Thomas Enger: Pierced

The Command Centre — CC — lies halfway between the red and green zones on the fifth floor of the police station. The Violent Crimes Unit holds all its joint meetings in the CC, in addition to eight o’clock conferences every morning with the Institute of Forensic Medicine where that day’s autopsies are prioritised.

The room has a golden glow thanks to the Scandinavian furniture and the pale yellow linoleum on the floor. Bjarne Brogeland sits down on a chair with a black floral pattern and pours himself a cup of coffee from a metal pot. The duty officer, a man in uniform with thick blond hair and a noticeable double chin, is standing in front of the whiteboard with an uncapped marker pen in his hand. Before he writes Robert van Derksen’s name in capital letters, he hoists his trousers up well over his hips, but they soon slide down again.

The duty officer spends some time presenting the facts of the case. The soil from the flowerbed, the size 6? shoe print found outside van Derksen’s flat and the bullets. When he has finished, Brogeland takes over and briefs them on what happened at Tore Pulli’s funeral.

‘Interesting,’ Chief Inspector Arild Gjerstad says. ‘How did you find that out?’

‘Henning Juul told me,’ Brogeland replies. ‘He was there. We should have been there too.’

Brogeland looks at Pia Nokleby, who looks away. An ominous silence falls around the table. Gjerstad rubs his moustache with two fingers before he clears his throat.

‘We need to map Petter Holte’s movements after he left the funeral. Bjarne, take Emil with you and pay him a visit.’

Brogeland and Hagen nod.

‘Sandland, you find out what kind of people van Derksen mixed with. Unless we strike lucky, we’ll have to interview the lot of them.’

Sandland nods.

‘We’ll probably have to do that in any case,’ Nokleby interjects.

‘And we also have to consider other possibilities,’ Gjerstad continues. ‘If it was a burglary gone wrong, what — if any — valuables did he have. Find anyone he was in contact with in his last twenty-four hours We also need to go back and speak to potential witnesses. Neighbours. See if there are any CCTV cameras nearby that might have picked up specific vehicles that we should check out. We also need a list of cabs in the area. Pia, do you want to add something?’

‘I can run his name through Indicia and see if anything crops up.’

‘Yes, please,’ Gjerstad says, getting to his feet. ‘Right, let’s get to work.’

Seconds later the CC is empty.

Brogeland and Hagen park outside Holte’s flat in Herslebsgate. Three men standing by the greengrocer’s on the corner turn to look at them. We should have taken Hagen’s car, Brogeland thinks. Patrol cars attract too much attention. And his own car is in the garage. Again. Bloody fan belt.

They get out and quickly climb the stairs until they reach Holte’s flat on the third floor and ring the bell. Soon they hear heavy footsteps on the other side. The door opens. A man with shaving foam covering half his face appears and gives them a dazed look.

‘Petter Holte?’ Brogeland asks.

Holte, whose face looked happy bordering on blissful when he opened the door, immediately puts on his hard-man expression.

‘I’m Detective Inspector Brogeland, and this is Detective Sergeant Hagen, and here’s my warrant card,’ Brogeland continues, unperturbed. ‘Could we come in for a moment, please?’

Holte’s eyes grow even darker. ‘Why?’ he says and inflates his chest.

‘It’s about Robert van Derksen.’

‘What about him?’ Holte says, provocatively.

‘He’s dead.’

Holte makes no reply but continues to glare at Brogeland with the same scornful expression.

‘May we come in, please?’

Holte doesn’t budge. Thin white trails of foam find their way from his scalp to his temples. Long moments pass before his face suddenly changes, as if the news needed a minute to hit home. Reluctantly, he steps aside. Brogeland is the first to enter, but he stops immediately. Lumps of soil are scattered across the floor. Hagen and Brogeland exchange looks before Brogeland turns to Holte and enters without taking off his shoes.

‘What the hell happened?’ Holte asks.

‘Firstly, I need to advise you that I’m recording our conversation,’ Brogeland says, holding up an MP3 dictaphone. Holte gulps and nods.

‘Where were you last night?’

‘I… I went to the gym for my workout.’

‘Was anyone else with you?’

‘Kent Harry and Geir were there. And a couple of other guys.’

‘But not Robert?’

‘No, Robert and I, we… ’ Holte stops, searches for the words, but doesn’t find them in the next thirty seconds.

‘How long was your workout?’

‘I was there until… ’ Holte looks away from Brogeland while he thinks. ‘Until eight or nine o’clock, I think.’

Brogeland nods. Preliminary examinations suggest that van Derksen was killed sometime between nine and ten.

‘What did you do after your workout?’

‘I went home.’

‘Alone?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you been here since?’

‘Yes, I… ’

Holte doesn’t complete the sentence. His eyes flicker.

‘What shoe size do you take?’

‘What size? What the hell do you want to know that for?’

His tone is instantly aggressive.

‘Just answer the question, will you.’

Holte lowers his head. ‘6?’ he mutters.

‘What did you say?’

‘6?.’

Hagen and Brogeland look at each other again. Then Brogeland says‚ ‘We would like you to accompany us to the station.’

All the text message from Brogeland says is ‘ OK,’ but Henning needs nothing else to write his story, name the victim and highlight his link to Tore Pulli. Suddenly it’s no longer a straightforward murder. Henning even includes the arrest of Orjan Mjones, though he doesn’t mention him by name.

He notes with satisfaction that the story receives top billing on 123news ’s home page, and, not surprisingly, their competitors are quick to pick it up. In a way, this is unhelpful, Henning thinks, since it will lead to added pressure on the police. It could also make it considerably harder to cover the rest of the story. But he had no choice. News is news. And if he is lucky, the extra pressure from his competitors will result in more information coming to light.

Henning calls Brogeland to hear if there are any developments but gets no reply. Nor had he really expected one. Instead, he writes him a text asking the inspector to ring him when he has a moment. When Henning has sent it, he starts to think about the killing of Jocke Brolenius. Robert van Derksen looked like the prime suspect right from the start though Tore Pulli was quick to dismiss this possibility. And Henning agrees to some extent. A man with such a massive need for recognition wouldn’t be able to keep a secret for two years. But could he have known something all the same — without being aware of it?

The air is stuffy and clammy even though Bjarne Brogeland and Petter Holte have only just sat down in Interview Room 1. A thin white microphone hangs from the ceiling. A camera is pointing at them from its position above the door in the neutral grey room. Brogeland knows that Gjerstad and several of his colleagues are probably sitting in the CC following events via a screen. He could have talked to Petter Holte in his own office, but everything becomes more onerous in an interview room.

‘Do I need a lawyer?’ Holte asks.

‘Do you think you do?’

Holte doesn’t reply.

‘We can get you a lawyer if you want one.’

‘I haven’t done anything wrong so why would I need one?’ Holte replies defiantly. Brogeland looks at the compact body in front of him. As always, it is encased in a layer of aggression, but there is something more. He’s scared, Brogeland realises.