Thomas Enger: Pierced

On his way back, Henning tries to call Geir Gronningen, but all he gets is his voicemail. He sends him a text message, but that doesn’t produce a response either. He realises why when he remembers that Gronningen is giving the eulogy at the get-together.

Henning winds his way through the rush-hour traffic in his rental car and decides to drive up to visit a source who so far has proved to be the most reliable in her insight into human nature. This time he catches up with Vidar Fjell’s old girlfriend as she is leaving her house.

‘Oh, hi,’ Irene Otnes says. ‘You again?’

Henning doesn’t have time to say anything before she tells him that she is on her way to the shops.

‘Perhaps I could ask you a couple of questions first?’

Otnes closes her front door and locks it. ‘If you don’t mind walking down to the car with me,’ she says in a cheerful tone.

They start to walk. Above them the clouds are moving swiftly.

‘I didn’t see you at the funeral today,’ he remarks.

‘Did you come here to ask me that?’

‘Yes and no.’

‘I hate funerals,’ she says, though she strolls along as if Pulli’s death hasn’t dampened her mood noticeably. ‘I find them upsetting. And I spoke to Veronica on the telephone yesterday, and she said it was okay that I didn’t go.’

Henning begins‚ ‘Would you know why Petter Holte has a problem with Robert van Derksen?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Otnes smiles. ‘I can tell you that. Robert stole Petter’s girlfriend while he was inside. Or rather she dumped him, I think, but she dumped him for Robert. You don’t do that to your friends, you know.’

Otnes starts walking down the steps. Henning follows her doggedly. The scabs under his feet protest, but he ignores the pain.

‘Poor Petter. He’s always being teased about his small feet.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know — small shoes, small… ’ She points to her crotch.

‘I thought that was a myth?’ Henning says.

‘I wouldn’t know about that. Not that it made any difference to his friends. Petter has been made to suffer for years, believe you me.’

‘Was Tore Pulli one of his tormentors?’

‘No, not Tore. It was Tore who told Petter that his girlfriend had started seeing someone else.’

Henning thinks quickly. ‘While they both were in prison?’

‘Yes. I believe he felt that Petter had a right to know. That was one of the things I liked about Tore. He was decent to a certain extent. And he heard it from Veronica during one of her visits. Veronica and I — we tell each other everything,’ she says and laughs. ‘But I couldn’t help feeling sorry for Petter. He has never had much success with women, he has always been a loser. Women never stay with him for very long, you see. We women like a challenge.’

Otnes smiles and turns around when she reaches the car. ‘Anyway, I’m off to the shops.’

‘Okay. Nice talking to you,’ he says.

‘Likewise.’

His image of Petter Holte is becoming increasingly complete, Henning thinks as he drives back towards the city centre. Short fuse. A failed enforcer. Never managed to step out of Tore’s shadow. Possibly envious of Geir Gronningen, who became Tore’s best friend instead of him. Even his girlfriend walked all over him.

The question is, how deep are those scars?

The evening wind wafts through the open window and brushes Robert van Derksen’s glistening face. He takes a deep breath, leans back in the sofa and stares at the ceiling. It has been a long day. Going straight from the funeral to teach a demanding Krav Maga class full of students who expect him to deliver is not to be recommended. It requires energy to perform, especially given how the funeral went.

Tore Pulli — dead as a dodo. Just thinking about it feels weird. In their eyes, Tore was immortal, the man who could do nothing wrong. And then his life fell apart. First he was sentenced and jailed, then dead long before his time.

Van Derksen thinks about what the reporter said to him that day that it made no sense that a man as clever as Tore would leave behind his calling card at the crime scene. It was a valid point, and van Derksen had himself pondered this anomaly shortly after Tore’s arrest — especially once Tore put a reward of one million kroner on the table for information that could help free him. But then Tore was convicted, and everybody stopped talking about it after a while. Nor had Robert given it much thought until the reporter called. And that in turn prompted him to make a call straight afterwards. Now when he re-runs the short conversation it strikes him as really quite odd.

‘I’ve been thinking about something: you didn’t teach anyone else the Pulli punch, did you?’

There was silence for a while.

‘Why do you ask about that?’

‘No, I was just wondering. A guy just called me suggesting someone other than Tore had killed Jocke and elbowed his jaw. To make it look as if Tore did it.’

Again there was silence.

‘What kind of guy?’

‘A journalist.’

‘Name?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘For God’s sake, Robert, of course you do.’

He thinks hard. ‘Juul or something like that.’

Another silence.

‘Henning Juul?’

‘Yes, it could be him. Do you know him?’

Long silence.

‘I know who he is.’

What if the reporter was right? Robert wonders. What if Tore really was innocent? In which case, the list of alternative suspects is very short indeed.

The next moment someone rings the doorbell. Van Derksen gets up, gives the punchbag suspended from the ceiling a Pulli elbow and goes over to the intercom on the wall. He asks who it is‚ but receives no reply. Through the handset he hears hard footsteps on the stairs.

‘Hello?’ he calls out. Downstairs, the front door slams shut. Probably a cold caller, he thinks, and goes back to the living room. He has barely sat down when there is a knock on his door. Wearily, he gets up again and goes out into the hallway. He opens the door and stares at a face that makes his blood run cold. He instinctively takes a step back. And at that moment he knows that he is going to die.

Bjarne Brogeland is roused from a chaotic dream. He contracts his abdominal muscles and sits up, finds the luminous instrument of torture on his bedside table and answers the call before the ring tone wakes Anita. The duty officer in the control room briefs him while Brogeland registers Anita’s grunting and stirring.

‘Okay,’ he whispers. ‘I’m on my way.’

He tiptoes out of the bedroom as softly as he can and closes the door behind him. Yet another murder, he sighs and knows immediately what the next few days will look like. The initial phase is the most important. The first twenty-four to forty-eight hours are about building the best possible foundations for the investigation. In practice this means that huge resources are reassigned without delay, forensic technicians, investigators and as many officers deployed as possible — in consultation with the head of the Violent Crimes Unit. Everyone drops whatever they are doing and heads for the crime scene. Everybody knows their role and the job they have been trained to do. Fortunately, it is a well-oiled piece of machinery.

It takes him fifteen minutes to reach Vibesgate. Red-and-white police tape has been stretched around the whole block. Nosy onlookers have congregated as usual even though it is past midnight. Cars are parked along pavements, illegally, but no one cares about that now. Brogeland nods to a crime-scene technician before he bumps into Detective Constable Emil Hagen.

It doesn’t surprise Brogeland that Hagen is already there. There is competition to be the first at a crime scene, or at least there is between Hagen and Detective Constable Fredrik Stang. But Stang hasn’t arrived yet as far as Brogeland can see. And it irritates him that Hagen always looks so bloody bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. His footsteps are bouncing, his mouth half open. The gap between his front teeth makes him look so damn young.