The secretary scowls at him before she slips the handset under her long hair and utters some sentences Henning fails to catch. Isn’t it a bit odd, he thinks, that Veronica is back at work so soon? Then again, he knows that many people need distraction at a time like this and try to pick up their old routines as quickly as possible.
‘It’s that way,’ the secretary says, pointing down a corridor. Smiling, he thanks her for her help and knocks twice on the door with Nansen’s name in large silver letters. A voice on the other side asks him to wait a moment. Then he hears footsteps. The door in front of him is opened.
‘Hi, Henning,’ Nansen says, surprised.
She steps aside to let him enter. Then she walks around her desk and sits down. Henning spends thirty seconds breaking the news to her. When he has finished, Nansen leans forward on her elbows. Her hair falls in front of her eyes.
‘What the hell is going on?’ she says, and looks at him.
‘Christ knows,’ Henning says and sits down.
The room gets claustrophobic and quiet. He lets her have a moment to digest the information.
‘It’s tempting to point the finger at Petter in the light of what happened yesterday,’ he begins. ‘Hasn’t he threatened Robert’s life before?’ He puts it as a question, but Nansen doesn’t reply.
‘Do you know what Petter did after the wake?’
‘Some of the guys went to the gym to work out, I think, but the rest went home.’
‘They worked out yesterday?’
‘Yes, they’re always at the gym. Petter thought it was the best way to honour Tore’s memory,’ she says and rolls her eyes.
Henning runs through the deaths in his mind’s eye. Jocke Brolenius was killed with an axe, Tore Pulli appears to have been poisoned, and Robert van Derksen was shot. And since Orjan Mjones has been arrested, he can’t have orchestrated the latter unless he planned it a long time ago.
There must be several killers here, Henning concludes. There have to be.
‘Do you know anything about guns?’ he says and hears immediately how loaded the question is.
‘Why do you ask me that?’
‘No, I was just curious.’
‘I don’t believe that. You’re never just curious.’
Henning tries to evade Nansen’s probing eyes.
‘Do you know anyone who has a gun?’
‘They all do, I think.’
‘What about Tore? Did he?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you ever used it?’
‘Yes, a couple of times. A long time ago.’
‘So you know how to shoot?’
‘Yes.’
Her face instantly darkens. ‘But I didn’t shoot anyone last night if that’s what you’re asking me.’
‘That’s not what I’m asking you,’ Henning replies and lowers his eyes.
But it occurs to him that no one had better access to the knuckle-duster than her. And she could have had a million reasons to want her convicted-killer husband dead. What if van Derksen knew something? What if that was the reason he had to die?
Chapter 105
The Command Centre — CC — lies halfway between the red and green zones on the fifth floor of the police station. The Violent Crimes Unit holds all its joint meetings in the CC, in addition to eight o’clock conferences every morning with the Institute of Forensic Medicine where that day’s autopsies are prioritised.
The room has a golden glow thanks to the Scandinavian furniture and the pale yellow linoleum on the floor. Bjarne Brogeland sits down on a chair with a black floral pattern and pours himself a cup of coffee from a metal pot. The duty officer, a man in uniform with thick blond hair and a noticeable double chin, is standing in front of the whiteboard with an uncapped marker pen in his hand. Before he writes Robert van Derksen’s name in capital letters, he hoists his trousers up well over his hips, but they soon slide down again.
The duty officer spends some time presenting the facts of the case. The soil from the flowerbed, the size 6? shoe print found outside van Derksen’s flat and the bullets. When he has finished, Brogeland takes over and briefs them on what happened at Tore Pulli’s funeral.
‘Interesting,’ Chief Inspector Arild Gjerstad says. ‘How did you find that out?’
‘Henning Juul told me,’ Brogeland replies. ‘He was there. We should have been there too.’
Brogeland looks at Pia Nokleby, who looks away. An ominous silence falls around the table. Gjerstad rubs his moustache with two fingers before he clears his throat.
‘We need to map Petter Holte’s movements after he left the funeral. Bjarne, take Emil with you and pay him a visit.’
Brogeland and Hagen nod.
‘Sandland, you find out what kind of people van Derksen mixed with. Unless we strike lucky, we’ll have to interview the lot of them.’
Sandland nods.
‘We’ll probably have to do that in any case,’ Nokleby interjects.
‘And we also have to consider other possibilities,’ Gjerstad continues. ‘If it was a burglary gone wrong, what — if any — valuables did he have. Find anyone he was in contact with in his last twenty-four hours We also need to go back and speak to potential witnesses. Neighbours. See if there are any CCTV cameras nearby that might have picked up specific vehicles that we should check out. We also need a list of cabs in the area. Pia, do you want to add something?’
‘I can run his name through Indicia and see if anything crops up.’
‘Yes, please,’ Gjerstad says, getting to his feet. ‘Right, let’s get to work.’
Seconds later the CC is empty.
Brogeland and Hagen park outside Holte’s flat in Herslebsgate. Three men standing by the greengrocer’s on the corner turn to look at them. We should have taken Hagen’s car, Brogeland thinks. Patrol cars attract too much attention. And his own car is in the garage. Again. Bloody fan belt.
They get out and quickly climb the stairs until they reach Holte’s flat on the third floor and ring the bell. Soon they hear heavy footsteps on the other side. The door opens. A man with shaving foam covering half his face appears and gives them a dazed look.
‘Petter Holte?’ Brogeland asks.
Holte, whose face looked happy bordering on blissful when he opened the door, immediately puts on his hard-man expression.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Brogeland, and this is Detective Sergeant Hagen, and here’s my warrant card,’ Brogeland continues, unperturbed. ‘Could we come in for a moment, please?’
Holte’s eyes grow even darker. ‘Why?’ he says and inflates his chest.
‘It’s about Robert van Derksen.’
‘What about him?’ Holte says, provocatively.
‘He’s dead.’
Holte makes no reply but continues to glare at Brogeland with the same scornful expression.
‘May we come in, please?’
Holte doesn’t budge. Thin white trails of foam find their way from his scalp to his temples. Long moments pass before his face suddenly changes, as if the news needed a minute to hit home. Reluctantly, he steps aside. Brogeland is the first to enter, but he stops immediately. Lumps of soil are scattered across the floor. Hagen and Brogeland exchange looks before Brogeland turns to Holte and enters without taking off his shoes.
‘What the hell happened?’ Holte asks.
‘Firstly, I need to advise you that I’m recording our conversation,’ Brogeland says, holding up an MP3 dictaphone. Holte gulps and nods.
‘Where were you last night?’
‘I… I went to the gym for my workout.’
‘Was anyone else with you?’
‘Kent Harry and Geir were there. And a couple of other guys.’
‘But not Robert?’
‘No, Robert and I, we… ’ Holte stops, searches for the words, but doesn’t find them in the next thirty seconds.
‘How long was your workout?’
‘I was there until… ’ Holte looks away from Brogeland while he thinks. ‘Until eight or nine o’clock, I think.’
Brogeland nods. Preliminary examinations suggest that van Derksen was killed sometime between nine and ten.