‘Is that clear?’
‘Christ, Henning, yes, it’s clear.’
Henning grins. He is allowed to have a bit of fun at Gundersen’s expense.
‘Okay, get ready,’ he says.
And he starts with the headline.
Henning wanders up and down while he talks to Gundersen, sneaks a peek at Ingvild and Yngve while Brogeland and his team carry out preliminarily interviews outside the tent. Ingvild and Yngve Foldvik are each wrapped in a blanket. They don’t make eye contact with the police officers who are talking to them.
They don’t look at anyone.
By the time Brogeland beckons him over, it is early afternoon. Traffic has intensified on the Common, newspaper and TV vans have arrived, a crowd of onlookers have gathered, wondering what kind of evil has happened in the tent this time. He doesn’t blame them. He would probably be curious, too. And they will be even more shocked when they read 123news later today, if Gundersen has the brains to make sense of the facts and the chronology.
‘Okay, let’s walk,’ Brogeland says. Henning follows him away from the others.
‘What do you think about all this?’ Brogeland asks him.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Is it the end of civilisation as we know it?’
‘I don’t know,’ Henning says.
‘Me neither. Jesus Christ,’ Brogeland exclaims, shaking his head. ‘Can you imagine what kind of future the two of them will have?’
‘No.’
‘Nor can I.’
‘How is Anette doing?’
‘She’ll make a quick recovery.’
‘Are you taking her to the hospital?’
‘No need.’
They walk on. Above them, the clouds move swiftly. The temperature is dropping. His clothes no longer stick to his body.
‘Have you found out what killed Stefan yet?’ he asks. They are heading back to the tent now. Brogeland shakes his head.
‘It’s too early to say, but everything suggests an overdose of pills and alcohol.’
‘So his death is no longer suspicious?’
‘No, doesn’t look like it.’
‘Does that mean you haven’t requested the full range of tests?’
‘It’s not my decision, but, yes, I imagine he’ll go to the back of the queue.’
‘Mm.’
Henning looks around. A cameraman from TV2 hoists his camera on to his shoulder. A reporter checks his notes before rehearsing his presentation, off-camera.
‘It’s a bit odd that Stefan was naked, don’t you think?’ Henning remarks, when the reporter has finished. Brogeland turns to him.
‘Hm?’
‘Why do you think Stefan was naked?’
‘Not entirely sure. He had a thing about symbolism. Perhaps it was his way of saying that the cycle was complete.’
‘Born naked, die naked, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
A reasonable interpretation, Henning thinks.
‘But how did Stefan know that Henriette would be in the tent that evening? Was there any mobile phone activity between them?’
‘Not that I remember. Don’t think so.’
‘So how did he know?’
Brogeland ponders this for a while.
‘Perhaps they had a verbal agreement?’
‘About what? Stefan wasn’t involved with Henriette’s film.’
‘No, I know. No idea. Anyway, somehow he knew. We’ll never get the answer to that now.’
Henning nods, slowly. The question irks him. He doesn’t like puzzles with missing pieces. He always ends up staring at the gaping hole.
‘Quite a comeback for you,’ Brogeland says, as they stroll on.
‘What do you mean?’
‘This case. But it’s just up your street, isn’t it? You like going it alone?’
Henning looks at Brogeland and wonders what has prompted this shift in tone.
‘What are you saying?’
‘Gjerstad told me about the Nigerian women,’ Brogeland confronts Henning. His smile has gone. ‘Gjerstad told me about the story you wrote, your interview with the killer.’
Henning nods and smiles. Oh, Gjerstad.
‘Did Gjerstad tell you the whole story?’
He waits for Brogeland’s reaction, but it never comes.
‘Did he tell you that I did the interview and gave the guy the publicity he wanted on one condition?’
Henning pauses for effect.
‘What condition was that?’
‘That he would stop killing Nigerian women, or indeed killing anyone at all. It’s a pipedream to believe the police can prevent prostitution in Oslo. It’s the equivalent of telling kids to stop eating sweets. There is a reason why it’s called the world’s oldest profession. Did Gjerstad say anything about how many more women the man murdered?’
Brogeland doesn’t reply.
‘No, exactly. And I couldn’t have handed him over to the police, either, because I never met him. We spoke on the telephone — twice — and both times, he called me. I never took the trouble to find out where he was calling from, because I knew it would be a waste of time. Besides, he was nicked a couple of months later. For something else.’
Henning visualises Arild Gjerstad, remembers some of the rows they have had, the blatant antipathy and contempt in his eyes. I may be prejudiced, he thinks, but I’m a tyro compared to Gjerstad.
‘Okay, I — ’
‘Forget it.’
‘But I — ’
‘Gjerstad doesn’t like journalists, Bjarne, and I’m his least favourite person. That’s just how it is.’
‘No, but I — ’
‘Leave it. It’s not important.’
Brogeland looks at him. Then he nods, quietly.
Chapter 67
When Henning arrives at the office an hour later, he senses immediately that the mood has changed. Yes, it’s a Friday, and Fridays have their own momentum, but it’s like Christmas has come early. He can tell from people’s smiles, hear it in their carefree laughter, see it in the relaxed way a woman moves, as he passes her on the stairs.
He walks down the narrow corridor and into the kitchenette, where the coffee machine stands strangely
