Thomas Enger - Pierced

They stay where they are until the third man comes outside. Even in the faint light Thorleif can see the bloodstained paper towels in the plastic bag the man is carrying.

‘You’ll have to finish him off without me. I’ve got to get this seen to,’ the man with the ponytail says, pointing to his shoulder.

Thorleif looks up at the mountains with acceptance. If he concentrates, he is sure he can see Pal’s face up there. His son is smiling and laughing, with that special light that radiates from his eyes when he is happy. Julie is next to him with dimples in her cheeks, Thorleif sees her now, she is waving eagerly to him. Just like she does at nursery. Behind them, Elisabeth is happy, beautiful and gorgeous. She holds up the bookmark he gave her, the first token of his love after they started going out, a red heart-shaped bookmark with no wording. So you’ll always know where you are and where you have me, as he said to her. And there is the Ketsh shepherd with his blasted dogs. But Thorleif knows that throwing stones at them won’t help him now.

Slowly they fade away. Thorleif looks at the moon, or is it the sun? Or perhaps it’s Morocco.

Yes, it’s Morocco, he thinks.

And he knows with a conviction stronger than anything he has ever felt that it is possible to love someone as far as that.

It is five minutes to one in the afternoon. It means Petter Holte is unlikely to be at home, Henning thinks, since Sunday workouts are sacrosanct. He stops outside a block of flats in Herslebsgate and presses the doorbell for Tore Pulli’s cousin. There is no answer. Henning tries again and waits thirty seconds before he accepts defeat. Then he presses all twelve buttons on the intercom, betting that at least one of the residents will do what he himself always used to, which was to just let people in.

Seconds later, Henning closes the door behind him with a satisfied smile and enters a hallway where three prams block the stairs. Arabic music wafts through an upstairs keyhole. Henning battles his way up. On the third floor he stops and knocks on Holte’s door. He tries the bell too, but without success. Henning inspects the door and the lock. It is a regular Yale lock.

Some years ago, he wrote a story about how easy it is to break into someone’s home. It took only a few Internet searches to learn that the most effective way to pick a standard lock was through a method known as lock-bumping, a technique invented by a Danish locksmith a quarter of a century ago. The secret lies in using a blank key, known as a bump key, and cut it so its teeth glide into the lock. But rather than push the key all the way in, you insert the key one notch short of full insertion, and then you give it a firm whack with a hammer or similar. The friction created when the teeth are bashed bumps the pins in the lock the same way balls on a snooker table scatter when you break. This allows you to turn the key and open the door.

Henning tested the method first on his own front door and later at the house of some friends. When his friends eventually accepted that he had done them a favour by breaking into their home, they were happy to provide quotes for his article. Henning has kept the blank key on his key ring ever since, and he decides that now is the right time to put it to use again.

He isn’t sure what he hopes to find in Holte’s flat, but it’s impossible to get these people to talk to him, and he has to find out more about who they are.

Henning puts on a pair of latex gloves, takes out the hammer he brought from home, slides the key in place and gives it a whack that echoes against the walls. Then he turns the key and opens the door. Piece of cake.

The silence that follows confirms that he is alone in the flat. In the hallway two pairs of identical boots are lined up next to a pair of worn trainers. A black Alive Force leather jacket gleams at him from a hook. A white horizontal line across the chest and some white squares decorating the middle of the upper sleeve make the jacket look like something out of a science-fiction movie. Henning can easily imagine Holte wearing it.

Henning starts to explore the flat. There is a small kitchen to the left filled with dirty plates and glasses. The cooker is speckled with food stains and fat splashes. Empty bottles under a blue wooden table. Beer and Coke Zero, a couple of bottles of tequila, empty jars of Metapure Zero Carb. The walls are unfinished. No burglar alarm as far as Henning can see.

He goes into the living room where two heavy dumb-bells lie on the floor next to the fireplace. In front of the television is a messy pile of DVDs, a mixture of action movies and exercise videos with muscular men on the cover. At the centre of the room, a clothes horse laden with socks, underwear and T-shirts dominates the space. On one T-shirt three monkeys are covering their eyes, ears and mouth respectively while appearing to find something hilarious; ‘That’s what friends are for’, it says on another. And a Metallica one, of course. The T-shirts are a size ‘small’, presumably so they will cling as tightly as possible.

Henning stops and listens again, but he can’t hear any noise coming from the outside. He starts on the shelving unit in the living room, rifling through the drawers and finding takeaway menus, cables and a box with a video camera inside it. He opens the drinks cabinet, checks behind books, looks in the drawer under the TV unit, behind the sofa, under the sofa, inside every cupboard, but he finds nothing of interest.

In the bedroom he is met by the smell of stale sleep but resists the temptation to open the windows. Methodically, he searches the cupboards and drawers in there as well but discovers only what he assumes to be a jar of steroids. Under the bed all he finds is dust, a vacuum cleaner and a transparent plastic box with spare duvets and pillows. On the bedside table, a book by R. N. Morris is gathering dust. Henning has difficulties imagining a man like Holte devoting much time to literature, but then again crime fiction is considered light entertainment by some.

The bathroom smells of mould. The cupboard above the sink reveals only toothpaste, shaving foam, some lotions and dental floss. In the laundry basket he catches sight of a bloodstained T-shirt. Iver’s blood? he wonders. He is tempted to take the T-shirt with him, but he decides to photograph it instead.

He spins around when a bang echoes from the stairwell. He rushes back to the hallway and leaves the flat as quietly as he can. The footsteps come closer. Henning looks about him for another way out. As the noise coming from below grows louder, he kicks off his shoes and tiptoes upstairs. When he reaches the fifth floor he leans against the wall and holds his breath. The footsteps stop. Henning can’t be sure, but he thinks that someone is outside Holte’s flat. Perhaps he didn’t go to the gym after all.

There is a jingling of keys. Henning hears a key being inserted and turned, but the door doesn’t budge. It appears to be jammed.

He hears grunting coming from below, but he can’t identify the voice. The door finally opens with a bang before it is slammed shut again. Henning seizes his chance and doesn’t wait to put on his shoes but races down the stairs. His socks are so slippery that he nearly skids down several steps and he has to cling to the banister for support. It’s not until he is back on the ground floor that he stops and breathes a sigh of relief as he quickly glances upwards.

No one is there.

Light. Is that a light?

Dots far away. They are black, and they dance up and down. Something beeps. A pounding sound comes closer. His eyelids slide open. Yes, there is light. Something white appears. Gradually everything comes into focus, but he doesn’t recognise his surroundings. Where is he?