Pierced (37 page)

Brogeland studies the fact sheet on Mjønes which Nøkleby printed out and gave to them after Elisabeth Haaland had described ‘Furio’. His criminal career began in his teens, and he has two previous convictions. The first is for a robbery in the Majorstua area of Oslo where a car was used to ram-raid a jeweller’s, while the other conviction relates to possession of an illegal weapon in a bar in Oslo. When police searched his remarkably tidy home, they discovered several other weapons as well as explosives and burglary equipment. While he was suspected of being the brains behind a string of minor and major robberies in his early twenties, things quietened down around him at the end of the nineties and the start of the new millennium. For that reason, Mjønes was suspected of having made the transition from petty to organised crime and of moving into an even more lucrative and discreet career as a fixer. This could mean anything from providing persuasive heavies to carrying out actual hits. But even though the rumours flourished, the police never found anything concrete they could arrest him for.

Yesterday, Brogeland had called one of his former colleagues at Organised Crime, Njål Vidar Hammerstad, to ask if they had come across Mjønes in recent years. Hammerstad said that they didn’t have him under surveillance, but that his face popped up from time to time. They knew, for example, that Mjønes had befriended several people in the criminal Albanian community. But Hammerstad didn’t know if there was a link between Mjønes and Tore Pulli.

In an ideal world, Brogeland thinks, plain-clothes officers would have followed Mjønes and his like every day all year round. But it’s too expensive. Every year Oslo Police spends billions of kroner fighting organised crime and yet it’s still not enough. It doesn’t even scratch the surface.
Norway is an attractive country for criminal gangs because we’re an affluent nation
, he thinks.
With a chronically understaffed police force.

Sometimes his wife asks him if he misses his old life as a plain-clothes police officer. His reply is always no, but that’s a lie. Of course he does. He misses the buzz of the chase even though there might be long boring intervals in between. He remembers the endless hours sitting in cars or trying to blend in in the street. And then the high when everything kicked off at last, when he would explode into action, give his all without hesitating. Not for one second. But he couldn’t live that life once he had a family. The level of risk and the generally anti-social working hours were intolerable in the long run.

Brogeland heaves a sigh and looks at an old photograph of Mjønes. A man who has stayed in the shadows in recent years but who has now emerged to carry out a hit. The chances that he has already left the country are considerable – unless something went wrong. But what would that be?

Ørjan Mjønes feels cold even though he is sweating. He puts one hand on the tiled wall in Durim’s bathroom for support and stares at his face in the mirror. It’s white. His arm dangles limply by his side. It’s as if a heavy lump is trying to force its way out from the inside of his shoulder and paralyse him totally.

Mjønes blinks hard and watches as the damp creases in his face fill with sweat trickling from his forehead and eyes.
I’m burning up
, he thinks, and splashes himself with cold water. It helps. For now.

The night on Durim’s sofa was one of the worst that he can recall. At one point the ceiling transformed into an ocean where a gigantic wave came crashing towards him. When he blinked, everything returned to normal. Then he started seeing colours, yellow and purple, pink and blue – all mixed up. In a lucid moment he realised that he must be hallucinating. Early the next morning he called the Doctor. A man whose name Mjønes doesn’t know, a man who makes house calls at short notice to provide medical assistance to people who prefer to avoid hospitals. It’s an expensive service, but the combination of life-saving first aid and discretion is usually worth the money.

Durim opens the door when the bell rings. A few minutes later the Doctor enters. Mjønes stands up on trembling legs. A chill washes over him. The Doctor comes towards him. Tall, well-groomed, newly shaven, hair neatly combed.

‘And here’s the patient,’ the Doctor says, and smiles.

He carries a small suitcase in his hand. He stops in front of Mjønes, puts down the suitcase on the floor and inspects the bandage on Mjønes’s shoulder. The Doctor starts to ease off the makeshift dressing, slowly persuading the fabric fibres to release their hold on the scab. Mjønes cries out in pain when the sticky skin finally lets go. A crust has formed at the edge of the wound, but the cut itself is still open and weeping. Mjønes estimates that the cut is between four and five centimetres deep and sees that the area around it has grown redder and even more swollen overnight. Judging from the colour of the bandage the wound has become infected. The skin around it is hot.

‘We need more sterile surroundings,’ the Doctor mutters. ‘We should really cut around the wound and then rinse it with a saline solution.’

‘Can’t you do that here?’

‘No. That would only make it worse. You need to go to an operating theatre.’

‘I don’t have time for that.’

‘You could become very ill, do you realise that? The infection you’ve acquired could spread to the bones in your shoulder, and your blood might become infected with bacteria. That could lead to septicaemia. Worst-case scenario you could die.’

‘Just do the best you can, would you? And spare me the melodrama.’

‘There isn’t very much I can do. I presume the cut is more than eight hours old?’

Mjønes nods reluctantly.

‘Then I can’t stitch it. All I can do is clean the wound and keep it open so the pus can drain out. And I’ll give you a course of antibiotics.’

‘Sounds good to me.’

The Doctor puts his suitcase flat on the floor and opens it. Mjønes sways.

‘What about travelling with this thing?’ he says, pointing to his shoulder.

‘I wouldn’t recommend it for a couple of days, at least not until you have the infection under control.’

The thought of running away, of leaving Norway behind, makes him remember the safe in his flat where the ampoule is stored.
You have to collect it first
, he tells himself.
Get rid of it and anything else that links you to the murder of Tore Pulli.

But first you have to get better.

Henning sits down at his workstation and rubs his face with his hands. The chair opposite him is empty.
Thank God Iver is going to be okay
, he thinks, relieved. Even though he knows that Iver is entirely responsible for his own actions, he wouldn’t have been in hospital if it hadn’t been for Henning.

He stares into the air. Given the police now believe that Tore Pulli was murdered, they may already have requested the call logs from Oslo Prison to find out what kind of contact he had with the outside world. Or perhaps they haven’t. They think that Ørjan Mjønes is behind Pulli’s death. So why bother with the logs? They are going to be more interested in who Mjønes was talking to.

On his way back to the office, Henning calls Knut Olav Nordbø at Oslo Prison and learns that an inmate’s telephone records are deleted if they die or when they are released and that this happens in a matter of days. In other words, it may already be too late. He will never be able to access the logs himself, but the police could if they obtained a court order.

So Henning rings Nøkleby. From her tired, fed-up voice he realises that skipping the social niceties is a wise move. He also resists the temptation to ask if she still believes that Tore Pulli was guilty of the murder of Jocke Brolenius.

‘I’ll be quick,’ he begins. ‘As far as Tore Pulli is concerned, have you allocated all your resources to Ørjan Mjønes now or are you still pursuing other leads?’

‘Still pursuing other leads.’

Henning waits for more, but nothing comes. ‘Can you tell me anything about the leads you’re following up?’

‘Not at this moment in time, no,’ she says in a guarded tone.

‘Do you have any theory as to why Tore Pulli had to die?’

‘No comment.’

Henning hesitates. ‘What about Tore Pulli’s telephone records from prison, have you asked to see them?’

Nøkleby doesn’t reply immediately. Then she says, ‘I can’t discuss specific details of the investigation with you, Henning.’

He sighs. ‘I think it might be a good idea if you were to look at those logs.’

‘Yes, I imagine you do.’

Henning lets the slightly ironic remark pass unchallenged. ‘I have nothing else. Oh, yes, are you going to the funeral tomorrow?’

‘We haven’t decided yet.’

‘I see. Well, I’m going.’

‘Okay. Do let us know if you see anything which you think might be
a good idea
for us to follow up.’

‘I’ll . . . ’ Henning breaks off and smiles wryly. And when Nøkleby ends the call shortly afterwards without saying goodbye, his smile is even broader.

The light that seeps through the windows of Solvang Church casts a cold, blue sheen across the floor. It matches the covers on the chairs, Henning thinks, as he stands at the entrance looking down the rectangular room. In the middle of the floor, in front of the pulpit, Tore Pulli’s coffin sits, white and beautifully decorated with flowers. Long white ribbons with golden letters express grief and final messages.

Henning knows that he ought to go inside to get a proper look, but he can’t bear being present during the actual ceremony. Afterwards, however, he mixes with the mourners at the graveside. Partly because he wants to see how Pulli’s friends will behave, but also because Heidi Kjus asked him to document the event with his camera. So he takes some close-ups, as discreetly as he can, without becoming intrusive. He wants to get some poignant pictures of big, hulking men struggling to keep their tears at bay. Petter Holte runs a hand over his shaven head and breathes heavily. The clothes he wears look as if they might burst at any moment. Geir Grønningen lets his long hair hang freely over his eyes. For once, his heavy torso has been defeated by gravity. The eyes of Kent Harry Hansen are also shiny. The sunlight makes his white, stubbly hair glow like a torch.

Henning shoots some group photos as more mourners arrive. A man Henning thinks he recognises from somewhere approaches the others. His muscles are tightly packed under his black suit jacket, and he moves lightly across the gravel, looking over his shoulder as if ready to lash out at any moment.

Suddenly there is movement in the crowd as Petter Holte pushes his way to the front and walks right up to the new arrival, who takes a step back. Holte jabs an agitated index finger against the man’s chest. Henning lifts his camera and lets it shoot.

‘You’ve got a bloody nerve showing your face here today,’ Holte hisses.

‘Tore was my mate too, you tosser,’ the man says.

Geir Grønningen and Kent Harry Hansen intervene. Grønningen locks his arms firmly around Holte, who resists.

‘Not here,’ Grønningen tells him. ‘Not at Tore’s funeral. Show some respect.’

Hansen deals with the newcomer, whose mood has also turned ugly. The man adjusts his jacket without taking his eyes off Holte. Eventually Holte backs away.

It takes several minutes before the crowd calms down again. Henning tries, unsuccessfully, to find the face of the man Holte took offence at, but the crowd closes up. The incident is over, but Henning is incapable of paying attention during the committal. Grønningen stands close to Holte, towering over him by a head at least. Nearby, Veronica Nansen clings to an older man with the same eyes and mouth as her. The butch girl from Fighting Fit is there too. Everyone seems to be here. At last Henning spots the man who incurred Holte’s anger, further back amongst the sea of people. His head is bowed.
Where have I seen him before?
Henning racks his brains.

Soon the first handful of earth falls on Pulli’s coffin. Henning hides behind the camera and takes some more pictures. He sees Holte reach up towards Grønningen’s ear and whisper something before clenching his fist as if he is ready to punch someone.

After the earth has been thrown, a line of people forms in front of Veronica Nansen. She shakes hands with everyone who has come to pay their respects. Henning joins the back of the queue and sees how Nansen grows more and more exhausted the closer he gets. But she carries on, smiling bravely. When it is Henning’s turn, he stops right in front of her.

‘My condolences,’ he says, holding out his hand. Nansen takes it and pulls him closer, almost as if she is on autopilot.

‘Thank you for coming,’ she says.

‘How are you?’ he asks as they glide away from each other.

Nansen shrugs her shoulders. ‘It’s strange,’ she sniffs. ‘It feels as if I’ve lost a huge piece of myself.’ She speaks slowly without looking at him. ‘A part of me has gone, and yet – somehow – that part still hurts. Do you know what I mean?’

Henning looks at her with eyes that are starting to well up too. He would never have thought that a woman like Veronica Nansen could articulate a feeling he has lived with for almost two years.

‘Phantom pains,’ he says quietly.

‘What?’

‘I know what you mean.’

‘Yes, of course you do,’ she says and shakes her head. ‘Sorry.’

The man he presumes to be Nansen’s father comes over to them and nods to Henning.

‘There is a get-together afterwards for Tore’s friends,’ she says as they start to walk. ‘It would be nice if you could join us.’

‘That’s very kind of you, Veronica, but I don’t know if I can call myself a friend of Tore’s. Or if my presence there would be wildly popular. It didn’t look as if everybody was equally welcome.’

‘No,’ Nansen says, and looks down. ‘Petter, he is . . . ’ She shakes her head in resignation.

‘Who was the other man?’ Henning asks as they reach the car park.