‘I’m just curious. I’m working on a story about Tore Pulli.’
‘Right. So that’s why you’re here, is it? Not to write about the vandalism and the attacks on my business?’
‘No. But I’m interested in that too,’ Iver lies. ‘I might do a story about it later. I agree with you. They shouldn’t be allowed to carry on like that.’
Uffe puts a glass filled with ice cubes and Coke in front of his boss. Nylund takes it and drinks in big gulps. ‘It’s a real shame about Tore,’ he says.
Iver nods and waits for Nylund to continue, but he doesn’t. Iver reflects on this for a while before he decides to cut straight to the chase.
‘We think he might not have killed Jocke Brolenius.’
Nylund bursts out laughing. ‘Oh, I get it,’ he says. ‘You’re one of those reporters who see conspiracies everywhere, aren’t you? Who can never take no for an answer but always takes no to mean I’m lying?’
‘Not at all,’ Iver smiles.
He loves reporters like that.
‘What makes you think Tore didn’t do it?’ Nylund asks.
‘There were several anomalies in his case that no one paid attention to. But there’s no point in dragging that up here. You followed the trial, I presume?’
‘On and off,’ Nylund says. He puts an ice cube in his mouth and sucks it. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you,’ he continues and puts down the glass on the counter as he crunches the ice cube between his teeth. This was a bad idea, Iver thinks. And a bad strategy.
‘Did Tore have any enemies here?’
‘No.’
‘That no came very quickly.’
‘Here we go again,’ Nylund sighs.
‘What?’
‘The no that really means I’m lying. ’
‘Are you?’
‘No.’
‘Are you lying now?’ Iver holds up his hands and smiles apologetically. ‘Sorry, I couldn’t resist that.’
He tries to laugh it off, but Nylund isn’t amused. ‘It’s no secret, Nylund, that you employ people who have links to criminal gangs. You wouldn’t happen to know a man in that business who is slim, tall and always wears his hair in a ponytail?’
Nylund looks at him, smiles wryly. ‘Did you say your name was Gundersen?
‘Yes.’
‘You ask some strange questions, Gundersen.’
‘Someone has to.’
‘Are we done?’
‘So you don’t know anyone who fits that description?’
Nylund shoots him a condescending smile. ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I don’t think I can help you.’
‘Okay. Thanks for your time.’
Nylund abandons his still half-full glass and walks up the spiral staircase to the first floor. This is taking too long, Iver frets. How the hell does Henning get these people to talk? Just for once he would have loved to tell Henning something he didn’t already know.
Chapter 74
Henning is munching a slice of crispbread and rereading his own article about Thorleif Brenden when his mobile rings. It is Bjarne Brogeland. The inspector skilfully ignores pleasantries.
‘I’ve seen the video footage,’ he says. ‘What did you want to talk to me about?’
Henning swallows and tells Brogeland his suspicions about Brenden’s clenched fist and Pulli’s sudden, perturbed look.
‘It’s not a particularly good camera angle, but something happens while Brenden has his hands on Pulli’s back,’ Henning tells him.
Silence. He reaches towards the windowsill and turns off the fan. The hum in the kitchen stops and the heat immediately starts sticking to him.
‘Have you discovered the cause of Pulli’s death yet?’ he asks.
‘The preliminary autopsy report provided no answers except that.. ’
Brogeland stops.
‘Except what?’
‘I can’t tell you, Henning. Sorry, I-’
‘Come on, Bjarne, you know I won’t write anything that would harm your investigation.’
Brogeland exhales. ‘They found an abnormal lesion on his neck.’
‘From what?’ Henning asks eagerly.
‘They don’t know. But it could be a tiny prick. From a needle or something similar.’
‘A needle,’ Henning mutters, remembering what Dr Omdahl told him about nerve toxins. In which case it must have been a highly poisonous substance.
‘Clever,’ Henning says. ‘Tore Pulli was a diabetic. And he used to have loads of piercings.’
‘So what?’
‘When we met, I asked him if he had grown used to needles and injecting himself with insulin. He said that he hardly noticed it these days.’
Henning smiles to himself. It was a clever plan.
‘I spoke to his girlfriend earlier today. She showed me the drawing Brenden left under her pillow. Was she any help?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Have you produced an E-fit of this guy Brenden is talking about? Do you know who he is?’
‘Not yet,’ Brogeland replies. ‘But we’re working on it.’
Henning nods. ‘So when can I write that Tore Pulli was murdered?’
‘We’re not sure about the cause of his death yet, Henning. And you can’t start speculating either, or we run the risk that whoever could have been behind it will disappear.’
‘Okay,’ Henning sighs.
When they have ended the call, Henning listens to the silence in the flat. He has a bad feeling about this. Even though Brogeland refuses to be drawn, it looks very much as if Pulli was murdered, probably poisoned. But will they be able to detect which kind of poison was used? The final autopsy report won’t be ready for two months, at the earliest. And even if they do find evidence of poisoning, how will they trace it back to the people who made Brenden kill Pulli?
Henning logs on to FireCracker 2.0 again, but 6tiermes7 isn’t online. Then his mobile vibrates. A text message from Iver.
Sorry. Small catch from Asgard. Iver.
Henning rings Iver immediately. Two heads are better than one, he thinks, and presses the mobile to his ear while he waits. It takes only a few seconds before Iver’s recorded message can be heard. He must be on another call. Perhaps he is talking to Nora, arranging to go over to hers when he has finished work. Or perhaps he is asking if he can go over there straight away.
Thinking about Nora and Iver shouldn’t hurt so much. Not any more. But he can’t dodge the punch that hits his chest every time. He can’t just erase his ex-wife like a typo.
Henning waits a few minutes before he tries Iver again. Same result. He looks at his watch. A quarter to eleven. Glumly, he hobbles to the bathroom and cleans his teeth, changes the compresses under his feet and tries calling Iver a third time when he has finished. And yet again he gets Iver’s voicemail.
Never mind, Henning thinks, and decides to call it a night.
Chapter 75
Iver takes a deep breath as soon as he leaves Asgard and instantly feels better for it. Cleaner, too, now that he thinks about it, even though the summer night is still humid.
He tries to look inconspicuous, desperate to avoid meeting anyone he knows on his way out of a club no one can claim is selling anything other than fantasies and orgasms. He decides to head home. Right now the thought of crashing with a cold beer in front of the television is more tantalising than a night-time visit to Nora’s.
Iver crosses Bogstadveien and continues into the darkness down Josefinesgate where the tall buildings and sloping wilderness gardens with swings and sandpits are partly lit up by the full moon. He passes Josefine, where he has spent many a Tuesday night listening to live music on open-mike night when the management allows both the talented and the not-so-talented to have a go. A few hundred metres further ahead the left wall of Bislett Stadium curves towards the roundabout. Iver takes out his mobile and sends Henning a text about tonight’s small catch.
The footsteps appear out of nowhere. Heavy footsteps from boots with hard soles, but Iver doesn’t have time to turn around before he feels an iron grip on his neck. He can’t move his head as he is dragged into a yard and brutally thrown on the ground. He can feel shingle under his body, crunchy sharp pebbles, his legs dig into them as they kick out, but it doesn’t get him anywhere. He is flipped on to his back as if he weighs nothing at all. His eyes close instinctively when a fist comes hurtling towards his face. He hears it make contact, feels his jaw and cheek give and everything starts to throb. The blows rain down on him with a speed that takes his breath away. The back of his eyes begin to sting, a pricking light appears and he hears nothing, he feels only intense pain.