His computer pings to alert him to an incoming email. Thorleif leans towards the screen, minimises a web page and brings up his inbox. He doesn’t recognise the sender, but the title in the subject field makes him open the new email.
‘Elisabeth — survey’
The email has an attachment, a photograph. He downloads it. Elisabeth appears, talking to someone whose profile he can only just make out. She is holding up one hand, but not high enough to cover her face like she often does when she is talking or explaining something. The picture has a date stamp in the bottom right-hand corner.
Thorleif’s eyes widen. It was taken yesterday. It must be Elisabeth’s ‘Your Say’ interview, he thinks. The man she is talking to is wearing a black leather jacket and dark trousers. He has no distinguishing features apart from his height and ponytail. The man must be at least two heads taller than her. Why would anyone send him this picture?
Thorleif is about to call Elisabeth to ask if the picture has also been sent to her when he clicks to close it and sees the sender’s email address: murder@hushmail. com. He looks up over the screen. Murder? As in murder? What on earth…?
Thorleif leans back in his chair and tries to remember what Elisabeth told him about the interview, the questions she was asked. Crime and immigration, was it? Or organised crime, Elisabeth hadn’t been entirely sure. Now what was it the interviewer had wanted to know? Have you or your family ever been threatened? How far would you go to protect your family? Is someone playing a joke on them?
‘Are you coming for lunch, Toffe?’
A colleague walks past him, but Thorleif doesn’t register who. He stares at the picture.
‘Toffe?’
‘Coming,’ he replies, absentmindedly. A cold wind chills him. He looks at the man with the ponytail. Didn’t the man who drove the BMW the other day have a ponytail? Don’t they look a bit similar? He looks at the email again and sees that it comes with an acknowledge-receipt request.
The next second his work telephone rings.
Thorleif’s attention instantly switches to the ringing telephone. The display merely shows ‘… calling.’ He decides to ignore it. Somewhere in the open-plan office a door slams shut. The telephone refuses to be silenced. Thorleif stares at it. Reluctantly, he reaches out and lifts the receiver, but he says nothing.
‘Thorleif?’
‘Yes?’ he replies eventually in a feeble voice.
‘Have you opened the photo?’
The Swedish accent has a strong hint of Eastern Europe.
‘I know what you’re thinking. The answer is yes,’ the voice continues. ‘We know. We know quite a lot about you, Thorleif. Or perhaps I should call you… Toffe?’
Thorleif quickly glances around the room. Only his work colleagues ever call him Toffe.
‘Who are you?’ he stutters. ‘What do you want?’
‘We need your help.’
‘My help?’
‘Yes. Your help. Soon you’ll find out why. And when we ask you to be ready, Toffe, then you’ll do what we tell you. No questions asked.’
‘B-but-’
‘And, Toffe, if you care about your family at all, you’ll keep your mouth shut. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
Thorleif nods.
‘I can’t hear you, Toffe.’
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ he nods again. ‘I understand.’
‘Good. We’ll be in touch.’
Chapter 29
‘I’ll set this to record if that’s all right with you,’ Henning says and holds up his mobile. Pulli nods and leans back in the leather sofa, crossing his legs.
‘Before we begin there’s one thing you need to be absolutely clear about,’ Henning says, looking hard at Pulli. ‘If I’m going to be able to help you, you need to answer every single question I ask you. That means no secrets. Nothing. Agreed?’
‘Sure,’ Pulli says and shrugs his shoulders.
‘Okay. Good. Then we’ll start with Jocke Brolenius. Who was he?’
Pulli lifts the mug to his lips. ‘A Swede, like most Swedes in that business. Brutal and totally unscrupulous.’
‘But he worked out with you?’
Pulli nods as he slurps. ‘Jocke was a guy who took up space. He was quite cocky and tough, liked to brag if he had beaten up someone in a particularly nasty way. Not to everyone’s liking, if you know what I mean. And he had other business interests.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard about those. How could you be sure that he had killed Vidar Fjell?’
‘Who else could it have been? A few days before Vidar was killed, the two of them had a massive row. Several people heard Jocke threaten Vidar.’
‘And when Vidar was found dead that was when the trouble started?’
Pulli nods before he goes on to tell him about the discussions at the gym and at home in his flat where he finally managed to convince everyone that he would sort out the problem alone.
‘But wasn’t it a bit risky to meet that night — just you and Jocke? After all, you knew what he was capable of.’
‘Yes, but my name and reputation were still worth something then. And I knew Jocke quite well. He and I had agreed to come alone and unarmed. I’ve seen enough gang wars to know that people often get their retaliation in first to beat their opponent to it.’
‘And that was what you were trying to prevent — a gang war?’
‘Yes. It might have been quite a naive attempt at diplomacy, but I felt I had to give it a try.’
Henning nods again. ‘So, according to you, what happened the day Jocke Brolenius was killed?’
Pulli takes off his baseball cap and scratches his head before replacing it. ‘I don’t suppose there is much I can say that I haven’t said already. I was due to meet Jocke at eleven o’clock, but when I arrived he was already dead.’
‘You saw no one else in the area? No one coming in the opposite direction?’
‘No. And I was only meeting Jocke, no one else, so I wasn’t expecting-’
‘You said in court that you arrived to meet Jocke precisely at the agreed time, but you didn’t report his death to the police until nineteen minutes later. How do you explain the gap?’
Pulli looks down. ‘I don’t think I can. I must have lost track of time.’
Henning looks at him for a few seconds. ‘That doesn’t sound very convincing.’
‘No, I know. But I have no other explanation for it.’
‘You’re quite sure that you were on time?’
‘Yes, of course I bloody was. I was never usually late for meetings and I certainly wouldn’t screw up such an important one.’
‘But all the same,’ Henning persists. ‘Nineteen minutes. That’s quite a lot.’
‘Yes, I… I know. But I give you my word: Jocke was dead when I arrived. And, remember, I spent a little time checking that he really was dead so that must account for some of it.’
Henning nods slowly and studies Pulli. He looks sincere, Henning thinks and decides to continue the conversation on Pulli’s terms. ‘I’m sure you’ve spent a lot of time wondering who could be behind this.’
‘Believe me, I’ve checked the archives,’ Pulli says, tapping his forehead with his index finger. ‘I certainly had plenty of enemies, but I don’t know if any of them were smart enough to frame me.’
‘Not even Robert van Derksen?’
Pulli looks up. ‘Why do you ask about him?’
‘Oh, I was just curious. I heard that the two of you didn’t really get on. And he was a good friend of Vidar, as far as I understand.’
‘Robert is a tosser,’ Pulli says with contempt. ‘He has an IQ deficit.’
‘But he did know your elbow technique?’
‘Yes, I taught it to him a hundred years ago.’
‘And yet you still don’t think he could have done it?’
Pulli shakes his head. ‘Robert is so full of himself that he would never have been able to pull a stunt like that without boasting about it.’
Henning nods. ‘Were any of the others jealous? Or resentful of your status, for example?’