Killed Page 4

  Then, in 2007, a joint Norwegian-Brazilian police operation had resulted in a good number of them being arrested on charges of fraud and money laundering, and not long after, a rumour had started that it was Bjelland who had provided the police with the information that led to the arrests. A price was put on his head. Bjelland fled.

  As a crime journalist, Henning had heard about the conflict, and after a lot of digging, he had finally managed to get hold of Bjelland and get an interview. In the interview, Bjelland had claimed that he was not an informer, and had tipped Henning off that Tore Pulli, who had previously been one of Norway’s most notorious enforcers, but had since gone on to become a very successful property developer, still had close ties with people in the criminal world. Tore’s existence as a law-abiding businessman was apparently a facade, and Bjelland was certain that he was responsible for the loss of a number of lives. Henning had, without much success, tried to get Bjelland to expand on this claim.

  ‘Let me stop you right there,’ Veronica said.

  Henning, who had been sitting staring at the table in front of him as he spoke, looked over at her. The skin on her face had taken on a reddish hue.

  ‘Basically, you’re saying that Tore was still a criminal after he’d stopped being an enforcer? That he killed people?’

  Henning held up his hands.

  ‘That’s what Bjelland claimed,’ he said, ‘not me.’

  ‘I lived with him for five years,’ Veronica snapped. ‘I would have known if he was still breaking the law in some way.’

  ‘Maybe, but if you look at the people around him, Veronica, the people he trained with, for example, there aren’t many of them who would fall into the “mummy’s blue-eyed boy” category. And is it really so hard to imagine that Tore may have been tempted to earn some extra money now and then? We both know that he had a gambling habit in the last years of his life.’

  Veronica didn’t answer, but sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. Henning could understand why she was so defensive. Tore had hung up his knuckle-dusters long before he met her, and had been very successful in the property market throughout the nineties and into the noughties. But he had also kept his gambling secret from her and he had not been 100 per cent honest about his past as an enforcer.

  ‘I think that I’d started digging around, based on Bjelland’s tipoff, just before the fire in my flat.’

  She bristled.

  ‘So you think Tore had something to do with the fire in your flat?’

  There was an offended sting to her voice. Henning wasn’t sure if it was due to him or her dead husband.

  He shook his head and pointed at the computer.

  ‘Why was he sitting in a car only a few metres away taking photographs then?’ he asked. And before she could answer: ‘I think maybe Tore had plans to do something, but then someone else beat him to it.’

  ‘Who?’

  Henning took a quick breath.

  ‘Charlie Høisæther, possibly. Bjelland said that I had to go back to the nineties, that I had to look at Tore’s acquisitions, and that if I dug around a bit, I would find plenty of dirt. I didn’t actually uncover much at the time, but I did find out later that Tore did a number of deals with Charlie Høisæther around then, and that often the deals were done without the full details being reported to the Norwegian authorities. According to my source, they made an incredible amount of money for a while, and they were apparently without scruples.’

  Veronica’s eyes were guarded.

  ‘Unscrupulous enough to take lives, you mean?’

  Henning shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know. What I do know is that Tore and Charlie were not on talking terms for the last year that Tore was alive. Which could explain why they each had their own strategy for getting rid of me. Tore had one plan – he followed me to find out the best time to get me – whereas Charlie hired Durim Redzepi to do the job for him.’

  ‘I’m a little confused, Henning – do you mean that Tore or Charlie, or even both, were scared that you might discover something serious about them? An unsolved murder, embezzlement, money laundering – what are you actually saying?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Henning said. ‘For the moment, I’m just thinking out loud.’

  ‘But why were you such a danger to them then?’

  Henning had asked himself the same question many times in recent months. Veronica continued before he could say anything: ‘Everyone knows that when a journalist is killed, the media gives it even more attention. There’s more pressure on the police and they have to put in extra resources. It’s an enormous risk to take, so I don’t quite understand why they’d do that, if you didn’t know anything.’

  ‘Not yet, no. But I might find out.’

  Veronica sighed.

  The best thing, Henning thought, would be to talk to Rasmus Bjelland again, but no one had seen or heard of him for over two years now. It was quite possible that the death sentence he had hanging over him when Henning talked to him, had been fulfilled.

  ‘But Bjelland worked closely with Charlie for years,’ he said. ‘Which might explain how he knew something about it.’

  ‘But it doesn’t explain why he would snitch on Tore?’

  ‘No,’ Henning said, picking up the glass of water again. ‘But I’ve got a theory about that.’

  He took a drink, turned a little, so his torso was facing her.

  ‘I think Bjelland wanted revenge.’

  Deep furrows appeared on Veronica’s brow.

  ‘Revenge?’

  Henning nodded.

  He let this lie while Veronica processed it herself.

  ‘Why on earth would Bjelland want revenge on Tore?’

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ Henning admitted. ‘But just think about it,’ he continued. ‘Why would he say something like that to me otherwise? To be nice to me? To give me a scoop that would be printed in the paper?’

  He saw no answer in Veronica’s eyes.

  ‘Bjelland and I had absolutely nothing to do with each other – he had no reason to tip me off about anything, certainly not something as big as that – unless there was a purpose. He wanted to make life difficult for Tore. Like I said, I don’t know why, but can you think of any motive other than revenge?’

  When she didn’t answer, Henning carried on: ‘Just because the papers have written that you’re not an informant doesn’t make it any more valid or true, and Bjelland was perfectly aware of that. He also knew what kind of people were after him, as he’d spent more than a decade with them in Brazil. So coming clean and being named and photographed in the paper was neither here nor there, they would be after him all the same.’

  Henning took another sip of water.

  ‘Which is why I think he had a completely different agenda. He wanted me to start a process that he hoped would end with your husband going to jail.’

  Veronica shook her head.

  ‘That sounds totally far-fetched to me,’ she objected. ‘As far as I know, they barely knew each other.’

  ‘As far as I’m concerned, it would be even more far-fetched if they didn’t know each other. Bjelland had worked closely with one of Tore’s best friends for years. In the same business, even.’

  Veronica squinted over at him, as though she still had problems accepting what she’d just been told.

  A phone started to ring somewhere in the flat. She let it ring, and when it had stopped she said, ‘Well, there’s only one thing to do, then.’

  Henning looked her.

  ‘Find out what Tore and Charlie were so scared you might discover, and why Bjelland wanted revenge on Tore.’

  Henning nodded.

  ‘I know that Tore probably died because he was going to tell me what he knew about the fire…’ Henning suddenly looked over at the laptop ‘…in my flat.’

  He moved over and flipped up the computer screen. The picture of Trine appeared again.

  ‘What is it?’ Veronica asked.

  Henning tried to g
ather all the disparate thoughts that were vying for his attention. Trine could actually have been involved in this in some way or another. That would then explain the warning that had been left on his door; she wouldn’t want him, her own brother, to die. But then Tore was sitting outside in a car and took photographs of Trine meeting Durim Redzepi, photographs that went some considerable way to show that a cabinet minister had something to do with a fatal fire, and obviously had links with known criminals.

  Henning shared his thoughts with Veronica.

  ‘Just think about it,’ he said. ‘Tore was desperate to get out of prison, so desperate that he contacted me and said that he would give me information about the fire in my flat, if I could only help clear his name. But even if Tore had still been alive, he would never have told me about a murder that he and Charlie were involved in, because then he might end up with another sentence. And that would just be stupid.’

  Veronica nodded, her eyes encouraged him to continue his line of thought.

  ‘But this,’ he said, pointing at the screen, ‘this is something else. Potentially compromising information about Trine and very relevant information for me. This is what Tore wanted to share with me.’

  Henning wondered for a moment if that was perhaps why Tore had been killed, but what did the photographs actually prove? That Trine had spoken to a criminal on the street, and that she’d given him … something? Trine could easily have talked her way out of it if a newspaper had got hold of the pictures. But the idea that Trine might be involved in such a cunning murder as the liquidation of Tore while in Oslo Prison – it was simply too incredible for him to believe.

  But the photographs showed that Trine had been outside Henning’s flat only 10 minutes before it went up in flames, and the fact that she had anything to do with a person like Durim Redzepi was, in itself, suspect. The question was whether she had any dealings with Charlie Høisæther as well.

  Henning sat back in the sofa.

  ‘When is she coming home?’ Veronica asked.

  ‘In three days’ time,’ Henning replied quietly.

  ‘Well, I have an idea what you might be doing on that day then,’ she said.

  Henning balled his fists and said, ‘So do I.’

  4

  Three days later

  There was nothing to beat this feeling, Iver Gundersen thought. Knowing he was about to make a breakthrough, that he, and no one else, had managed to find a way into the case.

  And it wasn’t just any old case, either.

  That was why he’d left as soon as he’d woken up in Nora’s flat. He was itching to discuss his findings with Henning, and had sent him a text message to see if he was up, asking if he could come to his flat as soon as possible. Iver even offered to pick him up.

  The answer pinged in moments later.

  On my way to the airport. Later today?

  Airport? Iver thought. What was he doing there?

  He replied OK, but he was disappointed.

  Not long after, there was another ping.

  What’s new?

  Iver thought about what to answer.

  Too long to explain by text. Tell you later.

  Henning said OK.

  In the meantime, thought Iver, he could go through it all again and try to be his own devil’s advocate – a demanding, but necessary procedure for anyone who wanted to blow the lid on something. He had to be 100 per cent certain.

  Iver pulled out behind a bus and noticed that he needed petrol. Not surprising really, he’d practically been living in his car recently.

  He tried to slow his breathing. He thought about Henning, and about Nora.

  It had been an odd few months.

  He’d never meant to fall in love with her, but her vulnerability after Jonas’s death had made Nora irresistibly beautiful, and he’d almost felt it was his mission to make her smile again.

  Deep down, Iver had kind of hoped that Henning wouldn’t come back to work, but then he did, one day in late spring, and Iver wasn’t sure which one of them felt most uncomfortable. The first case – the stoning of a film student, Henriette Hagerup, in a tent at Ekebergsletta – had not helped much either, as Henning had worked out who the killer was and then given Iver all his information.

  Iver couldn’t understand why, to begin with, but gradually it dawned on him that Henning was actually protecting himself; he’d known that it was a scoop and would lead to a lot of media attention. And Henning wasn’t interested in that, not then and not ever.

  At first, Iver had loved the furore, but it didn’t take long before he felt pretty ambivalent about it all. Every time Henriette Hagerup’s name was mentioned, Iver thought about who actually deserved all the praise. The fact that Henning was the only person who knew didn’t make it any easier. Which is why Iver had tried to return the favour. He had thrown himself into Henning’s own mystery and the puzzle of Jonas’s death, with the goal of finding the vital detail, the piece that made everything fit together.

  Now he thought he might have done just that.

  Iver parked the car a couple of blocks away from his own building, then hurried back to the flat. It was just gone half past nine when he opened the door and threw the keys down on the hat shelf.

  There was something odd about the flat. And it took a few moments before he realised what it was.

  It was completely dark.

  He never closed the curtains, not completely.

  And then he heard sounds from the living room. The TV was on. Had he forgotten to turn it off before he went to Nora’s late last night?

  Iver went into the kitchen and then into the living room, where the TV screen flickered, washing the ceiling and walls with colour. The curtains were drawn in there too. What the…? He suddenly got the feeling that something was very wrong.

  And then the living room light was switched on.

  Iver stopped in his tracks.

  There was a man sitting in the chair.

  ‘And here he is,’ the man said, in Swedish.

  Iver stood as though glued to the floor, his mouth half open. He quickly looked around. There was a man sitting on the sofa. He had a gun on his lap.

  ‘Who…?’ Iver started. The words got stuck in his parched throat. ‘Who are you?’ he managed to say, and coughed. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘You took your time,’ the man in the Stressless said. ‘We were getting bored of waiting, weren’t we, Jeton?’

  The man who was talking to Iver looked at the screen for a few seconds before turning off the TV and slamming the remote control down on the table. Iver started at the sudden loud noise. It was then he saw that the man was wearing gloves. That there was a rope on the table. That the table had been cleared of all paper.

  Iver swallowed. Considered whether he should try turning on his heel and legging it, but the man’s gun and the way he was holding it made him stay put.

  ‘What do you want?’

  The two men got up at the same time.

  ‘We want to know how much you know and who you’ve told.’

  The man who was talking took a step closer. He was small, with thin, unkempt hair on his head, but all the more on his chest, which was bursting over the neckline of his black hoodie. He was compact, strong; Iver could see the muscles on his chest rippling. And he wondered why neither of them had bothered to hide their faces. How they had got in? What they were going to do with the rope?

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  Iver tried to be nonchalant, but could hear that he wasn’t doing it very well, that his voice was trembling. He looked over at the windows. Were any of them open? Could he throw himself out? It was a long way down and the ground was covered in asphalt.

  The second man grabbed the rope on the table.

  ‘Do you see what I’ve done in here?’ the first man asked, and looked up at the ceiling. Iver followed his eyes. At first glance he didn’t notice anything unusual.

  Then he spotted it.

  The hook.
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  The man produced a knife.

  ‘I saw this once, in a film,’ he explained. ‘I like films. Do you like films, Gundersen?’

  He looked questioningly at Iver, who wasn’t able to answer.

  ‘I’ve never tried it myself, but do you know what happens if you start to bleed, from the neck, for example, when you’re hanging upside down?’

  The man put the blade of the knife to his own neck.

  Iver swallowed again. Thought about how he could get out.

  ‘It depends on the wound, of course, how deep the cut is, but if you cut the main artery here…’

  He pointed to one of the two arteries on his neck.

  ‘…just enough to start bleeding…’

  He paused again.

  ‘…it takes about half an hour to die.’

  Iver noticed that the man talking also had a gun in his jacket pocket. You’re going to have to be smart here, he said to himself, or it’s not going to be good.

  ‘I don’t understand what it is that you want,’ he stammered. ‘I don’t know anything, I haven’t…’

  ‘Shh,’ the man interrupted. ‘Enough.’

  He shook his head and took a step closer.

  ‘We’ll find out what you know, whether you want us to or not. It’s only a matter of time.’

  Then he smiled – a flashing, Machiavellian smile – and shook a watch free from under his sleeve. He looked at his friend again, and said, ‘What do you reckon, Jeton – do you think it will take more than half an hour?’

  5

  The air in the cabin was cold and dry – it almost felt like the air conditioning onboard the Norwegian flight from Frankfurt was set at frost, not spa, but that was perhaps also because Trine had spent the past couple of weeks in the Bahamas, far from the chilly, autumnal capital of Norway.

  And it had been a truly fantastic fortnight. Just her, on her own, with an arsenal of e-books and a sunbed that she didn’t have to get up at five in the morning to bag. She’d needed to think about something other than the reason she’d been forced to step down as Minister of Justice. She’d been accused, falsely, of sexually harassing a younger, male politician, which had left her drained of energy, and being in a place where no one knew who she was had allowed her to forget, certainly for shorter periods, how awful it had all been, how painful it had been – especially the conversation she’d had to have with Pål Fredrik the same evening that she’d publicly announced she was stepping down.