Exposed at the Back (19 page)

Part 7

29 June 2007

‘Local Oslo talent moving to Trondheim.’

Arild Golden stopped when he saw the headline in Groruddalens Avis. He was sitting in his office reading the most important Oslo papers, Nordstrand Blad to Østkantsavisa
.

The article was about a young footballer from Veitvet who was going to start studying at the Norwegian University of Science and Technology in Trondheim. Apparently, Byåsen, a mediocre Second Division team, was interested in taking him on. The newspaper pages rustled as Golden tightened his grip
.

The Swiss tennis legend Roger Federer had also been an unknown talent once upon a time. Arild Golden watched him playing against Jonas Björkman in the 2006 Wimbledon semi-final, the most brilliant performance Golden had seen at any sports venue. He’d taken special note of Federer’s habit of blowing on his fingers. They were too hot for his racquet. Federer was too good and had to cool down before the next ball. The match ended 6–2, 6–0, 6–2
.

Golden put down the paper. No outsiders should be making off with any players from the talent pool in Oslo’s Grorud Valley, and nobody should be moving to the same city as Rosenborg without Golden’s signature on their papers
.

Rosenborg was Norway’s best team of the past 20 years and had historically taken its players from local clubs. If somebody did well with Byåsen, they might soon find themselves playing for Rosenborg, and then a foreign transfer could be on the cards
.

It was hard to predict who would be successful but most major transfers involved players who’d started off at small clubs. Golden worked in bulk, so the more talent he controlled, the better chance there was that one of them would make it big
.

Golden found his number in the phone book. He couldn’t help making the slightest of smiles as he blew on his fingers and dialled the eight-digit number
.

‘Hello, this is Edvart,’ said the young footballer
.

‘This is Arild Golden. If you want to play football in Trondheim, you’ll sign an agency contract with me. If not, I’ll stop any transfers from taking place.’

‘But…’

‘Believe me, I can. And as your agent, I’ll take 20 per cent of your pay.’

The player’s monthly salary would be somewhere between 3,000 and 4,000 kroner. Arild Golden’s work didn’t come free, but he still saw the irony when he was going over his accounts that same evening and saw how much his professionals playing in England had sent him
.

The Chief

No fucking way was he going to let himself be dictated to by Vlad Vidić. No fucking way was he going to give up the rights to Stanley, and you bloody bet he was going to check out the other sides of the Golden Boys empire. He’d let himself be frightened by that steroid freak before, and nothing good had come of that.

Steinar had sat there paralysed the first few minutes after hearing those four words at Gardermoen Airport. Had he retired without needing to? Had he thrown away the best thing in his life unnecessarily? Steinar had felt a strong impulse to get drunk, before becoming more constructive again and phoning Asgeir Kringlebotn. He set up a meeting with Jacob B. Iversen, better known as ‘the Chief’.

The Chief blew on his steaming hot coffee, made by his hypermodern machine. Steinar also sat blowing on his double espresso. He’d been offered a latte, but he thought it a bit too much to ask the former president of the NFF to steam milk for him.

They were sitting in the Chief’s office at Ullevaal Stadion. The Chief was wearing a smart brown tweed jacket, a white shirt and a black tie with polka dots. The tie was done up tightly around his collar. His face was tanned and chiselled, taut skin. He had a few lines on his face and silver-grey hair, but there was nothing to suggest this was a man approaching retirement age. The Chief was still an active player in the league system. Eighth Division, but still.

They’d gone through the obligatory football-related courtesies, and a goal Steinar had scored on the Chief’s fiftieth birthday came up. The goal had sealed the result in the match between Ajax and Twente in the Dutch Eredivisie.

‘Do you remember that goal?’

It had started with a lightning-quick right-left feint, leaving Steinar
alone with the keeper. He looked down and moved his right foot towards the ball. The keeper jumped, guessing that Steinar was about to shoot, but Steinar’s foot went over the ball. He’d missed it intentionally. The ball carried on forwards past the keeper, who was wriggling about on the grass. The goal was open.

Behind the goal was the section where the fanatical home supporters were, the so-called Ultras. Steinar spotted a placard with thick, black letters on a dirty, white background. At the bottom were a few smaller red letters.

The fluttering had stopped, the flags wilted and the banners hung down, slack and illegible. Steinar had all the time in the world. He even had time to smile at a supporter with a head so clean shaven that it might have been the inspiration for the Adidas Jabulani ball.

Steinar rolled the ball slowly towards the empty goalmouth. The Twente supporters still had a trace of hope that their keeper might get to his feet in time. Then Steinar turned round and stuck his arms in the air.

Steinar looked at the Chief and said: ‘No, not in detail, I’m afraid.’ Steinar had been doing his best to keep football out of his life, but it was always there under the surface. He’d been instinctively more proud of Junior’s first instep kick than his first three-word sentence.

‘I remember it as if it were yesterday,’ said the Chief.

Iversen had been known by that nickname since it was used in a
VG
headline in the early seventies. He’d become the NFF president at the early age of 22, following an unexpected death. Most people thought the young urchin would lose his position at the association’s annual conference two months later. Instead, he became a legend of Norwegian football and spent 15 years on UEFA’s Executive Committee.

‘So you know old Kringlebotn, do you? I hadn’t spoken to him in years and was quite surprised when he phoned yesterday.’

‘I know him a little, but I’m here because I’m acting as Taribo Shorunmo’s lawyer.’

‘Yes, it would be hard not to know that. The media must be after you the whole time.’

‘Well, I’ve had a few phone calls and interviews.’

‘You’ve been making a good job of it.’

‘Thanks. Shorunmo’s suspected of killing Arild Golden, but there are others who had stronger motives than he did.’

‘What motives?’

‘Money from building synthetic pitches.’

‘So that’s why you’ve come to me. You think I get a cut of everything that gets built?’ asked the Chief, who had started the job of carpeting Norway together with Kringlebotn. ‘Have you heard the one about the Muslim in the NFF?’

Steinar shook his head.

‘The NFF took on a former top Turkish player. He was Muslim and prayed five times a day. He left in protest when the NFF demanded his prayer mat be replaced with astroturf.’

Steinar smiled.

The Chief continued. ‘I’ve heard the craziest stories and theories about astroturf and about us in the NFF, but maybe it’s best if I show you something to illustrate the real picture.’

The Chief opened up his laptop screen and went through a standard talk about artificial grass, referring to the NFF’s commitment to the Third World, astroturf pitches and multi-use games areas in developing countries, and soccer schools with an academic element too.

‘There’s an enormous amount of money in astroturf, but it’s gone to the developers without any help from us in the NFF.’

‘Why has the health risk been downplayed?’ Steinar said. ‘One of my best friends, Ståle Jakobsen, is on his deathbed because of this.’

‘I know Ståle, and I’m very sorry about what’s happened to him, but I don’t agree with the explanation you’re implying. Our job is to lay the groundwork so that as many people as possible can play football. It’s up to the politicians to stop any health risks. We have a vision to build 1,000 astroturf pitches in Norway.’

‘Whatever the cost?’

‘Of course not. But you can’t get away from the fact that playing football also has a positive effect on people’s health, combating child obesity and decreasing the risk of cardiovascular diseases. It also means fewer young people end up in the crime statistics. Football is one of the best, if not the very best, tools for integration. We have a general social responsibility, so we have to live with the possibility that synthetic turf might lead to a higher rate of knee and ankle injuries.’

‘So who’s making money out of it?’

‘Nobody in the NFF, I guarantee that. You’ll have to look elsewhere.’

‘Where?’

‘Why don’t you start at the crime scene? Have you been there?’

‘No.’

‘Come with me.’

They went downstairs and past the Thoresen box, named after Gunnar Thoresen and his son Hallvar, who had more than 100 caps between them for the national side. A unique feat. Just beyond that, Golden Boys had bought a large suite of boxes 10 years previously, which they had converted into offices.

The Chief took out a bunch of keys and opened the door. Pictures and framed shirts hung on the walls. Famous Norwegian and international players thanking Golden. Glass cases stood there, filled with treasures. There was a match ball from the 1970 World Cup Finals, a small piece of brick from the Kop, Liverpool’s old stand, a pair of gloves that had belonged to Edwin van der Sar, and Michael Laudrup’s Barcelona shirt. According to the small note next to the case, Laudrup had worn this when playing against Real Madrid in El Clásico. Pride of place went to a pair of football boots that belonged to Diego Maradona. Not from the 1986 World Cup, but from his season with Napoli in 1988. He’s even bigger in Naples than he is at home in Buenos Aires, if such a thing were possible. The street traders still sell shirts with his name on them.

The trophy and medal collection was probably the most valuable asset, though. Golden Boys had bought up various championship medals, presumably from the many players who had gone off the straight and narrow once their careers were over. Not so much Norwegian players – although Steinar saw a couple of cups presented by the King of Norway – but mainly South American World Cup champions who needed the money more than they needed a piece of round metal.

The exercise bike in the corner was a departure from what was otherwise a football museum. Steinar had expected a minimalist office. Golden was one of Norway’s best-dressed men and most eligible bachelors, after all. He’d been a model and had appeared, among other things, as the face of Varner-Gruppen, the largest clothing company in Norway. He’d been used as a more mature male counterpart to the female models employed by the Cubus and Lindex chains.

But with its football shirts, scarves and other memorabilia, his office was reminiscent of an old sports pub, and maybe that was a trick to make footballers feel at home. They felt they were in safe hands if they saw Maradona’s boots nearby.

‘I was surprised that the police were so interested in who came through the door here,’ said the Chief, pointing at the electronic lock
that counted the number of visitors over the course of the day.

‘Why?’

The Chief pointed at the door next to Golden’s desk. ‘There’s more than one way to get in here, but the police wanted to limit the crime scene to the office itself.’

The door was locked, and the Chief opened it with a master key. The door led into a box with 12 champagne-coloured leather chairs around a glass table, a fully stocked bar and an exit to the stand.

Steinar went out onto the stand and tried one of the seats, which was also made of leather. Dark blue. When he rested his head back against the comfortable headrest, he saw that the touch-line was just visible over the ledge where he could rest his feet. This was something else compared to the plastic seats the great unwashed had to make do with. Anybody who was demanding a new national stadium clearly didn’t have access to these seats.

‘But if the door out here was locked, like it was now, there would still be other ways in,’ said the Chief, leading Steinar back to Golden’s office. He drew the curtains.

The office had two large panoramic windows through which they could see the whole stadium. It was just beside one of these that Golden had been killed. This was the first time Steinar had been at the scene of a murder, and he was relieved that the blood had been cleaned up. He drew a deep breath then looked up.

One of the two windows didn’t quite reach to the ceiling like the other. At the top was a ventilation window. Any reasonably athletic person could have climbed in.

And hadn’t it been Oslo’s hottest day of the summer on the day Golden had been killed?

Paranoia

Benedikte was on the train heading into Oslo from Gardermoen Airport. Her neck ached and she hadn’t slept all night. She tried to give herself a massage, but if she pressed too hard, it only brought back the feeling of throwing up, lukewarm water pouring into her mouth and down her throat. There was no doubt that the man had been serious when he’d played back the message: ‘Next time I will kill you.’

Outside the window the fields of Ullensaker sped by. She was sitting far from the door with her Chelsea cap pulled down. She took out her iPhone and flipped it round in her hand. They went past Åråsen Stadion where Lillestrøm played, the bright yellow seats shining at her.

Benedikte looked around the carriage. Was there anybody who stuck out, anybody keeping an eye on her? Was the man at the end of the carriage just pretending to read the newspaper? They rushed into the long, dark Romerike Tunnel. Her breathing stopped for a few seconds until she collected her thoughts.

She looked over at her suitcase. She had a full wardrobe in Bergen that had come into its own now, as she didn’t dare to go back to her home in Oslo.

To begin with, the threat had convinced her to stay in Bergen and put everything to do with Golden behind her. But when she heard Per Diesen praising Bugge, she knew she couldn’t do that. She had to find out what it was all about.

The train roared out of the tunnel at Etterstad, and the bright light startled her. She pressed the button on her iPhone, which came to life, and she made a couple of attempts to write text messages, but they became too long. Eventually, as the train was rolling along the last stretch into Oslo Central and the half-finished black-and-white tower blocks came into view, she sent Steinar a short text message: ‘Where
are you?’

The reply came a few seconds later: ‘At home.’

‘Can I pop by?’

She needed to tell Steinar about the attack. Maybe he’d be able to make her feel safe again. The phone rang, and she answered.

‘Of course you can pop by. The only thing is that Junior’s sick.’

‘What’s wrong with him?’

‘Chickenpox. I thought it was going, but he got a lot worse again during the night. It’s harmless if you’ve had it before, but it could be pretty bad if you haven’t.’

‘I had it as a child,’ Benedikte said, although she didn’t have a clue whether that was true or not.

‘Then just come by whenever you want.’

She was the last person out of the carriage. She pulled her trolley bag up the short ramp to the station building and turned left outside, heading to the taxi rank. She stood a short distance away from the taxis, took out her iPhone and pretended to check her messages.

The other train passengers who needed a taxi had already taken one. There was still a long queue of black Mercedes waiting. Benedikte put her phone in her pocket and walked briskly towards the first taxi. The driver put her case in the back, while she stood there facing the station building. Nobody seemed to be showing any interest in her.

She got into the taxi and asked the driver to go to Lofthusveien. She sat facing the rear window, while he turned down the short ramp from the taxi rank, drove in front of the Hotel Opera and past Plata, which was empty just now, but was best known as a meeting place for drug addicts. Then they turned right alongside the tram line and over the narrow crossing, where the station square led onto the start of Karl Johans Gate. The bus shelters there were always filled with people who had no intention of taking the bus.

They drove round the corner between the two shopping centres, Byporten and Oslo City. Two skyscrapers, Postgirobygget and Oslo Plaza, hung over them, giving the impression that Oslo was a real metropolis. Then they turned round the back of the bus station, up to the roundabout and onto the main road leading to Gjøvik. They turned off towards Steinar’s house, just north of Sinsen.

Nobody was following them, as far as she could tell. The roads were busier, so it would take a better trained eye to spot any potential pursuers. She sank into her seat, closed her eyes and allowed herself to
feel how tired she really was. When they arrived at Steinar’s house she paid in cash.

Steinar opened up before she could ring the doorbell. He was wearing a navy blue T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms that didn’t match, as if he’d started to get changed but hadn’t had time to finish. His hair was scruffy, and he looked the same way she felt. He clearly hadn’t slept either. They twitched back and forth while they decided whether to opt for a kiss or a hug, ending up somewhere in between.

‘Come in,’ said Steinar, noticing Benedikte’s suitcase.

‘I’ve just come from Bergen,’ she said.

Steinar lifted her bag into the hallway and led her into the kitchen. He put his finger to his lips and pointed at Junior, who was sleeping on the sofa with the computer on the table in front of him. A Donald Duck cartoon was playing with the sound on mute. Steinar shut the kitchen door.

‘He finally fell asleep,’ he said. ‘He’s worn out.’

Another one, thought Benedikte, but she didn’t say anything. Steinar opened a container on the kitchen table. It was empty. Then he opened the red cupboard doors in the old-fashioned kitchen one by one, but he still couldn’t find what he was looking for.

‘There’s been a leak at my flat. Can I stay in your guest room for a couple of nights?’ Benedikte asked.

‘That won’t be a problem,’ answered Steinar. He was craning his neck to see into the last of the cupboards, so Benedikte couldn’t see the expression on his face.

‘How are things going with your case?’ asked Benedikte.

‘Taribo’s run off.’

‘So I heard. What does that mean?’

‘I’ve got no idea.’

‘What happened?’

‘He just legged it. Sunday morning.’

Taribo could have been at Ullevaal while she was there. Had the person who answered the entry phone had an accent? And had the iPhone recording been used to hide that very accent?

‘I spoke with a source of mine in the police,’ said Benedike. ‘They said that they thought the murder weapon was a morning star, a kind of African club, and that Taribo had several of these at home.’

Benedikte hadn’t seen what her attacker looked like. It could have been Taribo, but it could have been anybody.

Steinar went quiet for a few seconds, then yawned. He looked exhausted. She couldn’t give him any more worries. She would wait to tell him about the attack.

‘I’ve got to go out and buy coffee,’ said Steinar. ‘Can you keep an eye on Junior for a few minutes?’

‘Of course.’

Benedikte locked the door as soon as Steinar left.