Jesus Christ.
Henning tries to get up as quietly as he can, but he is so deep into the soft chair that it is impossible without the killer noticing him. Henning watches the gun turn 90 degrees towards him and just manages to roll out of the way before the back of the chair receives a hole the size of an eye, right where his head was a second ago. The stuffing bursts out, foam and fabric whirl in the air. Henning hears footsteps and thinks that this is the end, bloody hell, this is it, it’s over before it has even begun; panicking, he looks around, he sees a door in the living room, a door leading to another room, he has no choice, he has to go that way, he stands up and runs as fast as someone with his legs can. He can feel pain in his hip, his legs don’t want to obey him, but he aims for the door and throws it open.
He hears another swift plop, a hole is ripped in the door behind him, but the bullet doesn’t touch him; he is in another room, a small living room with a large window, he reaches for the catch, pushes it down, but it’s the wrong way, he pushes it outwards instead, but it only opens a few centimetres, before it refuses to budge. He pushes it again, harder this time, but it stops in the same place. He turns around; the killer hasn’t caught up with him yet. Henning looks at the window, discovers a child lock which he can override and opens the window in one movement. He climbs out on the windowsill, looks down, sees that the drop is only two metres and has a flashback to the balcony where he stood with Jonas, ready to jump. At that moment, he hears the killer enter the room. He expects to feel the sharp, paralysing pain from a bullet in his back, but before he has time to think, he is in the air, he feels nothing underneath him, he waves his arms, scared to look around, all he knows is that the ground is underneath him. Suddenly it’s there, his knees buckle, he tumbles forwards, breaks the fall with his hands, pushes himself up on his palms, rolls around and nearly ends up in the street, on the tram lines, but the danger from the window is far greater, he tells himself, all the killer needs to do is pull the trigger and it will all be over.
Henning stands up, he hears a car coming towards him and gets out of the way. Forget the pain in your legs and hips, he commands himself, just keep running. He doesn’t know which direction he is going, there is tarmac and litter all around, he sees a house, a yellow one. He has no idea where he is, he just carries on running. He corners the building as two bullets hit the wall in quick succession, but he is unhurt.
He finds himself in a small street, a one-way street, it must be St Hallvardsgate, he thinks, what a stroke of dramatic irony that would be, if he were to die here. He doesn’t want to think about his mother now, all that matters is that he is out of the killer’s range, and he keeps on running. He feels his heart pumping, adrenaline is released straight into his bloodstream. He runs past parked cars, sees people in the street, flashes of colour, the street bends, he follows it, running as fast as he can, he can’t feel his legs; it is as if his legs and his hips are oddly out of sync and can’t decide which of them should do what, but he doesn’t give a damn about it, he knows he must put as much distance between him and the killer as possible, because the killer is fleeing, too.
Henning knows he ought to call the police, but his own safety takes priority. He must get himself to a place where he can catch his breath and talk without wheezing. He spots an open space: GAMLEBYEN SPORT AND LEISURE PARK it says in curved black letters on a sign above the entrance and Henning runs inside, past a red Mitsubishi Estate. There is no one around; rubbish bags slump against a derelict hut, the walls are covered with graffiti. His shoes pound the smooth concrete. He can see a ramp, a skateboard and an old plastic chair; it is not a large area. It says WELCOME EVERYONE, in clumsy italics on a sign on a blue wall. The graffiti letters and flames are intertwined in a way Henning doesn’t understand. He reads: We look out for each other because nobody else is bloody going to below on the same sign. He looks around, the area is fenced in, Jesus Christ, he is trapped. There are trees all around, but he sees a gap in the fence, a hole, he aims for that hole and creeps through it. His jacket catches on something, but he yanks it free and hears it rip. He crawls between trees and shrubs, dense like a jungle, and skids past a rusty old fridge. He sees a house on the slope opposite and knows where he is.
He walks down to the train tracks, looking over his shoulder to see if he is being followed, but there is no sign of the killer. He hides behind a large tree, sits down and pants.
Breathe, Henning. For God’s sake, man, breathe.
He finds his mobile, calls the police and inhales deeply while he waits for a reply. His call is answered quickly. He identifies himself and says:
‘Get me Detective Inspector Bjarne Brogeland. Now.’
Chapter 25
When Henning turned thirteen, he was allowed to rent Witness, the film starring Harrison Ford and Kelly McGillis, where Danny Glover makes a rare appearance as the killer. After seeing it, Henning didn’t use a public toilet for a long time.
Even though it is twenty-two years ago, he has never forgotten the scene in the gents where the terrified Amish boy is crying and Danny Glover opens one door after another to check if there were any witnesses to the murder. Henning must admit that Danny sprang to mind as he sat in the clearing, watching the trains speed by and listening out for approaching killers.
Now he is in a waiting room. He knows why they are called that. This is where you are meant to wait. And Henning waits. He has been given a glass of water. Nothing to read. That’s because he needs to think. When the officers who will be questioning him finally arrive, his memory needs to be as organised, as detailed and as accurate as possible.
He is usually very accurate, but he feels out of practice. He thinks about Iver Gundersen and Heidi Kjus — perhaps he should have called them as well, but before he has time to think it through, the door to the waiting room is opened. A tall female officer with short hair enters. She looks at him.
‘Sergeant Ella Sandland,’ she introduces herself and holds out her hand. Henning gets up, shakes her hand and nods briefly. Bjarne Brogeland, who follows just behind her, eats her up with his eyes, before he sees his old schoolfriend and grins broadly.
‘Hallo, Henning.’
And there it is, the feeling he always used to get when he was around Bjarne. Aversion. These days, it is unlikely to have anything to do with Trine. Certain things just don’t change.
Ella Sandland sits down on the other side of the table. Brogeland comes up to Henning and offers him his hand, too. Brogeland must have interviewed hundreds of suspects, Henning thinks, met all kinds of people, but despite his training, it is still there, the slight change in his expression that Henning has seen so many times, usually much more obvious. It is only a fraction of a second and Brogeland tries to be cool about it, tries to be professional, but Henning sees him recoiling at the scars.
They shake hands. A firm squeeze.
‘Holy cow, Henning,’ Brogeland says and sits down. ‘It’s been a long time. How many years is it?’
His tone is jovial, cosy, chummy. They applied to the police academy at the same time, but they had nothing in common then, either. Henning replies:
‘Fifteen — twenty years, perhaps?’
‘Yes, it must be, at least.’
Silence. He usually likes silence, but now the walls cry out for sound.
‘Good to see you again, Henning.’
He can’t quite say the same thing about Bjarne, but he replies:
‘Likewise.’
‘I only wish the circumstances were different. We’ve a lot to talk about.’
Do we? Henning wonders. Perhaps we do. But he looks at Brogeland without replying.