Thomas Enger: Pierced

‘Do you own a gun?’ he asks.

‘I’ve a weapon, yes.’

‘What kind of weapon?’

‘A Sig 9.’

Nine millimetres, Brogeland thinks. With the type of barrel that takes a silencer.

‘Have you got a licence for that?’

‘Yes, of course I do,’ Holte sneers.

‘How long since you last used it?’

‘A while,’ Holte replies and starts picking his nails. Tiny beads of moisture have found their way up through the brown and partly polished scalp.

‘Why did you argue with Robert van Derksen at Tore Pulli’s funeral yesterday?’

Holte looks down. His voice grows more outraged. ‘Robert nicked my girlfriend when I was inside. Besides, he was no friend of Tore’s any more. Him showing up was disrespectful.’

‘Did you go over to his flat after your workout yesterday?’

‘No.’

‘There was a lot of soil in your hallway.’

‘Yes, what about it?’

‘There was a lot of soil in Robert’s hallway, too.’

‘What’s so unusual about that?’

‘Nothing, possibly, but we found a shoe print outside his flat that matches the size of your feet.’

Holte looks up. His face takes on a frightened expression. ‘There’s no way that’s my shoe print,’ he says, getting angry now.

Brogeland doesn’t reply but watches Holte for a couple of seconds. The air becomes even more oppressive.

‘Okay,’ Brogeland says and gets up. ‘Wait here, please.’

He goes over to the workstation where he pauses the recording, steps out on to the red floor and goes to the CC. Gjerstad and Hagen turn around as he enters.

‘What do you think?’ he says.

‘There is enough to justify a search warrant,’ Gjerstad replies.

Searching a suspect’s home has never been Bjarne Brogeland’s thing. Trawling through drawers and bookcases, wardrobes and bed linen, hunting the one piece of evidence that will crack open or close a case. He appreciates the importance of this work, of course he does, but he is pleased that it’s rarely something he has to undertake himself. It simply makes him irritable and impatient.

Being in the field was another matter. They had no other choice than to be patient if they were to catch criminals or, as they call them, villains. And this type of work offered a completely different level of tension. Observing the interaction between the villains from afar, reading their codes. Who delivered what to whom and where? Who was talking to whom and when? In this way patterns would emerge which the police could use as a starting point for further investigations, to eliminate who was worth following and who wasn’t. But evidence found in a flat, fibres on the body. It’s too fiddly for him. Too feminine.

However, he took part in the search of Petter Holte’s flat because Holte was his collar. It was his information that led to Holte being remanded in custody, almost in record time. And the evidence found in Holte’s flat was more than enough to nail him for the killing of Robert van Derksen. That’s why Brogeland experiences a pleasant sensation all over as he returns to his office and lets himself fall into his chair. He takes out his mobile and discovers that he has a long list of calls and texts from known and unknown numbers. Brogeland realises without having to check the Internet that Henning Juul has broken the news about Robert van Derksen.

For a brief moment he feels the taste of disloyalty in his mouth. Nokleby and Gjerstad want to manage the flow of information themselves, and in theory Brogeland can live with this. In fact, he is delighted that someone else is prepared to deal with communication. However, Juul is a special case. Even though he can be an absolute pest, he is a pest with a nose. And surely the bottom line is getting results. Like now.

Brogeland scrolls through his text messages and sees that Juul has asked him to call. He glances at his watch. He is about to resume interviewing Petter Holte, and he needs a little time to prepare. But I can manage a quick call, he says to himself and presses the green button. Juul replies a few seconds later.

Brogeland tells him about the arrest and the imminent charging of Petter Holte on the condition that none of this information ends up in print.

‘Are you quite sure it’s him?’ Juul asks.

‘We found a weapon in his flat which was definitely fired yesterday.’

‘Really? And what does he have to say about that?’

‘We haven’t confronted him with it yet. But it will be difficult for him to wriggle out of it given the other evidence.’

‘What other evidence?’

Brogeland hesitates before telling him about the soil in the hallway and a footprint that matches Holte’s size 6? shoes. When Brogeland has finished there is silence.

‘What is it?’ he asks.

‘No, it’s just that I… I just think it sounds a bit odd,’ Henning replies.

‘Why?’

‘I don’t see why Holte would make it that easy for you. And, moreover, I think there is a link between the murder of Jocke Brolenius and the murder of Robert van Derksen though I can’t put my finger on it yet.’

‘There is nothing to suggest it, Henning. We need evidence. Like the missing murder weapon, for example. And, ideally, we need to place that axe in the killer’s hands, whether that person was Petter or someone else.’

Brogeland hears a sigh down the other end of the telephone, but Henning doesn’t elaborate on his frustration.

‘And there is always the possibility that Pulli really did kill Jocke. You mustn’t ignore that.’

‘No,’ Henning replies, glumly. ‘I won’t. I just can’t get it all to add up.’

Suddenly everything is happening at once, Henning thinks. Even the weather seems to be changing. An ominous dark cloud has appeared out of nowhere. Could Petter Holte really be responsible for the death of Jocke Brolenius as well? Henning can’t quite imagine how a man who has failed at practically everything in life could plan and execute such a sophisticated murder only to screw up completely when killing one of his oldest friends.

So Henning rings Geir Gronningen repeatedly that afternoon. Finally, he gets hold of him, and Gronningen reluctantly agrees to meet for a chat outside the supermarket in Gronland Torg. By the time Henning arrives it has started to rain. Gronningen has taken shelter under an umbrella, but Henning is oblivious to the downpour.

He decides to cut straight to the point.

‘The police have arrested Petter,’ he announces.

Gronningen reacts with disbelief.

‘Bloody idiot,’ he says, squeezing the handle of the umbrella hard. ‘I don’t know how someone can be that stupid.’

Gronningen shakes his head and looks ready to punch the first person he sees. Instinctively, Henning takes a step back.

‘What did he say to you after his row with Robert yesterday?’

Gronningen looks down at Henning, then he scans the surroundings for anyone who might see or overhear them. ‘I saw him whisper something to you when the earth was scattered on the coffin,’ Henning says to prompt him. ‘And afterwards he clenched his fist.’

‘Yes,’ Gronningen replies. ‘But that had nothing to do with Robert.’

‘Then what was it about?’

‘Petter said that if anyone dared to knock over Tore’s gravestone he would-’

Gronningen imitates Holte and clenches his fist. Henning remembers printing out an article about how Vidar Fjell’s grave was desecrated though he can’t remember the details.

‘But at the wake afterwards he started mouthing off again,’ Gronningen continues. ‘Said he was going to get Robert and blah blah blah.’ He shakes his head again. ‘But you need to know that’s just Petter. Even though he has a temper and does the first thing that comes into his head, he is still a softie. He has had plenty of opportunities to have a go at Robert, but he has never done anything about it.’