Thomas Enger - Pierced

‘No. And I was only meeting Jocke, no one else, so I wasn’t expecting-’

‘You said in court that you arrived to meet Jocke precisely at the agreed time, but you didn’t report his death to the police until nineteen minutes later. How do you explain the gap?’

Pulli looks down. ‘I don’t think I can. I must have lost track of time.’

Henning looks at him for a few seconds. ‘That doesn’t sound very convincing.’

‘No, I know. But I have no other explanation for it.’

‘You’re quite sure that you were on time?’

‘Yes, of course I bloody was. I was never usually late for meetings and I certainly wouldn’t screw up such an important one.’

‘But all the same,’ Henning persists. ‘Nineteen minutes. That’s quite a lot.’

‘Yes, I… I know. But I give you my word: Jocke was dead when I arrived. And, remember, I spent a little time checking that he really was dead so that must account for some of it.’

Henning nods slowly and studies Pulli. He looks sincere, Henning thinks and decides to continue the conversation on Pulli’s terms. ‘I’m sure you’ve spent a lot of time wondering who could be behind this.’

‘Believe me, I’ve checked the archives,’ Pulli says, tapping his forehead with his index finger. ‘I certainly had plenty of enemies, but I don’t know if any of them were smart enough to frame me.’

‘Not even Robert van Derksen?’

Pulli looks up. ‘Why do you ask about him?’

‘Oh, I was just curious. I heard that the two of you didn’t really get on. And he was a good friend of Vidar, as far as I understand.’

‘Robert is a tosser,’ Pulli says with contempt. ‘He has an IQ deficit.’

‘But he did know your elbow technique?’

‘Yes, I taught it to him a hundred years ago.’

‘And yet you still don’t think he could have done it?’

Pulli shakes his head. ‘Robert is so full of himself that he would never have been able to pull a stunt like that without boasting about it.’

Henning nods. ‘Were any of the others jealous? Or resentful of your status, for example?’

‘No, we respected each other. I’ve always believed that if you treat people with respect then they’ll respect you back. I’ve done some things in my life that I’m not very proud of and I’m quite sure that some people envy me, but to go to such extremes?’ Pulli makes a sweeping gesture with his hand out into the room. He shakes his head wearily and drinks more tea. Henning looks at his notes.

‘So what’s with the knuckle-duster?’

Pulli starts to laugh. ‘To start with I haven’t worked as a debt collector for years. But even so I can’t remember the last time I used the knuckle-duster. I probably did a bit in the beginning before I discovered that my elbow had given me something of a reputation and all I had to do was roll up my sleeves and people would pay. Why would I turn up to the meeting with Jocke with my knuckle-duster? It makes no sense at all. Somebody obviously nicked it from me. But nobody in court cared about that. They had their nineteen minutes.’

‘Did you report the theft?’

‘No, I didn’t even know the knuckle-duster was missing then.’

‘And your flat hadn’t been burgled in the days or weeks before?’

‘No.’

‘Did you have a lot of visitors?’

‘Yes, people came over practically every single day.’

‘So anyone could have taken the knuckle-duster?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who has keys to your flat?’

‘My nan has one in case we lose ours, but she is eighty-seven years old and lives in Enebakk. And even if someone had nicked her key, it wouldn’t have done them much good. The flat has a burglar alarm. Veronica and I are the only two people who know the code.’

The key to the flat, Henning says to himself, and drifts off for a moment. He remembers what Erling Ophus, the fire investigator, asked him: if he had locked the door on the night of the fire or if there were any signs of a break-in. If Pulli is right and someone gained access to Henning’s courtyard, it suggests that this person had a key. But Henning has only one set of spare keys and he keeps them at his mother’s. And she never leaves the house because her smoker’s lungs confine her to the kitchen where she sits with a bottle of St Hallvard in front of her all day.

Something beeps. Henning looks around.

‘It’s that time again,’ Pulli says and takes out an object that looks like a pen. ‘I’ve got diabetes. I need insulin several times a day.’

Pulli presses the pen against his trouser leg and pushes down the top of it.

‘I’ve always wondered if that hurts,’ Henning says.

‘You get used to it,’ Pulli replies and returns the pen to his breast pocket. ‘Nowadays I hardly ever feel it.’

‘Is it the same with piercings? I seem to recall that you had some before you became a property developer.’

‘Yes, it’s a bit like that.’

They smile quickly at each other. There is a knock on the door. Nordbo sticks his head around.

‘Time’s up,’ he says, apologetically.

‘Okay,’ Henning replies, looking at Pulli. The bags under his eyes seem even heavier. ‘We need to talk further. I’ve many more questions for you.’

‘I have to do some media interviews in the next few days,’ Pulli replies. ‘But yes, we need to meet again.’

They get up and shake hands before Henning is escorted out the same way he came in. Just like Egon Olsen he walks out and back into freedom. He realises how good it feels not to be surrounded by concrete walls.

Thorleif turns his attention away from the roofs outside the kitchen window and gazes at Elisabeth across the dinner table. She looks back at him quizzically.

‘Would you pass me the salt, please?’

Thorleif finds the bowl of Maldon salt next to his knife and hands it to her before he resumes staring out of the window. He sees nothing. Something grey, perhaps. Around him cutlery clangs against plates, children eat noisily.

‘Hello, what planet are you on?’

He turns to Elisabeth again.

‘You haven’t said one word during dinner.’

‘No, I’m — I’m not very hungry.’

‘Right. So just because you’re not hungry you can’t talk to us?’

Her eyes pin him down.

‘I’m not feeling very well,’ he whispers and looks at her. There is no change in her face to suggest sympathy. Perhaps she can tell that he is lying. Though he isn’t really. He feels terrible. His stomach is in constant turmoil. Everything he eats seems only to pour petrol on the fire burning below. Since he came home he has been to the lavatory three times. Four times while he was at work.

He had summoned up the courage to ring Anthon Ravndal just before he left work, but it didn’t make him feel any better. He doesn’t know what he had expected, if he would get straight through to the Swedish-speaking East European or if Ravndal was the man behind the wheel of the car that appeared to follow him the other day. The same man who probably interviewed Elisabeth.

‘Are you the owner of a BMW estate car with the registration number BR 65607?’

‘Eh, yeah. What about it? Have you found it?’

Ravndal’s voice went from being sceptical to hopeful in one second.

‘Found it? What do you mean?’

‘My car was stolen four days ago. Are you calling from the police?’

‘Stolen?’

‘Yes! It was… who is calling? What’s your name?’

Thorleif was tempted to hang up immediately, but he couldn’t do it. Instead he introduced himself and explained how he had seen the car, but without mentioning his suspicions.

‘The car is probably halfway to mainland Europe by now,’ Ravndal said. ‘The last thing the police knew was that it passed a toll road in Vestfold.’