Killed Read online

  Everything hurt.

  To blink. Swallow. The slightest turn of her head.

  What hurt least was to squeeze and shake Jonas’s snow globe. To see the snowflakes swirl around and slowly fall to the bottom again.

  Nora dreaded the night, when everything was quiet around her. She knew that Iver would find her in the dark, that she would try everything possible to block him out, to avoid thinking about his blood-smeared face, the pool of blood underneath him, but she couldn’t.

  She wondered if he’d thought about her before he died, or the child, or if everything had been consumed by trying to understand why he had to die. The dread. The pain.

  The kettle in the kitchen hissed more and more furiously. Drawers were opened and closed, cupboard doors opened and closed. Agnes Klemetsen, Nora’s mother, had got into the car as soon as she heard what had happened. She had pushed her way through all the people outside the police cordon, and found Nora sitting on a bench behind Iver’s building, with a trauma-management expert beside her. The woman, who was around Agnes’s age, had looked up and immediately realised who she was, and without a word being said, Agnes had sat down and pulled Nora to her and stroked her hair.

  Nora shook the snow globe a little and held it up to her nose.

  Once upon a time it had smelled of Jonas.

  She leaned her head against the back of the sofa and closed her eyes tight. Reflected on how bad she’d been at making a real home and building something permanent. How hard she’d tried by keeping things just so. How little she had actually achieved.

  Curtains and silver polish, cushions that weren’t lying as they should, toys that should be put in plastic boxes at the end of the day, jackets that should be hung up, cupboard doors that should be closed, shoes that should be stamped clean of snow before going indoors…

  Nora knew that she had got all this from her mother, and more, but what the hell was the point? What the hell had it given her? None of it meant anything when she had no one to do it for.

  Henning. Jonas.

  Iver.

  Loss. Grief. Pining. Only brief glimpses of happiness. How was she going to carry on now, how would she ever find joy in anything after this…

  There was a click in the kitchen and the hissing stopped. Nora heard her mother pour the hot water into a teapot.

  ‘Goodness.’

  Nora opened her eyes again and looked towards the kitchen. She heard a magnet being put back onto the fridge again.

  ‘You haven’t shown me this.’

  Her mother came out into the living room with a small photograph in her hand. Nora looked at her.

  ‘You haven’t been here since I got pregnant, Mum.’

  A soft smile slipped over her mother’s lips, and she tilted her head.

  ‘How wonderful. Is it a boy or a girl? I’ve never understood how they can tell from a picture like this.’

  ‘Don’t know, Mum.’

  ‘Don’t you want to know?’

  ‘Mum…’

  Her mother studied the photograph for a little longer, then disappeared out into the kitchen again. She soon returned with a tray of clinking cups and a steaming pot of tea. She put the tray down and set a cup in front of Nora.

  ‘Here,’ she said.

  Nora forced herself to sit up. The thought of putting anything in her mouth right now made her stomach churn. Her lips and throat were dry and her tongue felt alien.

  ‘Drink,’ her mother said. ‘You need some fluids.’

  Her mother tried to smile. She sprinkled some sugar into her tea and stirred it. The spoon chimed against the porcelain. She put the spoon down and helped herself to a Ritz biscuit. Then she sat back and looked around.

  Nora knew what was going on in her head. She was evaluating what was needed, if there was anything she could paint or sew, anything she could get rid of or improve. Agnes Klemetsen was a person who could not sit still for very long, who could never enjoy sitting against a wall feeling the warmth of the early spring sun. She always had to be doing something. And now Nora would be her mother’s project, she knew that, and she didn’t know if she could handle it.

  She’d done something to her hair since the last time they’d met, Nora thought. Dyed it a darker brown. It was cut short, into the neck, full and wavy. She had more wrinkles on her face, more folds in her skin.

  It struck Nora that she didn’t know much about her mother anymore, that several years had passed without them having a proper conversation. There had somehow never been time. Or – they hadn’t been good enough at making the time.

  After Jonas died, there wasn’t room for much else, unless it was work-related, and her parents hadn’t exactly beaten a path to her door. They’d kept a distance, said they were there if she needed any help. They didn’t want to fuss.

  ‘How’s Dad?’ Nora asked.

  ‘Well, you know,’ her mother said, then waited a beat. ‘Your father’s fine. He’s started to play golf.’

  ‘Has he?’

  ‘Yes, now that he’s retired, you know, he needs something to do.’

  ‘Mm.’

  A dog barked outside. A car drove by. The city carried on.

  ‘Has anyone else called?’

  Her mother’s voice was soft and warm again.

  ‘Cecilie,’ Nora replied. ‘And Lise.’

  ‘Oh lovely.’ Her mother was pleased. ‘How are they? I haven’t seen them in a hundred years.’

  ‘Well…’

  Nora thought about her friends, who were probably sitting on the sofa right now as well, as they usually did, wrapped up in a blanket, surrounded by their families. Everything was as it should be for them. In place.

  It made Nora cry again – it started with a sob when she drew breath and then just grew and grew. She was so angry, so fucking furious with Iver, with Henning, with herself, with life and the world.

  Her mother got up and hurried out to the kitchen. A moment later she returned with a kitchen roll and tore off a few sheets. Then she sat down quietly beside her daughter and dried her tears.

  18

  When Henning entered the meeting room, everybody stopped talking.

  They all looked at him.

  He felt the urge to say something, to break the silence, but no words came out. Instead, Rikke Ringheim, the head of the gossip pages, came over and gave him a hug. Knut Hammerstad from the foreign desk followed. Some of his male colleagues offered their hands.

  Henning found himself a chair and sat down. There was coffee and water, cups and glasses on the table. The newspapers that usually spilled over the table had been removed. Everyone sat with lowered eyes. Several were crying openly.

  Henning found it hard to believe how much warmth and peace he felt simply from being with them. And he thought to himself how lucky he was to work with such a great team. That it was good to have someone to sit with, in silence.

  Later that evening, Henning sat down at his own desk, beside Iver’s, and stared at the candle that was still burning. Until very recently, he hadn’t been able to cope with flames, but now he watched the orangey-yellow flickering light until everything else fell out of focus. He closed his eyes and pondered what Iver must have discovered, something that was so important he had to die.

  Henning took his PC out of his bag and checked the 123News front page. The first eight posts were about Iver’s murder, most of them taken from the Norwegian News Agency. One of the posts had a black frame round it. The headlines included ‘Killed in his own home’. In the obituary, the editor-in-chief, Sture Skipsrud, spoke of Iver’s charisma, his warm character, the positive energy and fun that he brought with him wherever he went. The Henriette Hagerup case from earlier that year was cited as the highlight of his career.

  Several leading news celebrities had condemned the killing, and articles had been written about other journalists who had suffered a similar fate. The reports about the actual investigation didn’t say much, and Henning understood why. For both technical and tactical reaso
ns, the police were, as yet, sparing with any information.

  Henning checked his emails in case Iver had sent him anything before he was killed. As expected, there were countless emails waiting for him, but nothing from Iver.

  You have to find out what he discovered, Henning told himself. If it had anything to do with Rasmus Bjelland.

  But first he looked up everything he could find about Bodil Svenkerud’s death. Trine’s story had been at the back of his mind all day, behind the shock, behind the anger. The old lady had been knocked down and killed on Eckerbergs gate in Oslo’s posh west end in January 1996, and the case had never been solved. However, it didn’t take long for Henning to find something that confirmed his suspicions about Tore Pulli and Charlie Høisæther.

  The building where Mrs Svenkerud lived had been acquired by Høisæther Property in autumn 1995, and then been sold on for a considerably higher sum to Pulli Property not long after Svenkerud’s death. Henning had heard that the friends often agreed an under-the-table price for acquisitions and sales like this, but then registered another. The buyer, most frequently Pulli, also conned the banks into providing more capital than he strictly needed, and the extra money was used for other investments and to finance his increasingly extravagant lifestyle.

  Mrs Svenkerud had got in their way.

  So they’d made sure the obstacle was removed.

  If that was the case, it would explain how Bjelland knew about the death. According to Iver, Bjelland and Charlie stopped working together, certainly in Norway, in 1996.

  Henning logged into FireCracker 2.0, a chat program that his secret source in Oslo Police, 6tiermes7, had designed especially for their highly confidential two-way communication. Henning didn’t know the identity of his source, but after communicating back and forth for many years now, he’d concluded that he or she could hardly be much older than 40, primarily because of their computer skills, but also because of the words they used – it was the language of a young person. The fact that 6tiermes7 had given him the handle MakkaPakka also indicated that the source was familiar with recent children’s TV shows.

  Henning had never looked into it any more than that. It was part of the unspoken pact; he would never ask who his source was, and they would never meet face to face. 6tiermes7 fed Henning with information from the various investigations that he or she had access to, and Henning made sure he used the information judiciously. This teamwork had led to a good number of headlines over the years.

  However, it was a while since Henning had had any contact with his source, even though he’d tried regularly to get in touch. He decided to stay logged on to FireCracker 2.0 for the rest of the evening, if that’s what it took.

  Almost everyone else had gone home when finally there was a ding-dong from his computer, like someone ringing a bell. Henning closed all the other windows, keeping only FireCracker 2.0 open.

  6tiermes7: I hoped you’d be in touch this evening. My condolences.

  MakkaPakka: Thanks. Long time no see.

  6tiermes7: Been extremely busy recently. How’s it going with you?

  Every time 6tiermes sent a new message, Henning’s computer sang out ding-dong, so he turned the volume down.

  MakkaPakka: I’m working on a few things.

  6tiermes7: That’s not what I meant.

  Henning took a deep breath and looked over at Iver’s empty desk again.

  MakkaPakka: It’s hard to take it in, that he’s dead. And hard to believe it’s not my fault.

  Henning explained that Iver had been helping him with a few things recently, and that he’d saved Henning’s life when someone tried to knock him down on Seilduksgaten.

  MakkaPakka: They might have found out that Iver was helping me. Or at least suspected.

  6tiermes7: Maybe, but you’ll never know the answer. Best not to waste time and energy blaming yourself. Gundersen was an adult. He knew what he was doing.

  MakkaPakka: And he wasn’t always careful. Just waded straight in. Was beaten up not long ago because he didn’t go easy.

  A man came into the office. Henning guessed he was in charge of the nightshift.

  6tiermes7: If you’re interested, I’ve got a couple of things from the investigation.

  MakkaPakka: Very.

  6tiemers7: Gundersen’s PC and mobile weren’t found in the flat.

  Henning raised his eyebrows.

  6tiermes7: Either the people who did it wanted to check them – mails, log files, folders, etc. – or they wanted to delete the content. Probably both. But we’re working against the clock here.

  MakkaPakka: How do you mean?

  6tiermes7: Apple and Google aren’t keen to give us access to people’s private accounts, even when they’re dead, so it might take a while.

  Henning swore under his breath.

  6tiermes7: No doubt all the data will have been deleted by the time we get our hands on his computer. It’s easy enough to remove documents from all the servers.

  Henning looked up and saw the night-shift guy talking to the girl who was sitting at the newsdesk. They gave each other a hug.

  There was another muffled ping.

  6tiermes7: But I heard that you’ve also got someone after you. Any idea who? Or why?

  MakkaPakka: Yes and no. But I’m pretty sure that the attempts on my life, Iver’s death and maybe even Tore Pulli’s death, have something to do with Rasmus Bjelland. And no one knows where he is. Either he’s dead or he’s got another identity and is living somewhere else.

  6tiermes7: That’s certainly a possibility.

  Henning drank some water from the glass.

  6tiermes7: So what are you going to do now? You said you were working on something…

  MakkaPakka: I’ve got a meeting tomorrow that I hope might give some answers, and then I’d thought of going down to see William Hellberg in Tønsberg. He was the one who told me that Charlie Høisæther and Tore Pulli had fallen out. He might know more. Maybe even something that might lead to Bjelland.

  6tiermes7: I’ll try to log on tomorrow evening as well, around the same time. Might have more to tell about the investigation by then.

  MakkaPakka: Thanks.

  6tiermes7: OK. Going to log out now. Stay healthy.

  MakkaPakka: You too.

  19

  ‘Hey.’

  A voice rang out over the general noise in the shop.

  Just keep looking straight ahead, Roger Blystad thought. He’s not shouting at you, not at Bunnpris on a Sunday evening. He carried on looking for the coffee he needed for the morning. Couldn’t start the day without coffee.

  ‘Fancy meeting you here.’

  The voice had come closer. Blystad turned his head a fraction, saw some feet very definitely coming towards him.

  Shit.

  ‘I’d recognise that face anywhere.’

  What the fuck was he going to say? What the hell was he going to do?

  ‘It’s been a long time.’

  Blystad lifted his chin and turned round to face the smiling man who had stopped half a metre in front of him.

  It was Alfred.

  Or The Shower, as they’d called him in high school, because he always stood right in front of you when he was talking to you, so it was impossible to avoid the spray of his spit.

  What the hell was he doing in Brandbu?

  ‘Jeez, man, how’s it going?’

  Alfred held out his hand.

  ‘Hello Alfred,’ Blystad said. ‘Alright, thanks.’

  They shook hands.

  Alfred had close-set eyes, a round, boyish face, and messy hair that stood out in all directions. It must be at least twenty years since they’d last seen each other at school, and the main difference was that he’d put on about thirteen kilos in the meantime.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Blystad asked, even though the answer seemed obvious. Alfred was wearing an Oslo Taxi uniform.

  ‘Got a long fare from Oslo,’ he said. ‘Just popped in to get something to eat before he
ading back. And you? D’you live out this way then?’

  He’d thought a lot about what he should say if he bumped into anyone from the past. And the answer he had come up with was: as little as possible. He’d say that he didn’t have much time and had to be going. But if Alfred was anything like he had been back then, that would just make things worse. Not only did he stand right up in your face when he spoke to you, he talked incessantly, and fired constant questions. A real gossipmonger.

  ‘And Brandbu, eh – wife and kids, the works, eh?’

  Blystad pictured the photographs of the car his wife had been sitting in. What was left of it. What was left of her.

  He blinked furiously a few times.

  ‘No, just me,’ he replied.

  ‘What’re you up to then?’

  ‘Well, between jobs, you might say.’

  Alfred nudged him hard on the shoulder.

  ‘Have to say, you’re in good shape. You were always a litttle podgy at school, I remember, but you’re looking bloody fit now.’

  ‘Yes, I … work out.’

  And it was true. He didn’t know how many miles he had done on the treadmill in the basement.

  ‘Great to see you again,’ Alfred said.

  Blystad had to stop himself from wiping off the shower of spittle that landed on his cheek.

  ‘Have you signed up for the reunion, eh?’

  Blystad looked into his round face.

  ‘Reunion?’

  ‘Yeah, think an invitation was sent to everyone. Don’t have anything to do with the organisation, but it’s next month. Or the one after, can’t remember. Would be great, man, if you came. Fucking hell, twenty years!’

  Blystad tried to smile, but realised he was failing.

  ‘Seriously, did you not get an email, eh?’

  Blystad wasn’t sure what to answer. A woman went past with two bags of nappies in her hands. He followed her with his eyes. Felt hot and bothered.

  ‘There’s a Facebook group for people who went to our school,’ Alfred prattled on. ‘Are you on Facebook, eh?’