Pierced (41 page)

‘You need to talk to Kent Harry,’ she says and looks down again. ‘Though I very much doubt that he’ll be willing to help you.’

Henning stares at the clock behind her again, at the wall surrounding it, before he looks back at her. His eyes stop at the T-shirt she is wearing. At chest height three monkeys appear to be having a whale of a time.

‘Is that yours?’ he says, pointing to the monkeys.

She looks up and follows his finger. ‘Jesus, of course it’s mine. What kind of stupid question is that?’

Henning nods slowly while he studies her. Her mouth is downturned, exasperated. She eyeballs him back.

‘Don’t you have an Axe T-shirt as well?’

She searches his face for a reason for this question.

‘What’s it to you?’

Henning doesn’t reply. They lock eyes.

‘No reason,’ he says, eventually. ‘Nice talking to you.’

Bjarne Brogeland sits down on his own in the canteen with a cup of coffee in front of him. The light still streams strongly through the large windows. He massages his face, trying to rub away the tiredness in his eyes. The past few days have been full on. Tore Pulli, Thorleif Brenden, Ørjan Mjønes, Robert van Derksen. Even so, he shouldn’t be feeling this exhausted. It should all be in a day’s work for him. So what the hell is going on? The first signs of old age? Is his body telling him to start to slow down?

No, he says to himself. He will never show signs of weakness. For him it’s all or nothing. Until the day he drops.

Brogeland picks up his mobile just as a text message from Anita arrives.

Hi, honey. Please would you get dinner tonight? Oda Marie is coming home with Alisha after nursery. Get something healthy and tasty. 
xxx

Brogeland quickly replies
OK.

He switched his mobile to silent while he was interviewing Petter Holte, and now he sees that seven unanswered calls were received in the meantime. He checks the list of callers. Reporters. Henning Juul, twice. It appears he has also left a message on Brogeland’s voicemail.

Brogeland sighs as he recalls the rebuke in Gjerstad’s voice at the meeting they have just had. As usual it was about leaks. And Gjerstad’s eyes more than hinted that he was blaming Brogeland since he had referred to his conversation with Juul at the joint meeting earlier. His boss warned all of them against further contact with the press and threatened repercussions if anyone were to disregard this order.

Brogeland stares at the letters in Juul’s name. Then he shakes his head and puts down the mobile. Time to call it a day.

Henning tries to call Kent Harry Hansen on his way home to Grünerløkka, but there is no reply, even after numerous rings. Henning thinks about Petter Holte remanded in custody while the evidence against him stacks up. Just like Tore Pulli. And, just like his cousin, Holte insists that he didn’t do it. History is repeating itself, Henning thinks. But if Holte really should turn out to be innocent, then it means that someone else had a reason for killing Robert van Derksen. Why did he have to die? And why did Petter Holte have to take the blame?

Henning is reminded of something Irene Otnes said the last time they spoke. He rings her up and asks her to explain what she meant when she said that Petter Holte wasn’t much of a challenge for women.

‘Well, he’s a wimp, to put it bluntly,’ she replies.

‘Yes, I remember you saying so, but what did you mean? Give me an example.’

Henning presses a finger into his other ear to block out the noise from the torrential rain.

‘There was no doubt who wore the trousers when he was going out with Gunhild. Every time she was near he turned into a puppy.’

‘Gunhild, did you say?’

‘Gunhild Dokken. His ex-girlfriend. And if the rumours are to be believed, he’s still trying to win her back – not that he’s getting anywhere, from what I hear. For Petter’s sake I hope it never happens. Gunhild was no good for him.’

Henning nods as he passes the Deichmanske Public Library in Thorvald Meyersgate.

‘I’ve always felt a bit sorry for Petter,’ she continues. ‘And it can’t be easy for him, either.’

‘In what way?’

‘Have you been to Fighting Fit?’

‘Several times.’

‘Then you’ve probably met Gunhild,’ Otnes says. ‘She works in reception. And Petter works out almost every single day.’

The sour-faced girl, Henning thinks, and hurries across the junction by St Paul’s Church before the green light changes to red.

‘And when she isn’t at work, he sees traces of her everywhere.’

‘What do you mean?’ he asks, eagerly, and stops outside Probat. In the shop window a white T-shirt with an old photo of the Swedish singer Carola Häggkvist beams at him. The caption under her happy-clappy Christian face is,
Stranger, what do you hide from me?

‘Gunhild designed the gym’s logo,’ Otnes says.

‘The logo for Fighting Fit?’

Henning tries to visualise it while his thoughts race.

‘Gunhild was one of the first people Vidar helped when he started working with recovering addicts. She had hit rock bottom after a life of thieving, drug abuse and God knows what else. Vidar helped her get back on her feet, got her doing graphic design. She became quite good at it. And when Vidar decided to open Fighting Fit he gave her the job of designing the logo.’

‘Right,’ Henning says, slowly.

‘He helped her get a couple of other jobs, too. A strip club in Majorstua was one of them.’

‘Do you mean Åsgard?’

‘How did you know that? Have you been there?’

‘Yes. But not in the way you think.’

‘Yeah, right, that’s what they all say. But I shouldn’t be so hard on Gunhild. She hasn’t had it easy. And her finding Vidar’s body that morning hasn’t exactly helped, either.’

Henning is about to say something, but instead he continues to stare at the vintage-print T-shirts stacked on the square shelves. Without Henning being aware of it, he lowers his arms, including the one holding the mobile. For several minutes he gapes at the shop window until he realises that he hasn’t understood anything at all.

Not until now.

Henning calls Brogeland straight away, but the inspector doesn’t reply. Henning tries to contact him via the police’s central switchboard but is told that Brogeland isn’t available. The same goes for Nøkleby and Gjerstad. They’re probably in meetings, Henning thinks and rings Brogeland’s mobile for the umpteenth time and leaves the world’s longest voicemail message. When he has finished, the inside of the display is covered with condensation. Henning tries to wipe it off, but the wet clothes he is wearing only succeed in spreading the moisture.

Back home, having changed his clothes, he paces up and down the kitchen floor while he thinks of the pieces of the jigsaw that have been right in front of him‚ though he has been unable to fit them into the bigger picture. But the pieces fit. He sees that now.

The clothes he saw drying on the clothes horse in Holte’s living room belonged to Gunhild. It was she who came to Holte’s flat the other day and nearly caught Henning red-handed. Irene Otnes told him that she believed that Gunhild Dokken still has a key to Holte’s flat even though they are no longer together. It would be easy for her to go there and pick up his gun and a pair of his shoes which would probably fit her. She already had experience of planting evidence. And she had every possible motive to kill Brolenius if she thought he had murdered Fjell and she would be angry enough to frame anyone who refused to avenge Fjell. And no one had better access to the clock at Fighting Fit than her.

But what the hell can he do about it? He can’t get hold of anyone. And the question remains, is any of what he has discovered useful if they don’t have the murder weapon? As Brogeland said to him: they need evidence.

In the stairwell, Gunnar Goma is stomping up and down, wheezing and undoubtedly bare-chested. Further down, the front door slams shut before the sound of clicking heels mixes with the slapping of Goma’s naked feet. The acoustics in the stairwell distort the solid seventy-six-year-old army voice into a mishmash of low sounds. Judging from the steps‚ Henning assumes that someone is visiting Arne, his upstairs neighbour. Soon afterwards a door closes.

His mobile rings. Henning picks it up immediately, hoping that it might be Brogeland or one of the other officers at the police station returning his call, but he is just as excited when he sees that it is Nora.

‘Hi,’ he says in a voice that ends up high-pitched.

‘Hi,’ she replies in a dull and unwilling tone.

She doesn’t continue. Something must have happened, Henning thinks.

‘How is Iver doing?’ he asks, now worried.

‘I would have thought you would know that better than me,’ she says, tartly.

Henning exhales with relief. ‘I haven’t visited him since yesterday,’ he says.

‘Oh, really? He’s better,’ she says, quickly.

Henning goes to the kitchen and takes out a carton of juice from the fridge. ‘Have you been to the hospital today?’ he asks her.

‘I’ve just left it.’

‘What did he say?’

‘Only that he was wondering if I knew how this story the two of you are working on is going.’

She is upset, Henning thinks, as he takes a glass from the top cupboard, opens the carton and fills his glass. But there was something else, he can hear it in her voice. He swallows some juice. Another long silence passes.

‘If he asks you again, please tell him that I’ve cracked it,’ Henning says, mainly to keep the conversation going. ‘I think the police will make an arrest sometime tonight. If Bjarne Brogeland gets a move on.’

Henning waits for her to quiz him, but she merely says, ‘I visited his grave today.’

Henning stops in his tracks and puts down the glass. So that was what he heard in her voice. The seconds pass, and then he slowly closes his eyes.

‘And I’ve been thinking about what you said to me in the hospital the other day,’ Nora continues, but struggles to finish what she has started. Henning keeps his eyes closed as he listens. Even though Nora speaks in a calm and normal voice, the sentences elongate and turn into long, strangling hands.

‘And I know you, Henning. I know you wouldn’t have said what you said about the fire if you didn’t have a reason. I know you weren’t trying to hurt me.’

Henning is incapable of speech.

‘I haven’t visited Jonas’s grave for . . . for a long time. And I felt bad about it.’

Henning nods as the silence returns. He hasn’t managed to visit the grave . . . his . . .

Then he opens his eyes.

Nora’s voice continues in his ear, but he is no longer listening to her. He turns on the speakerphone and puts down the mobile on the kitchen table, bends down to the pile of papers on the floor next to the printer and flicks through the messy heap of articles about Rasmus Bjelland, Tore Pulli, Jocke Brolenius and Vidar Fjell. Nora carries on speaking without Henning paying attention to a word she says. He finds the article he is looking for. His eyes race across the lines as he reads:

Henning looks up before he examines the photograph of Irene Otnes and Gunhild Dokken by Fjell’s overturned gravestone.

It’s despicable.

‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’ Nora says.

Henning doesn’t reply‚ but continues to stare at the photograph that accompanies the article. He concentrates on Gunhild Dokken’s eyes.

And then he runs out of the flat.

Henning races down the stairs and out into the late afternoon where the rain spatters the tiles in the courtyard. In a flowerbed he finds a small spade which he bends down to pick up and put in his green shoulder-bag, but as he stands up his mobile slips out of his breast pocket and lands in a puddle, face down. Henning swears, quickly retrieves it and wipes it down. He presses a random key. It’s still working, he sees, relieved. Then he straightens up, finds his Vespa and sets off. He doesn’t mind the weather. On the contrary, he thinks it might even be to his advantage.