Chapter 26
Aftenposten is lying on the doormat right inside the front door. Thorleif picks it up and quickly flicks through the news section, then arts and finance, but he sees no ‘Your Say’ column, not on the back page — where it used to be — or in connection with any of the articles inside the newspaper itself. He goes through it again in case he was too sleepy and bleary-eyed to spot it the first time, but the result is the same.
He takes the newspaper to Elisabeth who is still in bed. ‘Are you sure it was Aftenposten?’
‘Eh?’ she grunts from under the duvet.
‘ Aftenposten. I can’t find your interview.’
Elisabeth pushes the duvet aside and looks at him. Her eyes are two narrow lines. ‘Are you sure?’ she mumbles.
‘I’ve gone through the whole sodding newspaper twice.’
He gives her the paper. Elisabeth sits up and starts leafing through it herself. Thorleif is aware of a pressing need for coffee so he doesn’t wait for her to finish but goes to the kitchen, finds a filter and measures out coffee and water. Shortly afterwards Elisabeth comes plodding.
‘I couldn’t find it either,’ she yawns.
‘Are you sure it was Aftenposten?’
Elisabeth thinks about it. ‘Fairly. Perhaps it wasn’t for today’s edition,’ she says and yawns again. ‘Perhaps it’ll be in tomorrow. They might not do “Your Say” every day.’
It is possible that things have changed since the days Thorleif trotted up and down the streets of Eidsvoll on the lookout for potential interviewees who rarely or never agreed to be photographed or answer any of the idiotic questions the editorial team had thought up. But on the occasions it was his job to find people in the street for ‘Your Say’, it was always for the following day’s edition. It was usually the last thing he did before going home.
But Elisabeth could be right. Perhaps the column has simply been moved and will appear in the evening edition or later in the week. He bends down, finds some sandwich bags and starts making everyone’s packed lunch.
‘Did you ring the burglar alarm people yesterday?’ Elisabeth asks, as she shuffles around.
‘Eh?’
‘The burglar alarm. We have to get it fixed.’
‘Oh, right. No, I forgot.’
‘Don’t forget to do it today, please.’
Chapter 27
At any given time there are 392 inmates in Oslo Prison divided between Botsen, Bayeren and Stifinneren — also known as A, B and C Block. Henning is due to visit Botsen, which consists of a main building with wings spreading out in a fan shape in addition to some smaller units. Everything is constructed in red brick. The prison, especially the entrance, is familiar to most Norwegians thanks to the famous Olsen Gang films, which traditionally opened with Egon Olsen walking out of the prison and down the avenue after being released — having already planned his next master stroke while inside.
Henning’s pulse quickens as he walks up the same avenue. He isn’t usually nervous before interviewing or meeting someone, but today he is.
Heidi Kjus welcomed his idea of talking to Pulli. She said that she had been thinking of suggesting it herself, but no one at the morning meeting, not even Iver, looked as if they believed her. Henning has practically forgotten about Heidi trying to take credit for his idea when he presses the button on the intercom outside the prison and introduces himself. Seconds later, the door slides open. Henning is met by a man in jeans and a stone-washed shirt who introduces himself as Knut Olav Nordbo. He has short hair, a mixture of brown and grey, neatly combed and parted to one side. He has no beard, but his skin is slightly flushed with some liver spots and moles. Nordbo exudes a vapour of stale nicotine and yesterday’s tipple. Red wine would be Henning’s guess.
He is ushered through an old door and down some stairs to a passage where he hangs up his jacket. Once Henning has handed over his mobile and press card, Nordbo disappears into a room. A short while later he returns with a visitor’s card which Henning pins to his shirt.
‘There we are,’ Nordbo says and guides Henning through two heavy concrete doors to the visitors’ rooms.
‘That’s it?’ Henning asks. ‘No body searches, no nothing?’
‘No,’ Nordbo says. ‘The penal code states that all inmates are entitled to meet representatives of the press to promote their case. And the system is based on trust.’
‘But in theory I could smuggle in all sorts of things.’
‘Indeed you could. But we would rather you didn’t,’ Nordbo smiles. ‘If you wait in there I’ll go and get Tore.’
‘Okay.’
Henning enters a small and narrow visitors’ room with a grey linoleum floor, yellow walls and a rectangular window with green and white curtains. It is furnished with a black leather sofa placed below the window and a coffee table and an armchair opposite it. A tall plant is gathering dust on the floor. At one end of the room there is a small, sad-looking box of plastic toys. He opens a green cupboard directly opposite and finds faded green sheets and hand towels.
It doesn’t take long before he can hear footsteps. Nordbo is the first to appear.
‘I’ll leave you two to chat,’ he says and smiles. Henning nods by way of a thank you and watches as Nordbo steps aside to make way for the mountain of a man who enters the room. Henning represses the urge to bombard the man with questions and stares at him instead. Tore Pulli is almost unrecognisable. He must have lost at least fifteen kilos. His steps are tentative. He wears a red baseball cap that doesn’t match any of his other clothes. Green shirt, blue tracksuit bottoms.
Henning takes a step forwards as he thinks about everything he has read and learned about Tore Pulli recently. The enforcer, the businessman, the friend, the liar. Which one of them is he now?
Pulli transfers a steaming mug from his right to his left hand and extends his free hand to Henning. Henning shakes it and looks him straight in the eye.
‘Hello,’ he says. ‘Henning Juul.’
Pulli’s handshake is firm and warm.
‘So this is what you look like,’ Pulli says.
‘What were you expecting?’
‘Well, I don’t know really.’
‘Most people feel awkward when they see my face.’
‘I’ve seen worse.’
Pulli walks past Henning and takes a seat on the leather sofa by the window. Henning takes the armchair opposite the coffee table and watches Pulli as he dunks a tea bag up and down in the steaming water. His hand movements are gracious and measured. His shirtsleeves have been folded up to his elbows and on the upper side of his right forearm he has a tattoo of a woman’s face with long wavy hair. Pulli always used to have a deep tan, but now his skin is pale. He takes off the baseball cap and reveals a scalp almost free from hair which he scratches quickly before putting the cap back on.
‘So,’ Pulli says, carefully sipping his tea. ‘I presume you’ve found-’
‘Before we start talking about that,’ Henning interrupts him. ‘I have a question. Or rather it isn’t a question, more a demand. If I’m to help you or try to help you, you have to give me something first.’
Pulli puts down the cup and smiles coyly. ‘Give you something?’
‘When you called me last Saturday, you said you knew something about what happened the day my son died. I need to know if I can trust you, if what you say holds true or if you’re just messing with me.’
