dated.
There has to be something, he thinks, something that will remind him of what he was working on in the weeks leading up to the fire. He found nothing significant in the archive, only standard news stories about a robbery, an assault and a couple of court verdicts. Isn’t there anyone he can ring? Talk to?
For a brief moment he considers calling Nora, but dismisses the idea instantly. When they were married they worked for rival newspapers and hardly ever discussed details of the stories they were investigating. And they had been separated for months when Jonas died. Nora would get hysterical if she were to discover that Henning is digging up the past which she is making a determined — albeit counter-intuitive — effort to slam the lid on by trying to find happiness with Iver.
My tapes, it suddenly occurs to him. The old recordings I made of my sources so I could quote them and use them as evidence in case someone kicked up a fuss after the story had been published. Perhaps there was something on them? The ones he has made since returning to work are in a driftwood cupboard in the kitchen in his flat. But what about his old tapes?
He pulls out his desk drawers and sees at once that they are empty. They had different desks before the refurbishment, he recalls, and gets up, walks past the coffee machine and around the corner to where the national news section used to be. But the old workstations are no longer there.
Henning returns just as the news editor is finishing a telephone conversation.
‘The old office furniture we used to have,’ Henning says, and gets Kare Hjeltland’s attention. ‘Do you know what happened to it?’
‘Retired along with the office bike — I rode them all to death, ha-ha,’ Hjeltland says and folds his hands behind his head. His armpits are wet. Henning tries not to look at them. ‘Oh, the furniture? Not a clue. Why do you ask? Thinking of giving your flat a makeover?’
‘No.’
‘Try asking Ida. I think she was in charge of the refurbishment.’
‘Okay. Thank you.’
*
‘Nice day for a drive, isn’t it?’
Thorleif doesn’t reply.
‘I love driving. I never listen to the radio. I like the silence around me. It helps me think. Don’t you agree?’
Thorleif glances at the man next to him, but he says nothing. He can see something shiny in his inside jacket pocket. The man is wearing gloves. The speedometer shows 100 kilometres per hour, the legal limit exactly. Every time Thorleif nudges the speed up above 110 kilometres, the man leans over and checks the speedometer, a movement always followed by a look of concern.
‘Careful now,’ he says. ‘You don’t want the police to pull you over, do you?’
Of course, I bloody do, Thorleif thinks every time. He has considered doing something insane like driving the car into a ditch in the hope that only he survives. But fear makes him cling to the steering wheel. His heart refuses to beat in a steady rhythm.
He has asked the man what he meant by ‘pedestrian or cyclist’, but the man merely smiled and ignored his question. However, there is something that troubles Thorleif more than that. The man has made no effort to conceal his face. Isn’t he scared that Thorleif will recognise him later or point him out to the police?
The answer when it hits him is as simple as it is brutal. They don’t care. When this is over, they won’t need him any more, and then they will kill him. That is why it doesn’t matter if Thorleif knows the man’s real identity or remembers his face.
‘Where are we going?’ he asks.
They pass the exit to Holmestrand going south on the E18.
‘We’re not there yet. You just carry on driving. And stick to the speed limit.’
The man’s mobile beeps. He takes off his glove and presses some keys. When he has finished, he puts his hand on the armrest and looks out of the window. Thorleif alternates between looking at the road in front of him and at the landscape where the trees are starting to take over. But today he sees no deer lowering their heads towards the ground, only short, rust-coloured wheat stubble and white plastic-covered hay bales that look like giant marshmallows scattered across the undulating fields. The man puts on his glove again.
One hour later they exit towards Larvik.
‘Take a left on that roundabout,’ the man says, pointing at a sign for Fritzoe Brygge Shopping Centre. ‘And go into the multi-storey car park.’
Thorleif drives his Opel Astra slowly down to the basement level where every sound and movement is amplified. He passes a dark wooden entrance which leads to the shopping centre where today’s special offer from Meny is fishcakes. A dozen cars are parked, but there are plenty of vacant spaces.
‘Park next to that car,’ the man says, gesturing towards a dark blue BMW. Thorleif drives around the white supporting pillars. The BMW is the same colour as the one he saw outside Bogstad Farm, but the registration plates are different. Thorleif looks at the man, who smiles slyly.
‘Park here and then we will swap cars.’
Thorleif manoeuvres into the bay and turns off the engine. A heavy silence fills the car. In the distance a door slams with a bang before an engine starts. They get out. He is met by a smell that reminds him of a ferry deck. There is a constant humming above him. The man goes over to the passenger side of the BMW, opens the doors and tosses the keys to Thorleif. Caught off guard, Thorleif only just manages to catch them.
‘You want me to drive?’
‘Let’s find out what you’re made of,’ the man says, and his voice echoes against the walls. He grins. ‘In you get.’
Chapter 36
They have left Stavern behind and have driven past horse paddocks, onion fields and a Free Church when Thorleif is told to stop in a bus lay-by opposite a maize field. The crop reaches waist height. Beyond them, far away on the horizon, the Strait of Skagerrak opens wide towards Denmark. White horses on the surface of the water chase boats, big and small. Above them white and dark-grey clouds drift along without bumping into one another.
‘Do you want me to turn off the engine?’ Thorleif says. The sun is roasting him through the window. The man next to him looks at an old garage with rusty doors and a black sheet-metal roof. He turns his whole body towards Thorleif.
‘Earlier today I asked you which way you wanted to go. Remember?’
‘Y-yes.’
The man points ahead where the road bends left in a long, soft curve.
‘A few hundred metres further ahead there is another junction. Technically you can’t turn right there, you’ll have to go straight across it, but I’ll ask you all the same. Right or left?’
‘W-what?’
‘Right or left?’
‘But-’
‘Right or left?’
‘I don’t know! Which way do you want me to go?’
‘You remember how it was earlier today. I’m asking you one last time: right or left? Left: your girlfriend dies. Right: you can still eat tacos-’
‘Right,’ Thorleif replies quickly. ‘I’ll turn right, okay?! Why don’t you just tell me which way you want me to go? I’ll do anything to save my girlfriend!’
‘Good, Toffe, I want you to hold that thought: you’ll do anything to save your girlfriend. Great. Now start driving. Stick to route 301.’
‘What are we going to do when we get there?’
