Thomas Enger - Pierced

They finished the conversation and agreed to keep in touch should either of them find out what had happened to the car.

‘The guy who interviewed you,’ Thorleif says, interrupting Julie who is in the middle of a story about a number game at her nursery. ‘Did he give you his name?’

Elisabeth turns to look at him. ‘I know a few people on Aftenposten,’ he says by way of explanation. ‘Perhaps it’s someone I know.’

‘If he did, then I don’t remember what it was,’ Elisabeth says.

‘And you can’t remember what he looked like either?’

‘Well, he was certainly very tall. Dark hair. He looked a little like Furio from The Sopranos.’

‘The Italian with the ponytail?’

‘Yes. The one Carmela was so keen on. He never did anything for me, personally, but-’

Elisabeth eats a mouthful of her cod fillet, then piles potato with melted butter and sliced carrots on to her fork.

‘Did he speak Norwegian?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The man who interviewed you. Did he speak Norwegian?’

‘Of course he spoke Norwegian! Hello, he works for a Norwegian newspaper. What kind of question is that?’

In that case there must be more of them, Thorleif concludes and pokes at his food. The voice on the telephone made it very clear that Thorleif must not talk to anyone. But how will he manage that?

‘Did you remember to call the security company today?’

‘It was a really busy day at work,’ he lies. She rolls her eyes at him. ‘You’re welcome to fix the alarm yourself, if it’s so urgent,’ he adds.

‘You know very well I haven’t got a clue about such things.’

Thorleif doesn’t reply.

‘By the way, I’m going out tonight. Perhaps you remember that?’

‘Eh?’

‘I’m going out and you’re putting the kids to bed.’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Had you forgotten that too?’

‘No,’ he replies, reluctantly.

‘For God’s sake, Thorleif, I told you several days ago!’

‘I’m sure you did. It’s not a problem. You go out if you want to. What are you doing? Where are you going?’

‘It’s my mums’ night out tonight.’

Thorleif sends her a baffled look.

‘With the other mums from Pal’s football team,’ she explains. ‘You dads should do it as well. It’s good fun.’

Thorleif doesn’t reply but locks his eyes on a spot on the doorframe behind her. Thank God she’s going out, he thinks. That way he won’t have to lie to her more than necessary.

As soon as Henning gets home, he sits down at the kitchen table and plays the recording of his conversation with Pulli. He listens to it a couple of times and notes down items to follow up. He registers with irritation that he forgot to ask one or two important questions.

It dawns on him that he should make a chart of the key people in Tore Pulli’s life to make it easier for him to keep track. He tears a sheet off the pad and starts writing.

In addition there are Irene Otnes and Robert van Derksen, various girlfriends and boyfriends, the staff at Fighting Fit, people who work out there, other friends who might potentially know something. There are just too many of them, Henning thinks. He really needs help. Pulli’s appeal is coming up very soon.

Henning recalls the conversation he had yesterday with Frode Olsvik, Pulli’s lawyer. The first question Henning asked him was ‘Do you remember me?’ because they hadn’t spoken for a long time. Pulli asked Henning the very same question during their telephone conversation last Saturday, but Henning didn’t think anything of it at the time. Now that the question has resurfaced, the choice of words intrigues him. Is it really what you would say if you were a celebrity and you hadn’t spoken to the media for some time?

Henning shakes his head. No, you would say, ‘Do you know who I am?’ Pulli’s question indicates a kind of relationship that belongs in the past. So why would Henning remember Pulli?

Brogeland jokes that Henning has a photographic memory. It’s not all that far from the truth. Henning has forgotten a great deal, but he rarely forgets a face and a name. The only thing he can’t remember clearly — with the exception of the memories of his late father — are the weeks before Jonas died.

Henning looks up from the sheet. Is it possible that Pulli and I had something to do with each other in those weeks? Could that explain why Pulli was sitting outside my flat that night?

Thorleif jumps when the door opens.

‘Hello, Daddy,’ Julie says, her hair wet and tangled. She is stark naked.

‘Hello, sweetheart. Bath time with Martin again?’

She nods eagerly.

‘What happened to your clothes?’

She stops; her face takes on the oops expression. ‘I forgot.’

‘Then go back upstairs and get them.’

‘But it’s Martin’s bedtime.’

‘Then we’ll have to get them tomorrow. Come on, let’s go to the bathroom. It’s your bedtime too.’

‘But I don’t want to go to bed.’

‘It doesn’t matter what you want, sweetheart. You’re going to bed.’

‘But Daddy. I haven’t had any dinner yet.’

Thorleif sighs. ‘Okay. What do you want?’

‘Crisps.’

‘Crisps? But Julie. What day is it today?’

She thinks about it. ‘Saturday?’

‘Nice try,’ he laughs. ‘You can have crispbread. Or an apple. Your choice.’

‘Ahemmmm. An apple.’

‘An apple it is. But afterwards it’s straight to bed. Okay?’

‘Okay, Daddy.’

‘Sit down then.’

‘But Daddy. I need to put my pants on first.’

He laughs again. ‘You go put on some pants, and while you do that I’ll peel you an apple.’

She races into her bedroom where one drawer after the other is opened and closed with a bang. Soon she comes running back, yanking her Hello Kitty pants as high up her waist as she can. Suddenly she stops and pulls a face which quickly transforms into deep toddler distress.

‘What happened?’ Thorleif says anxiously and rushes over to her. Julie is clutching her big toe as the tears flow. He realises immediately what the problem is. Those damned cracks in the floorboards, he thinks. Everything gets stuck in them. They have been talking about getting them fixed for ages, but they never have the money. Thorleif consoles his daughter as best he can. Soon the crying subsides.

When Julie has sat down and taken the first apple slice, his mobile beeps on the windowsill. Thorleif picks it up and sees that he has a text from an unknown number. A feeling of nausea spreads through his body. He downloads the photo. The contours of a dimly lit room gradually emerge. Several glasses on a small, round table. A painting on the wall at the back. The details are blurred, but he can make out a group of smiling women. His eyes stop at a woman in the centre.

Elisabeth.

He looks at her more closely than at any of the other women in the photo.

The football mums.

A message appears under the photo: Your girlfriend is lovely. Do you want her to stay that way?

Thorleif is pacing up and down the living-room floor, constantly checking his watch and his mobile. It’s almost 11.30. Bloody woman, he thinks. Why the hell isn’t she back yet?

She hasn’t answered a single one of his calls, but this is typical of her and not in itself cause for alarm. Every time Elisabeth leaves the house, especially when she is out with a girlfriend — or three — it’s as if the rest of her world ceases to exist. In many ways, he envies her ability to switch off. Thorleif feels compelled to check his mobile at regular intervals. But not so Elisabeth. And especially not now when he needs her more than ever. What on earth is keeping her?