Exposed at the Back (8 page)

Upside Down

‘What a nutter!’

Steinar pointed at the TV screen and at the back of his old teammate Stig Nilsen’s head. He’d been trying to watch
Football Xtra
with his two-and-a-half-year-old propeller of a son, who was showing no signs of tiredness after three hours of intensive football playing in the garden.

Steinar felt uneasy as he sat down in front of the screen. He’d actually been feeling uneasy the whole time since he’d abandoned Benedikte at the restaurant, but when she started speaking about the Golden case on TV he only felt worse.

The plastic balls had ended up indoors. One of them was in front of Steinar’s right foot. He stretched out, slipped down in his chair and stretched out some more. He just managed to get hold of the top of the ball to roll it closer. He sat back up straight. Then he put both of his feet on the floor and brought them together quickly from each side, his big toes hitting the ball at the same time, sending it shooting up into the air. He kicked it gently with his right foot, then with his left, before twisting his body in the chair so that the next kick came from the outside of his heel. The ball arced up high, almost reaching the ceiling before landing straight down in Steinar’s waiting hands. He let the ball roll a few times over the bones in his right wrist, then he threw it up gently into the air.

Steinar thought back to what Vlad Vidić had said.

‘Make sure you lose.’

And it was easier than Steinar would think. A sloppy backwards pass, a penalty, an own-goal. It didn’t matter how.

Everything Steinar had trained for, everything he’d done until then, everything that had been imprinted in his head by Ståle Jakobsen was being challenged by four small words: ‘Make sure you lose.’

Steinar had never thought that anybody would be able to make him
quit football. That was a decision he’d make for himself. He’d seen several times the desperation of players who were forced to quit because of injuries; he’d seen grown men cry. But Vlad Vidić had put him in an impossible dilemma.

Junior came running in from the left, dragging a wooden dog on a string. He had his head turned towards the dog and was making straight for Steinar’s footrest. Steinar gently put his foot by Junior’s stomach. He slowed him down and hoisted him in the air, turning him upside down. He then ran a circuit of the living room with the boy, stopping and to blow a raspberry on the boy’s bare belly. Junior laughed until he was gasping for air.

Steinar looked at the mantelpiece and the pictures of Junior’s christening. The pronounced birth-mark on his forehead – the stork’s bite-mark, as they’d called it at the hospital – had almost vanished. Now it only appeared when the boy became really angry.

Steinar had argued with Mette about the christening. He didn’t want Junior to be baptised but Mette was determined and forced the point by citing her parents’ religious background, which was far-fetched at best. Steinar eventually gave in on the condition that he wouldn’t have to set foot in church himself. He’d taken the christening photos, but only on the church steps.

Mette had run off only a few weeks after that. Everything that had been so important was no more. She never said straight out that having a baby was a mistake, just that there was so much of the world she hadn’t seen. The next he heard was a postcard from Peru. She left Steinar and Junior to fend for themselves.

The pictures also reminded him that he didn’t take enough photos or videos. Junior was growing up at what had to be record speed. It seemed impossible that any other child could’ve grown that much in so little time, and he wasn’t doing nearly a good enough job of documenting it. Steinar had even bought a new SLR camera. He had a small compact camera too, as well as the one on his mobile, but he also wanted to take really good pictures. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken out that monstrous camera with its long, heavy lens.

The phone rang. Steinar held Junior upside down in one hand and the phone in the other.

‘Hello.’

‘This is Oslo Police District here. Am I speaking with Steinar Brunsvik?’

‘Yes.’

‘We’ve arrested a man named Taribo Shorunmo. He’s being charged with the murder of Arild Golden.’

‘And?’

‘He’d like you to be his lawyer.’

The Black Adder

Benedikte looked over the partially green turf in Ullevaal Stadion. Even now, in the middle of summer, the pitch looked like a salad bar Jamie Oliver had given up on. If there was one place in Norway that should have astroturf, it was the national stadium.

Boltedal, the journalist from
Dagens Næringsliv
, estimated that Arild Golden and Golden Boys earned up to 1 million kroner for every new synthetic grass pitch. On top of that came the income from the so-called multi-use games areas and the seven-a-side pitches, as well as the constant need to replace worn-out surfaces. It was obvious to Benedikte to seek out an insider in the NFF, the Football Association of Norway.

Birgir Holme, the NFF’s facilities manager, opened the door to his office and waved her in. Holme had broad cheek-bones that blocked his nerves, so large parts of his face appeared void of expression. He was dressed completely in black, from his sweater to his shoes and trousers. Benedikte shook his hand, which was cold and clammy.

‘You were a little vague when you asked for a meeting,’ said Holme after they’d sat down.

‘I’m working on a background story about the development of training facilities at Norwegian clubs.’

‘I hope I can be of some help.’

‘Can you tell me about the number of astroturf pitches that are being built?’

‘We’re aiming to build a hundred new ones each year,’ said Holme.

‘Does that include multi-use games areas and seven-a-side pitches?’

‘On top of those. We’re talking about a hundred full-size pitches a year.’

‘How often do the pitches have to be replaced?’

‘I don’t actually know,’ said Holme.

‘Why aren’t you listening to the people using the astroturf, the players?’

‘What do you mean?’

’96 per cent of top Norwegian players claim that the switch from real grass to synthetic leads to a greater risk of injuries.’

‘No, no, no, there are studies showing that synthetic grass doesn’t increase the risk of injuries.’

‘And there are others showing the opposite to be true,’ said Benedikte. ‘Over 70 per cent of players claim that they’ve had injuries due to the artificial turf. Shouldn’t you slow down the rate of expansion?’

‘I repeat, our reports…’

‘And what about the Finnish team that was used as a case study in one of those reports? Only their home matches, 13 games, were on astroturf. For the rest of the year they trained and played their matches on grass,’ said Benedikte. This was only a rumour she’d picked up on, but Holme was looking guilty.

‘But we live in Norway…’

‘82 per cent of them report bad air quality around indoor pitches. They’re complaining of headaches and respiratory problems.’

‘Surveys…’

‘Is there anything to prove the long-term effects of using astroturf? What happens to a child’s knees, hips and back when he or she grows up after having been on it for hours every day?’

Holme squirmed as he sank deeper into his office chair.

‘You don’t know a thing about those effects, do you?’ said Benedikte.

‘As I said, we base our policy on studies showing that artificial turf doesn’t cause any increase in injuries.’

‘Studies carried out on the best artificial pitches, with professional players in clubs with full-time physiotherapists. What about the ones training on worn-out, rock-hard pitches? They’re the most common type, after all. Has any research been done on them?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘How much did Golden Boys make from astroturf?’

‘They won a few tendering rounds, but…’

‘Who else won them?’

‘Er. I…’

Benedikte leant forward, resting her palms on Holme’s desk, and asked another question. ‘Who’s making money out of astroturf now that Golden’s dead?’

Definite Red Card

Steinar and Junior always took their time in the morning. Choosing your own working hours was one of the benefits of being self-employed, and anyway it was a non-issue with no clients. Steinar loved those quiet minutes while Junior sat calmly, focused on his bread and
prim
cheese spread.

It was a bit more of a problem at times when Steinar was busy, like today. He had to go to Oslo Police District’s main custody centre, where his client was in a security cell. He should’ve been there the evening before, but he hadn’t been able to get a babysitter. The time was ticking towards 09:20. Junior banged his fists rhythmically on the table.

‘Mooore cheese!’

Steinar put his copy of
Aftenposten
down on the kitchen table before preparing another slice of bread. His mobile started vibrating and crept across the table, just like Junior’s electronic toy insects did. Junior munched away while Steinar checked his phone. Four missed calls now. Steinar had put it on silent after he’d started his day having to say ‘no comment’ to an eager journalist from the news website
Nettavisen
. Now
Dagbladet, VG
and
Dagsavisen
had all been on the line, as well as the website
ABC Nyheter
. Steinar didn’t want to talk to anybody until he’d met his client. He called for a taxi, made a packed lunch and helped Junior to put on a clean T-shirt.

On their short journey to the nursery, Steinar read more about the murder weapon.
Aftenposten
quoted ‘police sources’ when speculating about what might have caused those centimetre-deep wounds on Golden’s neck. Meanwhile, Junior was singing ‘Old MacDonald Had a Farm’ at full blast in his ear. His mobile vibrated in his pocket yet again.

The taxi stopped at the gate. When Steinar went in carrying Junior, he was met by Jenna’s reproachful look. What was it this time? Was it
because they’d come by taxi? Jenna had jet-black hair, freckles and red lips, and always wore red tights. She looked like that German singer Lena who’d won Eurovision when it was held in Oslo’s Fornebu Arena. But there was one big difference between Lena and Jenna: he still hadn’t seen Jenna smile. Steinar pretended not to notice, partially turning his back to her as he entered the building sideways.

In the corridor, two young versions of Captain Hook sped past. Three princesses too. Steinar remembered the poster he’d seen the previous Friday for ‘Carnival in August’. He understood the reasoning that it was better to have Carnival in the summer, so the children wouldn’t get colds from wearing thin fancy dress in February. Junior was the only one who wasn’t dressed up.

Steinar helped Junior change from his outdoor shoes to his indoor ones and sat him down. By the time he let go, the boy had already managed to run three steps on his way to another room.

At 10:05, Steinar pressed the buzzer outside the green-tiled building in the Grønland area of the East End. He introduced himself and told them why he was there. He was let in and went through two doors and up to the counter, where he spoke with a dark-haired administrator who seemed too delicate for the job. He was more Tom Daley than Dirty Harry.

‘Like I said, I’m here to meet my client, Taribo Shorunmo. Number one or number two?’ asked Steinar, pointing at the meeting rooms allocated to lawyers.

‘Take number two.’

Steinar went into the empty meeting room and waited.

The detainee was escorted in, wearing blue trousers and a green vest. He was extremely muscular, and the veins on his upper arms looked set to burst. His appearance was West African. They shook hands. The man sat down, folded his hands, rested his head on them and fixed his eyes on Steinar. His pupils could barely be distinguished from his dark brown irises. The white of his eyes was more yellow. There was something hypnotic about him.

Steinar spoke. ‘Alright, so I’m Steinar Brunsvik, and I’ll be your lawyer. I’ve been informed verbally that you’re charged with voluntary manslaughter. I’ve requested the relevant files and expect to receive them shortly.’

‘And I’m Taribo Shorunmo. Don’t you remember me?’

‘I saw you at the match at Nordre Åsen.’

‘I was there watching my son, Stanley.’

‘Is he your son? He’s good.’

‘Thanks. I saw you too. And I googled you later that evening. That’s how I found out you were a lawyer. But I didn’t think you saw me. You seemed too busy talking with that blonde woman. The one from TV.’

‘I noticed you and your pal.’

‘I was alone.’

‘Okay.’

‘But don’t you remember me from before, then?’ Taribo asked after a brief silence.

‘Have we met each other before?’

‘You met me here,’ said Taribo, pointing at his ankle. ‘16 years ago. A crazy tackle. A definite red card but, guess what, the referee didn’t even give us a free kick. You remember? The Norway Cup final. I was playing centre-back for Bayelsa United.’

Steinar had usually been a gentleman on the pitch, but he had blackouts when all his rage came at once. He was one of the very few players who’d been given more red cards than yellow ones. He could remember that they’d won the tournament, but he wasn’t as clear about the tackle or the man sitting in front of him. He shook his head.

‘I remember it as if it were yesterday,’ Taribo went on. ‘After we’d showered, I went with two other players across the fields at Ekebergsletta, down the hill and into the city centre. And that’s where we stayed. We moved a bit around different parts of Oslo until we’d got a kind of network. Then one day I met Mona, from Kløfta. Stanley was born one year after that final.’

‘Shame you weren’t just as quick on the field,’ said Steinar, immediately regretting it. ‘Have you spoken with your teammates since then?’

‘Sure, on Facebook. Several of them wish they’d dared to escape too, but the coach is still mad. And he’s got my passport. He tried to sell it to me just last month.’

‘Wow.’

‘Nothing to be surprised about. Some parts of Nigeria are okay, but not mine. Foreign companies are robbing our oil, while we find ways to rob each other and everyone else.’

‘You said that your coach has your passport. Haven’t you got Norwegian citizenship?’

‘Stanley was registered as Mona’s son, with his father’s identity
unknown. As time went by, I didn’t dare to apply for citizenship. One of our friends said that being an illegal immigrant would mean that my residency application would be torn up even if we had children, even if we got married.’

‘You’ve got a point. What about the option of living together in Nigeria for a while and then applying for residency in Norway legally?’

‘Far too risky. Bayelsa State is dangerous. Not just for a white woman: Stanley would’ve stood out too. Lighter shades of skin colour can lead to kidnapping. I would’ve had to sneak my way down there, but then there was still no guarantee that I’d make it back.’

‘Is it really such a dangerous area?’

‘How much do you follow Nigerian football?’

‘Very little.’

‘The same night that Bayelsa first won the championship, the captain was shot dead. If you run into the crazy ones, they don’t ask. They just shoot.’

‘So you stayed in Norway. What have you been doing?’

‘We settled down in Holmlia and I did casual jobs. Carpentry, clearing snow, polishing floors, bricklaying. You name it. Nobody cared about work permits. So I’ve been here 15 years.’

‘What about football?’

‘I played a few matches in the Third Division with Oslo City, under a false name, but then another team, Strømgodset, started showing interest, and it became too risky. Football means supporting Stanley now. I know a lot of dads would say this, but Stanley’s really gifted. He’s got the best of both worlds. His physique’s West African and his discipline’s European,’ said Taribo.

‘I can see that,’ said Steinar, pointing at Taribo’s arms, although he doubted that the village Stanley’s mother was from, Kløfta, could be the best of anything.

‘This thing will take my son away from me for sure, you know. If I’m found guilty, it’ll be prison. If not, I’ll be sent to Nigeria. At least he can visit me in prison,’ said Taribo.

‘You need an experienced criminal lawyer. This is manslaughter we’re talking about.’

‘I’m going to end up in trouble anyway.’

‘What do you want me for, then?’

‘I want you to represent my son.’

‘Your son?’

‘I’m not going to be allowed letters or visitors. They’ve been talking about solitary confinement too. The only person I get to speak with is my lawyer, and a lawyer can also act as an agent, you know. I need a lawyer who knows his stuff about football.’

‘Can’t you just leave it until you’re allowed letters and visitors again?’

‘There’s no time to lose. Stanley turns 15 on Sunday, and then he can sign a contract with an agent. I’m worried he could get tricked if he hasn’t got his dad to look after him. I think that’s why I’m in here. I think the police were tipped off about me to get me out of the way.’

‘Tipped off? Who would do that?’

‘That sneak of an agent, Ola Bugge. He came round to my place, but I sent him out. He’s not a good man. Just another one trying to take my son.’

Steinar had heard countless stories of scams involving agents, especially targeted at African footballers. Stories that meant he never wanted to get involved in the business, but now, with a mega-talent like Stanley to sign and with his legal business not doing so well? He thought back to Stanley accelerating down the flank at Nordre Åsen.

Steinar’s civil cases usually ended in out-of-court settlements, while his criminal cases had generally been of a less serious nature and involved pleading guilty. But he knew the procedures and he’d done the training.

‘I spoke with the police. They said you’d already been questioned. Is that right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why didn’t you wait for a lawyer?’

‘Why should I? I only answered a few simple questions.’

‘Did you admit you were guilty?’

‘No.’

‘Okay. But if you want me to represent you, then listen to me.’

‘My life’s in ruins. It’s my son that matters.’