Thomas Enger - Pierced

‘Are you still there?’ he asks eventually.

‘You need to call someone else,’ van Derksen says. ‘I’ve got nothing to say to you.’

And the line goes dead.

Henning looks at his mobile as if it could tell him why van Derksen went from being interested to cutting him off. Perhaps he got nervous, Henning thinks. Or perhaps he just didn’t want to talk to a journalist.

Henning reviews the information he has obtained during the day. It’s a fair amount. But he still can’t work out how Pulli knew that he was back at work. As far as Henning is aware, prison inmates don’t have Internet access. Did someone tell Pulli? In which case who could it have been? Neither Veronica Nansen nor Geir Gronningen gave the impression of ever having heard of Henning before.

Henning googles his own and Tore Pulli’s name on the Internet but only finds stories he wrote years ago. Henning pulls a face. Something doesn’t add up, he thinks. His reputation is not of sufficient calibre for an inmate to whom he has never previously spoken to call him up out of the blue to ask for his help. There are private investigators who would happily take on this kind of work, and Pulli has enough money to pay them. Henning types the word ‘private investigator’ and googles it with Pulli’s name, but he isn’t rewarded with helpful hits this time either.

Given that a reward of one million kroner was on the table there can only be two reasons why no one has come forward with information that could free Pulli. Either the real killer is so smart that he hasn’t aroused even the slightest suspicion amongst his own people or Tore Pulli is guilty and is merely putting on a show.

Henning butters a slice of crispbread and eats it while he walks up and down the living room. His eyes stop at the dark-brown piano. As always, the lid is closed. He doesn’t want to look at it, at everything it represents. But then he hears Veronica Nansen’s voice. He takes one hesitant step towards the piano before he pauses. Then he takes another towards the piano stool. He pulls it out. Slowly, he sits down and visualises the keys trapped under the lid, tempting ebony and ivory.

He opens the lid with great care. His stomach lurches just at the sight of the keys. Silently, he folds back the lid as his eyes glide from side to side. He remembers how his fingers used to run off, finding their own ways and following any path they liked, repeating movements and sequences until slowly but surely they formed wider roads in an increasingly familiar terrain. He loved how the tone coloured the walls, how the sound and its resonance opened up parallel worlds the moment he closed his eyes.

Henning places his fingers on G7, one of his favourite chords; he didn’t know that’s what it was until he pressed the same keys on a digital piano many years ago, an instrument which was hooked up to a computer, and the name came up on the screen. He has learned the names of his favourite chords — Cm7, E?7b5: chords that cry out to be followed by pure tones. But he was searching for contrasts, exploring the relationship between harmony and discord, believing that something pure and right would emerge out of the dissonance and the friction, something that would grow stronger and transform even disharmony into harmony. Often he would hit random keys until he stumbled across something he liked, something to which he could add side chords and compose a melody around.

Now he barely hears the tones, not to begin with, but they grow, they force their way inside him and compel him to listen, to let the notes resonate, and he gets a strong urge to strike them down again so they can lift him up and away from time and space, but his fingers lock, he is unable to lift them, and gradually every note in the chord blends with the others to create a melange of sound that vibrates and cascades. Soon all that is left is chaos which quietly dies away.

Henning retracts his hands with effort. He realises he hasn’t been breathing for a while. Then he closes the lid.

Monday morning, Henning hangs up his jacket at the office and looks at Iver Gundersen’s face. As always it displays traces of the night before. The bags under his eyes are puffy. His cheeks and chin are unshaven even though some areas show evidence of a razor. His long hair falls like a fringed scarf over his shoulders. The fibres on the elbows of his cord jacket are frayed.

Henning nods quickly in Iver’s direction, thinking he can detect a hint of Nora’s moisturiser across the table. Sodding coconut.

‘Good weekend?’ Iver says, without looking at Henning.

‘It was all right.’

Henning registers a nod, but doesn’t feel the need to reciprocate. He sits down, turns on his computer, puts down his mobile, removes some papers from his desk and types in his username and password. Other journalists start to arrive. Henning hears sleepy grunts, chit-chat, someone laughs. He has no idea how he will be able to concentrate on work today.

He only managed a few hours’ shut-eye before going to the office. His sleep was fitful, and he woke up with a pounding headache that has yet to release its grip on him. However, he managed to do some research last night which he hopes will be useful during the day. The question, simply, is when.

‘Coffee?’

Iver gets up. Henning shakes his head even though he quite fancies a cup. Iver lingers for a moment before he hurries to join the queue, occasionally stealing a glance at the national news section where Henning is sitting. He looks away whenever Henning looks back at him.

Henning remembers how Iver, in the weeks that followed the Henriette Hagerup story, was very happy to accept pats on the back when he didn’t think Henning was watching. But his smug and self-satisfied facade disappeared whenever Henning entered his field of vision. Iver’s eyes took on an unfathomable expression. Gratitude, possibly, mixed with guilt and a kind of shame because Henning knew the real truth. And for that very reason there was also irritation and even resentment. Ever since Iver returned from his holidays, they have only exchanged small talk, but Henning senses that something unspoken hangs in the air between them.

‘The Eagle is in a bad mood today,’ Iver says when he comes back.

‘Who is?’

‘Heidi. She dropped by earlier.’

‘Right.’

The Eagle, Henning thinks. Good nickname. He clicks on the publishing tool and opens some websites.

‘Are you ready for the morning meeting?’ Iver asks as he sits down.

‘I’ve tried and tried, Mrs Blom.’

Iver quickly presses some buttons on his mobile before he puts it down. He stares vacantly into space‚ then he suddenly turns to Henning.

‘Who the hell is Mrs Blom?’

Henning meets Iver’s puzzled face.

‘I keep hearing people talk about her, but I’ve no idea who she is. I doubt that anyone does.’

‘Why — because you don’t?’

‘No,’ Iver says, a little shamefaced. ‘But nowadays people use all these expressions without knowing what they really mean or where they come from. “Once in a blue moon.” “Fit as a fiddle.” “Not on my nelly.” “I’ve tried and tried, Mrs Blom.” I find it really quite irritating.’

Henning looks briefly at Iver before he says, ‘It’s a term intended to express moderation or reservation.’

‘Yes, I get that, obviously. But who is Mrs Blom?’

Again there is silence between the desks.

‘It’s a line from Carousel,’ Henning says, reluctantly.

‘Eh?’

‘It’s a comedy by Alex Brinchmann. There is no mention of a Mrs Blom in the script, but the actor Per Aabel ad-libbed during rehearsals. And it stayed in.’

Iver sips his coffee.

‘That’s all there is to it, seriously?’ he says, sounding incredulous as he turns his mug in his hands.