Thomas Enger - Pierced

‘Not too bad.’

‘Do you still work with recovering addicts and the homeless?’

‘Not as many as we used to.’

‘Why not?’

‘Things changed after Vidar’s death.’

‘But you still get financial support from the Inner City Project?’

‘Yes, we do. And I still employ staff who are a part of that.’

Iver stops the rhythm of his questioning. ‘And how is your other business?’

Hansen looks at Iver. ‘What other business?’

‘The one with no paper trail?’ Iver clenches his right fist and punches it into his left palm. Hansen stares at Iver for a few seconds before he starts to laugh. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘I’ve heard that you run some of the enforcer business in Oslo from Vidar Fjell’s old office. Is that right?’

Hansen continues to smile. ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘You’re one of those.’

Iver doesn’t reply, he merely waits for an answer.

‘If you had done your homework before coming here then you would know that Fighting Fit isn’t mixed up in that. We never were. And we never will be.’

‘That’s not what I’ve heard.’

‘Then you’ve heard wrong.’ The smile on Hansen’s face is gone.

‘So you deny that you run an enforcer business? That you use Fighting Fit as a front for-’

‘What the hell is this?’ Hansen interrupts him. ‘Why are you really here? I thought we were going to talk about Tore?’

‘We are. That’s what we’re doing.’

‘It seems more like harassment if you ask me, and you can forget about writing something that repeats what you just said in your paper or… ’ Hansen points his index finger at Iver.

‘I wasn’t going to,’ Iver replies. ‘But if you agree to help me, I might decide to forget about it. I’m trying to find out who actually killed Jocke Brolenius.’

Hansen stares at Iver for a long time.

‘Tore Pulli claimed that he arrived on time for his meeting with Brolenius, but he didn’t call the police until nineteen minutes past eleven o’clock. Could he have been delayed by something that happened at your gym that night?’

Hansen shakes his head. ‘Consider this a piece of friendly advice, Gundersen. Don’t go around making allegations you can’t prove. It’s not a very clever thing to do.’

Iver looks at the grave eyes in front of him and feels a shot of adrenalin spread through his body. ‘Are you saying you know who really killed Jocke Brolenius?’

Hansen pushes back his chair, gets up and glares at Iver before putting his hands on the table and leaning forwards. Iver tries to stay where he is, but he can’t help moving his head back.

‘You’re playing with fire,’ Hansen says quietly‚ and jabs his finger at Iver’s face. Iver tries hard to pretend that he isn’t scared. Then Hansen straightens up, heads for the door and slams it hard on his way out.

Elisabeth Haaland stares at the ceiling but sees nothing, only a pale grey fog. She doesn’t know if she can cry any more, but every time she imagines Thorleif or thinks about him, what he is doing, where he is, the knot in her stomach tightens and she bursts into tears. Her thoughts repeat in a never-ending spiral without producing a single answer.

What will she tell the children?

The police aren’t much help yet because not enough time has passed since Thorleif went missing. But she could hear it in the voice of the female police officer who called half an hour ago, the one who rang yesterday, that they no longer regarded it as a straightforward missing-person case. Why else would she ask if Thorleif had had anything to do with Tore Pulli, including before the interview? What was she insinuating?

Elisabeth stretches out her arms behind her and buries them under the pillow. Her fingers stop when they touch a sheet of paper. She pulls it out.

‘Julie’s heart,’ she whispers to herself, holds up the drawing and looks at the fat red lines Julie drew at nursery. Her daughter has decorated every scrap of paper and every newspaper she has come across since with hearts. Elisabeth turns over the sheet and sees the car. And she sees that Thorleif drew it.

Why would he do that, she wonders and sits up. He never draws with Julie because, according to him, he is so bad at it. But now he appears to have drawn a picture of a car. And why did he leave the drawing under her pillow?

The car looks like a BMW. The registration plates are clear to see. Her gaze glides down towards the words written in Thorleif’s inimitable penmanship. Elisabeth raises her hand to her mouth. And she jumps the next moment when someone rings the doorbell.

*

The sun hits Henning’s face as he leaves 123news ’s offices in 9 Urtegata. He takes out his mobile and calls Iver, who gives him a quick summary of his conversation with Hansen.

‘So he didn’t punch you in the face?’

‘No, but he clearly wanted to.’

‘I told you to take it easy with those guys.’

‘I know.’

‘Have you spoken to any of the others?’

‘No, not yet. But I’m about to call TV2.’

Henning nods as he holds up his other hand. A cab across the street indicates and stops at the pavement. ‘Good. We need a few more angles.’

‘I found a picture of Tore Pulli and a guy named Even Nylund on the Internet earlier today. Nylund runs a strip club in Majorstua. Asgard it’s called or something like that.’

‘That’s where Geir Gronningen and Petter Holte work,’ Henning says and dashes across the street in between two cars.

‘I could try going over there tonight.’

‘Great idea.’

Henning gets into the cab.

‘What about you? Where are you going?’

‘I’m going to pay Thorleif Brenden’s girlfriend a visit.’

The cab stops right outside the Italian School in Bygdoy Alle. Henning walks down a side street and searches for Brenden’s apartment block in Nobelsgate. He passes courtyard gardens with withered plants, finds the building marked B and presses the bell labelled ‘Brenden amp; Haaland’.

Henning looks around while he waits for an answer that doesn’t come. Perhaps she’s asleep, he thinks. Or trying to sleep. He called Elisabeth Haaland at the school where she works, but they told him that she was off sick today. He tried her mobile, which rang several times before switching to voicemail. Henning knows it is unlikely that she will open the door to him, but he thought it was worth a try and set out anyway. He rings the doorbell again. Another thirty seconds pass before a shattered female voice answers.

Henning introduces himself. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but I would really like to talk to you about Thorleif. It will help you and your family if 123news can publish a detailed account of Thorleif’s last movements. It could prompt people to come forward which might lead to his being found.’

All Henning hears is a click at the other end. ‘Damn,’ he mutters to himself, and waits a few seconds before he presses the bell once more. There is only silence and the hum of city life behind the walls and the trees. Henning swears again even though he knows it is rare for relatives to want to talk to the press at this stage.

Henning refrains from pressing the bell a fourth time. Haaland has enough to worry about, he decides, when at that moment the door opens in front of him. An ashen-faced woman looks at him, her eyes and skin marked by tears and despair.

‘Elisabeth Haaland?’ he asks.

The bags under her eyes are enormous. Her hair has been gathered in a messy ponytail. No make-up. She pulls her jacket protectively around her and marches past him.

‘I know this is a bad time,’ Henning says. ‘But I wouldn’t have come here if I didn’t think it was important.’