He is about to close the box and the safe when he senses movement on the floor behind him.
‘Orjan Mjones?’ he hears an unknown voice say.
What the hell?
The sound of footsteps. Several pairs of shoes. Cops, he thinks. Damn. He considers his options. He should have brought a weapon. As it is, he has no way of defending himself. Yes, he is holding one in his hands, but he is lacking the most important thing. A needle or something with which to penetrate the skin. The box with the piercing needles is still in the safe, but he knows he doesn’t have time to remove the wrapping from the needle, open the ampoule and dip the needle in the poison. Besides, he would need to do it twice. And he is aware that he will never be able to take on two cops with only one working arm.
Mjones swears again.
‘Get up, slowly.’
Mjones does as he is told, turns his head and sees a police officer he thinks he recognises from somewhere. Big. Tall. Muscular. And, behind him, a man with a similar physique.
‘Who are you?’ he says, his mind racing.
‘You’re under arrest,’ the blond police officer says.
‘Why?’
‘You’re suspected of conspiracy to murder.’
Mjones doesn’t reply‚ but looks at them in turn and sees them take up positions. Mjones thinks about his shoulder, his money, the box with the ampoule. Think quickly, he says to himself. That’s what you’re good at. Thinking on your feet.
Discreetly he takes out the ampoule and slips it into his trouser pocket. Then he turns to the police officers.
‘What is that?’ one of the police officers asks, pointing to Mjones’s hand.
‘It’s just a box,’ he says.
‘Put it down on the table.’
Mjones obeys him. ‘Take it easy,’ he says, holding up his hands to indicate his co-operation. ‘I’m coming of my own free will.’
Mjones takes one step towards them and tries to make eye contact. Lose the ampoule before you reach the police station, he thinks. Drop it in the road, anywhere it will disappear by itself, under a car tyre, in between some bushes.
And without resisting he allows himself be led out of the flat while reminding himself of 2.5 million reasons not to say a single word for a very, very long time.
Chapter 101
Henning can’t stop thinking about the incident in the churchyard. Why was Petter Holte so mad at Robert van Derksen? Had he done something to Pulli?
Henning considers the obvious explanation, namely that van Derksen was responsible for the murder of Jocke Brolenius, but it strikes him that Holte would hardly have reacted as he did if that was an acknowledged truth among Tore’s friends.
On his way back, Henning tries to call Geir Gronningen, but all he gets is his voicemail. He sends him a text message, but that doesn’t produce a response either. He realises why when he remembers that Gronningen is giving the eulogy at the get-together.
Henning winds his way through the rush-hour traffic in his rental car and decides to drive up to visit a source who so far has proved to be the most reliable in her insight into human nature. This time he catches up with Vidar Fjell’s old girlfriend as she is leaving her house.
‘Oh, hi,’ Irene Otnes says. ‘You again?’
Henning doesn’t have time to say anything before she tells him that she is on her way to the shops.
‘Perhaps I could ask you a couple of questions first?’
Otnes closes her front door and locks it. ‘If you don’t mind walking down to the car with me,’ she says in a cheerful tone.
They start to walk. Above them the clouds are moving swiftly.
‘I didn’t see you at the funeral today,’ he remarks.
‘Did you come here to ask me that?’
‘Yes and no.’
‘I hate funerals,’ she says, though she strolls along as if Pulli’s death hasn’t dampened her mood noticeably. ‘I find them upsetting. And I spoke to Veronica on the telephone yesterday, and she said it was okay that I didn’t go.’
Henning begins‚ ‘Would you know why Petter Holte has a problem with Robert van Derksen?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Otnes smiles. ‘I can tell you that. Robert stole Petter’s girlfriend while he was inside. Or rather she dumped him, I think, but she dumped him for Robert. You don’t do that to your friends, you know.’
Otnes starts walking down the steps. Henning follows her doggedly. The scabs under his feet protest, but he ignores the pain.
‘Poor Petter. He’s always being teased about his small feet.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know — small shoes, small… ’ She points to her crotch.
‘I thought that was a myth?’ Henning says.
‘I wouldn’t know about that. Not that it made any difference to his friends. Petter has been made to suffer for years, believe you me.’
‘Was Tore Pulli one of his tormentors?’
‘No, not Tore. It was Tore who told Petter that his girlfriend had started seeing someone else.’
Henning thinks quickly. ‘While they both were in prison?’
‘Yes. I believe he felt that Petter had a right to know. That was one of the things I liked about Tore. He was decent to a certain extent. And he heard it from Veronica during one of her visits. Veronica and I — we tell each other everything,’ she says and laughs. ‘But I couldn’t help feeling sorry for Petter. He has never had much success with women, he has always been a loser. Women never stay with him for very long, you see. We women like a challenge.’
Otnes smiles and turns around when she reaches the car. ‘Anyway, I’m off to the shops.’
‘Okay. Nice talking to you,’ he says.
‘Likewise.’
His image of Petter Holte is becoming increasingly complete, Henning thinks as he drives back towards the city centre. Short fuse. A failed enforcer. Never managed to step out of Tore’s shadow. Possibly envious of Geir Gronningen, who became Tore’s best friend instead of him. Even his girlfriend walked all over him.
The question is, how deep are those scars?
Chapter 102
The evening wind wafts through the open window and brushes Robert van Derksen’s glistening face. He takes a deep breath, leans back in the sofa and stares at the ceiling. It has been a long day. Going straight from the funeral to teach a demanding Krav Maga class full of students who expect him to deliver is not to be recommended. It requires energy to perform, especially given how the funeral went.
Tore Pulli — dead as a dodo. Just thinking about it feels weird. In their eyes, Tore was immortal, the man who could do nothing wrong. And then his life fell apart. First he was sentenced and jailed, then dead long before his time.
Van Derksen thinks about what the reporter said to him that day that it made no sense that a man as clever as Tore would leave behind his calling card at the crime scene. It was a valid point, and van Derksen had himself pondered this anomaly shortly after Tore’s arrest — especially once Tore put a reward of one million kroner on the table for information that could help free him. But then Tore was convicted, and everybody stopped talking about it after a while. Nor had Robert given it much thought until the reporter called. And that in turn prompted him to make a call straight afterwards. Now when he re-runs the short conversation it strikes him as really quite odd.
‘I’ve been thinking about something: you didn’t teach anyone else the Pulli punch, did you?’
There was silence for a while.
‘Why do you ask about that?’
‘No, I was just wondering. A guy just called me suggesting someone other than Tore had killed Jocke and elbowed his jaw. To make it look as if Tore did it.’
Again there was silence.
‘What kind of guy?’
‘A journalist.’
‘Name?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘For God’s sake, Robert, of course you do.’