Ulleval Garden City lies in the borough of Nordre Aker and was built shortly after the First World War as a residential area for the working class. The intention was that the workers would leave their tenements in favour of bigger houses with their own patch of garden, but it didn’t take long before the better-off hijacked the idyll. Since then house prices in the area have been among the highest in Oslo.
It’s a lovely part of town, Henning thinks, as the cab comes to a halt on John Colletts Plass. Living in Ulleval Garden City bestows a certain status on its residents even though he doesn’t think that was the reason Tore Pulli and Veronica Nansen bought a home here. The properties are well maintained, plants climb up the walls, and the whole neighbourhood is characterised by immaculately landscaped gardens and attractive cafes.
It doesn’t take him long to identify the brick building where Nansen has chosen to remain despite her husband’s jail sentence. Perhaps it’s about holding on to what they had. Henning rings the bell and is admitted immediately. He wheezes as he climbs the stairs to the second floor where the front door has been left open for him. He enters a hallway with a large wardrobe concealed behind spotless mirrors. Further into the flat a chandelier sparkles from the ceiling even though no light is coming from its bulbs.
Veronica Nansen, wearing loose-fitting grey jogging pants, a pink top and a thin grey zip-up hoodie, appears in his field of vision. She has a pink baseball cap on her head, and her ponytail dangles from the back.
‘You found it, I see,’ she says, and smiles briefly.
‘Oh yes,’ Henning says, still panting, and smiles. His scars stretch, and he is aware of her looking at them as they shake hands. Her hand feels small, like the hand of a child.
‘Coffee?’ she asks.
‘Yes, please,’ Henning replies and follows her into the kitchen. There are warm-grey slate tiles on the floor, an integrated wine store, a heating cupboard for plates, a steam oven, a sophisticated espresso machine and two stainless-steel ovens, one of them extra wide. The island in the centre of the kitchen alone is bigger than Henning’s bedroom.
‘Let’s sit down here,’ Nansen says, indicating tall slim bar stools with shiny chrome legs and bright yellow seats and backrests. ‘The living room is a mess,’ she says, and it sounds like an apology. Henning, who always feels ill at ease in the presence of expensive objects, scales the chair and tries to make himself comfortable. Clumsily he rests his elbows on the surface of the table where a bowl of brightly coloured fruit is tempting him.
‘Nice house,’ he says. ‘Or, rather, nice flat.’
‘Thank you.’
Her voice is devoid of enthusiasm. She is probably used to being complimented, Henning thinks, and he watches her while she starts the espresso machine and finds two cups. She is shorter than he had imagined and refreshingly free of make-up. He had assumed that a woman for whom every pavement is a catwalk, or at least it was once, would make an effort to pose in male company, but Veronica shuffles her feet and slumps slightly. Her hunched shoulders make her look as if she has a puncture. Perhaps her guard is down when she is at home, Henning thinks. Perhaps that’s the one place where she allows herself to be exactly who she is.
Soon the aroma of freshly brewed coffee spreads across the kitchen. Henning thanks her when she puts a cup in front of him.
‘Tore said you’re a journalist,’ she says, half-asking half-accusing, and sits down opposite him.
‘Yes. I work for 123news.’
‘ 123news? As easy as 1, 2, 3?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so,’ Henning replies.
Nansen takes out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter from the pocket of her hoodie. She offers Henning a cigarette, but he shakes his head.
‘Good place to work, is it?’
‘No,’ he replies, and smiles quickly.
‘Why not?’ she says, and lights up. Henning stares at the flame.
‘I don’t know if I would like it anywhere in the media, to be honest.’
‘So why are you in this line of work?’ she asks, and blows out hard blue smoke through pursed lips.
‘It’s the only thing I’m good at.’
‘I don’t believe that. Everyone has hidden talents.’
‘In that case my talents are very well hidden.’
She smiles. ‘Isn’t there something you would like to do?’
Henning hesitates. ‘I like making music. Playing the piano.’
‘So why don’t you do that?’
‘I’m not good enough.’
‘Says who?’
‘Says me.’
A furrow appears on Nansen’s brow when she takes another drag of her cigarette.
‘Also, it’s been a while since I last played, so-’
‘Didn’t you just say that you enjoy playing?’
‘Yes.’
‘So why haven’t you played for a while?’ Nansen fixes him with her eyes.
‘Because — because I can’t bear it.’ Henning looks down, surprised at how quickly they have reached such an intimate point in their conversation. And the fact that they got there at all.
‘It reminds me of my son,’ he says, quietly. ‘And what… what-’
Henning can hear how desperate he sounds.
‘Tore told me what happened.’
Henning looks up. ‘Did he? What did he say?’
‘He said that you lost your son in a fire.’
‘Did he say anything else?’
‘No.’
Nansen doesn’t elaborate. She looks at the smoke that wafts randomly from the embers of the cigarette.
‘He hasn’t mentioned my son before?’
‘No. Why would he?’ she says.
Henning can’t think of a suitable reply. Nansen takes another tight-lipped drag.
‘You really should try to play again,’ she says, blowing the smoke up right in front of her face. ‘For your own sake. You never know, you might surprise yourself. It might do you good.’
‘I don’t think so,’ he says.
They drink coffee in silent seconds.
‘And you run a modelling agency?’
‘Yes,’ she says, matter-of-fact. ‘Someone has to look out for them.’
‘Is there that much to look out for?’
Nansen smiles faintly. ‘The things I’ve seen… One day I’ll write a book about it.’
‘Really?’
She nods and sucks the cigarette again.
‘Are you busy?’
‘Not at the moment. It has been tough, what with the recession and all that. I’ve had to lay off a lot of staff recently, and that’s never much fun. Tore being convicted of murder didn’t exactly help either.’
Her face darkens.
‘How has it been… since?’ Henning asks. Nansen sighs.
‘It has been tough, I won’t lie. I haven’t had the energy to go out much.’
She looks down. He can barely make out the contours of her face in the warm light from the kitchen window.
‘But,’ she says, and straightens up. ‘I’m boring you talking about myself. What do you want to know?’
‘As much as possible,’ Henning smiles.
‘I don’t really know how to begin,’ she says, looking at him. Her ponytail winds its way down one side of her neck like a blonde snake. Her eyes, ice blue and sharp, contain something Henning can’t quite fathom.
‘I’ve done some homework on the case,’ he begins. ‘I understand that Tore was arrested at the crime scene and that he had arranged to meet Jocke Brolenius there.’
Nansen nods, takes a final drag and stubs out the cigarette, grinding it into the ashtray.
‘Why did Tore ask Brolenius to meet with him?’
‘How much do you know about Vidar Fjell and all that?’
‘I’ve read that the murder of Jocke Brolenius was regarded as revenge for the murder of Vidar Fjell.’
Nansen nods again. ‘Vidar had worked with the Drug Rehabilitation Service for many years. Young addicts who were trying to get clean were encouraged to work out in his gym.’
‘You’re referring to Fighting Fit?’
‘Yes. Christ, what a name,’ she says, and rolls her eyes. ‘Anyway, Vidar received grants from the council so he could look after disadvantaged youths.’
‘Isn’t that the Inner City Project?’
‘It’s part of it, certainly. Vidar taught them how to work out and what workouts to do, and he tried to give them a sense of belonging. A couple of the young people he helped even ended up working there. Vidar was a really great guy.’
Nansen lights up another cigarette.
‘And he had a zero-tolerance policy as far as dope, steroids and all that were concerned. If you messed about with drugs in his gym, you were out on your ear. But Jocke Brolenius didn’t give a toss about that. He even tried to recruit some of the kids Vidar had managed to straighten out.’
Nansen curls her lips around the cigarette and sucks greedily.
‘Because of who Brolenius was, he was given a friendly warning first. But he didn’t listen, so Vidar threw him out.’
‘And Brolenius took offence?’
‘Oh, yes.’
Henning recalls that Fjell was attacked in his office and that he died of a brain haemorrhage as a result of the injuries he sustained. The fact that he was a haemophiliac and wasn’t found by one of his staff until the following day didn’t improve his chances.
‘Why didn’t the police arrest Brolenius?’
‘They interviewed him, as far as I know, but he denied having anything to do with the murder.’
‘And there was no incriminating evidence?’
‘No,’ Nansen replies, crossing her feet while she leans back. ‘But everyone knew it was him. When the police failed to do their job, it didn’t exactly calm the troubled waters down at Fighting Fit. But Tore put his foot down. He knew exactly what Brolenius was like and who his friends were, and he wanted to prevent a bloodbath. That was why he invited Brolenius to a meeting. To see if the two of them could settle the conflict.’
Henning tries to visualise the scenario.
‘Why did he think he could do that?’
‘I don’t know. I tried talking him out of it because I thought it was a crap idea.’
‘Did a lot of people know about this meeting?’
‘Yes, a fair number, I think. Everyone was talking about it, both here and at the gym. Tore eventually managed to convince them that nothing good would come from killing Brolenius. He asked them to trust him.’
Henning looks at her pensively.
‘So what do you think happened?’
‘I think that someone got there before Tore, killed Brolenius and ran off before Tore arrived.’
‘That sounds risky.’
‘Yes, perhaps. But they succeeded.’
‘They?’ Henning raises an eyebrow.
‘Yes, I don’t really know why I say that. But somehow it sounds more likely than “him” or “her”.’
Henning turns his head and looks across the kitchen. A long pause follows.
‘On the phone, you said to me, “if you knew what I know, you would have done Tore a favour and turned down the job.” What did you mean by that?’
Some moments pass before she answers.
‘It suits a lot of people very well that Tore is where he is.’
‘And what do you mean by that?’ Henning attempts a smile, but Nansen’s stern armour remains intact.
‘Let’s start with the police,’ she says, and blows smoke out into the room with an air of resignation. ‘They’ve been trying to get something on Tore for years. And when the opportunity finally presented itself, they grabbed it with both hands.’
‘And did they have any reasons for wanting to get Tore?’
Nansen taps the ash off her cigarette with an angry index finger.
‘No one is saying that Tore was a choirboy, at least not until he stopped working as a debt collector. But he didn’t kill Brolenius. He was trying to prevent Brolenius getting killed. But when the police discovered that there was some evidence that implicated Tore, it suited them perfectly. It meant they didn’t have to look for anyone else.’
‘So the police deliberately failed to investigate important leads. Is that what you’re saying?’
Nansen sucks in one last drag before stubbing out the cigarette.
‘The police force is riddled with incompetent two-faced idiots.’
The glance she throws out into the room is bitter, but she doesn’t elaborate. Henning considers the wisdom of discussing this particular topic with her.
‘So who could have killed Brolenius — if Tore didn’t do it?’
‘It must have been one of those morons Tore surrounded himself with.’
‘You’re referring to his friends at Fighting Fit.’
She nods and looks away.
‘Tore’s so-called friends,’ she says, acidly. The darkness in her eyes is still there when she continues, ‘How many of them have visited Tore in prison, do you think?’
Henning looks at her quizzically.
‘Just one,’ she says, holding up a single finger in the air. ‘Just one.’
‘And that is?’
‘Geir. Geir Gronningen. I suppose you could say he’s one of the more decent of that bunch. He’s still a moron, though. And that was one of the reasons I was so sceptical when you called.’
‘In what way is he decent?’
‘Geir has been trying to help Tore ever since he was first arrested. But he hasn’t managed to find out a sodding thing. And then you turn up out of nowhere, and-’
She interrupts herself.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to-’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Henning says. ‘But Gronningen, who is he? What does he do?’
‘I think he still works as a debt collector, not that I have much contact with him these days. He also works as a doorman in a strip club in Majorstua. Asgard, it’s called, or something like that.’
‘Who runs Fighting Fit now?’
‘A guy called Kent Harry Hansen.’
‘Is he okay?’
‘Well,’ she says, after a short pause. ‘I don’t really know how to answer that. There certainly isn’t much left of Vidar’s old gym, that much I can tell you.’
‘What do you mean?’
Nansen looks at him for a little while before she continues. ‘I think Kent Harry is happy to look the other way when it comes to drugs. I also think people call him up when they need some muscle. And there is a lot of that in the gym.’
Henning nods again.
‘Do you have any more names?’
‘There’s Petter Holte, Tore’s cousin. He works as a doorman at Asgard and is a wannabe debt collector, though I can’t imagine that Kent Harry would ever dare to use him. Tore certainly never did even though Petter was always pestering him.’ Nansen looks him straight in the eye as she explains. ‘When Tore was still involved with his old life he got so many requests he had to outsource some of his work for a while. He passed on several jobs to Geir, that much I do know, but never to Petter. Petter had a temper.’
Henning, who has forgotten to drink his coffee for several minutes, raises the cup to his lips again.
‘There are plenty of other morons down at the gym,’ Nansen goes on. ‘Or… at least there used to be. I don’t have very much to do with them these days.’
Henning looks out of the window. Outside in the street a tram glides past.
‘Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that Tore is innocent,’ Henning says, looking at her. ‘That means someone managed to beat up and murder Jocke Brolenius, a hardened criminal, something which in itself is no easy matter. But not only that: the same person also made it look as if Tore did it.’
Nansen doesn’t reply. She just looks at him.
‘It would require brains,’ Henning says, tapping his forehead. ‘And a level head. Do you think that any of the people you’ve mentioned so far fits that description?’
‘I don’t know,’ she says, quietly.
‘You keep referring to them as morons.’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘But that is mostly because I hate everything they stand for. Everything they are.’
‘You blame them,’ he says. ‘That’s understandable.’
She sighs and takes out another cigarette.
‘It’s just so bloody frustrating,’ she bursts out. ‘I know that Tore is innocent, and there is not a damn thing I can do about it!’
She squeezes the lighter hard.
‘And you don’t have any theories about who could have done it? Anyone who would have wanted to make life difficult for Tore or avenge the murder of Vidar Fjell?’
She shakes her head.
A long silence ensues.
‘So what do you think?’ she says, and looks up at him. ‘What do you think you can do?’
‘I don’t know,’ Henning says, and exhales heavily. ‘But I think I’m going to need my gym bag.’