Thomas Enger - Pierced

‘Do you have any idea what time it is?’ he says.

Henning nods while he tries to get his breath back.

‘I was working until the early hours,’ Gronningen continues.

‘In which case you went to bed just as I started work,’ Henning replies, unperturbed. ‘A colleague of mine was beaten up last night. I think you might know who did it.’

‘Me?’

‘Did you see a man with long hair wearing a corduroy jacket talking to your boss yesterday?’

Gronningen scratches his head while he tries to remember. His eyes are still sleepy.

‘When was this?’

‘About 10.30. Shortly afterwards, on his way home, he was attacked.’

‘Dammit, Juul, I did tell you.’

‘Yes, and I warned him not to be as cocky as he usually is, but I don’t think he heard me. Are you going to let me in?’

Gronningen hesitates for a long time before he nods and pushes open the door. ‘It’s a bit of a mess.’

‘Do I look like a guy who cares?’

‘No, I don’t suppose you do.’

‘I wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee if you could manage it.’

‘It’ll have to be instant.’

‘Instant is fine.’

Henning kicks off his shoes. In the hallway there is a mountain of shoes, socks and coats.

‘I don’t bother tidying up when I have things to do,’ Gronningen says as he fills up the kettle. Henning struggles to step over the mess.

‘So what are you doing, then?’ he asks.

‘Writing the eulogy. For the funeral.’

‘Yes, of course. When is it?’

‘Tuesday. In Tonsberg.’

‘That was quick.’

‘Yes, Veronica wanted it over and done with as soon as possible.’

Henning indicates with a nod of his head that he will wait in the living room. There he tries to find a vacant seat on the worn black leather sofa. He just about manages it. He sits down and takes a look around. There is carpet on the floor with bits of crisps embedded in the fibres, a bottle top, several empty bottles, bags of photocopies. A dumb-bell marked 17.5 kilograms has made a hollow in the carpet under the coffee table.

On the wall are pictures of bodybuilders in various glistening poses. A poster of Arnold Schwarzenegger in Terminator appears to take pride of place.

Gronningen comes in soon afterwards and sits down in an armchair next to the sofa.

‘Thank you,’ Henning says and slurps the hot coffee.

‘So what happened?’ Gronningen asks him.

Henning spends thirty seconds telling him about Iver’s meeting with Kent Harry Hansen and the Asgard visit later that same evening.

‘According to Iver, Hansen was quite angry when he left.’

Gronningen looks as if he has suddenly put two and two together.

‘What?’ Henning says.

Gronningen glances down. ‘No, it’s just that I… ’

‘What?’ Henning says again after a fresh pause. Gronningen stares at Henning for a long time before he answers unwillingly: ‘When Kent Harry came to the gym yesterday, he was angry about something. None of us knew what it was.’

‘Did he say anything?’

Gronningen shakes his head. ‘He just stormed into the office and slammed the door behind him.’

‘And you never found out why he was in such a bad mood?’

‘No. I left soon afterwards.’

‘And no one has been boasting about beating up some scummy journalist either?’

‘No. But I wouldn’t tell you if they had.’

Henning nods slowly before he decides to change the subject to something he has been pondering since their previous meeting.

‘Do you know if Tore made any enemies while he was inside?’

Gronningen looks up at him. ‘Not that I know of,’ he replies. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Because I can’t work out why Tore was so keen to talk to me. There aren’t that many journalists in Norway, certainly not crime reporters, so I can’t ignore the fact that Tore might have known who I was before he was locked up. But how did he know that I was back at work?’

Gronningen keeps his eyes fixed on Henning for a few seconds before they glide away.

‘Tore doesn’t have access to the Internet in prison. And the only person to visit Tore, apart from Veronica, was you.’

Gronningen briefly meets his eyes again before they disappear out into the room.

‘Did you tell him I was back at work?’

‘Me? No.’

Henning makes no reply, but looks directly at Gronningen. ‘Do you know if Tore knew who I was before he went to prison?’

‘No idea.’

Henning takes a deep breath. I’m getting nowhere, he thinks. Every door slams in my face. ‘Okay,’ he says and signals that he is about to leave. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’

Gronningen nods to indicate that Henning is welcome.

‘I’ll probably see you on Tuesday,’ Henning adds. ‘Good luck with the eulogy.’

‘Thanks.’

The bell above the entrance to Fighting Fit chimes energetically as Henning arrives and steps on to the purple carpet. He walks up to the reception counter. The girl who was behind it before is there again today. Like the last time, she looks up and pushes her chest up and out as he comes over. Her T-shirt, which displays a Pondus cartoon he has seen before, briefly attracts his attention.

‘Kent Harry Hansen?’ he enquires and sees that the woman recognises him. She manages a bored nod towards the back room before her fringe falls over her eyes again. Henning thanks her, and, as he starts to walk, the popular Prima Vera song about the Swedes starts to play on the loudspeakers. Henning doesn’t bother knocking, he just walks straight into Hansen’s office.

‘I’ll call you back,’ Hansen says and puts down the handset. He gets up and looks at Henning. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Yes,’ Henning says, aggressively and without introducing himself. ‘The man who interviewed you yesterday is in hospital, beaten to a pulp.’

‘Is he?’

‘Yes, he is.’

Henning looks at Hansen’s unruffled face and shifts his gaze to Hansen’s hands. No evidence of recent fighting. ‘Would you know anything about that?’

‘Me? Why would I?’

Henning doesn’t reply. Instead, he studies Hansen’s eyes, but he can’t read anything in them.

‘Sometimes he upsets people. He told me he had got on the wrong side of you.’

‘Yes, but I don’t go round beating people up for that.’

‘No, I don’t suppose you do. You have people who do it for you.’

Hansen scoffs. ‘As I said to that journalist, I don’t know what you think we’re doing in here. And I don’t know who the hell you think you are, coming here, hurling accusations about-’

‘My name is Henning Juul,’ Henning interrupts him. ‘I asked Iver to talk to you about Tore Pulli. I got him into this mess. I don’t know what questions he asked you, but I gave him the ammunition. If you have a problem with the press or your operation here can’t stand a little close scrutiny then take it up with me. Don’t beat people up in dark alleys.’

‘Listen, I don’t know what you think you’re-’

‘It’s either you or Even Nylund who sent some heavies to tell Iver to shut up and back off.’

‘I think you should leave now.’

‘Or you’ll beat me up, too?’

Hansen looks at Henning for a long second before he quickly moves past the desk, grabs hold of Henning’s upper arm and pushes him out of the office. Prima Vera is halfway through the chorus, Henning can hear, as Hansen shoves him in the back and Henning has to take a step to the side to avoid falling over.

‘Get out of here,’ Hansen thunders.

‘Thanks for talking to me,’ Henning says with sarcasm, but he does as he is told. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the for-now-gentle receptionist staring at him.