fence and slowly slides open to let out a Loomis van. He passes a small, deserted guard booth and tries to open the entrance door. It refuses. He peers through the glass door. No one around. He presses a brushed steel button with a plate saying RECEPTION above it. A brusque female voice calls out ‘yes’.
‘Hello,’ he says, clearing his throat. ‘Would you let me in, please?’
‘Who are you meeting?’
‘I work here.’
A period of silence follows.
‘Did you forget your swipecard?’
He frowns. What swipecard?
‘No, I haven’t got one.’
‘Everyone has a swipecard.’
‘Not me.’
Another silence. He waits for a continuation which never comes.
‘Would you let me in, please?’
A shrill buzzing sound makes him jump. The door whirrs. Clumsily, he pulls it open, enters and checks the ceiling. His eyes quickly identify a smoke alarm. He waits until it flashes green.
The grey slate floor is new. Looking around, he realises that many things have changed. There are big plants in even bigger pots on the floor, the walls have been painted white and decorated with artwork he doesn’t understand. They have a canteen now, he sees, to the left behind a glass door. The reception is opposite it, also behind a glass door. He opens it and enters. There is a smoke alarm in the ceiling. Good.
Behind the counter, the woman with red hair in a ponytail looks fraught. She is frantically hammering away at the keyboard. The light from the monitor reflects in her grumpy face. Behind her are pigeonholes overflowing with papers, leaflets, parcels and packages. A TV screen, hooked up to a PC, is mounted on the wall. The newspaper’s front page clamours for his attention
and he reads the headline: WOMAN FOUND DEAD
Then he reads the strap-line: Woman found dead in tent on Ekeberg Common. Police suspect murder.
He knows the news desk has yet to cover the story, because the title and the strap-line contain the same information. No reporters have been at the scene, either. The story is accompanied by an archive photo of police tape cordoning off a totally different location.
Neat.
Henning waits for the receptionist to notice him. She doesn’t. He moves closer and says hello. At last, she looks up. First, she stares at him as if he had struck her. Then the inevitable reaction. Her jaw drops, her eyes takes it in, his face, the burns, the scars. They aren’t large, not embarrassingly large, but large enough for people to stare just that little bit too long.
‘It looks like I need a swipecard,’ he says with as much politeness as he can muster. She is still staring at him, but forces herself to snap out of the bubble she has sought refuge inside. She starts rummaging through some papers.
‘Eh, yes. Eh — what’s your name?’
‘Henning Juul.’
She freezes and then she looks up again, slowly this time. An eternity passes before she says:
‘Oh, that’s you.’
He nods, embarrassed. She opens a drawer, riffles though more papers until she finds a plastic cover and a swipecard.
‘You’ll have to have a temporary pass. It takes time to make a new one and it needs to be registered with the booth outside before you can open the gate yourself, and, well, you know. The code is 1221. Should be easy to remember.’
She hands him the swipecard.
‘And I’ll need to take your picture.’
He looks at her.
‘My picture?’
‘Yes. For the swipecard. And for your by-line in the paper. Let’s kill two birds with one stone, right? Ha- ha.’
She attempts a smile, but her lips tremble slightly.
‘I’ve done a photography course,’ she says as if to pre-empt any protest. ‘You just stand there and I’ll do the rest.’
A camera appears from behind the counter. It is mounted on a tripod. She cranks it up. Henning doesn’t know where to look, so he gazes into the distance.
‘That’s good. Try to smile.’
Smile. He can’t remember the last time he did that. She clicks three times in quick succession.
‘Great. I’m Solvi,’ she says and offers him her hand over the counter. He takes it. Soft, lovely skin. He can’t remember the last time he felt soft, lovely skin against his. She squeezes his hand, exerting just the right amount of pressure. He looks at her and lets go.
As he turns to leave, he wonders if she noticed the smile which almost formed on his lips.
Chapter 3
Henning has to swipe his shiny new card no less than three times, going from the reception area to the second floor. Though the office is where it always was, there is nothing to remind him of the place he had almost settled into, nearly two years ago. Everything is new, even the carpet. There are grey and white surfaces, a kitchenette, and he would bet good money that there are clean glasses and mugs in the cupboards. There are flat screens everywhere, on the desks and on the walls.
He checks out the room. Four smoke alarms. Two foam extinguishers, possibly more. Good. Or good enough.
It is a large, L-shaped room. Work stations by the windows, tables and chairs behind coloured glass partitions. There are tiny individual cubicles for when you want to conduct an interview without an audience or any background noise. There are lavatories, disabled ones as well, even though he can’t actually see anyone even mildly infirm. He imagines there are rules about such things. They have always had a coffee maker, but now they have the state-of-the-art version, which takes twenty-nine seconds to make a fancy cup of black coffee. Not four, like the old one.
Henning loves coffee. You’re not a proper reporter unless you love coffee.
He recognises the buzz immediately. Foreign TV stations, all reporting the same news over and over. Everything is breaking news. Stock exchange figures scroll along the bottom of the screen. A collage of TV screens show what NRK and TV2 are reporting on their strangely antiquated, but still viable text TV pages. The news channel runs its features on a loop. It, too, has a ticker which condenses a story into one sentence. He hears the familiar crackle of a police radio, as if R2D2 from the Star Wars movies intermittently makes contact from a galaxy far, far away. NRK News 24 can just about be heard from a radio somewhere.
Bleary-eyed reporters tap on keyboards, telephones ring, stories are debated, angles suggested. In a corner by the news desk, where every story is weighed, measured, rejected, applauded, polished or heavily edited, lies a mountain of newspapers — new and old — which the newly arrived reporters seize upon while they sip their first coffee of the day.
It is the usual controlled chaos. And yet, everything seems alien. The ease he felt after years of working in the streets, of being in the field, of showing up at a crime scene, knowing he was in his element, has completely disappeared. It all belongs to another lifetime, another era.
He feels like a cub reporter again. Or as if he is taking part in a play where he has been cast as The Victim, the poor soul everyone has to take care of, help back on his feet. And even though he hasn’t spoken a single word to anyone, except Solvi, his intuition tells him no one thinks it’s going to work. Henning Juul will never be the same again.
