ he says, turning the display to Iver. Iver tries to focus.

‘I don’t know. It happened so quickly.’

Henning nods and puts the mobile back in his pocket.

‘I think the man who beat you up was Petter Holte,’ he says.

‘Pulli’s cousin?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. But Petter is or was an enforcer once. He also works as a doorman at Åsgard.’

Iver nods. So far so good.

‘Did you know that he went to prison?’ Iver says, trying to make himself more comfortable.

‘No,’ Henning replies, surprised. ‘What for?’

‘Last year on International Women’s Day there was a demonstration outside Åsgard. Petter was a bit heavy-handed with one of the feminists. Got a couple of months inside for it.’

‘Really? Did he serve his sentence at Botsen?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know if he was in contact with his cousin while he was inside?’

‘That I don’t know. There are hundreds of cells there, but they probably met in the yard. I believe inmates are entitled to one hour of fresh air every day.’

Henning nods. If Holte and Pulli were in prison at the same time, something could have gone down between them.

‘The doctor has probably told you to take it easy,’ Henning says. ‘So I don’t suppose we should be talking shop.’

‘That’s just something they say in the movies, Sherlock.’

Henning grins. ‘Has the doctor said anything about how long you will be in here?’

‘No, but I think it’ll be a while. I’ll be bored out of my skull. You’ll have to keep feeding the monster yourself while I’m out of action. I know you’ll struggle without me, but—’

Henning laughs. ‘Are you still able to send text messages or do you need help with that as well?’

‘I haven’t tried yet.’

Nora enters the room, which instantly grows hotter and more claustrophobic. Henning gets up.

‘Do you know where my mobile is?’ Iver asks.

‘No,’ Nora replies. ‘But I can find out.’

‘Yes, please, would you?’

She disappears out of the door again. Henning follows her with his eyes before he turns to Iver.

‘I need to leave,’ he says.

‘Where are you going?’

‘I’m going . . . I’m going home.’

‘Okay.’

There is another silence. Henning starts to walk towards the door.

‘Henning?’

Henning stops and turns around.

‘Has it gone?’

‘Has what gone?’

‘The cocksure look.’

Henning turns to his colleague, serious this time. ‘Yes, Iver. It has. How does it feel?’

‘It hurts like hell.’

Henning’s face creases sympathetically.

He hasn’t felt like smiling this much for a long time.

Henning’s mobile rings as he is about to go into the hospital newsagent to buy a paper.

‘You just can’t manage without me, can you?’ he mutters, feigning irritation.

‘Henning,’ Iver says eagerly. ‘I think I got an email from Thorleif Brenden.’

‘What?’

‘At first I thought it was spam, but the contents suggest that it’s him.’

‘I’ll be with you in a sec,’ Henning says, tossing down the newspaper. A few minutes later he is back in Iver’s room.

‘What did he say?’ Henning asks, agitated, as he rushes towards the bed. In a brief moment he registers that Nora isn’t there.

‘Read for yourself,’ Iver replies. Henning takes the mobile and starts reading:

Henning spends some minutes reading the rest of the email before he looks up at Iver. ‘Bloody hell,’ he says. ‘This is—’

‘I know,’ Iver nods. ‘Forward the email to yourself or take my mobile with you.’

‘I’ll forward it to myself. Write a reply and see if you hear anything back from him.’

‘That’s a bit difficult,’ Iver says, looking at his hands. ‘I needed Nora’s help to ring you in the first place.’

‘Oh, right,’ Henning says, flustered. ‘I didn’t think—’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Iver says.

Henning forwards the email and gets ready to go.

‘Keep me updated,’ Iver calls out after him.

‘Of course,’ Henning replies. While he half-runs down the corridor in the direction of the lift he takes out his own mobile and finds Brogeland’s number.

‘There are no new developments,’ Brogeland sighs, wearily.

‘Oh yes there are. Are you at the station?’

‘Yes.’

‘Come downstairs and meet me in reception in half an hour. I have something to show you.’

Thirty-five minutes later Henning is in Brogeland’s office. He puts his laptop, which he picked up from home on his way to the police station, on the inspector’s desk. Brogeland sits down and moves his chair closer to the table. Henning reads the email over his shoulder. He pays particular attention to the second half:

Henning waits impatiently for Brogeland to finish.

‘Have you already swept his flat for bugs?’ he asks.

‘Yes,’ Brogeland replies. ‘We found masses of high-tech equipment. Video and audio.’

‘Did you now?’ Henning says.

Brogeland nods. The next moment there is a knock on the door. Sergeant Ella Sandland appears. She sees Henning standing behind Brogeland and she makes a gesture with her head to indicate that she needs to speak to her boss. Brogeland returns soon afterwards with a grave expression on his face.