Pierced (28 page)

He goes over to the ticket office, nods to a woman behind the glass and asks to speak to ‘someone in charge’ – a safe bet since all offices have a manager. She gives him a name he doesn’t catch, but further into the office a corpulent man gets up from a chair. The man grabs hold of his belt and hoists up his trousers, peers out through the glass and walks reluctantly towards the door. Soon he joins Mjønes outside.

‘Inspector Stian Henriksen, Oslo Police,’ Mjønes says, holding out his hand.

‘Terje Eggen. How can I help you?’

‘We’re looking for this man,’ Mjønes says, holding up the picture Flurim Ahmetaj printed out for him. ‘He is wanted in connection with a murder, and we have reason to believe that he was here at Oslo Central Station around one o’clock yesterday afternoon. We also believe that he left Oslo on a train that departed around that time. I need a list of all one o’clock departures.’

‘I’m sure that should be possible. Do you mean one o’clock precisely?’

‘A few minutes either side would be fine. Let’s say between 12.50 and 13.10, then we have a margin to work with.’

‘Okay.’

Eggen disappears back inside the glass office. Mjønes waits outside until he returns a few minutes later with a printout. Mjønes studies it and nods sternly.

‘I also need a list of ticket inspectors working on those trains. I want to start with the trains going furthest, and I’ll contact you again if I need the names of anybody else.’

‘I’ll have to ring around to get those for you. It could take some time.’

‘I can wait.’

Eggen is about to go back inside the glass office when he stops and turns around. ‘There are more than 500 cameras at the station,’ Eggen says, looking up. ‘There is bound to be a recording of him.’

Mjønes improvises. ‘My officers are looking into that, obviously. However, it’s not enough to know which train he boarded. We also need to know where he got off. And I believe that the ticket inspectors are best placed to answer that question.’

Eggen nods. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—’

‘Not at all.’

Mjønes smiles. Pretending to be a police officer is great fun.

Even though the working day is far from over, Henning tells the cab driver to take him home to Grünerløkka. Perhaps he should have checked with Heidi Kjus first, but even she knows that he works just as effectively from home as at the office.

As the cab bumbles over the potholes at Schous Plass junction, Henning thinks about Jocke Brolenius. What if his murder is related to Tore Pulli’s death? Does anyone in Pulli’s circle have the means to hire a guy like Furio?

How about Veronica Nansen? Now that Pulli is dead she inherits a huge pile of money. But is she really that cold and calculating? She didn’t strike Henning as a psychopathic gold-digger. Nor can he see that she had any motive for killing Brolenius and framing her own husband unless there is more to her than meets the eye. So who else could it be?

None of the people he has met so far appears to have had the means or the motive. This leads him to believe they might be dealing with two unrelated cases. The murder of Jocke and the murder of Tore.

The cab turns into Seilduksgaten.

‘Just drop me off at the lights over there,’ Henning says, pointing across the passenger seat. The driver switches off the meter at the junction with Markveien. A receipt is printed out on which Henning scribbles his signature in handwriting even he can’t decipher.

Outside the tarmac is hot. Glumly, Henning kicks a pebble along the dusty pavement and hobbles to the door. What kind of story can he write about the things he has discovered today? Has he discovered anything at all?

He is about to unlock the door when his attention is drawn to a picture of a cat that has been stuck to the wall above the doorbells. ‘Have you seen Måns?’

No, I haven’t
, Henning says to himself as he goes inside. But Måns has given him an idea.

Thorleif had forgotten how quiet the mountains can be. After they moved to Oslo, the ever-present traffic foisted itself on them like an invisible family member even though the street they chose – Nobelsgate – is relatively quiet. But the number 13 tram is always rumbling and squealing past, and then there are the sirens from emergency vehicles that frequently hare up and down Bygdøy Allé.

In the mountains, the silence is interrupted only by the wind and sporadic signs of people nearby. Under different circumstances Thorleif would have embraced the change, relished the opportunity to step away from the pressures of everyday life and simply immerse himself in the magnificent landscape that surrounds him. And even though it is difficult to think of anything other than the mess he has ended up in, he can feel with his whole body the value of having a place to go to, just the four of them, to fish, to ski, to feel their cheeks glow in front of an open fire after a long day outdoors.

Thorleif has tried to read
The Mourning Cloak
by Unni Lindell, but every time he reaches the bottom of the page, he can’t remember the words he has read or what happened. His thoughts keep straying, and he has considered every imaginable way he might contact Elisabeth without finding one that would be safe.

Thorleif closes his eyes and begins to relive the long car journey from Julie’s nursery to Larvik that day. Did the man with the ponytail give anything away? Thorleif shakes his head. Every time he asked him a question he would receive no reply or the man would simply change the subject. Nor can Thorleif remember if the man spoke on his mobile or if he—

Thorleif opens his eyes.

The mobile.

At one point the man received a text and had to remove his glove in order to press the keys. And Thorleif remembers that he didn’t put his glove back on straight away but texted a reply on his mobile and then put his arm on the armrest. He rested his hand in the same place, not for long, but possibly long enough for him to leave a fingerprint.

Agitated, Thorleif sits up. It’s not much, but it could be enough. It might be just what he needs to extricate himself from this nightmare.

Iver Gundersen feels pressure at the back of his eyes as they leave the Colosseum Cinema. He should have checked with Nora in advance how long the film lasted. Over two and a half hours where he couldn’t move, and added to that wearing 3D glasses which involve a completely different strain than the muscles of his eyes are used to. They are worn out now. As is Iver. Nora, however, looks anything but.

‘What did you think?’ she says, beaming.

Iver hesitates. ‘It wasn’t bad.’

‘Not bad? It was absolutely—’

Nora lifts her head towards the dull evening sky while she searches for the right word.

‘Magical,’ she exclaims, enthralled, and looks expectantly at him. Iver doesn’t reply, he sees no need to ruin her experience. Then he takes her hand and says, ‘I’m glad that you liked it.’

Nora smiles and weaves her fingers into his.

‘Are you hungry?’ he continues.

‘More nauseous. I ate far too much popcorn.’

‘A proper meal will soon fix that—’

Iver is interrupted by his mobile ringing. He takes it out and looks at the display. He lets go of Nora’s hand. ‘It’s Henning,’ he says, and looks at her.

She takes one step away from him.

‘Hi, Henning,’ Iver says.

‘Did you enjoy the film?’

‘Eh?’

‘There aren’t many places where people turn off their mobiles these days so I assume that you’ve been to the cinema. Am I right?’

Iver is silent for a few seconds. Then he says, ‘It wasn’t too bad.’

Iver glances at Nora who doesn’t look back at him. Henning spends the next minutes telling him what he has found out about Thorleif Brenden, his behaviour at home, the drawing he left under Elisabeth Haaland’s pillow and the man Brenden referred to as Furio.

‘Wow,’ Iver says when Henning has finished. ‘I’m impressed.’

‘If you’re still planning to visit Åsgard later, then ask if they know a hit man or enforcer who is tall as a tree and thin as beanpole and looks a little bit like Furio.’

‘Do you really think anyone will tell me that?’

‘No, but you can probably think of a slightly more elegant phrasing than I can.’

A short distance in front of him Nora is studying a shop window. ‘I spoke to TV2 earlier today,’ Iver says.

‘What did they say?’

‘That Brenden had been acting very strangely in the past couple of days. Guri Palme thought it was because he had been ill – he threw up outside the prison after Pulli’s death. And the footage he shot was completely out of focus as if he wasn’t paying attention at all while he was filming.’

‘That’s probably true if his mind was on other things.’

‘Brenden is one of their best cameramen, according to Guri. They’re very worried about him.’

‘I could include that quote in my story, and I’ll run it with a double by-line. Have fun at M.’

‘Eh?’

‘Café M. That’s where you’re going, isn’t it? You should try the halibut if they still serve it. It’s delicious. Grilled with some sort of apple.’

‘We’re not—’

‘Catch you later.’

Iver has no time to reply before Henning hangs up. He sighs and looks at his mobile as if it could explain to him how Henning knew where they were going.

No. Just no.

He takes hold of Nora, but this time he doesn’t seek out her fingers.

‘Listen,’ he says, while they wait for the lights at Majorstua junction to turn green. ‘Why don’t we go somewhere else for dinner?’

A smiling green and red painted troll is holding up a sign outside the entrance to Ustaoset Mountain Hotel. This time, fortunately, the door is open.

Tentatively, Thorleif walks across the grey slate floor in the reception area where a white fireplace dominates the lobby. To his left, black leather chairs have been arranged around an oval coffee table. Further in, past a wall that sticks out into the long corridor, there is a sign for the Usta Restaurant.

The woman behind the reception counter is talking on the telephone. She looks up at him and smiles warmly. Her dark brown hair is tied back in a ponytail. Her lipstick is bright red and her skin lightly tanned. Around her neck, just above the white blouse, is a pendant with half a heart.

Thorleif takes a step forwards when she hangs up.

‘Hello,’ she smiles. ‘How can I help you?’

‘I was wondering if you have Internet access here?’

‘Indeed we do. We have wireless Internet in the whole lobby area. Guests or anyone else can connect. The network is free and you don’t need a password.’

‘Ah,’ Thorleif says, grateful for anything that will save him money. The woman serves up her best service smile. He looks around again. ‘Is there a computer I can borrow?’

‘No, unfortunately. We don’t offer that. But if you have WiFi on your mobile then you can use that.’

‘I don’t have a mobile, either,’ Thorleif says and shakes his head. ‘Is there a telephone here I could use? I’ll obviously pay the cost of the call and—’

‘I’m sorry, I – we – we don’t have that, either.’

Thorleif looks down. A torturous silence fills the room.

‘Are you a guest here?’ she asks.

Thorleif looks at the wall further away where notices and posters have been put up at random.

‘No. I live . . . in a cabin further up the mountains.’

‘And you didn’t bring your computer or your mobile?’

‘No.’

Another silence. What does he do now? Go to the nearest library?

‘You could borrow my laptop if you want.’

Thorleif looks back at her, sees that she is holding up a laptop bag and smiling at him again.

‘I always bring my laptop to work. At this time of the year there isn’t much to do in the evenings.’

‘Really? You would lend me your laptop?’

‘As long as you sit where I can see you, so that . . . ’ she smiles and points to the black leather chairs next to the fireplace.

‘You never can tell, isn’t that right?’

‘Absolutely,’ Thorleif says, drawn to her warm smile. ‘Thank you so much. You’ve no idea how grateful I am—’

He stops and looks at her.

‘I can see it in your face,’ she replies.

‘Can you?’

She nods eagerly. ‘I’m a writer, you see. Or . . . at least I’m trying to become a writer. That’s why I always bring my laptop to work in case I have some spare time, and then I can write. And I’m used to studying faces. But please don’t tell my boss. He’s in my book, you see.’

She giggles. Thorleif smiles but feels his smile freeze instantly. The thought that this helpful woman has memorised his face hits him like a punch to the stomach. He takes the bag as she lifts it over the counter and tries to look appreciative.

‘I’ve always wanted to write a book,’ he says, mostly to say something.

‘What a coincidence.’

Thorleif nods.

‘I’m Mia, by the way.’

‘Hi, Mia.’

She looks at him in anticipation.

‘My name is . . . Einar.’

‘Will you be staying here a long time, Einar?’

‘Well, I . . . I don’t really know.’

‘I work here every night, so just drop by. The restaurant is open at weekends.’

‘Okay,’ Thorleif says, unwillingly. ‘I’ll . . . I’ll remember that.’

He turns around and walks over to the leather chairs where he sits down facing Mia so she won’t be able to see what he is doing. The screen wakes up the moment he opens the computer.

‘My laptop remembers the network here, so surf away.’

Thorleif nods in response to her charming smile and thanks her with his eyes.

Ever since he remembered the potential fingerprint he has wondered who to contact and how to go about it. The police are out of the question since the man with the ponytail said that they had infiltrated them. Thorleif has considered contacting someone from work, but since the criminal gang knew that Thorleif was part of the team that was meeting Tore Pulli, he can’t trust anyone at work either. He has to find someone else.