referred to himself as an enforcer but sees himself as a broker. Before he was convicted of murder he bought and sold property in Ostlandet, making considerable profits.
Henning looks up from the screen. ‘“Just by breaking a few jaws”,’ he repeats to himself. Why would an enforcer known for using his fists to solve problems ever kill anyone with an axe?
Henning skims several other articles about Tore Pulli. He clicks on an article headlined ‘Pulli Promises Million Kroner Reward’ and reads:
Convicted killer, Tore Pulli, has offered a reward of one million kroner to anyone who comes forward with information leading to his acquittal.
‘Wow,’ Henning exclaims. He clicks on other articles on the same subject without finding anything indicating an avalanche of tip-offs. What does that mean? he wonders. Surely someone must know something?
I want you to find out who should be sitting in here instead of me.
Well, that’s not going to be easy, Henning thinks to himself, when not even a million kroner could entice anyone to come out of the woodwork. And the prosecution appeared to have had a strong case. It was widely known that Pulli had invited Brolenius to a meeting at a place where they wouldn’t be disturbed. Pulli’s fingerprints were found on the knuckle-duster. He had Brolenius’s blood on his clothes, and Brolenius had been beaten up in a way which had Pulli’s MO all over it. Four bullets which were hard to dodge.
So, what happened?
Henning picks up his mobile and rings Bjarne Brogeland. The inspector replies after only a few rings.
‘Hi, Bjarne, it’s Henning Juul.’
‘Heyyy!’ Brogeland replies in a voice that reminds Henning of a stag party.
‘Are you busy?’
‘Not more than usual given it’s a Saturday. We’re on our way to Paradise Bay. Have you been there?’
‘Eh, no.’
‘Lovely beach, great water. How about you? What’s new?’
Henning places his thumb and index finger on the corners of his mouth and lets them glide down towards his chin. He hasn’t spoken to Brogeland since the Henriette Hagerup case, the girl who was stoned to death in a tent on Ekeberg Common earlier that summer. Given that Henning helped them crack the case, he feels entitled to call in a favour or two.
‘I’m working on an old story.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me, but for God’s sake, it’s Saturday! Don’t you ever stop?’
‘It doesn’t feel like a Saturday,’ Henning says, and realises he can’t remember when he was last aware that there was a difference between the days of the week.
‘The sun is shining, Henning. Buy yourself an ice cream. Get some fresh air!’
‘Mm. Listen, did you ever have anything to do with the Tore Pulli case?’
The voices of excited children in the background can be heard through the receiver. Henning tries to shut them out.
‘No, I was still working on organised crime at the time. Why?’
Henning pauses for a moment, not sure how to reply.
‘Oh, I was just curious.’
‘You’re never just curious,’ Brogeland scoffs. ‘What are you sniffing around after this time? Does it have anything to do with his appeal?’
‘His appeal?’ Henning replies, and frowns.
‘Yes, it’s being heard in a couple of weeks, if I’m not mistaken.’
‘Is it? No, it doesn’t have anything to do with that. Or, at least, I don’t think so.’
Henning holds his breath for a moment.
‘The guy is guilty as hell,’ Brogeland says.
‘How do you know?’
‘Does the name Jocke Brolenius mean anything to you?’
‘Just about.’
‘Then you probably know that he killed Vidar Fjell?’
Vidar Fjell, Henning thinks, and runs the name over his tongue. It sounds familiar. ‘No?’
‘I thought you had a photographic memory?’ Brogeland teases him.
‘My camera is broken.’
Brogeland laughs. ‘You certainly haven’t lost your way with words. But here goes: Vidar Fjell managed a gym called Fighting Fit in Valerenga. He was murdered a couple of months before Brolenius. Or perhaps a bit more. Pulli worked out at Fighting Fit and was a good friend of Fjell’s.’
Henning is aware that his cheeks are burning hot. ‘Why was Fjell killed?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘But Brolenius was a Swedish enforcer, am I right?’
‘Yes. The Swedish gangs dominated Oslo quite considerably at the time, you probably already know that… Alisha! Don’t go up there, you could kill yourself if you fell down!’
Brogeland’s voice disappears for a moment. Henning remembers the case now. Fjell was killed not long before Jonas died. He had done a little bit of research on the story, but he can’t remember when he stopped.
‘But if Brolenius was killed to avenge the murder of Fjell, did anyone later avenge Brolenius?’
‘There was a rumour going around that somebody had knocked over Vidar Fjell’s gravestone, I seem to recall, but nothing more than that. I don’t suppose there was much point in carrying out a revenge attack once Pulli had been arrested. Why are you working on this story now?’
‘I don’t know if I am.’
‘Hello, you’re calling me on a Saturday.’
‘Yes, I’m — sorry.’
‘Yeah, right. Tore Pulli had this woman, I recall. Damn-’
‘What?’
‘Why is it always the biggest arseholes who get the hottest chicks?’
Henning makes no reply.
‘Anyway, talk to Assistant Commissioner Pia Nokleby,’ Brogeland continues. ‘She’s totally in charge of the case. And all other cases, for that matter.’
‘Good idea.’
‘But wait until Monday, please,’ Brogeland hastens to add. Henning says mm and hangs up.
It’s not going to be easy, he thinks. Murders and revenge killings in gangs that are practically impenetrable — especially if you’re a journalist. But if Pulli is innocent, then someone managed to kill Jocke Brolenius in a style that framed him. That in itself was no simple task. The killer would have to be devious and without scruples. And this killer would almost certainly not like it if I tried to stir up the past.
Chapter 9
The distant headlights of a fast car weave their way in between the tree trunks and cast a white veil over the approaching autumn. Orjan Mjones grips the steering wheel hard and checks the mirrors to make sure that he isn’t being followed. It would be something of an achievement if he was, he thinks, given the speed he is travelling.
The clock on the sat nav shows 02.15, and it is some time since he left the nearest main road. A loud but brief rumble under the tyres tells him he has just driven over a cattle grid before the tyres resume spraying gravel at the verges.
Mjones knows that the others have already arrived. It has been a while since they last worked together, but he knew that they would be just as ready for action as he was. Flurim Ahmetaj is there because he knows everything about computers and surveillance equipment and has easy access to them. Durim Redzepi, because nobody is better at getting in and out of someone’s home than he is. And Jeton Pocoli, because he is a master at following people. In addition, he has bedroom eyes and a bad-boy image, which makes it easy for him to chat up
