Henning takes a step on to the purple carpet. The tall woman behind the counter looks even more surly than usual when she sees who it is. Henning ignores her attitude and asks if Kent Harry Hansen is around.
‘Didn’t he make it clear that you’re not welcome here?’
‘Yes,’ Henning replies. ‘But I still need to talk to him. Where is he?’
‘Dunno.’
Henning nods, but his attention is drawn to the wall behind her. He takes out his mobile and compares the two clocks. They show practically the same time. No wonder, he thinks. If someone deliberately changed the clock the night Pulli was meeting Jocke Brolenius, then that person would have had to change it back again either later the same evening or the following morning at the latest. Anything else would have been a giveaway.
But who could have done it?
‘That clock up there,’ he begins. ‘Has it… do you know if it-’
Henning hesitates, unsure as to how to phrase the question.
‘Is it always precise?’ he asks, and realises instantly that his question is blatantly obvious.
‘I think so,’ she says without taking her eyes off the magazine in front of her.
‘Do you know if it has been too slow… in the past?’
Henning groans inwardly at his atrocious questioning. Behind him the weights clang against each other.
‘No idea,’ she says, sounding bored.
‘I’m only asking because I was wondering if it was very slow on the 26th of October nearly two years ago.’
She lifts her head, slightly less bored now.
‘That was the night Jocke Brolenius was killed,’ Henning informs her. ‘Were you working here that night?’
She snorts. ‘Do you think I can remember that?’
‘No, but please could you check who was? There is probably a list on your computer. A duty roster, possibly. Timesheets. Payroll. How many people work here?’
‘You need to talk to Kent Harry,’ she says and looks down again. ‘Though I very much doubt that he’ll be willing to help you.’
Henning stares at the clock behind her again, at the wall surrounding it, before he looks back at her. His eyes stop at the T-shirt she is wearing. At chest height three monkeys appear to be having a whale of a time.
‘Is that yours?’ he says, pointing to the monkeys.
She looks up and follows his finger. ‘Jesus, of course it’s mine. What kind of stupid question is that?’
Henning nods slowly while he studies her. Her mouth is downturned, exasperated. She eyeballs him back.
‘Don’t you have an Axe T-shirt as well?’
She searches his face for a reason for this question.
‘What’s it to you?’
Henning doesn’t reply. They lock eyes.
‘No reason,’ he says, eventually. ‘Nice talking to you.’
Chapter 109
Bjarne Brogeland sits down on his own in the canteen with a cup of coffee in front of him. The light still streams strongly through the large windows. He massages his face, trying to rub away the tiredness in his eyes. The past few days have been full on. Tore Pulli, Thorleif Brenden, Orjan Mjones, Robert van Derksen. Even so, he shouldn’t be feeling this exhausted. It should all be in a day’s work for him. So what the hell is going on? The first signs of old age? Is his body telling him to start to slow down?
No, he says to himself. He will never show signs of weakness. For him it’s all or nothing. Until the day he drops.
Brogeland picks up his mobile just as a text message from Anita arrives.
Hi, honey. Please would you get dinner tonight? Oda Marie is coming home with Alisha after nursery. Get something healthy and tasty.
xxx
Brogeland quickly replies OK.
He switched his mobile to silent while he was interviewing Petter Holte, and now he sees that seven unanswered calls were received in the meantime. He checks the list of callers. Reporters. Henning Juul, twice. It appears he has also left a message on Brogeland’s voicemail.
Brogeland sighs as he recalls the rebuke in Gjerstad’s voice at the meeting they have just had. As usual it was about leaks. And Gjerstad’s eyes more than hinted that he was blaming Brogeland since he had referred to his conversation with Juul at the joint meeting earlier. His boss warned all of them against further contact with the press and threatened repercussions if anyone were to disregard this order.
Brogeland stares at the letters in Juul’s name. Then he shakes his head and puts down the mobile. Time to call it a day.
Henning tries to call Kent Harry Hansen on his way home to Grunerlokka, but there is no reply, even after numerous rings. Henning thinks about Petter Holte remanded in custody while the evidence against him stacks up. Just like Tore Pulli. And, just like his cousin, Holte insists that he didn’t do it. History is repeating itself, Henning thinks. But if Holte really should turn out to be innocent, then it means that someone else had a reason for killing Robert van Derksen. Why did he have to die? And why did Petter Holte have to take the blame?
Henning is reminded of something Irene Otnes said the last time they spoke. He rings her up and asks her to explain what she meant when she said that Petter Holte wasn’t much of a challenge for women.
‘Well, he’s a wimp, to put it bluntly,’ she replies.
‘Yes, I remember you saying so, but what did you mean? Give me an example.’
Henning presses a finger into his other ear to block out the noise from the torrential rain.
‘There was no doubt who wore the trousers when he was going out with Gunhild. Every time she was near he turned into a puppy.’
‘Gunhild, did you say?’
‘Gunhild Dokken. His ex-girlfriend. And if the rumours are to be believed, he’s still trying to win her back — not that he’s getting anywhere, from what I hear. For Petter’s sake I hope it never happens. Gunhild was no good for him.’
Henning nods as he passes the Deichmanske Public Library in Thorvald Meyersgate.
‘I’ve always felt a bit sorry for Petter,’ she continues. ‘And it can’t be easy for him, either.’
‘In what way?’
‘Have you been to Fighting Fit?’
‘Several times.’
‘Then you’ve probably met Gunhild,’ Otnes says. ‘She works in reception. And Petter works out almost every single day.’
The sour-faced girl, Henning thinks, and hurries across the junction by St Paul’s Church before the green light changes to red.
‘And when she isn’t at work, he sees traces of her everywhere.’
‘What do you mean?’ he asks, eagerly, and stops outside Probat. In the shop window a white T-shirt with an old photo of the Swedish singer Carola Haggkvist beams at him. The caption under her happy-clappy Christian face is, Stranger, what do you hide from me?
‘Gunhild designed the gym’s logo,’ Otnes says.
‘The logo for Fighting Fit?’
Henning tries to visualise it while his thoughts race.
‘Gunhild was one of the first people Vidar helped when he started working with recovering addicts. She had hit rock bottom after a life of thieving, drug abuse and God knows what else. Vidar helped her get back on her feet,
