Killed Read online

  ‘Hi. How are things?’ she asked with a concern in her voice that surprised him.

  Henning shrugged.

  ‘I’ve been better,’ he said, and pushed the strap of his bag further onto his shoulder. ‘How about you?’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.

  He noticed her eyes.

  ‘Bad timing?’ he asked.

  ‘Kind of,’ she said. ‘Why did you come here?’

  ‘Indicia,’ he started.

  She looked up.

  ‘You want to talk about Indicia? Now?’

  ‘I’ve spoken to Bjarne,’ Henning continued. ‘He said that you knew that someone had used your username and password to get into Indicia and remove information about what Tore Pulli was doing outside my building on 11 September 2007. The night I lost my son.’

  Nøkleby opened her mouth a fraction, as though she was about to say something, but nothing came out.

  ‘Bjarne said you’d asked how I knew about it,’ Henning said. He was quick to hold up his hands. ‘And don’t worry, I’m not here as a journalist. I just need your help.’

  She pulled her jacket even tighter.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘I need to find out what it said in that report and who edited it. I know it wasn’t you, but it has to be someone who could somehow get hold of your username and password.’

  Henning was more and more certain that there was something in the report that would explain why Tore had been killed, or who was behind it.

  Nøkleby sighed.

  ‘Henning, I’ve no idea wha—’

  ‘Well, I happen to think you do.’ He paused before continuing. ‘It has to be someone you know well, and I’m not necessarily thinking about the people at work – I’m sure they don’t hang over your shoulder every time you go onto Indicia. I think maybe someone you meet outside work; here, for example. I’m sure you bring a work computer home sometimes.’

  He indicated her building. Nøkleby looked at him and then looked down.

  ‘Think carefully,’ Henning asked her. ‘It might be someone you trust. I know nothing about your private life, so maybe you have or had a partner…’

  ‘My private life has nothing to do with you.’

  She lifted her head and glared at him.

  ‘No, no, I know. But please, Pia, help me if you can. I need to get to the bottom of this and, to be honest, I think you need to know who’s used your name as well.’

  A nearby garage door opened. The noise made him jump. A car rolled out. Henning turned his back to it.

  ‘I don’t know if Bjarne’s said anything,’ he carried on, when the car had passed. ‘But I’ve got a couple of guys on my back who’re pretty worried about what I might discover. If I manage to stay alive, that is.’

  Nøkleby looked at him.

  Henning saw something change in her eyes. It was a fear on his behalf, but not as he’d expected. It was more like a mixture of sympathy and horror.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘You’ve not heard, have you?’ she said.

  He took a step closer, and said, ‘Heard what?’

  11

  Durim Redzepi liked driving cars and he particularly liked this road. Not much traffic, lots of bends. He loved feeling the g-force on the bends, not knowing if he could keep the car on the road, but there were quite a few police around out here, so it was probably best to take it easy. Especially now.

  Redzepi had never met Daddy Longlegs before and he wasn’t quite sure what to think, really, about both the man and their imminent meeting. Up until now they had communicated via a phone box and pay-as-you-go mobile phone, but suddenly it appeared that they had to meet face to face, and as soon as possible. And Daddy Longlegs didn’t want to say why.

  So Redzepi had suggested that they meet at the cabin where he’d been living since spring, one that Daddy Longlegs had organised for him. At least he was familiar with his surroundings there. He had control. Given the job they’d done this morning, there was a slim possibility that he wanted him out of the way for good, so he didn’t have to pay him, and so that there were no loose ends. But then he would have had the same plan for Jeton Pocoli, and Redzepi had let him off at the Colosseum Cinema half an hour ago. From there, his friend from Kosovo would go home to his flat in Tøyen and wait for the next phone call.

  Redzepi took off from the main road, onto the forest track, where the grass and gravel crunched merrily under the tyres. He always drove slowly here, allowing the deep tracks to guide him until he turned left at the T-junction, with the small stream on his right. He liked to see it twisting between the trees, to hear the chuckling sound. Sometimes he walked beside the water and wondered if there were any fish in it.

  Redzepi drove on, over an old, narrow stone bridge and up the small hill to where the red cabin looked proudly out over the forest.

  It was more than big enough for his needs. Two bedrooms, living room, kitchen. He didn’t have hot water, and there was only an outdoor toilet, but he was used to poor conditions from Kosovo. And it was fine to wash in the lake, which was only a few cone throws away. He even had a rowing boat on the shore that he sometimes used to fish for pike and perch.

  And it was so quiet there.

  What he loved most about the cabin and the forest were the days when he had the time to take a cup of coffee out with him in the morning and sit on the dirty white plastic chair, while he rolled two or three cigarettes and just enjoyed waking up gradually. It always reminded him of Izbica, where he had done the same as often as the weather permitted. If he really listened, he could almost hear Jaroslav’s tractor, Mika’s pigs, the cows in the field on the other side of the road that ran through the village, where everything was slow, all year round, where someone was always repairing something.

  It hadn’t been easy to find peace after he’d fled Kosovo. Stockholm had been too big. Oslo too small and polluted.

  But in the forest, he could breathe.

  When he stopped and got out of the car, he drew the fresh air deep into his lungs. It was so different from the air in Mitrovica, the hellish lead dust from the Trepca mines. That was the main reason why he’d taken Svetlana and Doruntina away from there; he didn’t want his daughter growing up in such a polluted environment.

  Izbica had been perfect. Good, friendly and helpful neighbours, clean, fresh air, enough to do in the garden and fields. They sold the potatoes they grew locally, sometimes even giving them away to friends who needed them. They’d receive something in return another time. Life had been good there.

  Until that night in March 1999.

  The soldiers who had forced their way into the village were wearing dark uniforms; some of them had balaclavas on, others had camouflage paint on their faces. Redzepi and many of the men, those who were in the Kosovo Liberation Army, escaped to the mountains because they knew the soldiers would show no mercy. But they hadn’t reckoned on those soldiers making quick work of the old men who stayed behind. Some of the women and children were killed as well, shot with machine guns, quite simply executed.

  When Redzepi came back down from the mountains three days later, he couldn’t find his girls. He went to look on his own, taking only the bare minimum of food and drink, plus a gun and some ammunition. He searched everywhere, got more and more desperate, as he tried to picture where they might have walked or run, where they could have hidden.

  But he didn’t find them.

  Tired and hungry, he got to Velika Hoca, a village in the municipality of Orahovac, just over a week later. There he more or less stumbled over two Serbian soldiers sitting guard. Redzepi didn’t know whether they’d taken part in the massacre at Izbica or not, it didn’t matter; he marched straight up to them and shot them. Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth.

  But someone in the village saw him, and he had to run deep into the forest, further and further away from Izbica, and from Svetlana and Doruntina. Even though it was winter, he hid in the forest. He didn’t get much sle
ep. Or food. When he finally managed to make it to the capital, Pristina, 76 kilometres from Velika Hoca, there wasn’t much left of him, but he found his way to the house where his brother Jetmir lived.

  Jetmir and he had never got on that well, and at first his brother didn’t want to take him in, nor did he want to help him. In the end, he agreed to lend him enough money to flee the country. Flurim Ahmetaj, a friend from Mitrovica, had escaped to Stockholm and Redzepi followed him, and stayed with his friend for the first few weeks.

  Ahmetaj was good at anything to do with computers, and had some contacts in the Stockholm underworld who paid him well for his services. That was how Redzepi got involved. First as a favour to Ahmetaj, because his friends needed a driver for a robbery one night and then later, when they realised he was both trustworthy and not afraid to get blood on his hands, they recruited him for other, more dangerous jobs. It was good, quick money.

  And it wasn’t far to Norway, which was where he’d met Ørjan Mjønes, a man who plied him – and the others – with work. Every time they’d done a job, they went back to Sweden to lie low for a while; the reverse if they’d done a job in Sweden. Redzepi sent part of what he earned back to his brother, who in turn paid for people to keep looking for his girls.

  And he was still waiting for an answer.

  Of course he knew they might possibly be buried, like so many others, in a mass grave that had not yet been discovered. But he would never give up. Every evening before he fell asleep, he thought about them, about where they were and what they were doing. How they would look when he met them again.

  Three-quarters of an hour passed before Redzepi heard a car pull up beside his. He went over to the kitchen window and saw a tall man get out of a car that looked like it cost a fortune. The man was wearing a suit and a dark overcoat, and he had a briefcase in his hand. The remains of the afternoon light seemed to focus on the man’s shoes, making them gleam.

  Redzepi went out onto the step to wait for Daddy Longlegs.

  ‘You’re late,’ he said.

  ‘Apologies,’ Daddy Longlegs said. ‘It’s been a rather hectic day, mainly thanks to you.’ He smiled.

  ‘Did anyone see you?’

  ‘Difficult to say.’

  Redzepi welcomed him in with a nod. Daddy Longlegs rubbed his hands together as he entered and looked around. He nodded to himself. Redzepi realised from his expression that Daddy Longlegs was used to something more upmarket than pine walls and redchecked curtains. The tall man walked over to the kitchen counter, picked up a glass that was standing on a tea towel, and held it up towards the light before filling it from the tap. When he’d emptied the glass, he put it down and said, ‘Gundersen. Did you get anything out of him?’

  Redzepi shook his head before answering. ‘But I don’t think he’d managed to tell Juul anything yet. They were going to meet later on today.’

  Daddy Longlegs nodded slowly and put his briefcase down on the kitchen counter, opened it with two synchronised clicks and handed Redzepi some papers and a photograph. Redzepi looked at a man with a strong jaw, muscular neck and cropped hair. The skin on his face was flushed red. There were palm trees in the background.

  ‘Is that the chippy?’ Redzepi asked.

  Daddy Longlegs nodded.

  ‘The photograph is a few years old, so he may of course look a little different now.’

  Redzepi mentally stored the carpenter’s face and tried to imagine what he might look like now. People who went into hiding often changed their appearance. If they had short hair, they let it grow, and if they had long hair, they generally cut it short. They often dyed it as well. There was also a lot of other things you could do with your appearance. Put on weight, or the opposite. Redzepi tried to picture all permutations, but closely the area around the eyes in particular. That seldom changed.

  ‘Everything ready for the funeral?’ Daddy Longlegs asked.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Good. There’s a bonus waiting for you if it all goes according to plan. You need the money, don’t you? It’s been a while since you sent anything back to your brother.’

  Redzepi looked up from the photograph and instead studied the man in front of him. It took a moment before he actually understood what Daddy Longlegs had just said.

  ‘Yes. I know about your girls too, Redz,’ Daddy Longlegs said. ‘They’re called Svetlana and Doruntina, aren’t they?’

  Redzepi was initially glued to the spot, but then he threw down the papers and grabbed Daddy Longlegs by his coat and pushed him up against the kitchen cupboard.

  ‘What do you know about my family?’

  ‘I know why you’re doing this,’ Daddy Longlegs said, unperturbed. ‘You’re looking for them.’

  ‘What do you know about my girls?’

  ‘I know all I need to know.’

  Redzepi pushed him up even harder against the cupboard. Daddy Longlegs rolled his eyes, as though he was already bored of this game.

  ‘I never do business with anyone without knowing as much as I can about them first,’ he said. ‘That shouldn’t surprise you.’

  ‘Tell me what you know about Svetlana and Doruntina. Now.’

  Redzepi’s voice quivered.

  Daddy Longlegs smacked his lips. ‘That’s not the way it works, Redz. Could you…’

  He made a gesture – he wanted him to let go – but Redzepi pushed him further up the cupboard.

  Daddy Longlegs let out a theatrical sigh.

  ‘I’ve got some information that you might be interested in, and yes – it’s about your family. But if I’m going to give you that information, you’re going to give me what I need first. There’s no reason why this shouldn’t be win-win for both of us.’

  Redzepi gave no sign of letting go. Daddy Longlegs looked like he found the whole thing rather tedious.

  Suddenly, Redzepi let go.

  Daddy Longlegs’ shoes rapped on the wooden floor. He puffed and straightened his coat. Then he smiled again, pointed to the papers lying on the floor and indicated that Redzepi should pick them up. While he did this, Daddy Longlegs filled another glass of water and produced a pillbox from the inner pocket of his coat. He took out two pills and swallowed them with water.

  ‘Angina pectoris,’ he said, and removed a drop of water from his lower lip with his tongue. ‘I had an aunt who once thought it was called Vagina pectoris. It’s true.’

  He laughed.

  ‘But it does actually sound like a sexual disease,’ he finished, laughing at his own joke.

  ‘It’s a lot to do, all at the same time,’ Redzepi said. ‘There’s Juul as well.’

  Daddy Longlegs was done with laughing.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ he said, all at once serious. ‘But you’ll manage. Keep your focus in the days ahead, Redz. Do what you have to, and then I’ll tell you what I know about your girls.’

  12

  Even though her work was calling, Pia Nøkleby took her time walking up to the fourth floor, past smells of food, and the rubbish bags and shoes that were standing outside doors on the stairs.

  She thought about Henning, about the look in his eyes, increasingly distant, before he sat down on the pavement with his knees drawn up. He hadn’t cared about the damp air or the wet ground.

  Nøkleby had used Henning’s phone to call for a taxi, but when the car drove off, she wasn’t sure that he’d asked the driver to go to the police headquarters as she had requested. She didn’t like what she had seen in his eyes just before he left. That rage that seemed to spark inside.

  But he’d planted an idea that made her push the door shut with extra force when she was finally inside. She took her shoes off slowly, as though she needed more time to do what she had to do. She placed them beside the slightly larger trainers that had a temporary place in the hall, hung up her jacket and walked calmly into the living room.

  ‘You were a long time,’ he said. ‘Who was that?’

  He was sitting on the sofa smoking a cigarette as he always d
id after they’d had sex. As though he belonged there. Sometimes he had a cup of coffee as well, but as a rule, after his cigarette he just showered and went home or to work, leaving her feeling like a harbour he only visited when it suited him. Which was more or less the case.

  Pia Nøkleby had known Andreas Kjær for four years, since they’d ended up sitting next to each other at a work Christmas dinner. They’d got on so well, and conversation had been easy. He’d made her laugh. At the time, she hadn’t laughed properly with a man for as long as she could remember.

  Nothing had happened that evening, not by a long shot, but because he was a team leader in the Control Centre, they would meet every now and then. They continued to get on well and this developed into stolen glances over food or coffee. Sometimes she found him at night as well, in her dreams, and then one Friday evening they bumped into each other in town, and at the end of the night, she asked him in what was a very direct way for her, if he was going the same way. She’d already seen the answer in his hungry eyes, and the fact that he was married with two children was simply not part of the equation at that point in time. Things took their course.

  Pia’s previous relationship had ended in arguments, and clothes and shared memories being thrown out, and she had not been ready for commitment, only intimacy. She had initially suppressed any thought of morals and allowed herself to be swept along. And goodness, things were still fine; he was a good and considerate lover – rough and ready if she asked for it – but he never stayed the night. What had been exhilarating and exciting at first had gradually become habit.

  She had started to think about ending the relationship. It would fizzle out naturally at some point; she knew that Andreas was not the type to leave his wife and kids, but every time she had made a decision to say something, they ended up in bed.

  She liked herself less and less. She’d never dreamed she would be someone with a lover. A married one, at that. If her mother only knew…