Pierced (3 page)

Ophus smiles and lets go of Henning’s hand. He gestures to a chair on the opposite side of the table and they sit down.

Ophus looks as if he has just come from a mountain hike, although even more energetic than when he set out. The skin on his face is fresh and clean-shaven with a warm glow of summer. The lines in his forehead are wavy and deep. He has a distinctive mole on his left cheek, but his face would be poorer without it.

A waiter with bed hair and large bags under his eyes comes over to them.

‘Would you like something to drink?’ Henning asks his guest.

‘A cup of coffee would be nice.’

‘Two coffees,’ Henning says to the waiter, who turns around instantly without saying a word. Henning holds up his new mobile. ‘Would you mind if I record our conversation?’

‘No, no. That’s fine.’

Henning presses the red button in the centre of the active screen and checks that it starts recording.

‘As I explained to you on the telephone,’ he clears his throat, ‘I’m working on this case.’

‘Yes, so I gather.’

Henning is about to ask his first question when his mobile rings.

‘I’m sorry, I have to—’

‘That’s all right,’ Ophus says and holds up his hands. Henning looks at the number.
Unknown.
He ignores the call.

‘Let’s try again,’ he smiles. ‘So you worked as a fire investigator all your life?’

‘That’s right,’ Ophus says, proudly. ‘I guess I’ve investigated more cases than anyone else in Norway. The insurance companies were keen to snatch me up when I retired, but once I had decided it was time to stop, I wanted to stop completely – though I have to admit I’m starting to regret my decision.’

‘Too much weeding?’

Ophus nods and smiles as he accepts the clattering china cup from the sleepy waiter.

‘What is the most common cause of a domestic fire?’

‘Carelessness,’ Ophus replies and slurps his coffee greedily. ‘Around one in four fires are started by naked flames, cigarettes and candles. People are careless with ashes. It doesn’t cross their minds that something could still be burning or smouldering long after the flames have burned down. Then you have people playing with lighters – and fireworks, of course. Things like that.’ Ophus gestures.

‘A fair number of fires are caused by people boiling a kettle dry or overheating a cooker or covering electric heaters. These days we all have so many electrical products and the quality varies enormously. Around 20 per cent of all fires are caused by faulty electric goods.’

Henning leans across the table.

‘What about arson?’

‘Roughly 10 per cent of all fires are started deliberately. We never succeed in identifying the cause of around double that number. And finally some fires are caused by lightning or people immolating themselves.’

Henning makes a quick note on the pad lying in front of him.

‘Is it difficult to investigate a fire?’

‘Yes, very much so. Most of the time the fire will have wiped out any evidence there might have been. Besides, even the most experienced investigator never stops learning.’

‘And the police must investigate all fires by law, am I right?’

‘Indeed they must.’

Henning’s mobile rings again.
Unknown
is calling him a second time, he notices, but he continues to ignores it.

‘How do they do that?’

‘Eh?’

‘How do the police go about investigating a fire?’

‘Have you ever heard about the Five Es rule?’

‘No, what’s that?’

Ophus smiles and takes a run at it: ‘Evidence, Examination, Evaluation, Elimination and Enforcement.’

Henning grins.

‘How long did it take you to come up with that?’

‘Weeks. No. Months!’ Ophus smiles again.

Silence falls at the table while Ophus drinks his coffee. Henning looks at his notes. ‘So approximately 10 per cent of all fires are arson?’

‘Around 10 per cent, yes.’

Henning nods. He feels the scars on his face burn as if they were being licked by flames. Slowly, he looks up at Ophus.

‘My flat burned down two years ago,’ Henning says and looks down again. ‘I lost my son.’

‘Oh, how awful.’

‘That was when I got these.’ Henning points to his scars. ‘I had to jump through a wall of flames to get to my son, but—’

He doesn’t manage to complete the sentence. He never does. ‘I think the fire was started deliberately.’

‘What makes you think that?’ Ophus asks after an unashamed slurp of his coffee. Henning cringes. He is only too aware that his argument is low on evidence.

‘I don’t know, really. It’s a hunch I have, a gut feeling, call it what you will. And then there is—’

Henning breaks off, thinking that there is no point in telling a man like Ophus about his dreams and the images he sees in them. He shakes his head softly. ‘It’s just something I believe.’

Ophus nods quietly while he raises his cup to his lips. ‘When did it happen?’

‘11 September 2007.’

‘That’s after my time, sorry.’

Henning gives him a deflated look before lowering his gaze.

‘What did the police say? I presume they investigated the fire?’ Ophus looks at him over the rim of his cup and narrows his eyes.

‘Yes,’ Henning says. ‘And they concluded that the cause of the fire was unknown.’

‘But you believe it was started deliberately?’

Henning tries to straighten up, but he slumps immediately and hugs himself. ‘I’ve no idea how it could have been done,’ he admits.

Ophus finally takes a sip of his coffee and puts down the cup with a clatter. ‘What did the police report say?’

‘I’ve never saw it myself, but I’ve heard they concluded that the fire most likely started in the hallway.’

‘Did the fire start while you were at home?’

‘Yes.’

‘Any sign of a break-in?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘Did you lock the door?’

‘I don’t remember. I’ve no memory of anything that happened in the days and weeks leading up to the fire. But I think so. I always used to lock the door even when I was at home during the day, but I can’t remember if I locked it that evening.’

‘Didn’t you have smoke detectors fitted?’

The rhythm of Ophus’s questions and Henning’s answers breaks down. The cobblestones stare back at him accusingly.

‘I did have one, but the battery was dead and I—’ Henning tries to look up while he gulps.

‘And the police found no foot- or fingerprints, no other evidence, DNA—’

Henning shakes his head.

‘And yet you still believe that someone started a fire in your home?’

‘Yes.’

Ophus leans back in his chair. At that moment, Henning’s
mobile
rings for the third time. Henning glances irritably at the display.
Unknown.

‘I’m sorry, I—’

‘Go on, answer it. I’m in no rush.’

‘Is that all right? Are you sure that—’

‘Yes, absolutely. I don’t mind.’

‘Thank you, I’ll—’

Henning waves his hand without quite knowing why. Ophus nods sympathetically. Henning takes the call.

‘Henning Juul?’

‘Yes?’

‘Henning Juul, the reporter?’

‘That’s me, yes. Who is this?’

‘My name is Tore Pulli.’

Henning straightens up and says hi.

‘Do you remember me?’

‘I know who you are. What’s this about?’

Pulli doesn’t reply. Henning moistens his lips in the silence that follows. ‘Why are you calling me?’ he asks.

‘I’ve got a story for you,’ Pulli says.

‘What kind of story?’

‘I can’t tell you over the phone.’

‘All right. Listen, I would like to talk to you, but I’m a bit busy right now. Could I get you to call me back later? Preferably during office hours?’

‘I can’t—’

‘Great,’ Henning interrupts him. ‘Thanks very much.’

He ends the call and smiles quickly at Ophus, who is watching the increasingly busy traffic. Henning exhales hard.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he says and is rewarded with another understanding smile.

‘But back to our conversation,’ Ophus says, looking at Henning. ‘I have to be honest with you. If the police investigation has made no progress in two years, there’s little that can be done now. Finding fresh evidence is out of the question. I assume that your flat was demolished or renovated following the fire?’

‘Yes. Other people live there now.’

‘So any evidence is gone for good. And there are many ways to torch a flat which are impossible to detect. Unfortunately.’

Henning nods silently. They sit there looking at each other until Henning looks away. He knows that he has to find the person or persons who set fire to his flat and get them to admit it. It is the only thing that will satisfy him.

His eyes wander to the junction.

‘So you think that someone was trying to get you? Kill you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, that’s the big question. I don’t know. I don’t even know where to begin.’

‘And this happened two years ago?’

‘More or less.’

Ophus looks at Henning for a long time. ‘Don’t you think they would have made a second attempt?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Has anyone tried to kill you since?’

‘Not that I’ve noticed.’

Ophus doesn’t reply but Henning can see what he is thinking all the same
. It would suit you to be arson, wouldn’t it? So you can blame someone other than yourself?

They listen to the traffic.

Eventually, Ophus says, ‘I don’t think there is very much I can do to help you.’

‘That’s what I was afraid of,’ Henning replies, quietly.

‘You mentioned that you hadn’t seen the police report. Perhaps there is something in that which could be useful to you? I might be able to get you a copy of it, if you like.’

‘I don’t know if it will make a difference, but – but why not?’

‘They owe me a favour down at the police station. I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Thank you so much. I really do appreciate it.’

Ophus straightens up, but Henning is aware that his eyes are still on him. He can’t bear to look him in the eye. So he says, without raising his gaze, ‘I don’t want to take up any more of your time than necessary, Ophus. Thank you so much for meeting with me.’

‘Not at all. You’re welcome to contact me if you think of anything else.’

Henning smiles and nods. They shake hands before Ophus gets up and heads for the junction. He passes a man leaning against the whitewashed wall sucking at a thin roll-up, the embers barely alive.

Ørjan Mjønes presses his forehead against the United Airlines window and looks out over Oslo. Green trees surround Ekeberg Restaurant on the eastern slope of the city. Nearer the city centre people lie sunbathing, stretched out on the grass in Fjordbyen. The roof of the opera house sparkles like an ice floe in the sunshine. Below the belly of the plane, the red-brick towers of Oslo Town Hall stick up towards him like rotten teeth.

The aeroplane glides slowly through the quiet air. The captain announces that they will be landing in a few minutes. Mjønes closes his eyes. It has been a long journey. A return trip to Bogotá, changing in Newark both there and back, and he hasn’t managed a wink of sleep the whole time. He had to make do with a thirty-minute power nap on a airport bench while waiting for the flight back to Oslo. Soon he will have spent thirty-five hours in the air. It has been exciting. It has been exhausting. But it has been worth it.

It all started five days ago when he saw his fictitious contact name in the subject field in an advert on the website finn.no. Later the same day he called the number listed in the advert, which was answered by a voice he hadn’t heard for almost two years. Bearing in mind the rage in the voice the last time the two of them spoke, Mjønes hadn’t expected to hear from Langbein ever again, but they agreed to meet at the bottom level of the multi-storey car park under Oslo City Shopping Centre. Mjønes walked west until a sharp voice from behind a pillar ordered him to stop. A long shadow stretched out across the concrete.

Mjønes did as he was told and looked around. He could hear tyres squeal in the distance, but he saw no one.

‘It has been a long time,’ he said, but Langbein made no reply. Instead, a C4 envelope was slid along the ground towards him. Reluctantly, he bent down to pick it up. He took out a photograph. There was a red cross covering the face of the man in the picture. Mjønes’s jaw dropped. ‘You’re kidding me.’

‘No.’

Mjønes looked at the photograph again, took out a sheet of paper which had been inserted behind it and skimmed the text. Then he shook his head and spoke the words he rarely allowed himself to utter: ‘That’s impossible.’

‘Nothing is impossible. And if you hadn’t screwed up the last time, there would be no need for this job.’

Mjønes was about to protest, but he knew that Langbein was right. He was haunted by the incident. Mistakes are bad for his reputation. And yet he said, ‘It’s too risky.’

The turn in conversation caught him completely by surprise.

‘In my office there is an envelope identical to the one you’re holding in your hands. With one sole exception. It also contains a picture of you.’

‘Of me?’

‘Yes, of you. If you don’t take the job, you become the job.’

Mjønes was about to go behind the pillar to confront Langbein, but the sight of an arm and the mouth of a pistol stopped him in his tracks.

‘If I’m not back in fifteen minutes that envelope goes to the next man on the list. But I want you. I thought it would be an appropriate way for you to correct the mistake you made last time. Besides, you’ll be well paid.’

Mjønes tried to shake off his initial shock.

‘How much?’

‘Two million kroner. Twenty-five per cent up front, cash. You’ll get the rest when all the loose ends have been tied up.’

Mjønes said nothing for a long time. He was contemplating the level of difficulty, his options. He scratched the back of his head and rubbed his nostrils with two fingers. Then he said:

‘I’ll do it for three.’

A few seconds of silence followed. Then Langbein said, ‘Done.’