Nora stares at him for a long time. Then she says in a voice that breaks, ‘Bloody awful.’
Henning returns her gaze, watches her tears. ‘Are you staying here until he wakes up?’ he asks her.
She nods.
‘It could be a long time — you know that, don’t you? The doctors never try to rush this. You must let nature take its course. Iver will wake up when he is ready.’
She looks at him with eyes that well up. ‘ If he wakes up.’
Henning doesn’t know how Nora reacted when she was told that Jonas was dead. Nor does he want to know. But he heard that she lost fourteen kilos in the four weeks that followed. Several of them are still missing, but she is slowly starting to recover. And if there is anything left of the Nora he knew, then she has been balancing on a knife’s edge every single day since.
Henning considers a sentence that is forming itself inside him. He never thought he would say it, let alone mean it. ‘Iver is a fighter, Nora. He’ll be all right.’
She looks at him. ‘I hope so.’
‘He will.’
‘I can’t bear to lose… ’
Henning is grateful that she doesn’t complete the sentence. He pulls his jacket more tightly.
‘Give him my best when he wakes up,’ he says and stands up.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To work.’
‘Now?’
‘Yes. I’ve a story to write.’
Chapter 78
The duty editor raises an eyebrow when Henning lets himself into the office and presses the button for black coffee. Henning gives him a quick update before he sits down at his desk.
On his way to the office he wondered how he should approach the story. The headline was obvious: Famous Journalist in Coma. He knows that anyone awake at this time of night will click on it. Given the headline it could be anyone in the media, an industry fond of turning its own into celebrities. And celebrities sell. That’s just the way it is. If the story is also placed on the front page, where the introduction can’t be seen so that the readers won’t automatically see which celebrity it concerns, the story will generate loads of hits.
It’s macabre, Henning thinks, to take such things into consideration at a time like this, but he is sure that Iver wouldn’t have minded. On the contrary: he would have insisted on it.
Henning starts to write. When he was at the hospital, he couldn’t take it in. Nor did it sink in when he was talking to the duty officer at the police station to get some quotes. But when he types the word ‘coma’ and writes that Iver Gundersen is hovering between life and death, the brutal truth that Iver might actually die finally dawns on him.
*
Orjan Mjones turns towards the morning sun, shielding his face with one hand as he peers towards the entrance door, which only stays closed for short periods. Passengers with bags and suitcases on wheels are walking in his direction. Mjones looks at his watch. The train leaves in five minutes.
He lights another cigarette and sucks it greedily. He is about to ring Jeton Pocoli when both Pocoli and Durim Redzepi come shuffling down the platform. Their tired faces grimace when the sun greets them.
Mjones nods when they reach him and pulls them aside.
‘Let’s go over this once more: Durim, you get off at Fla, you take a picture of Brenden with you and start looking around. Check out shops, petrol stations, hotels, post offices and restaurants.’
Redzepi grunts.
‘And you,’ Mjones says, looking at Pocoli. ‘You’ll do the same at the next station. Nesbyen. I’ll take Gol. And we’ll keep each other updated.’
More bleary-eyed looks.
‘What about Flurim? Isn’t he coming?’ Pocoli asks.
‘He’s monitoring data traffic, you know that. This wouldn’t have been necessary if you had done your job properly in the first place.’
Pocoli looks down and makes no reply.
‘If we don’t strike lucky at any of those stations we’ll carry on to Al, Geilo and so on.’
Mjones looks at them. Nobody nods. A ticket inspector with a backpack passes to one side of them. Mjones checks the clock on his mobile. Ten minutes past eight.
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘We’ll travel in separate compartments. I don’t want anyone seeing us together.’
Chapter 79
It is just past nine o’clock in the morning when Henning rings Geir Gronningen’s doorbell at number 13 Toyengata. He presses the bell four times and keeps his finger on it extra long on the last ring. Soon afterwards he hears a hello in a voice still thick with sleep. Henning can’t be sure, but he thinks it’s Gronningen.
‘Henning Juul. May I come in, please?’
A few seconds of silence follow. ‘Now?’
‘Yes, now. I need to talk to you again.’
‘Are you kidding? At this time in the morning?’
‘I wouldn’t be here at this hour if it wasn’t urgent,’ Henning barks.
Again there is silence. A morose snort can be heard from the intercom. ‘Hang on a minute, I just need to put some clothes on.’
Henning looks around while he waits impatiently for the door to buzz. Soon he is let in, and he stomps up to the third floor. The smell of spices which hits him the moment he entered the stairwell grows less noticeable the higher he gets. Gronningen meets Henning in the doorway of his flat at the top of the stairs.
‘Do you have any idea what time it is?’ he says.
Henning nods while he tries to get his breath back.
‘I was working until the early hours,’ Gronningen continues.
‘In which case you went to bed just as I started work,’ Henning replies, unperturbed. ‘A colleague of mine was beaten up last night. I think you might know who did it.’
‘Me?’
‘Did you see a man with long hair wearing a corduroy jacket talking to your boss yesterday?’
Gronningen scratches his head while he tries to remember. His eyes are still sleepy.
‘When was this?’
‘About 10.30. Shortly afterwards, on his way home, he was attacked.’
‘Dammit, Juul, I did tell you.’
‘Yes, and I warned him not to be as cocky as he usually is, but I don’t think he heard me. Are you going to let me in?’
Gronningen hesitates for a long time before he nods and pushes open the door. ‘It’s a bit of a mess.’
‘Do I look like a guy who cares?’
‘No, I don’t suppose you do.’
‘I wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee if you could manage it.’
‘It’ll have to be instant.’
‘Instant is fine.’
Henning kicks off his shoes. In the hallway there is a mountain of shoes, socks and coats.
‘I don’t bother tidying up when I have things to do,’ Gronningen says as he fills up the kettle. Henning
