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  Then something takes him by surprise. He feels a tingle of anticipation. To him, who has felt only rage, self-loathing, and self-pity in the last two years, this tingling, this excitement prompted by work is something Dr. Helge would undoubtedly classify as a breakthrough.

  He listens to the woman’s high voice:

  “Good morning and thank you for coming. Today’s press conference follows the discovery of a body at Ekeberg Common this morning. I’m Assistant Commissioner Pia Nøkleby, and with me I have Chief Inspector Arild Gjerstad, who is heading the investigation, and Detective Inspector Bjarne Brogeland.”

  Gjerstad and Brogeland nod briefly to the reporters. Nøkleby covers her mouth and coughs, before she continues:

  “As you’re all aware, a woman was found dead in a tent on Ekeberg Common. We received a call at six oh nine AM. The body was discovered by an elderly man out walking his dog. The victim is a twenty-three-year-old woman from Slemdal and her name is Henriette Hagerup.”

  Pens scratch against paper. Nøkleby nods to Gjerstad who moves closer to the table and the microphone. He coughs.

  “We’re treating her death as murder. No arrests have been made yet. At this point in the investigation there’s very little we can tell you about what was found at the crime scene and any leads we may be following up, but we can say that this murder was particularly brutal.”

  Henning notes down the word “brutal.” In media and police speak “brutal” means there is information the press shouldn’t report. It has to do with protecting the public against knowing what the crackpots out there are capable of. And fair enough. Why should relatives have every detail of how their child, brother, sister, or parents were killed splashed across the papers for all to see? But that doesn’t mean the press can’t be told.

  Apart from that, the press conference has little to offer. Not that Henning had expected much. There can be no suspects while the motive for the killing is unknown, and the police are still securing evidence at the crime scene. It’s too early in the investigation to say if the evidence will give the police something to go on.

  And blah-blah-blah.

  Chief Inspector Gjerstad’s briefing, if you can call it that, is over in ten minutes. As usual, there is time allowed afterward for questions, and, as usual, reporters compete to get their question in first. Henning shakes his head at this, every time. The First Question is a constant source of envious looks and congratulatory slaps on the back in editorial offices everywhere. A reporter is regarded as one hell of a guy, by himself and by others, if he can make his voice heard first.

  Henning has never seen the point of this and assumes it’s about penis envy. TV2’s Guri Palme wins this time. She doesn’t have a penis, but she is a pretty blonde who has turned all the disadvantages that that entails to her benefit. She has surprised everyone by being ambitious and clever, and is successfully climbing the journalistic ladder.

  “What can you tell us of the circumstances surrounding the killing? In your introduction, Chief Inspector Gjerstad, you mentioned that the murder was unusually brutal. What do you mean?”

  Take your places: ready, steady—

  “I can’t comment at this time, nor would I want to,” Gjerstad says.

  “Can you tell us anything about the victim?”

  “We know that the victim was a student at Westerdals School of Communication. She had nearly completed her second year, and she was regarded as highly talented.”

  “What did she study?”

  “Film and television. She wanted to be a screenwriter.”

  Three questions are all that Guri Palme gets and NRK takes over the baton. Henning detects disappointment in the journalist’s eye at coming second, though he can only see him from the back. But it is Jørn Bendiksen from NRK who takes them all by surprise.

  “It’s rumored to be an honor killing?”

  Journalists. Always ready with a statement that sounds like a question. Assistant Commissioner Nøkleby shakes her head.

  “No comment.”

  “Can you confirm that the victim had been flogged?”

  Nøkleby looks at Bendiksen before glancing at Gjerstad. Henning smiles to himself. There’s a leak, he concludes. And the police know it. Still, Nøkleby remains professional.

  “No comment.”

  No comment.

  You will hear that ten times, at least, during a police press conference, especially at the early stages of the investigation. It is known as “tactical considerations.” The strategy is to give everyone, the killer included, as little information as possible about any leads the police may be pursuing or any evidence they may have found, so they have time to gather all the evidence needed to build a case.

  Nøkleby and Gjerstad know they are playing a game now. NRK has picked up two important pieces in The Great Jigsaw: honor killing and flogging. Bendiksen would never have made such allegations at the press conference without knowing that they are true, or pretty close. Nøkleby straightens her glasses. Gjerstad looks more uncomfortable now. Brogeland, who so far hasn’t uttered a single word, shifts in his chair to find a more comfortable position.

  It happens all the time. Reporters know more, much more, than the police would like them to, and, in many cases, they hinder the investigation. It is a complex dance for two; each partner depending on the other for results. Plus, on the journalists’ side, there is rivalry, grueling competition with everyone covering the same case. Online newspapers publish at a speed that limits the life span of the story, and it’s always about finding the Next Big Thing. It puts increasing pressure on the police and forces them to spend more time dealing with the press than doing the job they are meant to do.

  Nøkleby ends the questions once P4, VG, and Aftenposten have had their fill, but she can’t get back to work yet. TV and radio stations need their own interviews to give their viewers or listeners the illusion of exclusivity; the questions are repeated and Nøkleby has another chance to say—

  Exactly.

  It is the same performance every time. Everyone knows that proper journalistic work starts after the press conference.

  Henning decides to find Iver Gundersen and agree on the best way to cover this story.

  After all, he is supposed to be working again.

  And the very idea of that strikes him as bizarre.

  9

  The reporters try to squeeze in more questions, but are brusquely dismissed by the uniformed trio, and the reporters file out. Henning is hemmed in by people he doesn’t want to be near, someone shoves him in the back, he bumps into a woman in front of him, he mutters an apology and desperately longs for more space and greater distances.

  They spill out into the foyer and he looks for Iver Gundersen. This would be easier if he knew what Gundersen looked like—there are at least fifty journalists present. Henning decides to find Vidar from NTB and ask him, but he doesn’t have time to do anything before Nora appears in his field of vision. And he in hers.

  He stops. They can’t avoid talking to each other now.

  He takes a tentative step toward her, she mimics him. They stop a few meters apart. Eyes meet eyes. All he can see is a face which contains a multitude of sentences that have never been uttered.

  “Hi, Henning.”

  Her voice is like a blast of icy wind. The “hi” rises in pitch and the “Henning” drops. He senses she is speaking to a creature that has done her a severe injustice but to whom she is forced to relate. He says “hi” to her. She hasn’t changed, but he spots her grief just behind her eyelids, from where it could erupt at any moment.

  Nora is shorter than most women and she tries to compensate for this by wearing high heels. She has short hair. Not like a boy, it is not ultrashort at the back, but her fringe is high up her forehead. She used to have long hair, but the short style suits her. The last time he saw her, she was ashen. Now her skin and her face glow. He suspects it might have something to do with Corduroy. The glow suits her.

  Christ, how it sui
ts her!

  Many expressions inhabit Nora’s face. When she is frightened, she opens her mouth, her teeth show, and she closes her eyes slightly. When she is angry, she raises her eyebrows, she frowns, and her lips narrow. And when she smiles, her whole face explodes, it widens, and you have to smile with her. Change is weird, he thinks. Once, he couldn’t imagine life without her. Now, it would be hard to live with her.

  “You’re here?” he says, failing to disguise his nerves, which choke him.

  Nora simply replies: “Yes.”

  “Had enough of business?”

  She tilts her head to the left, then to the right.

  “I needed a change after—”

  She breaks off. He is relieved that she doesn’t finish the sentence. He has an overwhelming urge to go to her, to embrace her, but turning thought into action is out of the question. There is an invisible wall between them and only Nora can break it down.

  “So . . . so you’re back then?” she says.

  “My first day today,” he says and tries to smile. She studies his face. It’s as if she focuses on the areas where the flames did their worst, but doesn’t think it’s bad enough. He sees Corduroy behind her. He is watching them. I hope you’re jealous, you fool.

  “How are you, Nora,” Henning says, though he doesn’t actually want to know. He doesn’t want to hear that she is happy again, that, at last, she can face the future with hope. He knows he can never win her back or that That Which He Doesn’t Think About will go away. All the same, he doesn’t want her to be lost to him.

  “I’m good,” she says.

  “You still living in Sagene?”

  She hesitates. Then she says, “Yes.”

  He nods, sensing she is trying to protect him against something. He doesn’t want to know what it is, though he has an inkling. And then it comes.

  “You might as well know now, and it’s best that you hear it from me,” she starts. He takes a deep breath, puts up a steel barrier, which melts the moment, she says:

  “I’m seeing someone.”

  He looks at her and nods. He thinks that it ought not to hurt, but he can feel his stomach lurch.

  “We’ve been together for six months now.”

  “Mm.”

  She looks at him again. For the first time in a long time, there is warmth in her eyes. But it’s the wrong kind. It’s the warmth of pity.

  “We’re thinking of moving in together.”

  He says “Mm” again.

  “I hope you’re okay,” he then adds.

  She doesn’t reply, all she gives him is a cautious nod. It’s good to see her smile, but he realizes he can’t take much more of this, so he employs the only defense mechanism he has and changes the subject.

  “You wouldn’t happen to know who Iver Gundersen is?” he says. “I’ve never met the man, but I think we’ll be working together.”

  Nora looks away.

  He should have guessed it when he saw how awkward it was for her to tell him she had met a new man. But why should it? She has moved on, slammed the lid on their shared past. The future is where it’s happening. She sighs and he realizes why when she turns to Corduroy.

  “Iver Gundersen is my new boyfriend.”

  10

  He glares at Corduroy, whose eyes flicker around the room during an absentminded conversation with a fellow reporter. Henning imagines Nora’s fingers running though Corduroy’s revolting hair, gently caressing his stubble, tender lips against lips.

  He remembers how she used to snuggle up to him at night, when they had turned off the light, how she put her arms around him, eager to spoon. And now it’s Corduroy who enjoys her small, loving hands.

  “Right,” Henning says, and instantly hears how defeated he must sound. This was the moment he should have flown into a rage, scolded her, left her with the certain knowledge of having trampled on his heart, torpedoed it, chewed it up and spat it out again. He should have called her a heartless bitch, insensitive, the definition of selfishness, but he didn’t. All he said was:

  “Right.”

  Pathetic. Utterly pathetic.

  He can’t bear to look at her. And now he has to work with Iver.

  A cruel twist of fate, he thinks; it has to be.

  He goes over to Gundersen. He hears Nora asking him not to, “Please don’t—,” but he ignores her. He stops a meter from Gundersen and looks at him. Gundersen is halfway through a sentence, but he stops and turns.

  He knows who I am, Henning thinks. I can see it in his eyes. And I can see that it makes him nervous.

  “Hi,” Gundersen says. Henning sticks out his hand.

  “Henning Juul.”

  Reluctantly, Gundersen takes his hand. Henning presses it hard.

  “Iver G—”

  “I understand we’re both covering this story. How do you think we should go about it?”

  He knows he has put Gundersen on the spot, but he doesn’t care.

  “I’m not entirely sure.”

  Gundersen swallows, then he recovers.

  “I suggest updating the story we’ve already published with quotes from the press conference,” he begins and looks over Henning’s shoulder, at Nora, who is observing their first meeting.

  “I thought about following up this honor killing theory,” Gundersen continues. “See if there’s something in it. In which case, the list of suspects will be fairly short and it won’t be long before the police arrest someone.”

  Henning nods. “Has anyone talked to her friends?”

  Gundersen shakes his head.

  “Then I’ll visit her college and do a story about her life and who she was.”

  “Human interest.”

  “Mm.”

  Henning makes eye contact with Gundersen, who nods.

  “All right, sounds good. I could try contacting the man who found the victim, but I’ve heard that he doesn’t want to talk to the press. So—” Gundersen shrugs.

  Henning nods, he sees that Gundersen is still uncomfortable, that there is something he feels the urge to say. He inhales, but Henning beats him to it.

  “Great,” he says and leaves. He walks as fast as his damaged legs can carry him, straight past Nora, without looking at her.

  Well done, Henning, he tells himself. You had the shit kicked out of you in round one, but you got back on your feet and you won round two. That’s the inherent problem with boxing. Winning a round gets you nowhere, unless you also win the next one. And the one after that. And the one after that. And most important of all, the last one.

  The battle has already been lost, Henning thinks. The judges have already decided. But at least he can try for a personal best.

  He can avoid being knocked out again.

  11

  It takes several minutes before his heart rate returns to normal. He crosses Borggata, trying to forget what he has just seen and heard, but he is haunted by Nora’s eyes and icy breath. He imagines the conversation between Nora and Iver, after his exit:

  Iver: Well, that went all right.

  Nora: Had you expected anything else?

  Iver: I don’t know. Poor guy.

  Nora: It’s not easy for him, Iver. Please don’t make it harder for him than it already is.

  Iver: What do you mean?

  Nora: Exactly what I’ve just said. Do you think it was easy for him to see me here? See me with you? I think it was very brave of him to go up to you the way he did.

  Stop it, Henning. You know that wasn’t what she said. More likely, it went:

  Nora: Ignore him, Iver. That’s just the way he is. He has always done his own thing. Sod him. I’m starving. Let’s have some lunch.

  Yep, that’s it. Much more authentic.

  He decides he needs to clear his head. Forget Nora and concentrate on the job in hand. As he waits for the lights to change at the junction with Tøyengata, it occurs to him that he will need his camera.

  He goes home to get it.

  Detective Inspector Brogela
nd slows down. The car, one of the many new Passats the police have purchased, comes to a smooth halt outside 37 Oslogate. He puts the gear into park and looks at his colleague, Sergeant Ella Sandland.

  Jesus, she’s hot, he thinks, taking in the masculine uniform and everything it conceals. He fantasizes about her constantly, pictures her without the leather jacket, the light blue shirt, the tie, stripped of everything except her handcuffs. Countless times, he has imagined her shameless, lascivious, giving herself completely to him.

  Women think men in uniform are sexy. It’s a well-known fact. Brogeland, however, thinks that’s nothing compared to the other way round: women in clothes that radiate authority.

  Damn, that’s hot!

  Ella Sandland is 1.75 meters tall. She is extremely fit, her stomach is flatter than a pancake, her bottom stretches her trousers perfectly when she walks; she is a little underendowed in the breast department, a touch rough and masculine in an “are you bi or straight” way, but it turns him on. He looks at her hair. Her fringe just brushes her eyebrows. Her skin fits snugly under her chin, over her cheekbones; it is smooth, with no blemishes or marks and not a hint of facial hair—thank God! She moves gracefully, she has one of the straightest backs Brogeland has ever seen, and she pushes her chest slightly forward, even when she is sitting, like women tend to do to create the illusion that their breasts are bigger than they really are. But when Sandland does it, it’s just so sexy.

  Damn, that’s so sexy!

  And she is from West Norway! Ulsteinvik, he thinks, though she has lost some of her accent over the years.

  He tries to suppress the images which increasingly clutter his head these days. They are outside the home of Mahmoud Marhoni, Henriette Hagerup’s boyfriend.

  It is a standard home visit. In 2007, thirty out of thirty-two murders were committed by someone the victim knew or was in a relationship with. Statistically, the killer is likely to be someone close. A rejected spouse, a relative. Or a boyfriend. This makes the visit Brogeland and Sandland are about to make of the utmost importance.