Pierced (9 page)

Henning notices that his voice is trembling. Even so Grønningen remains silent.

‘You don’t happen to know something, do you?’ Henning continues after a pause.

‘Eh?’

‘About the fire in my flat?’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, you – given that you and Tore are such close friends. If Tore knows something then it’s not inconceivable that he might have told you.’

‘He didn’t.’

Henning concentrates on Grønningen’s eyes. At the other table a family erupts in a collective giggling fit. Grønningen quickly turns in their direction before resuming his study of the napkin in front of him. He picks it up and spreads it out.

‘How was he?’ he asks.

‘Tore? I don’t know. I’ve never met him so I don’t know what he was like before. And I didn’t speak to him for very long.’

‘I haven’t spoken to him for a long time.’

‘Why not?’

‘He’s only allowed one visit a week and Veronica gets first pick. That’s all they’ve got, the two of them, so the rest of us tend to leave them alone.’

Henning refrains from saying anything for a while. He senses that Grønningen has started to open up.

‘It has been difficult to talk about Tore since he went to prison,’ he says. ‘Nobody really wants to, and in a way we’ve put it behind us. I’ve tried to find out where everyone was the night that Jocke Brolenius was killed, but people were either with each other or they were out of town.’

Henning nods. ‘But you knew that Tore was meeting Jocke Brolenius?’

‘Yes, several of us did. He came to the gym to work out before he drove up to the old factory.’

Henning picks up a jug on the table and fills his glass with water. He looks at Grønningen to see if he wants some and Grønningen holds out his glass without nodding.

‘Can you describe Tore to me?’ Henning asks as he pours the water. ‘I mean from a friend’s perspective?’

Grønningen sighs and starts to reminisce. Suddenly he breaks into a smile. ‘The first time I met Tore, he punched me in the face.’

‘Why?’ Henning asks, mirroring his smile.

‘Because I had just put Tore’s cousin in hospital for chatting up my girlfriend. Petter was only a boy then, so Tore had to step in. He broke my jaw.’

Grønningen touches his face and briefly strokes the beard that decorates his chin.

‘When I came to, he squatted down in front of me and said, “I look after my own. I just want you to remember that.”’

‘And from then on you were best mates?’ Henning asks in disbelief.

‘Well, not straight away. But he saw that I had what it took and that’s why he recruited me for—’

‘The enforcer business?’

‘Call it what you will. He put me up for the odd job here and there. In time, we grew to be best mates even though there were lots of contenders for that role.’

‘How come?’ Henning asks, and sips his water.

‘Tore was a popular guy. And he was feared as well. Being around Tore gave you a certain status. Everyone looked up to him. He got whatever he wanted. And I’m not just thinking of his job, but . . . other things.’

‘What things?’

‘One day we were watching some reality-TV show when Veronica appeared on the screen. And Tore said, “I want her!” And that’s what happened.’

Henning twirls the glass in his hands. ‘And did he get whatever he wanted in the property business, too?’

‘Yes, on the whole.’

‘Did he have any enemies in the property business?’

‘I’m sure he did, but I doubt if any of them would have gone to so much trouble to get rid of him. It would have been simpler just to have him killed.’

That sounds very reasonable, Henning thinks. Tore’s meeting with Jocke Brolenius was an internal affair which had nothing to do with his legitimate business activities.

‘I understand Tore met with some resistance when you discussed what to do about murder of Vidar Fjell?’

‘Not just some.’

‘Who shouted the loudest?’

Henning folds his hands and leans closer.

‘Irene Otnes. Vidar’s girlfriend. She made it clear that she wanted revenge, and there was no shortage of volunteers. Petter was one of them. But Tore put his foot down. All hell would have broken loose if we had picked a fight with a Swedish gang.’

‘Was anyone apart from Irene Otnes out for blood?’

‘We all were.’

‘I mean was anyone especially incensed and did they express their anger or disgust at Tore because he
didn’t
want revenge?’

Grønningen mulls over the question. ‘Robert.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Robert van Derksen. A martial-arts instructor. He was a good mate of Vidar’s, but Tore and Robert weren’t exactly best mates. Or they weren’t then.’

‘Why not?’

Grønningen breathes out. ‘One night, three or four years ago, we went to the opening of Order @ the Bar in the city centre. Veronica was there with some of her models. Free drinks. You know what these events are like.’

‘Robert helped himself – quite liberally you could say – and I’m not just talking about the drinks. It looked as if he thought the girls were free too. Tore didn’t like Robert pawing Veronica’s girls and told him to lay off – for all the good that did – and when, a little later, Tore took him outside to cool down, Robert tried to hit him. Tore saw the punch come a week in advance.’

Henning raises an eyebrow. ‘Didn’t you just say that van Derksen was a martial-arts instructor?’

‘Yes, but he was shit-faced that night. When he sobered up and heard what had happened he felt humiliated. Things between the two of them were never the same again.’

‘So Robert van Derksen had a motive for killing Jocke Brolenius
and
setting Tore Pulli up?’

‘Yes.’

‘But could he have broken Brolenius’s jaw? In the style of Pulli?’

‘Yes, definitely,’ Grønningen replies without hesitation before he adds, ‘It’s not that difficult. All it takes is a bit of practice.’

Henning decides to walk home from Åkebergveien, an exercise usually conducive to thinking. And he has much to digest after his meetings with Veronica Nansen and Geir Grønningen, especially the information Grønningen gave him about Robert van Derksen. According to Grønningen, van Derksen claimed to be with a woman on the night that Brolenius was killed, although Grønningen was ashamed to admit that he had never double-checked his alibi. Van Derksen had a habit of replacing his women frequently, and Grønningen hadn’t been able to remember which particular woman he had been with at the time. ‘And I’m not sure that Robert would be able to remember either,’ was how he put it.

When Henning comes home he visits the bodybuilding website www.hardenever.no and finds a picture of Robert van Derksen showing off an oiled torso, a six-pack and rippling muscles in his arms and legs, posing in combat style. Henning reads about the courses he teaches: karate, tae kwon do and Krav Maga – and realises that he can’t simply turn up on van Derksen’s doorstep and ask if he murdered Jocke Brolenius. He could sign up for one of the courses and ask if van Derksen would teach him the Pulli punch, but such questions rely on familiarity and trust. And both take time – which Henning doesn’t have.

There must be another way
, he thinks, and rings the contact number listed at the bottom of the screen.

‘Hi, my name is Henning Juul from the internet newspaper
123news
. Am I speaking to Robert van Derksen?’

‘You are,’ van Derksen replies, sounding bored. His voice is lighter than Henning had expected, bordering on meek.

‘Sorry for disturbing you on a Sunday, but I’m working on a story about Tore Pulli. I understand that the two of you knew each other well?’

There is silence.

‘I’ve got nothing to say about Tore.’

‘You don’t need to say anything about Tore,’ Henning is quick to add, scared that van Derksen might hang up on him. ‘I’m more interested in the murder of Jocke Brolenius. I think there may have been a miscarriage of justice and that Tore might be innocent,’ Henning continues.

The seconds pass.

‘Why do you think that?’

Henning waits a few more moments before he replies: ‘Because certain things in the case against him don’t make sense. The murder weapon has never been found, for one. And if Tore really wanted to kill someone, I don’t think he would have left his calling card behind at the crime scene.’

Another silence.

‘What do you mean?’

‘The Pulli punch,’ Henning continues, feeling himself warming to his subject. ‘Brolenius’s fractured jaw. I think that someone with strong fists wanted it to look as if Tore killed Jocke Brolenius.’

Henning lets his words take effect. Many long seconds of silence follow.

‘Are you still there?’ he asks eventually.

‘You need to call someone else,’ van Derksen says. ‘I’ve got nothing to say to you.’

And the line goes dead.

Henning looks at his mobile as if it could tell him why van Derksen went from being interested to cutting him off. Perhaps he got nervous, Henning thinks. Or perhaps he just didn’t want to talk to a journalist.

Henning reviews the information he has obtained during the day. It’s a fair amount. But he still can’t work out how Pulli knew that he was back at work. As far as Henning is aware, prison inmates don’t have Internet access. Did someone tell Pulli? In which case who could it have been? Neither Veronica Nansen nor Geir Grønningen gave the impression of ever having heard of Henning before.

Henning googles his own and Tore Pulli’s name on the Internet but only finds stories he wrote years ago. Henning pulls a face. Something doesn’t add up, he thinks. His reputation is not of sufficient calibre for an inmate to whom he has never previously spoken to call him up out of the blue to ask for his help. There are private investigators who would happily take on this kind of work, and Pulli has enough money to pay them. Henning types the word ‘private investigator’ and googles it with Pulli’s name, but he isn’t rewarded with helpful hits this time either.

Given that a reward of one million kroner was on the table there can only be two reasons why no one has come forward with information that could free Pulli. Either the real killer is so smart that he hasn’t aroused even the slightest suspicion amongst his own people or Tore Pulli is guilty and is merely putting on a show.

Henning butters a slice of crispbread and eats it while he walks up and down the living room. His eyes stop at the dark-brown piano. As always, the lid is closed. He doesn’t want to look at it, at everything it represents. But then he hears Veronica Nansen’s voice. He takes one hesitant step towards the piano before he pauses. Then he takes another towards the piano stool. He pulls it out. Slowly, he sits down and visualises the keys trapped under the lid, tempting ebony and ivory.

He opens the lid with great care. His stomach lurches just at the sight of the keys. Silently, he folds back the lid as his eyes glide from side to side. He remembers how his fingers used to run off, finding their own ways and following any path they liked, repeating movements and sequences until slowly but surely they formed wider roads in an increasingly familiar terrain. He loved how the tone coloured the walls, how the sound and its resonance opened up parallel worlds the moment he closed his eyes.

Henning places his fingers on G7, one of his favourite chords; he didn’t know that’s what it was until he pressed the same keys on a digital piano many years ago, an instrument which was hooked up to a computer, and the name came up on the screen. He has learned the names of his favourite chords – Cm7, E
♭
7b5: chords that cry out to be followed by pure tones. But he was searching for contrasts, exploring the relationship between harmony and discord, believing that something pure and right would emerge out of the dissonance and the friction, something that would grow stronger and transform even disharmony into harmony. Often he would hit random keys until he stumbled across something he liked, something to which he could add side chords and compose a melody around.

Now he barely hears the tones, not to begin with, but they grow, they force their way inside him and compel him to listen, to let the notes resonate, and he gets a strong urge to strike them down again so they can lift him up and away from time and space, but his fingers lock, he is unable to lift them, and gradually every note in the chord blends with the others to create a melange of sound that vibrates and cascades. Soon all that is left is chaos which quietly dies away.

Henning retracts his hands with effort. He realises he hasn’t been breathing for a while. Then he closes the lid.

Monday morning, Henning hangs up his jacket at the office and looks at Iver Gundersen’s face. As always it displays traces of the night before. The bags under his eyes are puffy. His cheeks and chin are unshaven even though some areas show evidence of a razor. His long hair falls like a fringed scarf over his shoulders. The fibres on the elbows of his cord jacket are frayed.

Henning nods quickly in Iver’s direction, thinking he can detect a hint of Nora’s moisturiser across the table. Sodding coconut.

‘Good weekend?’ Iver says, without looking at Henning.

‘It was all right.’

Henning registers a nod, but doesn’t feel the need to reciprocate. He sits down, turns on his computer, puts down his mobile, removes some papers from his desk and types in his username and password. Other journalists start to arrive. Henning hears sleepy grunts, chit-chat, someone laughs. He has no idea how he will be able to concentrate on work today.

He only managed a few hours’ shut-eye before going to the office. His sleep was fitful, and he woke up with a pounding headache that has yet to release its grip on him. However, he managed to do some research last night which he hopes will be useful during the day. The question, simply, is when.

‘Coffee?’

Iver gets up. Henning shakes his head even though he quite fancies a cup. Iver lingers for a moment before he hurries to join the queue, occasionally stealing a glance at the national news section where Henning is sitting. He looks away whenever Henning looks back at him.