Henning’s fingers hit the keyboard.
MakkaPakka: Do you know what killed Pulli yet?
6tiermes7: Come on, what do you think?
MakkaPakka: That it’s way too early. Was there any blood at the crime scene?
6tiermes7: No.
MakkaPakka: Anything suspicious at all?
6tiermes7: Not that I know of.
MakkaPakka: Police interviews?
6tiermes7: They haven’t got that far yet.
MakkaPakka: Why not?
6tiermes7: TV2 refuses to release the tapes without a warrant. But here’s something interesting for you. A member of TV2’s staff has gone missing.
Henning sits up.
MakkaPakka: Someone who was there when Pulli died?
6tiermes7: Yes.
MakkaPakka: Who is he?
6tiermes7: His name is Thorleif Brenden. He’s a cameraman.
MakkaPakka: Any previous convictions?
6tiermes7: No, or he would never have got into the prison.
MakkaPakka: Okay, but do you know anything about him at all?
6tiermes7: No. He hasn’t put a foot wrong his whole life.
MakkaPakka: So what are you doing about it?
6tiermes7: Nothing at the moment. He hasn’t been missing for very long. But we’ll put out a missing-person bulletin, I imagine — if he doesn’t turn up over the weekend.
Interesting, Henning thinks. Very interesting indeed.
MakkaPakka: Now for something completely different: do you know where Rasmus Bjelland is these days?
6tiermes7: Didn’t he apply for witness protection?
MakkaPakka: Yes. That’s why I’m asking.
6tiermes7: No. Not a clue. Do you want to talk to him again?
MakkaPakka: Not really sure. But I wonder if the people looking for Bjelland might be behind the arson attack on my flat. Knowing if he is still alive would be a good start.
6tiermes7: It could take some time. I might not be able to come up with anything.
MakkaPakka: Okay. I’ll just have to be patient.
6tiermes7: Stay healthy.
MakkaPakka: You too.
Chapter 57
Though it is late in the evening, the weather is still warm. Orjan Mjones lights a cigarette, blows smoke out through his nose. He is just about to take a second drag when the public telephone on the street corner starts to ring. Mjones squashes the embers with the tips of his fingers and puts the cigarette back in the packet. He goes inside the telephone booth and lifts the handset.
‘Hello?’
‘Congratulations.’ Langbein’s voice is flat.
‘Thank you.’
‘Have you tied up all the loose ends?’
Mjones hesitates. ‘Not all of them, but-’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s not a problem. I’m in control, there’s nothing to worry about.’
‘I’m paid to worry.’
‘Yes, but you can trust me.’
‘I’ve made that mistake once before.’
‘Okay, I understand why you say that, but it’s never going to point back to you or the deal that we have.’
‘I don’t like loose ends.’
‘Neither do I. That’s why I’m going to fix it.’
‘I’ll call you in seventy-two hours. If your problem has gone away, you’ll get the rest of your money.’
‘But-’
‘Same number. Same time.’
Mjones doesn’t have time to protest before the line goes dead. He hangs up the handset hard, shakes his head and walks out into the night.
A big part of him is tempted to let Brenden run, let him play his own game, since he evidently doesn’t understand how this works. Brenden has ruined everything for himself. Brenden killed Tore Pulli. If the police should ever manage to discover how Pulli died, and if they suspect that he might have been murdered, they will be looking for Brenden precisely because he is missing. They will probably want to interview him anyway, for the same reason. It doesn’t look good to disappear on the day that you were in a room with a convicted killer who collapses and dies. And if the police find him, Brenden will be too scared to talk. He knows that his family will be harmed if he reveals anything about the duress he was under.
The best solution, Mjones thinks, would be to give Brenden enough time to start yearning for his family and his old life. He has no experience of lying low. Sooner or later he will have to come out or someone will find him. The cash Brenden withdrew won’t last for ever, regardless of how careful he is. And when the media starts running their missing-cameraman stories or the police decide to issue a warrant for him, the chances that someone will recognise him are high.
But seventy-two hours, Mjones thinks, that’s not a lot. And Brenden showed initiative when he got rid of his clothes and left his mobile on a train to Eidsvoll without getting on himself. Brenden is keeping his cool. And that’s why he has to die. Preferably within the next seventy-two hours.
Mjones takes another drag and stubs out the cigarette on a nearby bin before he turns his attention to the cab rank and gets into a white Toyota Prius. It’s time to stir things up.
Chapter 58
The cuts to his feet throb all the way from Grunerlokka to Gronland, but Henning alternates between putting his weight on the heel and the ball of his feet so as not to aggravate the injuries more than necessary. It works to some extent.
At the office he hangs up his jacket on a coat hook by the grid of desks and chairs that is the national news desk. A quick glance across the room tells him that neither Heidi Kjus nor Kare Hjeltland have arrived yet. Iver Gundersen, however, is already behind his desk. Henning nods to him, sees that his eyes look bright and contented. He probably got laid last night, Henning thinks. Or this morning.
‘I thought you were taking today off as well?’ Iver snipes.
‘Yes, but I… I wanted to join in.’
Iver looks at Henning for a few seconds before he replies, ‘How nice of you.’
Henning sits down. The room starts to fill with voices from a television screen and the sound of stiff fingers across reluctant keyboards. He switches on his computer and leans back. He watches as Iver puts down his mug so quickly that the coffee splashes.
‘Listen, I’ve got something to show you,’ Iver says.
‘Eh?’
Iver looks around to check that no one is close enough to overhear. ‘We need to discuss it in private. Is now a good time?’
‘Time?’
‘I know the morning meeting is about to start, but we need a quick review. In my opinion.’
Henning shrugs his shoulders. He feels more like ringing Brogeland to check if Thorleif Brenden turned up during the night, but he decides that it can wait.
‘Why not,’ he says.
‘Great. Come on.’
Iver takes a CD, gets up and walks briskly past the coffee machine, where a small queue of bleary-eyed journalists has formed. Henning tries to walk as naturally as he can to avoid awkward questions he doesn’t feel like answering.
They go to a meeting room where four chairs are arranged around a table. A computer is pushed up against the wall. Iver closes the door, walks over to the computer and moves the mouse to wake up the screen. He types in his username and password and hits the enter key.
‘Sit down, would you?’ Iver says. ‘Please? People standing make me nervous.’
Henning does as he is told. ‘What is it you want to show me?’ he says.
‘Just wait.’
Iver inserts the CD into the computer and double-clicks on the icon that appears on the right-hand side of the screen. He drums his fingers on the table while he waits for the file to open. Soon the screen is filled with light coming from a doorway. Henning sees a familiar woman’s face on the other side of the door. And then he realises what they are looking at.
‘How the hell did you get hold of this?’
‘That specific piece of information is something I need to keep to myself,’ Iver smiles without taking his eyes off Guri Palme. Henning is forced to admit that he is impressed.