Near him, a door is opened. He sees Palme’s face light up. She has put on her camera face. She smiles. Extends her hand. Thorleif struggles to stop his knees from knocking. You’ll never be able to do it, a voice inside him whispers. You’ll fail. You’ll never succeed.
The room contracts. Thorleif presses his fingers together. His feet refuse to be still. The air grows clammy and difficult to inhale. Palme nods and smiles, she practically curtsies. ‘Thank you for coming. We’re delighted to start the Dypdykk series with this interview.’
A shadow appears in the doorway. Thorleif looks up. Dark, conspicuous tattoos. A woman’s face on a forearm.
He meets the eyes of the towering shadow. The man holds out his hand. Thorleif takes it, hears the man’s voice, deep and thundering.
‘Tore Pulli.’
Thorleif’s hand disappears inside the huge fist. He barely has enough strength to return the handshake. He looks up and says feebly, ‘Thorleif Brenden. N-nice to meet you.’
PART II
Chapter 46
The fan on the windowsill whooshes noisily but still loses its battle with the quivering heat. The heat moistens Henning’s face as he leans over the kitchen table and scrolls through a Google search. Hundreds of articles about Rasmus Bjelland. More irrelevant hits than useful ones.
The vibrating of his mobile makes him turn his head. It’s Iver. Henning decides to ignore the call, but the mobile keeps twitching and buzzing. Finally, Henning hits the green answer button with irritation. A couple of seconds pass.
‘Hello?’
‘Mm.’
‘Is that you, Henning?’
‘Yes.’
‘Really…? It doesn’t sound like you. Never mind… listen, have you heard the news?’
‘No?’
‘You won’t believe it. You know Tore Pulli? The ex-enforcer?’
Henning sits up in his seat. ‘Yes, what about him?’
‘He’s dead.’
The noise from the street disappears. The heat gives way to an icy blast. The space Henning is staring at narrows and contracts. His heart beats faster and faster until he swallows and inhales sharply. ‘W-what did you say?’
‘Tore Pulli is dead.’
Henning puts his elbow on the table and runs his hand across his face, letting it come to a rest on his forehead. His eyelids slide shut. He hears Iver say something, but the words refuse to sink in. All he can think about is Jonas. And his faint hope. That, too, has been extinguished.
‘Dead how?’
‘Jesus Christ, what kind of question is that?’
‘How did he die?’
‘I don’t have all the details yet. He appears to have just dropped dead, I believe, completely out of the blue. But you haven’t heard the worst. Or best, depending how you look at it. He died while he was being interviewed by TV2.’ The table moves in on him. ‘Unfortunately it wasn’t a live broadcast, otherwise we could have had a ball with it.’
Henning stares at the dents and scratches in the table top. The grain in the wood expands, it grows darker and deeper.
Who on earth will help him now?
‘When did it happen?’
‘About an hour ago. It’s completely-’
Henning plugs in the mobile’s headset and puts it down. He holds up his hands in front of his mouth and nose so they form a closed triangle.
‘Are you still there?’ Iver asks.
‘I’m here,’ Henning mumbles into his hands.
‘Are you coming in or what? I could do with some help here.’
‘No.’
‘But you’re supposed to be working today and-’
‘I’m taking a day’s leave.’
‘But I-’
Henning presses the red off button and buries his face in his hands.
Chapter 47
Thorleif Brenden is shaking all over as the TV2 car drives slowly down the cobbled avenue leading away from Oslo Prison. Everything is out of focus.
Guri Palme in the front seat turns around to check on him.
‘How are you doing, Toffe?’
Her voice makes him jump.
‘F-fine,’ he replies.
‘Are you sure? You don’t look it.’
Thorleif doesn’t respond. He is trying to forget Tore Pulli’s eyes, but it’s impossible. They turned cold and still as if someone had covered them with a moist membrane. Saliva and mucus dribbled from his mouth and mixed with something white and foaming. His hands started to quiver, and the twitching spread to each body part like an infection. Then Pulli slumped on his side where he lay shaking for a few seconds before silence descended on him like a blanket.
‘We should expect to be called in to make a statement later today,’ Palme continues.
A statement, Thorleif thinks, alarmed, and feels his face become burning hot. He knows that he will never be able to give a false account of what happened. His voice will falter and his eyes become evasive. He is sure the police will grow suspicious and wonder why he is so nervous. They will want to question him further. In the end he will crack. And he knows what the consequences will be.
The man in the black leather jacket told him he could go home after killing Pulli and everything would carry on as normal. But how can it? He has taken the life of another human being. And what guarantee does he have that they really will leave him alone now that the job is done? Thorleif saw the man’s face, he knows that the man had accomplices to bring about Pulli’s death. Do they think that threatening Thorleif’s family is enough to make him keep his mouth shut for ever? What if the police see through him and the choice is taken away from him?
In the park below the police station Thorleif sees an Asian man wearing light summer clothes. The man is walking his dog. He reminds Thorleif of a guide he and a friend had when they were hiking in the Caucasus Mountains trying to find their way from Laza to Xinaliq in Azerbaijan. Thorleif closes his eyes and recalls how they hiked through a deep gorge between grassy mountains, waded in water up to their knees through fast-flowing rivers and were met by sheepdogs foaming at the mouths when they finally arrived early one afternoon. The shepherd
