Thomas Enger - Pierced

Iver nods to the bartender and introduces himself.

‘Even Nylund, is he here?’ Iver says and holds up his press card as if he worked for the FBI and the card automatically opened every door to him. The bartender, a man who proudly wears a white T-shirt with the Swedish flag emblazoned on his chest, says in Swedish, ‘I’ll check. Wait here.’

Iver makes himself comfortable on a bar stool, puts down his notepad and takes out his mobile, mainly to have something to do while he waits. He looks at two solitary men at separate tables some distance from the stage.

‘He’s just coming. What can I get you?’

‘A beer, please.’

The bartender turns around, takes a glass and starts filling it from a green spout. Iver notices the camera fixed to the ceiling above the bar and pointing at the booths. The lens stirs as if distracted by the rhythm pounding out into the room and suffusing the atmosphere with a sticky sensation of foreplay. A few minutes later a man sits down heavily on the bar stool next to him. Iver is caught off guard and spins to the left.

‘Oh, hi,’ he says. ‘Iver Gundersen, 123news. ’

‘Even Nylund.’

Right palm meets right palm, hard. Iver instantly regrets it, unsure as to where Nylund’s hands have been in the past few minutes.

‘Thanks for talking to me.’

‘Uffe, get me a Coke, will you?’

The bartender obeys without nodding.

‘So,’ Nylund says. ‘How can I help you?’

Iver studies Nylund and decides that the man conforms to the stereotype of shady club owners as he had expected. Nylund’s hair is greased back and sticks to his scalp in a failed attempt to disguise a bald patch; the hair at the back is gathered in a thin ponytail. He is skinny but has still chosen to wear an unbuttoned black linen shirt which reveals chest hair of the same colour and reminds Iver of pubic hair. Nylund’s stubble makes his ruddy face a shade darker.

‘Has there been any vandalism to the club recently?’

Nylund shakes his head sullenly. ‘Not that they’ve given up yet, those FASB bitches. If I had caught any of them red-handed, I would bloody well… ’ Nylund clenches his fist.

‘No, I don’t know what I would have done if someone had keyed my car, either,’ Iver says.

‘And they sprayed fire-extinguisher foam into my car.’

‘And you are sure that the FASB was behind it?’

‘On the fender someone had left a note saying Front Against the Sale of Bodies. What do you think?’

Iver smiles and nods.

‘What annoys me the most is that the politicians don’t distance themselves from that kind of behaviour.’

‘I heard that one of your doormen got into serious trouble?’

‘Yes,’ Nylund says, looking down. ‘He did.’

‘What happened?’

Nylund sighs. ‘It was the 8th of March, though you probably already know that since you ask. There was a mob outside the club. A bunch of feminists in need of a good lay who were going on and on about International Women’s Day and all that. The usual rubbish. Petter got angry, he tried to scare them off, but they wouldn’t budge. And then he lost it.’

‘He went to prison, didn’t he?’

‘Yes. He got a couple of months inside. There were a lot of witnesses, as you might expect.’

‘Where was he sent?’

‘Botsen Block, Oslo Prison. Why do you want to know?’

‘I’m just curious. I’m working on a story about Tore Pulli.’

‘Right. So that’s why you’re here, is it? Not to write about the vandalism and the attacks on my business?’

‘No. But I’m interested in that too,’ Iver lies. ‘I might do a story about it later. I agree with you. They shouldn’t be allowed to carry on like that.’

Uffe puts a glass filled with ice cubes and Coke in front of his boss. Nylund takes it and drinks in big gulps. ‘It’s a real shame about Tore,’ he says.

Iver nods and waits for Nylund to continue, but he doesn’t. Iver reflects on this for a while before he decides to cut straight to the chase.

‘We think he might not have killed Jocke Brolenius.’

Nylund bursts out laughing. ‘Oh, I get it,’ he says. ‘You’re one of those reporters who see conspiracies everywhere, aren’t you? Who can never take no for an answer but always takes no to mean I’m lying?’

‘Not at all,’ Iver smiles.

He loves reporters like that.

‘What makes you think Tore didn’t do it?’ Nylund asks.

‘There were several anomalies in his case that no one paid attention to. But there’s no point in dragging that up here. You followed the trial, I presume?’

‘On and off,’ Nylund says. He puts an ice cube in his mouth and sucks it. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you,’ he continues and puts down the glass on the counter as he crunches the ice cube between his teeth. This was a bad idea, Iver thinks. And a bad strategy.

‘Did Tore have any enemies here?’

‘No.’

‘That no came very quickly.’

‘Here we go again,’ Nylund sighs.

‘What?’

‘The no that really means I’m lying. ’

‘Are you?’

‘No.’

‘Are you lying now?’ Iver holds up his hands and smiles apologetically. ‘Sorry, I couldn’t resist that.’

He tries to laugh it off, but Nylund isn’t amused. ‘It’s no secret, Nylund, that you employ people who have links to criminal gangs. You wouldn’t happen to know a man in that business who is slim, tall and always wears his hair in a ponytail?’

Nylund looks at him, smiles wryly. ‘Did you say your name was Gundersen?

‘Yes.’

‘You ask some strange questions, Gundersen.’

‘Someone has to.’

‘Are we done?’

‘So you don’t know anyone who fits that description?’

Nylund shoots him a condescending smile. ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I don’t think I can help you.’

‘Okay. Thanks for your time.’

Nylund abandons his still half-full glass and walks up the spiral staircase to the first floor. This is taking too long, Iver frets. How the hell does Henning get these people to talk? Just for once he would have loved to tell Henning something he didn’t already know.

Henning is munching a slice of crispbread and rereading his own article about Thorleif Brenden when his mobile rings. It is Bjarne Brogeland. The inspector skilfully ignores pleasantries.

‘I’ve seen the video footage,’ he says. ‘What did you want to talk to me about?’

Henning swallows and tells Brogeland his suspicions about Brenden’s clenched fist and Pulli’s sudden, perturbed look.

‘It’s not a particularly good camera angle, but something happens while Brenden has his hands on Pulli’s back,’ Henning tells him.

Silence. He reaches towards the windowsill and turns off the fan. The hum in the kitchen stops and the heat immediately starts sticking to him.

‘Have you discovered the cause of Pulli’s death yet?’ he asks.

‘The preliminary autopsy report provided no answers except that.. ’

Brogeland stops.

‘Except what?’

‘I can’t tell you, Henning. Sorry, I-’

‘Come on, Bjarne, you know I won’t write anything that would harm your investigation.’

Brogeland exhales. ‘They found an abnormal lesion on his neck.’

‘From what?’ Henning asks eagerly.

‘They don’t know. But it could be a tiny prick. From a needle or something similar.’

‘A needle,’ Henning mutters, remembering what Dr Omdahl told him about nerve toxins. In which case it must have been a highly poisonous substance.

‘Clever,’ Henning says. ‘Tore Pulli was a diabetic. And he used to have loads of piercings.’

‘So what?’

‘When we met, I asked him if he had grown used to needles and injecting himself with insulin. He said that he hardly noticed it these days.’