And perhaps it’s too late now. Trine made it perfectly clear that she didn’t want his help. There was so much remoteness in her eyes in the cabin, so much hostility. It was hard to admit it, but it felt good to see her again even though she threw him out. Away from the newspaper interviews and the TV debates where she always comes across as so confident and self-assured. She had been her old self. Just as temperamental and just as bossy as when she was little.
Henning hasn’t yet returned the rental car, something he is pleased about as he parks outside Eiksmarka Shopping Centre with the front of the car practically inside a florist called Blåklokken. The centre is deserted this early in the day, as is the Internet café. There is not a single customer around when Henning enters and introduces himself to a balding, dark-skinned man with a moustache who is chewing vigorously on something.
‘I’d like to speak to anyone who worked here Monday evening,’ Henning says.
The man carries on chewing.
‘Do you know who was working here that night?’
‘Possibly. Why do you want to talk to them?’
‘Because I’m trying to find out who sent a fax from that machine,’ Henning says, pointing left where the room’s only fax machine is located. ‘It’s important to a person who… who’s important to me. I’d be really grateful if you could help me.’
The man carries on chewing while he gives Henning a sideways glance. Then he looks across the room. There is no one at the computers. Outside the entrance a man with a walking stick shuffles past.
‘How much?’
Henning hesitates for a second before he takes out a 500 kroner note from his back pocket. The man takes the money. Studies it. Then he wanders off to the back room and stays there for a long time. Henning is starting to feel awkward when another man comes out. Same skin colour. Same short hair and a moustache.
He nods quickly to Henning, something Henning interprets as a green light so he asks if the man whose badge states his name is ‘Sheraz’ could check on his computer to find out who visited the café Monday evening. Sheraz looks languidly at him and shakes his head.
‘It’s against the law,’ he says.
‘Is that right?’
Henning never really thought that it would be that easy. Over to Plan B.
Henning opens his shoulder bag and takes out a pile of paper he printed out before he left the office. He has lost count of how many pictures he printed out from the home pages of the Justice Department and various political parties, but it was a lot.
‘I’m going to show you some pictures,’ he says, ‘and I want you to say stop if you recognise the person who came here Monday night. Is that all right?’
Sheraz waits a little, then he nods without enthusiasm.
‘Okay, let’s begin.’
Henning puts down the shoulder bag. He pushes the first printout across the counter. They go through a number of politicians – government as well as opposition – political advisers and past and present members of the Justice Department. All he gets by way of response from Sheraz is a shake of the head. Henning flicks through the printouts while Sheraz keeps on shaking his head, more and more reluctant and increasingly hostile in his demeanour.
Suddenly he says: ‘Stop.’
Henning stops.
‘Go back.’
Henning removes the top sheet. Sheraz plants his index finger right in the middle of the sheet, but says nothing.
‘And you’re sure?’ Henning asks.
Sheraz nods.
‘Okay,’ Henning says, taking back the pile of paper and stuffing it into his shoulder bag. Well worth 500 kroner, he thinks to himself, and quickly leaves the café.
Chapter 61
The atmosphere in the incident room is like the area behind the starting gate right before a skiing race. Everyone is eager to push off as quickly as possible. But it’s essential to do things in the right order.
‘Okay,’ Arild Gjerstad says, ‘this is what we know about Markus Gjerløw so far: he’s thirty-seven years old, he lives in Grorud and he’s unemployed. No wife or girlfriend, nor does he have any children. His parents live in Jessheim. Gjerløw’s mobile is switched on right now and we know that it’s in the vicinity of a mast close to his home address. So it’s likely that he’s at home. The armed response unit has been alerted and the whole building must be hermetically sealed before we go in.’
Several people nod.
‘Okay,’ Gjerstad says. ‘We’re going in. We’ve been given permission to enter by force.’
The patrol cars drive without flashing lights so as not to alert Gjerløw that they are on their way. Bjarne peeks furtively at Sandland and sees that she, too, lives for moments like these. For the action. Taking that six-month vacancy with Vestfold Police would feel like a step backwards, at least to begin with. More paperwork. More time spent at his desk.
Is that really what he wants?
The drive to Grorud takes them less than fifteen minutes. At this speed the raindrops smack against the windscreen. They park on the pavement only one street away from the large tower block where Gjerløw lives and jog to the entrance. Some officers shelter from the rain under the covered area outside.
A uniformed officer from the armed response unit opens the front door and enters followed by several officers. Two men position themselves outside the lift, while another four take the stairs. Bjarne and Sandland follow. Soon they have reached the seventh floor. Behind him Sandland is panting heavily.
One of the uniformed officers knocks on Gjerløw’s door. The sound fills the stairwell with short, sharp bangs. There is no reply. He knocks again, harder this time. Calls out Gjerløw’s name. Still no response.
Several officers from the armed response unit have now joined them. One of them has brought a battering ram. The others stand aside. He hits the door with full force and the door gives way at his second attempt. The officers burst into the flat, holding up their weapons and shouting words no one is meant to understand, but are intended to shock.
The reports come in quickly.
‘Clear!’
‘Clear!’
Then there is silence.
It takes a few minutes before an officer comes out and takes off his helmet. He looks gravely at Brogeland and Sandland.
‘I’m fairly certain that the man inside is Markus Gjerløw,’ the officer says, jerking a thumb over his left shoulder. ‘And I’m absolutely certain that he’s dead as a doornail.’
Markus Gjerløw is leaning back in the Stressless armchair with his arms flopping to each side; his glazed eyes stare vacantly into space. An almost empty bottle containing a clear liquid is standing on the table beside him. And on the floor under the same table they see it – a small, transparent bag with capsules.
Bjarne knows morphine capsules when he sees them.
What he first took to be a living room turns out also to be the bedroom. The duvet lies bunched up on the bed. Clothes have been flung over a chair and piled up on the floor. Bjarne’s gaze glides across the empty walls, a desk with newspapers, books, papers and randomly scattered food packaging. On the floor, mostly along the skirting board, various cables have been trailed, white as well as black, leading to a home cinema unit in the corner. A vast TV screen is mounted on the wall with satellite speakers on either side. Two laptops are turned on. Facebook on one, a shooter game on the other.