Brogeland heaves a sigh and looks at an old photograph of Mjones. A man who has stayed in the shadows in recent years but who has now emerged to carry out a hit. The chances that he has already left the country are considerable — unless something went wrong. But what would that be?
Chapter 97
Orjan Mjones feels cold even though he is sweating. He puts one hand on the tiled wall in Durim’s bathroom for support and stares at his face in the mirror. It’s white. His arm dangles limply by his side. It’s as if a heavy lump is trying to force its way out from the inside of his shoulder and paralyse him totally.
Mjones blinks hard and watches as the damp creases in his face fill with sweat trickling from his forehead and eyes. I’m burning up, he thinks, and splashes himself with cold water. It helps. For now.
The night on Durim’s sofa was one of the worst that he can recall. At one point the ceiling transformed into an ocean where a gigantic wave came crashing towards him. When he blinked, everything returned to normal. Then he started seeing colours, yellow and purple, pink and blue — all mixed up. In a lucid moment he realised that he must be hallucinating. Early the next morning he called the Doctor. A man whose name Mjones doesn’t know, a man who makes house calls at short notice to provide medical assistance to people who prefer to avoid hospitals. It’s an expensive service, but the combination of life-saving first aid and discretion is usually worth the money.
Durim opens the door when the bell rings. A few minutes later the Doctor enters. Mjones stands up on trembling legs. A chill washes over him. The Doctor comes towards him. Tall, well-groomed, newly shaven, hair neatly combed.
‘And here’s the patient,’ the Doctor says, and smiles.
He carries a small suitcase in his hand. He stops in front of Mjones, puts down the suitcase on the floor and inspects the bandage on Mjones’s shoulder. The Doctor starts to ease off the makeshift dressing, slowly persuading the fabric fibres to release their hold on the scab. Mjones cries out in pain when the sticky skin finally lets go. A crust has formed at the edge of the wound, but the cut itself is still open and weeping. Mjones estimates that the cut is between four and five centimetres deep and sees that the area around it has grown redder and even more swollen overnight. Judging from the colour of the bandage the wound has become infected. The skin around it is hot.
‘We need more sterile surroundings,’ the Doctor mutters. ‘We should really cut around the wound and then rinse it with a saline solution.’
‘Can’t you do that here?’
‘No. That would only make it worse. You need to go to an operating theatre.’
‘I don’t have time for that.’
‘You could become very ill, do you realise that? The infection you’ve acquired could spread to the bones in your shoulder, and your blood might become infected with bacteria. That could lead to septicaemia. Worst-case scenario you could die.’
‘Just do the best you can, would you? And spare me the melodrama.’
‘There isn’t very much I can do. I presume the cut is more than eight hours old?’
Mjones nods reluctantly.
‘Then I can’t stitch it. All I can do is clean the wound and keep it open so the pus can drain out. And I’ll give you a course of antibiotics.’
‘Sounds good to me.’
The Doctor puts his suitcase flat on the floor and opens it. Mjones sways.
‘What about travelling with this thing?’ he says, pointing to his shoulder.
‘I wouldn’t recommend it for a couple of days, at least not until you have the infection under control.’
The thought of running away, of leaving Norway behind, makes him remember the safe in his flat where the ampoule is stored. You have to collect it first, he tells himself. Get rid of it and anything else that links you to the murder of Tore Pulli.
But first you have to get better.
Chapter 98
Henning sits down at his workstation and rubs his face with his hands. The chair opposite him is empty. Thank God Iver is going to be okay, he thinks, relieved. Even though he knows that Iver is entirely responsible for his own actions, he wouldn’t have been in hospital if it hadn’t been for Henning.
He stares into the air. Given the police now believe that Tore Pulli was murdered, they may already have requested the call logs from Oslo Prison to find out what kind of contact he had with the outside world. Or perhaps they haven’t. They think that Orjan Mjones is behind Pulli’s death. So why bother with the logs? They are going to be more interested in who Mjones was talking to.
On his way back to the office, Henning calls Knut Olav Nordbo at Oslo Prison and learns that an inmate’s telephone records are deleted if they die or when they are released and that this happens in a matter of days. In other words, it may already be too late. He will never be able to access the logs himself, but the police could if they obtained a court order.
So Henning rings Nokleby. From her tired, fed-up voice he realises that skipping the social niceties is a wise move. He also resists the temptation to ask if she still believes that Tore Pulli was guilty of the murder of Jocke Brolenius.
‘I’ll be quick,’ he begins. ‘As far as Tore Pulli is concerned, have you allocated all your resources to Orjan Mjones now or are you still pursuing other leads?’
‘Still pursuing other leads.’
Henning waits for more, but nothing comes. ‘Can you tell me anything about the leads you’re following up?’
‘Not at this moment in time, no,’ she says in a guarded tone.
‘Do you have any theory as to why Tore Pulli had to die?’
‘No comment.’
Henning hesitates. ‘What about Tore Pulli’s telephone records from prison, have you asked to see them?’
Nokleby doesn’t reply immediately. Then she says, ‘I can’t discuss specific details of the investigation with you, Henning.’
He sighs. ‘I think it might be a good idea if you were to look at those logs.’
‘Yes, I imagine you do.’
Henning lets the slightly ironic remark pass unchallenged. ‘I have nothing else. Oh, yes, are you going to the funeral tomorrow?’
‘We haven’t decided yet.’
‘I see. Well, I’m going.’
‘Okay. Do let us know if you see anything which you think might be a good idea for us to follow up.’
‘I’ll… ’ Henning breaks off and smiles wryly. And when Nokleby ends the call shortly afterwards without saying goodbye, his smile is even broader.
Chapter 99
The light that seeps through the windows of Solvang Church casts a cold, blue sheen across the floor. It matches the covers on the chairs, Henning thinks, as he stands at the entrance looking down the rectangular room. In the middle of the floor, in front of the pulpit, Tore Pulli’s coffin sits, white and beautifully decorated with flowers. Long white ribbons with golden letters express grief and final messages.
Henning knows that he ought to go inside to get a proper look, but he can’t bear being present during the actual ceremony. Afterwards, however, he mixes with the mourners at the graveside. Partly because he wants to see how Pulli’s friends will behave, but also because Heidi Kjus asked him to document the event with his camera. So he takes some close-ups, as discreetly as he can, without becoming intrusive. He wants to get some poignant pictures of big, hulking men struggling to keep their tears at bay. Petter Holte runs a hand over his shaven head and breathes heavily. The clothes he wears look as if they might burst at any moment. Geir Gronningen lets his long hair hang freely over his eyes. For once, his heavy torso has been defeated by gravity. The eyes of Kent Harry Hansen are also shiny. The sunlight makes his white, stubbly hair glow like a torch.