say?’
‘I’ve never saw it myself, but I’ve heard they concluded that the fire most likely started in the hallway.’
‘Did the fire start while you were at home?’
‘Yes.’
‘Any sign of a break-in?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Did you lock the door?’
‘I don’t remember. I’ve no memory of anything that happened in the days and weeks leading up to the fire. But I think so. I always used to lock the door even when I was at home during the day, but I can’t remember if I locked it that evening.’
‘Didn’t you have smoke detectors fitted?’
The rhythm of Ophus’s questions and Henning’s answers breaks down. The cobblestones stare back at him accusingly.
‘I did have one, but the battery was dead and I-’ Henning tries to look up while he gulps.
‘And the police found no foot- or fingerprints, no other evidence, DNA-’
Henning shakes his head.
‘And yet you still believe that someone started a fire in your home?’
‘Yes.’
Ophus leans back in his chair. At that moment, Henning’s mobile rings for the third time. Henning glances irritably at the display. Unknown.
‘I’m sorry, I-’
‘Go on, answer it. I’m in no rush.’
‘Is that all right? Are you sure that-’
‘Yes, absolutely. I don’t mind.’
‘Thank you, I’ll-’
Henning waves his hand without quite knowing why. Ophus nods sympathetically. Henning takes the call.
‘Henning Juul?’
‘Yes?’
‘Henning Juul, the reporter?’
‘That’s me, yes. Who is this?’
‘My name is Tore Pulli.’
Henning straightens up and says hi.
‘Do you remember me?’
‘I know who you are. What’s this about?’
Pulli doesn’t reply. Henning moistens his lips in the silence that follows. ‘Why are you calling me?’ he asks.
‘I’ve got a story for you,’ Pulli says.
‘What kind of story?’
‘I can’t tell you over the phone.’
‘All right. Listen, I would like to talk to you, but I’m a bit busy right now. Could I get you to call me back later? Preferably during office hours?’
‘I can’t-’
‘Great,’ Henning interrupts him. ‘Thanks very much.’
He ends the call and smiles quickly at Ophus, who is watching the increasingly busy traffic. Henning exhales hard.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he says and is rewarded with another understanding smile.
‘But back to our conversation,’ Ophus says, looking at Henning. ‘I have to be honest with you. If the police investigation has made no progress in two years, there’s little that can be done now. Finding fresh evidence is out of the question. I assume that your flat was demolished or renovated following the fire?’
‘Yes. Other people live there now.’
‘So any evidence is gone for good. And there are many ways to torch a flat which are impossible to detect. Unfortunately.’
Henning nods silently. They sit there looking at each other until Henning looks away. He knows that he has to find the person or persons who set fire to his flat and get them to admit it. It is the only thing that will satisfy him.
His eyes wander to the junction.
‘So you think that someone was trying to get you? Kill you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, that’s the big question. I don’t know. I don’t even know where to begin.’
‘And this happened two years ago?’
‘More or less.’
Ophus looks at Henning for a long time. ‘Don’t you think they would have made a second attempt?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Has anyone tried to kill you since?’
‘Not that I’ve noticed.’
Ophus doesn’t reply but Henning can see what he is thinking all the same. It would suit you to be arson, wouldn’t it? So you can blame someone other than yourself?
They listen to the traffic.
Eventually, Ophus says, ‘I don’t think there is very much I can do to help you.’
‘That’s what I was afraid of,’ Henning replies, quietly.
‘You mentioned that you hadn’t seen the police report. Perhaps there is something in that which could be useful to you? I might be able to get you a copy of it, if you like.’
‘I don’t know if it will make a difference, but — but why not?’
‘They owe me a favour down at the police station. I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Thank you so much. I really do appreciate it.’
Ophus straightens up, but Henning is aware that his eyes are still on him. He can’t bear to look him in the eye. So he says, without raising his gaze, ‘I don’t want to take up any more of your time than necessary, Ophus. Thank you so much for meeting with me.’
‘Not at all. You’re welcome to contact me if you think of anything else.’
Henning smiles and nods. They shake hands before Ophus gets up and heads for the junction. He passes a man leaning against the whitewashed wall sucking at a thin roll-up, the embers barely alive.
Chapter 6
Orjan Mjones presses his forehead against the United Airlines window and looks out over Oslo. Green trees surround Ekeberg Restaurant on the eastern slope of the city. Nearer the city centre people lie sunbathing, stretched out on the grass in Fjordbyen. The roof of the opera house sparkles like an ice floe in the sunshine. Below the belly of the plane, the red-brick towers of Oslo Town Hall stick up towards him like rotten teeth.
The aeroplane glides slowly through the quiet air. The captain announces that they will be landing in a few minutes. Mjones closes his eyes. It has been a long journey. A return trip to Bogota, changing in Newark both there and back, and he hasn’t managed a wink of sleep the whole time. He had to make do with a thirty-minute power nap on a airport bench while waiting for the flight back to Oslo. Soon he will have spent thirty-five hours in the air. It has been exciting. It has been exhausting. But it has been worth it.
It all started five days ago when he saw his fictitious contact name in the subject field in an advert on the website finn. no. Later the same day he called the number listed in the advert, which was answered by a voice he
