Pierced, p.2
Pierced, page 2
‘So do you think you’ll be coming back here?’ Grønningen asks him. Heggelund squeezes his eyes shut and tries to shake his head. Tears mix with drops of sweat on his face.
‘Are you going to tell anyone about this?’ Holte hisses. Again, Heggelund attempts to shake his head. Grønningen looks at him for a few seconds before he gets off and nods to Holte. Heggelund can barely breathe, but Holte doesn’t remove the bar.
‘Petter!’
Reluctantly Holte lifts the bar aided by what little is left of Heggelund’s strength. He slams it back in the stand. Holte turns around and snatches a towel while he snorts with contempt. Grønningen pulls him to one side.
‘You could have killed him!’ he whispers. Holte doesn’t reply, he merely looks at Heggelund, who is gasping for air. His cheeks are stained with tears, his eyelids heavy.
‘Enough is enough,’ Grønningen says. ‘Have you forgotten everything Tore taught us?’
Holte makes no reply, he just walks off a few steps. Heggelund discreetly moves into a sitting position while James Hetfield’s voice roars from the sound system. Grønningen turns around and goes back to Heggelund, who is still clutching his throat. Grønningen waits until the two of them have eye contact before he nods his head in the direction of the door. Heggelund struggles to his feet and staggers towards the exit, where the name of the gym glows at him in letters the colour of blood: Fighting Fit.
Chapter 3
A sharp light makes Henning blink. His eyes feel gritty. He rubs away the sleep and feels an ache across his lower back.
He sits up slowly. The Coke on the coffee table is no longer cold, but he takes a sip all the same, letting it fizz in his mouth. Outside, shades of blue sky merge into one another. He lets in the warm summer wind through a window in the living room. A swallow cries out, but there is no answer. Behind the block of flats opposite his a yellow construction crane skims the tops of the trees.
Henning goes to the bedroom, takes two tablets from the jar on his bedside table and swallows them dry before he continues to the kitchen where he glances at the chaotic pile of newspapers and printouts on the table. He sits down in front of his laptop, bumping into one of the table legs as he does so, and jolts the remains of a mug of cold coffee with dark brown rings on the inside. He opens up the screen and is greeted by an old version of the home page of 123news.no, before it automatically updates itself. Henning reads the main story, then he scrolls down and learns that nothing much has happened overnight. Heatwaves in Europe. Russia thinks Iran will soon have the ability to develop a nuclear bomb. Two people seriously injured following a traffic accident in Hedmark. Some girl he has seen before, but whose name he can’t remember, has had enough of her breast implants.
Henning checks the competition’s websites as well, even though he doesn’t know why he bothers, because it’s a waste of time. It’s the same news everywhere. But this is how he starts his day. And it’s what he used to do before Jonas died.
Soon it will be two years, Henning thinks. For most people, two years is an eternity of moments and memories stacked on top of each other. For him it’s no time at all. He hasn’t managed to uncover a single clue. It would have been so much easier if only he could remember something, anything, from the days and weeks leading up to the fire.
The face of Mikael Vollan stares out at him from the top of the pile. Mikael Vollan, the man who bombarded businesses and private individuals with 153 million fraudulent emails sent through accounts he created using false identities. Vollan advertised pyramid schemes and other scams to trick people into paying for something that didn’t exist. Henning got so fed up with receiving all that spam that he decided to find out who was behind it and what was in it for them. Together with 6tiermes7 (Henning’s anonymous police source) and his good friend and computer wiz Atle Abelsen, he eventually managed to unravel Vollan’s network. When the most important pieces were in place, Henning handed over his file to the Norwegian Gaming Authority, the Norwegian National Authority for Investigation and Prosecution of Economic and Environmental Crime and, eventually, Kripos, the Norwegian Serious Crime Unit, in return for a head start of a couple of hours before the long arm of the law went into action. Vollan was later sentenced to seven years’ imprisonment, and he was ordered to pay compensation as well.
Henning studies the printouts once more before putting them away with a sigh. In court Vollan expressed both remorse and relief: he was glad that someone had finally put a stop to him. It had become an obsession was how he put it.
Vollan wouldn’t have had any money left to pay a hit man to eliminate Henning. Or Jonas.
Henning rubs his face wearily. Something will turn up, he tells himself. It has to.
Chapter 4
Tore Pulli used to enjoy looking at himself in the mirror. The ultra-short hair. The bright blue eyes. The strong nose. The dense, neatly combed beard. His sharp chin that no one had ever managed to punch without having their own smashed soon afterwards. The gold chains around his neck. The tight-fitting clothes. He loved to see how his muscles bulged, how his veins swelled under the tanned, tattooed skin. No one was ever in any doubt that he, Tore Pulli, was a guy they really didn’t want to mess with.
But that’s not what he sees now. His clothes no longer fit his body as snugly as they once did. What was at one time a tightly packed explosion, feared and revered, is nothing but a distant memory.
Pulli turns on the tap and lets the water run until it gets cold before he bends down and immerses his face in his wet hands. He rubs his eyes, dragging his fingers across his cheeks, his forehead, the frown lines and the bald patch before he dries himself with a white towel. Are you ready?, he asks the face in the mirror. Are you really going to go through with this?
Veronica looks back at him from the picture on the cork noticeboard. As always, she looks straight at him with her lovely youthful smile. And as always he wonders how she keeps going.
Pulli sits down on the narrow pine bed, rests his elbows on his knees and cups his hands under his chin. His eyes wander to the rubbish bin overflowing on the grey linoleum floor. An ashtray, a lighter and a remote control are lying on a stool in front of him. His best friends. Surrounding him, his four worst enemies.
Resolutely he gets up and walks out into a corridor almost as long as a handball pitch, only narrower and with tables and seating arrangements, benches and chairs, placed either side of thick yellow lines. He nods briefly to the guard in the armoured glass cage, points to a telephone and gets a nod in return before he walks, unwillingly, to a table on the opposite side of the room A grey telephone sits on top of a dark-red plastic cloth. Stacks of writing paper, envelopes and forms are lying next to it. Pulli looks at the wall clock. Twenty minutes max.
He lifts the receiver but puts it back immediately. Have you done everything you can?, he wonders. Is there really no one else who can help you?
No. There are no other options left.
Chapter 5
Henning’s back is damp with sweat as he stops at the corner outside Café Con Bar. Across the road, Vaterlands Park lies like a lung between Oslo Plaza Hotel and the aggressive main road to Grønland. Nearby, a steady stream of people hurry across the uneven cobblestones. The traffic roars angrily.
Henning takes off his rather scruffy jacket and finds a vacant table. If Erling Ophus hadn’t insisted on meeting in the city centre, and preferably near his old workplace, Henning would never have chosen to sit in a place where people rush by.
Henning has interviewed Ophus many times before, but he has never met him in person. By the time Ophus turned up at a crime scene, the flames had usually died down and the journalists had gone home to write up their stories. Henning was surprised that Ophus was prepared to meet with him on a Saturday rather than enjoy his leisurely retirement in Leirsund.
It doesn’t take long before Henning spots Ophus across the road. The retired fire investigator wisely waits for a green light before he crosses. Henning stands up, takes a few steps towards Ophus and holds out his hand. The tall, stately man in the short-sleeved white shirt and dark-blue trousers smiles and shakes Henning’s hand firmly.
‘Hi,’ Henning says. ‘Thank you for coming.’
‘No, thank you. My wife had planned for me to spend the day on all fours in the flowerbed, and you’ve given me a good excuse to come into town and perhaps catch up with some old colleagues later. If they’re at work, that is.’
Ophus smiles and lets go of Henning’s hand. He gestures to a chair on the opposite side of the table and they sit down.
Ophus looks as if he has just come from a mountain hike, although even more energetic than when he set out. The skin on his face is fresh and clean-shaven with a warm glow of summer. The lines in his forehead are wavy and deep. He has a distinctive mole on his left cheek, but his face would be poorer without it.
A waiter with bed hair and large bags under his eyes comes over to them.
‘Would you like something to drink?’ Henning asks his guest.
‘A cup of coffee would be nice.’
‘Two coffees,’ Henning says to the waiter, who turns around instantly without saying a word. Henning holds up his new mobile. ‘Would you mind if I record our conversation?’
‘No, no. That’s fine.’
Henning presses the red button in the centre of the active screen and checks that it starts recording.
‘As I explained to you on the telephone,’ he clears his throat, ‘I’m working on this case.’
‘Yes, so I gather.’
Henning is about to ask his first question when his mobile rings.
‘I’m sorry, I have to—’
‘That’s all right,’ Ophus says and holds up his hands. Henning looks at the number. Unknown. He ignores the call.
‘Let’s try again,’ he smiles. ‘So you worked as a fire investigator all your life?’
‘That’s right,’ Ophus says, proudly. ‘I guess I’ve investigated more cases than anyone else in Norway. The insurance companies were keen to snatch me up when I retired, but once I had decided it was time to stop, I wanted to stop completely – though I have to admit I’m starting to regret my decision.’
‘Too much weeding?’
Ophus nods and smiles as he accepts the clattering china cup from the sleepy waiter.
‘What is the most common cause of a domestic fire?’
‘Carelessness,’ Ophus replies and slurps his coffee greedily. ‘Around one in four fires are started by naked flames, cigarettes and candles. People are careless with ashes. It doesn’t cross their minds that something could still be burning or smouldering long after the flames have burned down. Then you have people playing with lighters – and fireworks, of course. Things like that.’ Ophus gestures.
‘A fair number of fires are caused by people boiling a kettle dry or overheating a cooker or covering electric heaters. These days we all have so many electrical products and the quality varies enormously. Around 20 per cent of all fires are caused by faulty electric goods.’
Henning leans across the table.
‘What about arson?’
‘Roughly 10 per cent of all fires are started deliberately. We never succeed in identifying the cause of around double that number. And finally some fires are caused by lightning or people immolating themselves.’
Henning makes a quick note on the pad lying in front of him.
‘Is it difficult to investigate a fire?’
‘Yes, very much so. Most of the time the fire will have wiped out any evidence there might have been. Besides, even the most experienced investigator never stops learning.’
‘And the police must investigate all fires by law, am I right?’
‘Indeed they must.’
Henning’s mobile rings again. Unknown is calling him a second time, he notices, but he continues to ignores it.
‘How do they do that?’
‘Eh?’
‘How do the police go about investigating a fire?’
‘Have you ever heard about the Five Es rule?’
‘No, what’s that?’
Ophus smiles and takes a run at it: ‘Evidence, Examination, Evaluation, Elimination and Enforcement.’
Henning grins.
‘How long did it take you to come up with that?’
‘Weeks. No. Months!’ Ophus smiles again.
Silence falls at the table while Ophus drinks his coffee. Henning looks at his notes. ‘So approximately 10 per cent of all fires are arson?’
‘Around 10 per cent, yes.’
Henning nods. He feels the scars on his face burn as if they were being licked by flames. Slowly, he looks up at Ophus.
‘My flat burned down two years ago,’ Henning says and looks down again. ‘I lost my son.’
‘Oh, how awful.’
‘That was when I got these.’ Henning points to his scars. ‘I had to jump through a wall of flames to get to my son, but—’
He doesn’t manage to complete the sentence. He never does. ‘I think the fire was started deliberately.’
‘What makes you think that?’ Ophus asks after an unashamed slurp of his coffee. Henning cringes. He is only too aware that his argument is low on evidence.
‘I don’t know, really. It’s a hunch I have, a gut feeling, call it what you will. And then there is—’
Henning breaks off, thinking that there is no point in telling a man like Ophus about his dreams and the images he sees in them. He shakes his head softly. ‘It’s just something I believe.’
Ophus nods quietly while he raises his cup to his lips. ‘When did it happen?’
‘11 September 2007.’
‘That’s after my time, sorry.’
Henning gives him a deflated look before lowering his gaze.
‘What did the police say? I presume they investigated the fire?’ Ophus looks at him over the rim of his cup and narrows his eyes.
‘Yes,’ Henning says. ‘And they concluded that the cause of the fire was unknown.’
‘But you believe it was started deliberately?’
Henning tries to straighten up, but he slumps immediately and hugs himself. ‘I’ve no idea how it could have been done,’ he admits.
Ophus finally takes a sip of his coffee and puts down the cup with a clatter. ‘What did the police report say?’
‘I’ve never saw it myself, but I’ve heard they concluded that the fire most likely started in the hallway.’
‘Did the fire start while you were at home?’
‘Yes.’
‘Any sign of a break-in?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Did you lock the door?’
‘I don’t remember. I’ve no memory of anything that happened in the days and weeks leading up to the fire. But I think so. I always used to lock the door even when I was at home during the day, but I can’t remember if I locked it that evening.’
‘Didn’t you have smoke detectors fitted?’
The rhythm of Ophus’s questions and Henning’s answers breaks down. The cobblestones stare back at him accusingly.
‘I did have one, but the battery was dead and I—’ Henning tries to look up while he gulps.
‘And the police found no foot- or fingerprints, no other evidence, DNA—’
Henning shakes his head.
‘And yet you still believe that someone started a fire in your home?’
‘Yes.’
Ophus leans back in his chair. At that moment, Henning’s mobile rings for the third time. Henning glances irritably at the display. Unknown.
‘I’m sorry, I—’
‘Go on, answer it. I’m in no rush.’
‘Is that all right? Are you sure that—’
‘Yes, absolutely. I don’t mind.’
‘Thank you, I’ll—’
Henning waves his hand without quite knowing why. Ophus nods sympathetically. Henning takes the call.
‘Henning Juul?’
‘Yes?’
‘Henning Juul, the reporter?’
‘That’s me, yes. Who is this?’
‘My name is Tore Pulli.’
Henning straightens up and says hi.
‘Do you remember me?’
‘I know who you are. What’s this about?’
Pulli doesn’t reply. Henning moistens his lips in the silence that follows. ‘Why are you calling me?’ he asks.
‘I’ve got a story for you,’ Pulli says.
‘What kind of story?’
‘I can’t tell you over the phone.’
‘All right. Listen, I would like to talk to you, but I’m a bit busy right now. Could I get you to call me back later? Preferably during office hours?’
‘I can’t—’
‘Great,’ Henning interrupts him. ‘Thanks very much.’
He ends the call and smiles quickly at Ophus, who is watching the increasingly busy traffic. Henning exhales hard.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he says and is rewarded with another understanding smile.
‘But back to our conversation,’ Ophus says, looking at Henning. ‘I have to be honest with you. If the police investigation has made no progress in two years, there’s little that can be done now. Finding fresh evidence is out of the question. I assume that your flat was demolished or renovated following the fire?’
‘Yes. Other people live there now.’
‘So any evidence is gone for good. And there are many ways to torch a flat which are impossible to detect. Unfortunately.’
Henning nods silently. They sit there looking at each other until Henning looks away. He knows that he has to find the person or persons who set fire to his flat and get them to admit it. It is the only thing that will satisfy him.
His eyes wander to the junction.
‘So you think that someone was trying to get you? Kill you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, that’s the big question. I don’t know. I don’t even know where to begin.’
‘And this happened two years ago?’
