Thomas Enger - Pierced

The public telephone rings at eleven o’clock exactly, just as it did three days ago. Mjones steps inside and picks up the receiver with his left hand.

‘Hello,’ he says. At the same moment the throbbing in his shoulder escalates.

‘Is everything taken care of?’

‘Yes,’ Mjones says, clenching his teeth. The pain feels like flames brushing his forehead.

‘And you’re quite sure of that?’

‘Yes. There are no loose ends this time.’

The handset is filled with white noise for a few seconds.

‘Good.’

‘Which means only one item is outstanding,’ Mjones says. ‘But there has been a change of plan. I want the balance paid into my bank account.’

Silence. Mjones wipes the sweat away with the same hand that is holding the handset.

‘Why?’

‘I have my reasons.’

There is silence again.

‘Okay.’

‘I have a bank account in Sw-’

‘Not on the telephone,’ Langbein cuts him off. ‘We need to meet.’

Mjones frowns. Why? So that Langbein can shoot him dead and so avoid paying the 2.5 million kroner he owes him?

Mjones makes it a rule never to ask his employers about their motives. He takes on a job, and he sees it through, mostly without getting his own hands dirty. But now that he thinks about this particular assignment, his curiosity is aroused, especially since Langbein hadn’t been in touch since newspapers the world over commemorated the anniversary of 9/11. Prior to that date, he and Langbein regularly did business, but for much lower fees.

If you don’t take the job then you become the job.

So Langbein would have had me killed, Mjones considers, if I hadn’t agreed to do this job. Or was this his plan all along? Get me to kill Pulli and send someone after me later? It might explain why it was so easy for me to push the price up from 2 to 3 million, he thinks, a sum which even to begin with was considerably higher than is usual for this line of work. Perhaps he is walking right into a trap. Given his knowledge of Langbein’s previous operations, it’s not unthinkable even though he doesn’t know who Langbein is or who he works for.

‘We’re not going to do that,’ Mjones says. ‘I’ll contact you the way you contact me. The advert will appear sometime tomorrow morning, and the numbers you’ll need will be in it. If the money hasn’t reached my bank account by Tuesday, I’ll charge interest.’

‘Are you in a hurry?’

‘Yes… or… no.’

‘You’re not thinking of disappearing, are you?’

Mjones hesitates.

‘Oh, no,’ he lies.

Henning can’t sleep that night. In addition to Pulli’s nineteen minutes, another question is vexing him, so he sends a text message to Frode Olsvik early the next morning asking for a few minutes of his time as soon as possible. The reply arrives immediately: I have five minutes in Stockfleths by the Courthouse at 8.30 a.m.

Henning agrees with Heidi Kjus that he will come into the office a little later and squashes himself in with all the other morning-rush-hour commuters on the number 11 tram to the Courthouse. In Stockfleths he orders a double espresso and takes a seat by a window while he waits for the lawyer. A few minutes past 8.30 a.m. Olsvik appears, but rather than go up to the till to order, he nods to the waiter behind the counter who returns his greeting with a smile.

Olsvik manoeuvres his large body into a chair by the table and holds out his hand to Henning.

‘Thank you for agreeing to meet with me at such short notice.’

‘Not at all.’

In the course of the next minute, Henning learns that Olsvik has been informed about what has happened both to Pulli and to Brenden and that police are looking for the hit man who was probably paid generously for arranging Pulli’s death.

‘How can I help you, Juul?’ Olsvik says and straightens one of his braces. Henning takes a breath‚ but decides to hold off sharing his suspicions about the clock on Pulli’s mobile. He needs to test his hypothesis first.

‘In the past couple of years, no one had more to do with Pulli than you. I would bet that you knew him better than most.’

‘I suppose you could say that.’

‘Did he make any enemies during the time he spent in prison?’

A patronising expression spreads across Olsvik’s face. Henning braces himself for a lecture.

‘My relationship with my client is purely professional, Juul. Our conversations mainly revolved around his case. And my client is still entitled to a duty of confidentiality even though he is dead.’

‘Even though he was killed?’

‘Even though he was killed. Especially if the person asking the question is a reporter.’

‘Even though it was you who tipped off Tore Pulli that I was back at work?’

Olsvik looks at Henning as a cup of steaming hot coffee is placed in front of him.

‘Thank you,’ he says, looking up at the waiter. ‘Put it on the company account, would you?’

‘Sure.’

Olsvik waits until the waiter is out of hearing range. Then he pins his eyes on Henning. ‘What are you talking about, Juul?’

‘The only people to visit Tore while he was inside were you, Geir Gronningen and Veronica Nansen. And I know that neither of them told Tore that I had returned to 123news. ’

Olsvik smiles wearily. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Juul. There are many ways to get information in a prison even if you don’t have visitors every day or access to the Internet. The inmates speak to the prison guards and with other inmates, and they’re entitled to make twenty minutes’ worth of telephone calls every week.’

‘I thought all telephone conversations were monitored?’

‘In theory, yes. But no one listens in to every word that is said. They do spot checks, primarily to determine if any communication relating to drug smuggling or similar is taking place. And I regret to have to tell you, Juul, but no alarm bells would start ringing if someone, in an aside, happens to mention that you’re back at work. People have more important things to worry about.’

Feeling a tad humbled, Henning has to admit that the lawyer is probably right.

‘Do you know if the prison keeps a record of which numbers an inmate has called?’ he says, trying to shake off his embarrassment.

‘I imagine that they log outgoing calls. And Tore might have tried to get someone on the outside to help him by calling or writing a letter. He is not the first inmate to believe he was unfairly convicted. Some write to the press, others to private detectives.’

‘So you and Tore never discussed if a third party might be able to help him?’

‘I really can’t tell you what I did or did not discuss with my client-’

‘Please, Olsvik,’ Henning interrupts him. ‘I know you have attorney-client privileges and rules to observe, but we’re not talking about information that is sensitive to your client’s case. And I’m asking you because I’m still trying to help him — even though he is dead.’

‘And you can do that by finding out how Tore knew that you were working again?’

Henning hesitates for a second. ‘Among other things.’

‘You have to explain the logic in this to me.’

Henning takes a deep breath. ‘In parallel with working on Tore’s case, I’m also trying to find out what happened on the day my son died. Tore claimed that he…’

A thought occurs to Henning that almost takes his breath away. Pulli contacted him in the hope that Henning could help exonerate him. The bait was the truth of what happened the day that Jonas died.

What if that was the reason Pulli had to die?

‘Pulli claimed what?’ Olsvik asks him.

‘That he knew something about the fire in my flat,’ Henning says, distracted.