Thomas Enger - Pierced

Thorleif’s disappearance either. He goes to 123news. When the ads at the top half of the page have downloaded themselves, his eyes widen. One of the top news stories reads: TV 2 CAMERAMAN MISSING

Eagerly he clicks on it and reads the introduction:

There has been no contact from TV2 cameraman Thorleif Brenden since Thursday morning. His family is worried.

Everything that has happened in the past few days becomes even more real as he reads about himself online. Fortunately, the story is not accompanied by his photo. Below the introduction he sees the names of the journalists who wrote the article.

Henning Juul and Iver Gundersen.

Strange, Thorleif thinks, that 123news is reporting his disappearance when nobody else is. Perhaps he isn’t officially missing yet? It might be too soon. So why and how did 123news know?

He rereads the final sentence and feels his stomach lurch when it dawns on him that the reporters have spoken to Elisabeth. Thorleif reads on:

Respected TV2 cameraman Thorleif Brenden has gone missing. On Thursday morning, Brenden was at work and, according to a colleague, went to fetch something from his car at the end of a recording. He never returned.

‘We dread to think what might have happened to him,’ says reporter Guri Palme to 123news. She was working with Brenden just before he disappeared.

Brenden’s girlfriend, Elisabeth Haaland, is also worried about him.

‘It’s not like Thorleif to behave like this,’ she said in tears to 123news.

His disappearance has been reported to the police who have initiated a search for him.

In tears, Thorleif thinks. Poor Elisabeth.

In a box to the right of the main text are links to various stories about the death of Tore Pulli. Thorleif clicks on them in turn and sees that Iver Gundersen wrote all of them. He is also the first to report that Thorleif is missing.

Thorleif opens another window and logs on to Hotmail.

‘Okay, thanks for your help.’

Orjan Mjones hangs up and puts a despondent hard line through the name of Jan Ivar Fossbakk. Above him four other names have already been crossed out: Benjamin Rokke, Syver Odegard, Idun Skorpen-Wold and Sverre Magnus Vereide. Mjones leans back and stretches out his arms, turning his head from side to side so the bones creak.

He gets up, shuffles across the shiny floor and enters the kitchen. From the fridge he takes out a carton of milk, finds a clean glass in the top cupboard and fills it up. He downs the milk in a couple of big gulps. He has more ticket inspectors to call, a task he never would have started if he didn’t know that they are trained to recognise faces.

Mjones returns to the living room and sits down at the circular table where his laptop is open. Lying next to it is the list Terje Eggen was kind enough to provide him with which gives him the ticket inspectors’ names, their mobile numbers and the specific train line they were working on the day in question. Mjones picks up the sheet and finds the next name on the list. Nils Petter Kittelsen.

‘Hello, yes?’

‘Inspector Stian Henriksen, Oslo Police,’ Mjones says, in a commanding and grave voice.

‘P-police?’ Kittelsen stutters. ‘Has anything happened?’

‘I’m sorry for disturbing you on a Friday evening, but I’m investigating a murder which took place in Oslo yesterday.’

‘I–I see?’

‘We have reason to believe that the killer left Oslo on the train to Bergen, the train you are responsible for, around lunchtime yesterday. We’re trying to find out where the killer got off, and I hope that you can help.’

Mjones hears Kittelsen swallow. ‘I’ll do my best.’

Mjones looks down at the picture of Thorleif Brenden.

‘The man we’re looking for is approximately thirty-five years old, he’s just under six foot tall, and he was wearing dark-blue shorts, a white T-shirt and probably a hat or a cap when he left Oslo Central Station yesterday. Do you recall seeing a man who fits that description?’

There is silence for a while.

‘I really couldn’t say.’

‘Think carefully. It’s very important.’

‘I’m thinking,’ Kittelsen says intently, as he breathes hard into the mobile. Then he sighs despondently. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t think I saw him.’

‘He may not have been on your train,’ Mjones says, trying to hide his disappointment. He takes the tip off the black felt-tip pen.

‘Was he wearing sunglasses?’ Kittelsen suddenly asks.

Mjones stops and looks at the picture of Brenden. ‘He was.’

‘And a black baseball cap?’

‘He might well have been. Did you see him?’

‘I think I might have,’ Kittelsen says, eager now. ‘Pale skin, a goatee?’

‘That’s him!’ Mjones exclaims, unable to suppress the elation in his voice. ‘Do you remember where he got off?’

Another silence.

‘There are so many passengers,’ Kittelsen says, defensively.

‘I know. But please try.’

‘I’m sorry, I-’

‘Do you remember if he was on the train for a short period or a long time?’

Another pause for thought.

‘He was there for some time, certainly.’

‘How long, do you think?’

‘A couple of hours, at least.’

‘Okay. More than three hours? Four hours?’

‘I don’t know,’ Kittelsen says, despairing at himself. ‘I’m quite sure that I saw him when we stopped at Fla, but I don’t think he was there when we got to Finse.’

‘How many stations are there between Fla and Finse?’

‘Six,’ Kittelsen replies immediately.

‘Okay. That gives us something to go on. Thank you so much, Mr Kittelsen. You’ve been a great help.’

‘Don’t mention it.’

Iver Gundersen is strolling down the small steep hill where Bogstadveien meets Josefinesgate, when his eyes are drawn to a sign on the right. A castle with a heart that frames the name Asgard. Iver smiles to himself. Something of a trite fantasy to sell, he thinks.

It’s still early in the evening — it has only just gone ten o’clock — but it makes it less likely that the club will be busy.

Nora was unhappy that he had to work after their dinner, and she sulked even more when he refused to tell her why. They have had this conversation before. Iver doesn’t mind discussing stories they are both working on as they unfold, but it’s another matter when he is out chasing his own scoops. Then he never shares information with her. Nora has not quite accepted it. She thinks that he ought to trust her, says that she wouldn’t dream of stealing a story or an angle from him. But as far as Iver is concerned it’s a matter of principle. Besides, he doesn’t really believe that the scene of tonight’s assignment would have done much to lighten her mood.

Iver notices a red carpet that sticks out from the entrance to the strip club. He walks under a canopy and heads for the door. Two doormen in matching black suits and black T-shirts are standing outside. Bulging muscles. Earpieces in place.

Iver walks up some steps and into a room which opens diagonally to the left and offers booths where customers can seek refuge or simply sit and gawp without anyone seeing the beads of sweat on their forehead or their throbbing groins under the table. The bar stretches deep inside the room before breaking off to the left at an angle of ninety degrees. The stage is bathed in a pink and purple light, and it is small, no bigger than a kitchen floor. The traditional dance pole, longing to be caressed by sensual fingers, is mounted near the front. To the right there are more booths, some tables and chairs, and pictures of naked women on the walls. A spiral staircase leads up to the next floor where Iver imagines a similar layout, perhaps a private room — or twelve.