He was grinding his molars now; I could literally hear the scraping of worn fillings. ‘Right!’
‘And you still maintain it wasn’t you who… in Angedalen?’
‘That’s what I’ve been tellin’ you all these years! But none of you believed me.’
‘I believed you. But it was impossible to find good enough evidence to break down their case. Or any kind of evidence. If only you hadn’t picked up the murder weapon!’
‘I had to protect myself, didn’t I! I knew who would be blamed…’
I snatched a sideways glimpse. The way he was sitting and staring, big, heavy and well-built, he was still a replica of the defiant youth I had spoken to at the police station in Forde. But there was something new about him too, which had not been present before: the pent-up fury I had observed from the moment he came towards me in the car park by Ulleval Stadium.
I returned my attention to the traffic. And said: ‘There’s one thing I have to ask you, Jan Egil. Why are you so angry with me? I’ve always tried…’
He interrupted me, still speaking his dialect. ‘How can you ask! You and Cecilie’d been like a mother and father to me. The best time of my life was the six months with you. Why d’you think, when I was holed up in Trodalen, pursued by the sergeant and his men, that I asked for you to come to Sunnfjord? And do you remember what you promised me? I shouldn’t be afraid, you said. And I wouldn’t be cuffed, either. But the first thing the cops did when I got down to them was to launch themselves at me with handcuffs, and from then on I could hardly have a piss without them. You failed me, Varg, you and all the rest. But you pretended to be my friend. That’s why you were the biggest fraud of the lot!’
‘But… I’ve never thought you did it, Jan Egil, not for one moment!’
‘That right, eh?’ he almost bellowed. ‘So why am I sitting here, after ten years in Ullersmo? Can you tell me that, Varg? You who think you’re so clever.’
‘No, I can’t, Jan Egil. It’s a tragedy, a tragedy so great that I have no words for it.’
We were approaching Okern now. He pointed east. ‘Turn off here! In that direction.’
I did as he said. And looked in the rear-view mirror at the same time. The shock surged through me. Wasn’t that… two, three cars behind us… the same black car that had been following me down Dr. Holms vei?
I accelerated. All the cars behind us kept up, but none of them seemed to want to overtake.
‘Take the right at the next crossroads.’
I did as he said. The two nearest cars continued straight on, along Ostre Aker vei. The black car turned off and took the same route as us.
‘I have a sneaking suspicion we’ve got someone on our tail,’ I mumbled.
‘What?’ Jan Egil twisted round in his seat and reached for his inside pocket. ‘Shit!’
Then the black car was right behind us. We were heading for a large industrial area. On both sides of the road we saw warehouses, access ramps, containers and parked long-haul vehicles. On the ridge facing us we could make out the tall blocks of Tveita.
As we approached a roundabout the black car came alongside. With a bang it sent us slithering into the first exit. For a second or two my mind went back to Jens Langeland’s concern about what might happen to his car. But I wasn’t given any more time to pursue the thought. I had more than enough trouble steering the car.
The road we were on now was in much worse condition. There were great pot-holes in the tarmac. At the next roundabout I tried to drive right round, but those in the car behind guessed my intentions, swerved into the other carriageway and came to a screeching halt across the road, forcing me to skid down another exit.
Jan Egil was writhing like a snake beside me. ‘What the hell’s going on?’
The black car had sped after us and was bumper to boot now. I tried to see who was at the wheel, but it was too dark, and I had my task cut out keeping our car on an even keel.
Bump!
They drove into us again, this time from the rear, and with such force and precison that the lightweight Starlet lurched forward. Again I cursed Jens Langeland for not lending us the four-wheel drive.
‘Bloody hell!’ Jan made a sudden movement beside me, pulled a handgun from his inside pocket and pointed it at the rear window as if intending to shoot through it.
‘Jan Egil! Don’t…’
‘Just drive! Drive for all you’re bloody worth!’
Bump! Bump!
A clatter came from the back, as though something had been loosened. We lurched forward, hit the post of an open lattice gate, scraped alongside it and landed with a bang on the inside of the fence. I scanned round quickly. We were in a container depot; dark blue, grey and red containers. I swiftly changed down and shot forward, desperate to find a way out.
Suddenly the tarmac came to an end. Now we were on a gravel road, as bumpy as a switchback. Behind us the tyres of the black car screeched as it skidded after us.
‘What the fuck are you doin’? You’ve driven us straight into a trap!’
‘You wanted to go to a nice quiet place, didn’t you,’ I snarled back.
I looked around, swung the wheel, tried to reverse. Once again the large, black car rammed us, this time from the side, shoving us even further into the corner we were finding ourselves ensnared in. I changed gear and accelerated in an attempt to by-pass them, but they followed us as if stuck to our side and pushed us deeper and deeper into the gap between five or six large containers, with a huge loading ramp in the middle and a barbed wire fence at the end. The bonnet of the Starlet got jammed up against one of the steel supports of the ramp. For an instant all the warning lights on the dashboard flashed, then they went out, the engine died and all we could hear was the faint but insistent hiss of a punctured tyre.
Jan Egil smashed open the door on his side and ducked his head, still holding the blue-grey pistol in his hand. Then, bent double, he got out, with his eyes on the car behind.
I peered into the cock-eyed side mirror. The black car had positioned itself like a barrier between us and the rest of the world. Around us lay the district of Groruddalen, dotted with glittering lights, as distant as the stars in the sky above us. White smoke drifted from a tall chimney, giving off an acrid smell, as if from burning waste. The only light to reach us came down from two tall pylons, filtered by the darkness. The two men who got out of the car behind — with the same caution and wariness as Jan Egil — were barely visible, no more than two large, dark silhouettes. But the matt gleam from their hands spoke its own unambiguous language. They were not coming to the party with empty hands, either.
One of them called out: ‘Out of the car, both of you!’
Since Jan Egil was already outside I calculated that it must have been me he was referring to. I heaved a heavy sigh and felt a sense of inevitability in my stomach. Then I pushed the battered door to its full extent, swung myself out, placed my feet on the gravel and slowly exited the car, copying Jan Egil’s example by holding the door in front of me like a shield.
‘Freeze!’ shouted the man. He turned to the other who already had a mobile phone to his ear and was talking.
‘What the hell do you want from us?’ I shouted.
‘Shut up!’
‘Who are you phoning?’
‘Shut up, I said!’ answered the man, brandishing with menace a considerably larger weapon than Jan Egil’s. From this distance it didn’t look very inviting, a machine gun of the variety that sold like hotcakes in the organised section of the criminal community, in tiger-town Oslo and elsewhere.
They said something we couldn’t hear. I turned my head to Jan Egil. ‘Any idea who they are?’
‘Not the cops, that’s for sure.’
‘No, I’d worked that one out, too.’
He wasn’t letting the two armed men out of his sight. Standing there — with his top-heavy body, weapon in hand, cap down over his forehead, the little hair I could see shaved tight to the skull — he reminded me of a bully boy, a threat to everything in the vicinity, me included. Anger and pent-up violence radiated off him, and it was not difficult to recognise the disproportionately muscle-bound frame and the vacant look as belonging to someone who had overdosed on anabolic steroids for much too long.
Inside me, I still carried the image of the small, tearful boy on the Rothaugen estate that hot July day of 1970 when Elsa Dragesund and I had gone to pick him up, and it struck me: had we done this to him? Was this the result
