managed to convince them that nothing good would come from killing Brolenius. He asked them to trust him.’
Henning looks at her pensively.
‘So what do you think happened?’
‘I think that someone got there before Tore, killed Brolenius and ran off before Tore arrived.’
‘That sounds risky.’
‘Yes, perhaps. But they succeeded.’
‘They?’ Henning raises an eyebrow.
‘Yes, I don’t really know why I say that. But somehow it sounds more likely than “him” or “her”.’
Henning turns his head and looks across the kitchen. A long pause follows.
‘On the phone, you said to me, “if you knew what I know, you would have done Tore a favour and turned down the job.” What did you mean by that?’
Some moments pass before she answers.
‘It suits a lot of people very well that Tore is where he is.’
‘And what do you mean by that?’ Henning attempts a smile, but Nansen’s stern armour remains intact.
‘Let’s start with the police,’ she says, and blows smoke out into the room with an air of resignation. ‘They’ve been trying to get something on Tore for years. And when the opportunity finally presented itself, they grabbed it with both hands.’
‘And did they have any reasons for wanting to get Tore?’
Nansen taps the ash off her cigarette with an angry index finger.
‘No one is saying that Tore was a choirboy, at least not until he stopped working as a debt collector. But he didn’t kill Brolenius. He was trying to prevent Brolenius getting killed. But when the police discovered that there was some evidence that implicated Tore, it suited them perfectly. It meant they didn’t have to look for anyone else.’
‘So the police deliberately failed to investigate important leads. Is that what you’re saying?’
Nansen sucks in one last drag before stubbing out the cigarette.
‘The police force is riddled with incompetent two-faced idiots.’
The glance she throws out into the room is bitter, but she doesn’t elaborate. Henning considers the wisdom of discussing this particular topic with her.
‘So who could have killed Brolenius — if Tore didn’t do it?’
‘It must have been one of those morons Tore surrounded himself with.’
‘You’re referring to his friends at Fighting Fit.’
She nods and looks away.
‘Tore’s so-called friends,’ she says, acidly. The darkness in her eyes is still there when she continues, ‘How many of them have visited Tore in prison, do you think?’
Henning looks at her quizzically.
‘Just one,’ she says, holding up a single finger in the air. ‘Just one.’
‘And that is?’
‘Geir. Geir Gronningen. I suppose you could say he’s one of the more decent of that bunch. He’s still a moron, though. And that was one of the reasons I was so sceptical when you called.’
‘In what way is he decent?’
‘Geir has been trying to help Tore ever since he was first arrested. But he hasn’t managed to find out a sodding thing. And then you turn up out of nowhere, and-’
She interrupts herself.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to-’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Henning says. ‘But Gronningen, who is he? What does he do?’
‘I think he still works as a debt collector, not that I have much contact with him these days. He also works as a doorman in a strip club in Majorstua. Asgard, it’s called, or something like that.’
‘Who runs Fighting Fit now?’
‘A guy called Kent Harry Hansen.’
‘Is he okay?’
‘Well,’ she says, after a short pause. ‘I don’t really know how to answer that. There certainly isn’t much left of Vidar’s old gym, that much I can tell you.’
‘What do you mean?’
Nansen looks at him for a little while before she continues. ‘I think Kent Harry is happy to look the other way when it comes to drugs. I also think people call him up when they need some muscle. And there is a lot of that in the gym.’
Henning nods again.
‘Do you have any more names?’
‘There’s Petter Holte, Tore’s cousin. He works as a doorman at Asgard and is a wannabe debt collector, though I can’t imagine that Kent Harry would ever dare to use him. Tore certainly never did even though Petter was always pestering him.’ Nansen looks him straight in the eye as she explains. ‘When Tore was still involved with his old life he got so many requests he had to outsource some of his work for a while. He passed on several jobs to Geir, that much I do know, but never to Petter. Petter had a temper.’
Henning, who has forgotten to drink his coffee for several minutes, raises the cup to his lips again.
‘There are plenty of other morons down at the gym,’ Nansen goes on. ‘Or… at least there used to be. I don’t have very much to do with them these days.’
Henning looks out of the window. Outside in the street a tram glides past.
‘Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that Tore is innocent,’ Henning says, looking at her. ‘That means someone managed to beat up and murder Jocke Brolenius, a hardened criminal, something which in itself is no easy matter. But not only that: the same person also made it look as if Tore did it.’
Nansen doesn’t reply. She just looks at him.
‘It would require brains,’ Henning says, tapping his forehead. ‘And a level head. Do you think that any of the people you’ve mentioned so far fits that description?’
‘I don’t know,’ she says, quietly.
‘You keep referring to them as morons.’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘But that is mostly because I hate everything they stand for. Everything they are.’
‘You blame them,’ he says. ‘That’s understandable.’
She sighs and takes out another cigarette.
‘It’s just so bloody frustrating,’ she bursts out. ‘I know that Tore is innocent, and there is not a damn thing I can do about it!’
She squeezes the lighter hard.
‘And you don’t have any theories about who could have done it? Anyone who would have wanted to make life difficult for Tore or avenge the murder of Vidar Fjell?’
She shakes her head.
A long silence ensues.
‘So what do you think?’ she says, and looks up at him. ‘What do you think you can do?’
‘I don’t know,’ Henning says, and exhales heavily. ‘But I think I’m going to need my gym bag.’
Chapter 13
‘Are we nearly there yet?’ Julie Brenden whines. She tries to wriggle out of the car seat, but the seat belt keeps her in place.
‘Not long to go now, darling,’ Elisabeth replies, turning around. ‘Isn’t that right, Daddy?’
‘It’s just over there,’ Thorleif says, as the popular Bogstad Lake, where people go swimming in the summer and skiing in the winter, appears behind the trees. On the far shore, the manicured fairways of the fashionable Oslo Golf Club sparkle in the late summer sun.
‘Oh dear,’ Elisabeth exclaims as they turn into Bogstad Farm. ‘We’re not the only ones who thought of
