Killed Page 9

  They were barely through the door when a voice from the living room said, ‘Whoa-whoa-whoa, what are you doing, Bjarne?’

  The sharp voice belonged to a petite, compact woman, whose accent suggested she came from the north of Norway. She emerged with her hands up to stop him. Henning looked at her. It wasn’t hard to guess she was from forensics.

  ‘You can’t take a civvy in here. Not now.’

  ‘He might be able to help,’ Bjarne explained. ‘He’s been here before. In the past few days.’

  ‘Yes, but…’

  ‘He’ll be able to see if anything’s out of place in a way that we can’t,’ Bjarne interjected. ‘I promise you, Sara, we’ll be out of your way in a couple of minutes.’

  She didn’t respond, just stood there glaring at them.

  ‘Thank you,’ Bjarne said, taking it as silent assent. ‘I owe you one.’

  Henning turned towards the front door, looked at the row of shoes, the hooks on the wall, the coats and jackets, a clothes hanger. He turned slowly round and lifted his eyes towards the living-room door, took a step forwards, looked at the clothes on the floor, the wires, a beer can, newspapers, the coal and ash in the fireplace.

  There was blood on the floor. Dark red. Henning had thought he’d be able to resist looking at it, but the colour was so deep, that he stood there staring until his vision was blurred by saltiness. It was as though there was a magnet in the deep red blood that kept drawing his eyes back.

  He looked up. Saw the hook on the ceiling.

  ‘Is that where he was hanging?’

  Bjarne exchanged glances with the technician. Henning looked from one to the other.

  ‘There’s bits of fabric up there,’ he said. ‘And so much blood in one place…’

  Neither Bjarne nor the technician answered, but he didn’t need any confirmation. That meant there must have been at least two people involved. One person would never have managed to hoist Iver up by himself.

  ‘Can you see anything … unusual in here?’ Bjarne asked.

  Henning studied the room. Saw a candlestick on the windowsill with no wax on it. A vase of something that looked like dry twigs. Book with the front cover facing down, two remote controls, another beside the telly. The small sideboard under the TV was closed. A blanket had been flung on the sofa. A lamp was on.

  He stopped when he got to the coffee table.

  ‘If Iver was working on anything,’ he said, and felt acutely how hard it was to say his name out loud, ‘he used to spread his papers out all over that table there.’ He pointed. ‘But there’s nothing there. No paper. No printouts.’

  ‘Do you think the people who did this took any papers with them?’

  Henning nodded.

  ‘It’s certainly possible,’ he said, quietly.

  ‘Sara, do you know if anyone has taken stuff from the table?’

  She frowned at him, then shook her head.

  They stood there, all three of them looking around.

  ‘I’ve seen enough,’ Henning said. ‘Get me out of here.’

  They went out into the kitchen. Henning turned around again. Looked at the blood, at the rest of Iver’s flat. The police had presumably started to map his final movements, but he wondered if he could work that out on his own, without having to ask Bjarne.

  Henning looked up on the hat shelf in the hall, where Iver usually left his car keys. Bjarne’s phone started to ring, and he answered and opened the front door at the same time.

  Henning looked around again quickly; there was no one else in the hall. He reached up and managed to take Iver’s keys in the nick of time, just before Bjarne turned round and held the door open for him.

  ‘Are you coming?’ he asked.

  Henning nodded and left the flat.

  15

  ‘Stop,’ Charlie Høisæther said. ‘Stop, now.’

  Freddy pulled into the pavement and stopped.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Wait here.’

  ‘Shouldn’t I…’

  ‘Just wait here,’ Charlie repeated, as he got out of the car. He looked in both directions and then ran across the road into the gallery. A bell tinkled above him as he entered the air-conditioned premises. Even that short dash across the road had made Charlie sweat. The cool air was refreshing.

  ‘Hello,’ said the owner, a short man with a dark comb-over. He came towards Charlie, the palms of his hands pressed together. ‘A pleasure to see you, sir. How can I help you?’

  ‘That painting there,’ Charlie said and pointed at the large canvas that was in the window. ‘Who painted it?’

  ‘Ah, A mulher da minha vida,’ he exclaimed with delight. ‘Roberto Souza. He’s from Castelo Branco.’

  Charlie took a step closer.

  ‘It’s in Portugal,’ the owner enthused.

  ‘Can you take it down?’ Charlie asked.

  The man looked questioningly at him. ‘You mean… now?’

  ‘Yes, now. Out here.’

  Charlie pointed to the wall in front of them.

  ‘I’m interested in buying it,’ he added.

  ‘Ah, yes, of course. But let me just get my assistant. One moment, please.’

  The gallery owner called out a name and some instructions in his own language, and soon another equally short man appeared. They looked like twins, the same height, the same features, the same small, pointy chin. Not without difficulty, they managed to climb into the window and take down the painting. They then propped it up against the wall, as Charlie had asked them to.

  The painting was of a woman in profile, with long, jet-black hair, against the golden-red sunlight of early evening. She was on a beach, staring longingly out to sea. Her hair fell beyond the edge of the painting, where two hands were just visible under the black locks. She was wearing a white dress.

  ‘The painting is 77 by 53 centimetres,’ the owner told him. ‘The same as the Mona Lisa.’

  ‘How much does it cost?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘34,500 reais.’

  ‘Can you deliver it to my home?’

  The two men sent each other a speedy and thrilled look, then turned back to Charlie.

  ‘I’ll pay extra if you can deliver it today,’ he said.

  ‘Of course, sir,’ the owner said eagerly. ‘We’ll arrange that.’

  Charlie went over to the till and put his credit card down on the counter. The owner was promptly beside him, the sweat breaking on his brow from the last few minutes of exertion.

  ‘Roberto Souza is a very talented painter,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sure he is, but I just want this one.’

  ‘Of course. One moment.’

  Charlie turned back to look at the painting.

  It was perfect.

  She was perfect.

  When the doorbell rang a couple of hours later, Charlie was sitting on a bar stool in the kitchen, reading the Norwegian papers on his mobile phone.

  Isabel called from the living room: ‘Who is it?’

  Charlie didn’t answer, just went over to the intercom on the wall beside the door.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Delivery for Mr … um, Mr … um…’

  ‘Fifteenth floor.’

  Charlie stood by the door and waited for the lift to ping open. He said hello to the two men who carried the painting in. Their shoes immediately left marks on the floor tiles.

  ‘Where do you want it?’

  ‘The living room,’ Charlie said.

  He showed them in. Isabel was sitting reading a fashion magazine when they came in. She stood up and looked at them with round, curious eyes.

  ‘Over there,’ Charlie said, pointing at a bare white wall behind the dining table. The men did as they were told.

  ‘What have you bought?’ Isabel asked.

  Charlie sent her a long look.

  ‘Is it a painting?’ she asked.

  ‘Mm-hm.’

  The large rectangle was packed in bubble wrap and paper.


  ‘Shall we hang it on the wall for you?’ the men asked.

  ‘Just leave it there, thanks,’ Charlie said, pointing at the floor.

  ‘OK.’

  Charlie gave them each one hundred reais. The men bowed their heads in thanks and quickly retreated. Charlie locked the door behind them and ran back into the living room.

  ‘How exciting,’ Isabel said.

  Charlie removed the paper and bubble wrap with care.

  And there she was.

  A mulher da minha vida.

  ‘Oh,’ Isabel said dreamily, ‘how…’

  She put an arm round him from behind, pulled him to her.

  ‘So…’

  Charlie just stood there, looking at the hair, the beach, the sand, the sunset.

  ‘Is it…?’

  Charlie wasn’t listening.

  ‘I mean … she doesn’t have my curls, but…’

  Should he say something?

  No, that would nasty.

  And then Isabel kissed him on the neck and slid her hands down over his chest muscles, stomach and then lowered herself down on to her knees in front of him. He looked at her – A mulher da minha vida – ‘Woman of my life’. Love of my life. He could swear he could even smell her.

  16

  Bjarne spoke into his phone on the way down the stairs, but hung up as soon as they came out into the courtyard. The rain was heavier, splashing on the cobbles.

  ‘Could you drive me to 123News?’ Henning shouted over the steady hiss of the rain.

  Bjarne looked at him for a long time, then at his shoulder bag.

  ‘You’re not thinking of working now, are you?’ Bjarne asked loudly.

  ‘No,’ Henning said. ‘I just want to be there.’

  Bjarne gave an understanding nod.

  ‘Of course.’

  They went out onto the street, into the chaos and cordons, and tightly packed journalists under umbrellas, ready to attack. But Henning didn’t look at them, didn’t listen to the questions they shouted at him and Bjarne, and instead concentrated on the reflection from the streetlamps on the dark, wet asphalt.

  ‘Have you found any evidence?’ Henning asked, when they got into the car. Bjarne put the heat on full blast. The windscreen wipers went back and forth briskly.

  Bjarne looked over at him.

  ‘I can’t say anything about that at the moment, Henning. Certainly not to you; you can’t start your own investigation.’

  ‘And you think I’ll just accept that?’

  ‘Henning, I…’ Bjarne searched for words.

  Henning sighed.

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I’ll find other ways.’

  He knew that Bjarne was only trying to protect him. But there was no way he was going to leave the police to investigate Iver’s death alone. The question was how he would get hold of the information if Bjarne wasn’t willing to supply it. Henning’s secret online source in the police, 6tiermes7, had not been active for some time now.

  Bjarne drove slowly and made no unexpected manoeuvres in the traffic. The police radio peeped every now and then, but Bjarne had turned down the volume. Henning leaned his head against the window, felt it banging against the glass. Outside the window, the buildings and dark streets passed by. The cars and buses sprayed water over the pavements and pedestrians made themselves as small as they could beneath their umbrellas.

  ‘Where are you going to stay tonight?’ Bjarne asked.

  Henning thought about Veronica Nansen, who he assumed would be happy to open her home to him if he asked, but he didn’t want to expose her to any more danger.

  ‘Don’t know,’ he replied.

  Bjarne held his gaze for so long that the car almost mounted onto the kerb. He realised this just in time and managed to pull back into the road. Henning grabbed the handle above the door.

  Soon they turned into Urtegata, where 123News had its offices. Bjarne stopped in front of big, black iron gates. Let the engine run.

  ‘You’ll have to come down to the main station tomorrow,’ he said. ‘For questioning. In a more formal setting. If Gundersen’s death has anything to do with you, then it won’t be just Sandland and me who want to know what you’ve discovered.’

  Henning considered this. With dread.

  ‘Nora,’ he said, as he opened the door. ‘You’ll keep an eye her, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course,’ Bjarne said.

  ‘OK.’ Henning got out. ‘Thanks for the lift.’

  Henning didn’t have his staff card with him, so he had to ring the bell and wait for someone to come down. He didn’t recognise the girl who eventually appeared, but she seemed to know who he was.

  ‘Come in, Henning,’ she said. ‘Everyone’s up on the second floor.’

  He went up the stairs behind her, even though it made his hips ache. Henning hadn’t been into the office for two weeks; he’d managed to persuade the home news editor, Heidi Kjus, to give him two weeks’ unpaid leave so he could focus fully on finding Jonas’ killer. On the way up to the second floor, he wondered how the other journalists would react to his presence. Everyone knew about his complicated relationship with Iver: they were friends, but with Nora in the middle too.

  The girl in front of him pushed the door open and went into the offices. It was so quiet in there. The only person to be seen when he rounded the corner by the coffee machine was the man sitting alone at the front desk.

  ‘We’re all in the big meeting room,’ the girl told him.

  Henning heard hushed voices, a glass or cup being put down on the table. He stopped outside because he couldn’t face going in. But Heidi Kjus spotted him through the open door, jumped up from her chair and came out.

  She looked even thinner than before, if that was possible, but was, as always, dressed like a lawyer, in a smart skirt, shirt and jacket – all in the same dark blue. And she was, as always, extravagantly made up, but the usual stiffness in her face, that middle-management look, had been replaced by a softer expression. A welcome change, Henning thought. It was good to know that Heidi could be human too. But he could see that she hadn’t shed any tears, as several other colleagues clearly had.

  ‘Hello Henning,’ she said, and stopped in front of him. Then she took another step closer and put her arms around him. It felt strange to be hugged by a person he’d argued with so often, but he hugged her back all the same. What surprised him even more was discovering that he felt like bursting into tears.

  ‘I tried to ring you,’ she said quietly into his ear.

  They let go of each other.

  ‘Right, I’ve been … at the scene of the crime,’ he said.

  ‘I heard. How…’

  She stopped herself and looked away briefly.

  ‘I take it you’re covering the case?’ Henning said.

  ‘Yes, but it’s fairly low key at the moment; not many people can face it. Or deal with it, for that matter. So, it’s mainly Norwegian News Agency information.’

  Henning nodded.

  ‘We’ve just had a small ceremony,’ she continued. ‘Sture said a few words. He’s written the obituary as well. You should read it. It’s good.’

  Henning nodded.

  ‘Have the police been here?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Heidi said, then walked past him. ‘They took his hard drive and all his papers and notepads.’

  Henning hadn’t expected anything less, but had hoped all the same that he might get a look at Iver’s notes first. He followed her over to the empty desk. A single lit candle cast a shiny golden sheen on the black screen.

  Heidi took a deep breath.

  ‘It’s so…’ She shook her head and turned her face away.

  ‘What did they ask about? The police, that is.’

  Heidi turned to look at him again.

  ‘The usual, I guess. What he was working on, if he’d been anywhere in particular before the weekend, if he’d written anything recently that might have upset someone.’

  She shrugged.

&
nbsp; ‘And had he?’ Henning asked.

  Heidi shook her head.

  ‘He was in Tønsberg with you last week, and then he was in hospital for a few days with…’ She stopped.

  Henning thought about Nora again. About how she must feel right now.

  They stood there looking at the candle for a while. The silence was broken by a telephone ringing. It took a couple of seconds before Henning realised it was his.

  He took it out of his pocket.

  ‘I have to take this,’ he said, then retreated a few steps.

  ‘OK. I’ll go back in to the others for the moment. It would nice if you came in too, Henning.’

  He didn’t answer, just nodded and waited until she’d left. Then he answered and put the phone to his ear.

  ‘Ah, there you are, at last,’ Pia Nøkleby said. ‘I was starting to get worried.’

  ‘What’s up?’ Henning asked.

  ‘I’ve got something for you,’ she said.

  She told him about her relationship with Andreas Kjær and that he had confessed, shortly after Henning had left.

  ‘He’s agreed to meet you tomorrow morning,’ she said. ‘Do you know where Skar is?’

  Henning thought quickly.

  ‘At the end of Maridalen, is that right?’ he said.

  ‘Yes. Start walking towards Øyungen, and he’ll find you along the path. He’s going for a run tomorrow morning around ten o’clock.’

  ‘OK. Great. Thank you.’

  ‘I want you to call me afterwards so we can discuss what to do next.’

  Henning thought about it.

  ‘OK,’ he said again.

  ‘I sincerely hope that you won’t write anything about this, Henning. I’m trying to protect myself here, as well as Andreas. Not to mention the force. The man on the street has to trust the police.’

  Henning was far beyond the point where he was thinking about journalism.

  ‘Don’t worry, absolutely not,’ he said. ‘Speak tomorrow then.’

  17

  It hurt to lift her hands to her face to wipe away the tears. It hurt to pull the blanket tighter round her. It hurt to hear the sound of her own breathing.