Thomas Enger - Pierced

‘Hi, Toffe.’

Thorleif turns around. Guri Palme strolls into the room with her trademark elegant ease. It’s as if the room expands. She always has an infectious, rather seductive smile on her face. Palme looks around.

‘I was actually looking for Reinertsen, but-’

‘I’ve just come in,’ Thorleif says. ‘I haven’t seen him yet.’

‘No? Perhaps you could come on a job with me?’

‘Certainly. What’s it about?’

‘Nothing fancy, we’re just visiting a solicitor who is working from home today. But we need to leave in fifteen minutes.’

‘Okay. Will you be needing anything specific for the recording?’

‘No. And, anyway, you always have the coolest sound and camera equipment, so-’

Thorleif smiles, watches her go over to the water cooler and press a button that releases a plastic cup. Her blue jeans fit snugly around her ankles and thighs. Her jacket only covers half her bottom so that he can just about make out what it conceals. The art of suggestion. Guri Palme masters it.

‘Listen, you might know how to go about this,’ Thorleif says, swivelling around on his chair so that he is looking directly at her.

‘What?’

‘You’ve been a crime reporter for while. Have you ever needed to identify a car registration number?’

‘Yes, I have. Lots of times. Why?’

Thorleif hesitates.

‘I’m just curious.’

‘You can send the number to a text-based service, but I can’t remember their number off the top of my head. Anyway, it might be easier to go on the website for Bronnoysund Register Centre.’

‘Please would you show me?’

‘Sure,’ she smiles and marches over to him. Thorleif rolls his chair aside to make room for her. As Palme leans over the keyboard her blonde hair falls forwards, but she tucks the tresses behind her ears so that they don’t obstruct her view. She smells of something lovely. Thorleif doesn’t know if it’s her shampoo or perfume. Not that it matters. It’s a good smell.

‘Here you go,’ Palme says, turning to face him. ‘You type in the number in that field there,’ she says, pointing at the screen. ‘Then you press enter, and, abracadabra, you’ll get a page with information about the car.’

‘Wow,’ he says. ‘That’s brilliant. Thank you so much.’

‘No problem. But make sure you’re ready. Fifteen minutes.’

‘Okay. I’ll meet you in the car park.’

Palme disappears, but the scent of her lingers behind. Summer sky and meadows, he thinks. What a woman.

He ends his reverie to focus on the task in hand. He remembers the registration number of the annoying BMW and types it in, then he presses enter. A new window opens. He reads:

As of 27.07.2009 the following liabilities were registered in respect of vehicle registration number BR 65607: Security for unpaid balance of the purchase of the motor vehicle. NOK 763,910.00. Click on the date for further information about liabilities.

Thorleif clicks on the date.

Submitted by 1134291 DNB Bank Car Financing

Loans Administration Department, PO Box 7125

5020 BERGEN

Relating to person/business:

Ravndal, Anthon

Bekkestuveien 13a

1357 Bekkestua

‘Anthon Ravndal,’ Thorleif says and looks up the man’s telephone number. ‘Good to know.’

‘Your turn, Henning.’

He looks up and meets the sharp eyes of national news editor Heidi Kjus. Henning hasn’t noticed it until now, but Heidi has had a haircut. Short and modern, though he doesn’t really know why he thinks it looks modern — how would he know? And for once her make-up doesn’t look like war paint.

‘Eh?’

‘What about you? What’s in your notebook today? We have been through Iver, Rita and Jorgen. You were paying attention, weren’t you?’

‘Of course.’

‘What have you got for us today?’

Henning looks down at the notebook which he brought with him to the meeting mainly for show. The top sheet is blank. He considered writing down Tore Pulli’s name but decided it wasn’t an obvious story. Not yet.

‘Well, I’m not really sure,’ he begins.

There is silence all around him. The eyes of everyone in the meeting room make the skin on his forehead tingle.

‘There’s not much happening at the moment.’

‘So nothing for us today either, Henning?’ Heidi Kjus asks.

‘It’s very quiet out there. It has been an uneventful summer.’

Kjus looks at him over the rim of her glasses and pushes them further up her nose. He hasn’t noticed the glasses until now either.

‘I’m aware of it,’ she says. ‘But then you have to go out and find the news. We can’t just sit here hoping for stories to drop into our laps. We need to chase them. Talk to people. Our number of hits have been disappointing this summer.’

‘They always are.’

‘Yes, but-’

‘I have an appointment later today,’ he continues, and takes a sip of his coffee. ‘I’m meeting a source.’

It’s the oldest reporter excuse in the book, but it usually works.

‘Which story is this?’

‘I can’t tell you anything at this stage.’

Heidi is about to say something, but stops herself. ‘What did you just say?’

‘If I get what I’m hoping for from my source, it could turn into a story. But until then I’m keeping my mouth shut.’

‘Just so,’ Heidi says, offended, and shakes her head almost imperceptibly, but enough for everyone around the table to register it. She draws a long hard line under Henning’s name on her sheet. ‘Then you’re on cuttings duty until further notice.’

Henning’s jaw drops. ‘Cuttings duty?’

‘Yes. You know what cuttings duty is, don’t you?’

‘Yes. Of course I do.’

‘There’s no one from the cuttings team here today. Ill health, holiday and blah blah blah. Plus Egil is taking time off in lieu. I’ll send you NTB’s news list shortly, Henning, and the list of today’s stories to everyone else.’

Henning sees that Iver is grinning from ear to ear.

‘Quick, quick,’ Heidi says, making get-out-of-here gestures with her hands. ‘I’m off to an editors’ meeting and half the day has gone already.’

Chairs are pushed back, and they stand up. Henning is the last to leave. ‘Cuttings,’ he mutters to himself. ‘Lucky me.’ Another time he might have kicked up a fuss or spent a minute or two before the meeting inventing a story, a follow-up — anything — to give Heidi the impression he was busy. But cuttings duty is practically a no-brainer. He can spend the time between cutting and pasting stories doing further research on Tore Pulli and the people around him. Henning knows he has barely scratched the surface.

The secretary’s friendly smile reaches all the way down the handset. Henning thanks her and waits for her to route the call through the switchboard at the offices of Johnsen, Urne amp; Olsvik. Henning has been there before, but now that Heidi has put him on cuttings duty he doesn’t have the time to visit Frode Olsvik, Pulli’s solicitor, in person.

He produces two stories during the first two hours of his day at the office, one about bad weather hampering the search for survivors after a plane crash in Pakistan which has so far claimed the lives of 158 people and a brief eight-liner about four men charged with the gang rape of a woman in a basement flat in Nordstrand last weekend. News-agency stories both of them. Henning forgets all about them when Olsvik’s well-upholstered voice winds its way down his mobile. Henning introduces himself.

‘Good morning, Juul.’

‘Hi. Do you remember me?’

‘I do,’ the lawyer says, and clears his throat. Frode Olsvik is a defence lawyer who would have fitted right into an episode of LA Law in the late eighties. He wears tailor-made suits, braces and treats his guests to a large selection of single-malt whiskies from crystal carafes in his drawing room. But despite working long hours he appears to have both a happy wife and well-adjusted children, something Henning has picked up from other crime reporters who are Facebook friends of Olsvik.