run from the people who made me do it because I think they want to kill me.
Henning spends some minutes reading the rest of the email before he looks up at Iver. ‘Bloody hell,’ he says. ‘This is-’
‘I know,’ Iver nods. ‘Forward the email to yourself or take my mobile with you.’
‘I’ll forward it to myself. Write a reply and see if you hear anything back from him.’
‘That’s a bit difficult,’ Iver says, looking at his hands. ‘I needed Nora’s help to ring you in the first place.’
‘Oh, right,’ Henning says, flustered. ‘I didn’t think-’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Iver says.
Henning forwards the email and gets ready to go.
‘Keep me updated,’ Iver calls out after him.
‘Of course,’ Henning replies. While he half-runs down the corridor in the direction of the lift he takes out his own mobile and finds Brogeland’s number.
‘There are no new developments,’ Brogeland sighs, wearily.
‘Oh yes there are. Are you at the station?’
‘Yes.’
‘Come downstairs and meet me in reception in half an hour. I have something to show you.’
*
Thirty-five minutes later Henning is in Brogeland’s office. He puts his laptop, which he picked up from home on his way to the police station, on the inspector’s desk. Brogeland sits down and moves his chair closer to the table. Henning reads the email over his shoulder. He pays particular attention to the second half:
I don’t know if this can be used as evidence, but the man who forced me to murder Pulli might have left a fingerprint in my car on the day he tested me to find out if I could be ordered to kill. The fingerprint is on the armrest on the passenger side. I parked my car in Kirkegaten. It has probably been issued with several parking tickets now. But if you can get someone you trust from the police to check this out for me I think it might be possible to discover the man’s real name.
I hope you can help me. The way things look now you are my only hope. At the moment I don’t want to say anything about where I am, but I hope you will help me so I won’t have to remain in hiding for very much longer.
Please would you also contact my girlfriend Elisabeth Haaland and let her know that I am all right? But please do it discreetly. I have reason to believe that our flat is under surveillance.
Yours sincerely,
Thorleif Brenden
Henning waits impatiently for Brogeland to finish.
‘Have you already swept his flat for bugs?’ he asks.
‘Yes,’ Brogeland replies. ‘We found masses of high-tech equipment. Video and audio.’
‘Did you now?’ Henning says.
Brogeland nods. The next moment there is a knock on the door. Sergeant Ella Sandland appears. She sees Henning standing behind Brogeland and she makes a gesture with her head to indicate that she needs to speak to her boss. Brogeland returns soon afterwards with a grave expression on his face.
‘What is it?’ Henning asks.
‘We’ve just had a call from Geilo Police. A body has been found at the foot of Hallingskarvet. From the description, it’s likely to be that of Thorleif Brenden.’
Chapter 94
Henning goes home and lies down on his sofa. He stares at the ceiling and thinks about Elisabeth Haaland, of the news awaiting her — if she hasn’t been told already. And he feels for the children, only eight and four years old. A difficult time lies ahead of them.
Henning checks the time on his mobile. It’s too soon, he thinks, to write anything about Brenden except the fact that a body has been found. It will take a couple of hours to confirm Brenden’s identity. Then the police will inform his next of kin, and, out of respect for the bereaved, reporters should really leave family and friends alone for a couple of days. But very few members of the Norwegian media care about that these days.
You should seriously consider a change of career, he tells himself, given how much you loathe your own profession. There is hardly any decency left among reporters. But deep down Henning knows he is exactly like them when he smells a good story. Is this really the kind of person he wants to be? Is this truly how he wants to feel?
That’s the problem. He doesn’t know what he wants.
In the tender infancy of his journalistic career he had an idea — or it may have been more of a fantasy — where he would position himself in the same place in the city for six months, say, and look out for people who repeated the same actions every day. He wasn’t interested in people commuting to and from work, but those who went there just to have somewhere to go. He would seek out those who avoided eye contact, who hid themselves away, who preferred walking close to the wall rather than the kerb. Henning believed that they each had a story that needed telling. Something had made them like this. Something unique to each of them.
But he never found the time. There was always a new story, always something of greater urgency. And before Henning returned to work, after Jonas’s death, he had himself turned into someone who walks in the shadows.
Perhaps I’ll find my way back one day, Henning thinks. When everything is over.
A sudden flash of inspiration makes him sit up. Before he has thought it through, he is on the phone to Iver.
‘What’s happening?’ Iver asks, answering after just a few rings. ‘I’ve managed to get some headphones and a remote control,’ he adds, happily, before Henning has time to say anything. ‘At least I can make calls now.’
‘Don’t do it.’
‘Eh?’
‘I don’t want you to talk to anyone. Especially not the media. Has anyone called you today?’
‘Why would they do that?’
Henning tells him about the coma article and the discovery of Brenden’s body.
‘Many people know that you’re in hospital,’ he continues. ‘And several reporters will probably check how you are, maybe not today, but definitely tomorrow when everyone is back at work. The thing is, I don’t want anyone knowing that you’ve regained consciousness yet. If the people who killed Brenden are aware that he sent you an email, and if they also check up on you and discover that you’re in a coma, then they may believe that Brenden’s email was never received. We can buy ourselves some time.’
‘Okay,’ Iver says. ‘I get it.’
‘You need to tell Nora.’
‘I’ll try.’
The stab wound sends spasms of pain from his shoulder and down his arm even though he cleaned the cut with whatever he could find and applied a makeshift bandage. There is an agonising pounding coming from the point of entry. Perhaps it has already become infected, Orjan Mjones thinks, since he feels feverish all over. The knife was unlikely to be sterile.
The public telephone rings at eleven o’clock exactly, just as it did three days ago. Mjones steps inside and picks up the receiver with his left hand.
‘Hello,’ he says. At the same moment the throbbing in his shoulder escalates.
‘Is everything taken care of?’
‘Yes,’ Mjones says, clenching his teeth. The pain feels like flames brushing his forehead.
‘And you’re quite sure of that?’
‘Yes. There are no loose ends this time.’
