‘Everything from little fibs and white lies to outright deception. Vidar used to get so annoyed with him because of it. When Vidar set up Fighting Fit, Tore was around and he helped out a bit. Whenever Vidar asked Tore if he had done something, picked something up or called the plumber, Tore would say yes, he had done it, but then it turned out that he hadn’t done it after all. It happened all the time.’
Henning feels his stomach lurch.
‘I could go on. Cinema tickets, hotel rooms. Once Vidar was helping out a musician friend of his who was looking for a rehearsal space, and Tore said he could fix it. And when Vidar asked Tore if he had taken care of it, Tore replied that everything was sorted. But when the guy turned up to practise, the room was already occupied. The man who ran the place had never even heard of Tore.’ She shakes her head. ‘People who do that really irritate me,’ she declares.
Henning nods and reasons that if you lie about the little things in life then the path to the really big lies isn’t a very long one. Once again he is overcome by a feeling that Pulli is playing him.
‘Do you know Robert van Derksen?’
Otnes snorts. ‘Have you seen his Facebook profile?’
‘I’m not on Facebook.’
‘He has posted some very impressive photos of himself, shirtless and glistening with oil.’ She pulls a face and shakes her head.
Henning thinks about the photos van Derksen had uploaded of himself on www.hardenever.no. ‘So he likes showing off?’
‘Oh yes. And he is extremely fond of the ladies. He even tried it on with me.’
When they wind up their chat a little later, Henning concludes that Otnes is still bitter but that at the same time she is starting to come to terms with Fjell’s death. There was no hatred in her eyes when she talked about Tore. Nor when she spoke about Brolenius. And he can’t see why she would keep secrets. If she had known who Brolenius’s real killer was, she would have told someone. Especially if she could have earned herself one million kroner by doing so.
The afternoon is warm and pleasant, and Henning decides to walk all the way home to Grunerlokka. It takes him an hour, and he stands under the shower for a long time when he gets back. He eats a slice of bread with jam while he checks his emails, scrolling quickly through the 128 new emails in his inbox. Heidi Kjus has sent some round-robin emails, he sees. Directives and targets. The memos she has carefully composed disappear with just a hard tap on the delete button. He instantly feels better for it. His mood improves even further when he discovers an email from Oslo Prison.
From: Knut Olav Nordbo kon@kriminalomsorg. no
Subject: ‹‹request for visit — Tore Pulli››
To: Henning Juul ‹henning. juul@123news. no›
Your application has been processed and your request to visit has been granted.
There is still considerable press interest in connection with the forthcoming appeal, but Tore has indicated that he would like to meet with you as soon as possible. If you are available as early as tomorrow — Tuesday — he would like to meet with you at 10 a.m.
Kind regards
Knut Olav Nordbo
Liaison Officer, Oslo Prison
As soon as tomorrow, Henning thinks, pleased. Perhaps then he can finally get some answers.
Chapter 26
Aftenposten is lying on the doormat right inside the front door. Thorleif picks it up and quickly flicks through the news section, then arts and finance, but he sees no ‘Your Say’ column, not on the back page — where it used to be — or in connection with any of the articles inside the newspaper itself. He goes through it again in case he was too sleepy and bleary-eyed to spot it the first time, but the result is the same.
He takes the newspaper to Elisabeth who is still in bed. ‘Are you sure it was Aftenposten?’
‘Eh?’ she grunts from under the duvet.
‘ Aftenposten. I can’t find your interview.’
Elisabeth pushes the duvet aside and looks at him. Her eyes are two narrow lines. ‘Are you sure?’ she mumbles.
‘I’ve gone through the whole sodding newspaper twice.’
He gives her the paper. Elisabeth sits up and starts leafing through it herself. Thorleif is aware of a pressing need for coffee so he doesn’t wait for her to finish but goes to the kitchen, finds a filter and measures out coffee and water. Shortly afterwards Elisabeth comes plodding.
‘I couldn’t find it either,’ she yawns.
‘Are you sure it was Aftenposten?’
Elisabeth thinks about it. ‘Fairly. Perhaps it wasn’t for today’s edition,’ she says and yawns again. ‘Perhaps it’ll be in tomorrow. They might not do “Your Say” every day.’
It is possible that things have changed since the days Thorleif trotted up and down the streets of Eidsvoll on the lookout for potential interviewees who rarely or never agreed to be photographed or answer any of the idiotic questions the editorial team had thought up. But on the occasions it was his job to find people in the street for ‘Your Say’, it was always for the following day’s edition. It was usually the last thing he did before going home.
But Elisabeth could be right. Perhaps the column has simply been moved and will appear in the evening edition or later in the week. He bends down, finds some sandwich bags and starts making everyone’s packed lunch.
‘Did you ring the burglar alarm people yesterday?’ Elisabeth asks, as she shuffles around.
‘Eh?’
‘The burglar alarm. We have to get it fixed.’
‘Oh, right. No, I forgot.’
‘Don’t forget to do it today, please.’
Chapter 27
At any given time there are 392 inmates in Oslo Prison divided between Botsen, Bayeren and Stifinneren — also known as A, B and C Block. Henning is due to visit Botsen, which consists of a main building with wings spreading out in a fan shape in addition to some smaller units. Everything is constructed in red brick. The prison, especially the entrance, is familiar to most Norwegians thanks to the famous Olsen Gang films, which traditionally opened with Egon Olsen walking out of the prison and down the avenue after being released — having already planned his next master stroke while inside.
Henning’s pulse quickens as he walks up the same avenue. He isn’t usually nervous before interviewing or meeting someone, but today he is.
Heidi Kjus welcomed his idea of talking to Pulli. She said that she had been thinking of suggesting it herself, but no one at the morning meeting, not even Iver, looked as if they believed her. Henning has practically forgotten about Heidi trying to take credit for his idea when he presses the button on the intercom outside the prison and introduces himself. Seconds later, the door slides open. Henning is met by a man in jeans and a stone-washed shirt who introduces himself as Knut Olav Nordbo. He has short hair, a mixture of brown and grey, neatly combed and parted to one side. He has no beard, but his skin is slightly flushed with some liver spots and moles. Nordbo exudes a vapour of stale nicotine and yesterday’s tipple. Red wine would be Henning’s guess.
He is ushered through an old door and down some stairs to a passage where he hangs up his jacket. Once Henning has handed over his mobile and press card, Nordbo disappears into a room. A short while later he returns with a visitor’s card which Henning pins to his shirt.
‘There we are,’ Nordbo says and guides Henning through two heavy concrete doors to the visitors’ rooms.
‘That’s it?’ Henning asks. ‘No body searches, no nothing?’
‘No,’ Nordbo says. ‘The penal code states that all inmates are entitled to meet representatives of the press to promote their case. And the system is based on trust.’
‘But in theory I could smuggle in all sorts of things.’
‘Indeed you could. But we would rather you didn’t,’ Nordbo smiles. ‘If you wait in there I’ll go and get Tore.’