Thomas Enger - Pierced

Heidi Kjus welcomed his idea of talking to Pulli. She said that she had been thinking of suggesting it herself, but no one at the morning meeting, not even Iver, looked as if they believed her. Henning has practically forgotten about Heidi trying to take credit for his idea when he presses the button on the intercom outside the prison and introduces himself. Seconds later, the door slides open. Henning is met by a man in jeans and a stone-washed shirt who introduces himself as Knut Olav Nordbo. He has short hair, a mixture of brown and grey, neatly combed and parted to one side. He has no beard, but his skin is slightly flushed with some liver spots and moles. Nordbo exudes a vapour of stale nicotine and yesterday’s tipple. Red wine would be Henning’s guess.

He is ushered through an old door and down some stairs to a passage where he hangs up his jacket. Once Henning has handed over his mobile and press card, Nordbo disappears into a room. A short while later he returns with a visitor’s card which Henning pins to his shirt.

‘There we are,’ Nordbo says and guides Henning through two heavy concrete doors to the visitors’ rooms.

‘That’s it?’ Henning asks. ‘No body searches, no nothing?’

‘No,’ Nordbo says. ‘The penal code states that all inmates are entitled to meet representatives of the press to promote their case. And the system is based on trust.’

‘But in theory I could smuggle in all sorts of things.’

‘Indeed you could. But we would rather you didn’t,’ Nordbo smiles. ‘If you wait in there I’ll go and get Tore.’

‘Okay.’

Henning enters a small and narrow visitors’ room with a grey linoleum floor, yellow walls and a rectangular window with green and white curtains. It is furnished with a black leather sofa placed below the window and a coffee table and an armchair opposite it. A tall plant is gathering dust on the floor. At one end of the room there is a small, sad-looking box of plastic toys. He opens a green cupboard directly opposite and finds faded green sheets and hand towels.

It doesn’t take long before he can hear footsteps. Nordbo is the first to appear.

‘I’ll leave you two to chat,’ he says and smiles. Henning nods by way of a thank you and watches as Nordbo steps aside to make way for the mountain of a man who enters the room. Henning represses the urge to bombard the man with questions and stares at him instead. Tore Pulli is almost unrecognisable. He must have lost at least fifteen kilos. His steps are tentative. He wears a red baseball cap that doesn’t match any of his other clothes. Green shirt, blue tracksuit bottoms.

Henning takes a step forwards as he thinks about everything he has read and learned about Tore Pulli recently. The enforcer, the businessman, the friend, the liar. Which one of them is he now?

Pulli transfers a steaming mug from his right to his left hand and extends his free hand to Henning. Henning shakes it and looks him straight in the eye.

‘Hello,’ he says. ‘Henning Juul.’

Pulli’s handshake is firm and warm.

‘So this is what you look like,’ Pulli says.

‘What were you expecting?’

‘Well, I don’t know really.’

‘Most people feel awkward when they see my face.’

‘I’ve seen worse.’

Pulli walks past Henning and takes a seat on the leather sofa by the window. Henning takes the armchair opposite the coffee table and watches Pulli as he dunks a tea bag up and down in the steaming water. His hand movements are gracious and measured. His shirtsleeves have been folded up to his elbows and on the upper side of his right forearm he has a tattoo of a woman’s face with long wavy hair. Pulli always used to have a deep tan, but now his skin is pale. He takes off the baseball cap and reveals a scalp almost free from hair which he scratches quickly before putting the cap back on.

‘So,’ Pulli says, carefully sipping his tea. ‘I presume you’ve found-’

‘Before we start talking about that,’ Henning interrupts him. ‘I have a question. Or rather it isn’t a question, more a demand. If I’m to help you or try to help you, you have to give me something first.’

Pulli puts down the cup and smiles coyly. ‘Give you something?’

‘When you called me last Saturday, you said you knew something about what happened the day my son died. I need to know if I can trust you, if what you say holds true or if you’re just messing with me.’

‘I think you may have misunderstood,’ Pulli says and gives Henning a condescending look.

‘Not at all. You need my help. I need yours. Give me something, anything, which I can check out so I’ll know if there is more where that came from.’

Pulli looks at Henning in disbelief, but he says nothing.

‘What guarantee do I have that you’ll scratch my back if I scratch yours first?’ Henning continues.

‘You have my word.’

‘Yes, that’s all very well, but I know nothing about what your word or code of honour is worth, especially when you have nothing to lose. And you came to me, an investigative reporter who hasn’t been particularly active in the last couple of years, and that makes me suspicious. You already know that my son is dead, that there was a fire in my home, and you’re dangling the world’s biggest carrot in front of me. How can I be sure that you aren’t just playing me because you’re bored with the colour of the walls in here? I need to know if this is a scam, Pulli.’

Pulli takes a sip of his tea and puts down the cup. ‘If I tell you everything I know now, you’ve no incentive to help me.’

‘If you’re innocent, then yes, I do. I don’t like miscarriages of justice.’

Pulli smiles again. ‘I can’t wait that long.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘If I tell you everything today, you’ll be chasing that lead until you can’t get any further, and in the meantime you won’t give a damn about me. Besides, I’m not sure that you’ll get very far or live very long.’

Henning looks at Pulli. ‘So we’re talking about dangerous people?’

‘What do you think? You’re no use to me if you’re dead, and I don’t have very much time. My appeal is about to be heard.’

‘Okay, I hear what you’re saying. But-’

‘It was raining,’ Pulli says. ‘That day.’

Henning looks at him for a few seconds before he snorts. ‘Thanks, I already knew that. Anyone could have found that out.’

‘I was sitting in a car outside your flat that night. The windscreen wipers were going all the time.’

‘Why were you there?’

‘That’s not important right now. The point isn’t why I was there.’

‘So what is the point?’

‘The point is that I saw someone who had no business being there enter and go through to the courtyard.’

A knot tightens in Henning’s stomach. ‘How do you know he had no business being there?’

‘Because I know who he is.’

Henning straightens up a little. ‘Who is he?’

Pulli smiles. ‘Nice try, but this will have to do for now.’

‘No, it bloody won’t! How did you know he had no reason being there?’

Pulli sighs. ‘He didn’t live there, and, as far as I know, he didn’t know anyone in the building either. It wasn’t his kind of neighbourhood.’

‘But he knew me or he knew who I was?’

Pulli looks away before he takes another sip of his tea. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Come on, of course you do. I can see it in your face.’

‘No.’

Henning studies Pulli for a long time. ‘How did you know that I lived there?’

‘Eh?’

‘You were sitting outside my flat, you said, and you knew that I lived there. How did you know that?’

‘There were stories about you in the paper in the days that followed. I put two and two together.’