Henning informs Heidi before he leaves for the police station. On his way he calls Pia Nokleby. She is by no means the only assistant commissioner at the police station, but he has had more contact with Nokleby than with anyone else there since his return to work.
‘Hi Pia, it’s Henning Juul.’
‘Hi Henning.’
‘Do you have a couple of minutes?’
It takes a while before she replies: ‘Yes, I think so. What’s it about?’
‘Would you come outside, please?’
‘Outside where?’
‘Out on the grass. I’m outside the station.’
This is a lie — he hasn’t got there yet — but it will take her some time to get down from the fifth floor.
‘Now?’
‘Yes, please. I’m bored standing here on my own even though the weather is nice.’
Another pause.
‘I’m due in a meeting very shortly, but-’
‘I’ve bought you an ice cream.’
Lie number two.
‘Have you now? But I’m on a diet.’
‘On a diet? You?’
‘Ha-ha.’
Henning laughs, even though he knows it sounds false.
‘Okay, give me a couple of minutes. I feel in need of a break.’
‘I’m on the bench to your left as you come out. Hurry up, your ice cream is melting.’
‘Yes, all right, I’m on my way.’
Nokleby walks briskly past a group of smokers occupying their usual spot a short distance from the main entrance. A blue cloud of cigarette smoke rises towards the sun. Henning waves when he sees her.
As always, the assistant commissioner is in uniform. Her sunglasses emphasise her bone structure. Henning hasn’t noticed it before, but she is actually rather attractive. Distinctive cheekbones, not too defined, just enough to endow her face with shape and character. When she comes closer, he sees that her skin is unblemished and lightly tanned. She has no bags under her eyes though he knows how hard she works. Her dark hair is cut short over her ears and neck and combed into a neat side parting to the left without a fringe to block her view. Her glossy hair has a touch of auburn. She fills out the uniform, not too much, but not too little either.
Nokleby sits down next to him.
‘Hi Henning.’
‘Hi.’
He hands her the ice cream: strawberry soft ice in a cup which he bought in a kiosk across the road.
‘I took a wild guess that you liked strawberry.’
‘All girls like strawberry,’ she smiles.
Henning watches her rip off the cellophane from the spoon that comes with the ice cream. She raises the cup to him.
‘Thank you very much.’
‘Don’t mention it.’
‘Are you trying to bribe me?’
‘Yes. Is it working?’
‘Let me taste the ice cream first and then I’ll tell you.’
Henning smiles again as he watches her scoop out the soft ice. She swallows a mouthful and closes her eyes.
‘Not bad. Not bad at all.’
Henning laughs. Nokleby raises her eyes towards the avenue that leads up to Oslo Prison.
‘I presume you haven’t just come here to eat ice cream.’
Henning takes a bite of his own ice cream. ‘I’ve started looking into the case of Tore Pulli,’ he says and swallows. Nokleby eats another spoonful and looks at him.
‘There was evidence at the crime scene that indicated that Pulli did it, while other clues pointed elsewhere. I’m just curious: did you consider other suspects?’
Nokleby smiles indulgently. ‘We didn’t just find one piece of evidence and build the case on that alone — if that’s what you’re implying.’
‘It wouldn’t be the first time.’
‘Not since I’ve been here.’ Nokleby licks her lips and puts down her ice cream.
‘Some of Tore’s friends wouldn’t agree with you. They go so far as to claim that the police have been hunting Tore for years.’
‘Hunting?’
‘Yes, trying to frame him.’
‘For God’s sake,’ she scoffs. ‘Anyone who says that has been watching too many American movies. The police in Norway don’t frame people, Henning.’
‘The press regularly run stories about substandard police work, inappropriate charges, evidence going missing — being planted even, in some cases. Do you really think it’s that strange that people in the street don’t have total faith in the ethical and moral integrity of today’s law enforcers? That some people might think that a case such as Pulli’s is as much about saving face as it is about the truth?’
Nokleby doesn’t reply. Her arms are folded across her chest. The colour of her cheeks has darkened. For a while they watch the green area outside the police station. Near the pavement a man is pushing a lawnmower up and down.
‘It wasn’t my intention to criticise you, Pia,’ Henning says, after a long pause.
‘No, I know.’
‘Pulli called the police himself, didn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you trawled the neighbourhood looking for the murder weapon?’
‘Obviously.’
‘Why did Pulli return to the crime scene to call the police?’
‘Probably because he couldn’t find his knuckle-duster.’
Henning looks at her for a long time. ‘Do you think that sounds convincing?’
‘No, not totally convincing, but plausible. I’m perfectly aware that a man like Tore Pulli realised that he would have a problem explaining himself after killing Jocke Brolenius. It was widely known that he had asked Brolenius for a meeting. That’s why he concealed the most important piece of evidence against him, the murder weapon, before coming up with this conspiracy theory that someone stole his knuckle-duster and gave Brolenius a Pulli punch to fit him up for something he hadn’t done.’
‘You’re forgetting that Pulli tried to prevent Brolenius getting killed in the first place.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard that story too. It could have been his plan all along, getting people to testify that he had been working to avert a bloodbath so we were more likely to buy his conspiracy theory.’
‘But you didn’t.’
‘No.’
‘Something of a gamble, I must say.’
‘You may be right. But you’re forgetting that Brolenius very likely killed Pulli’s friend. No one can convince me that Tore Pulli didn’t want revenge.’
Henning nods quietly.
‘And there’s one more thing: during his initial interviews, Tore Pulli claimed that he turned up at the factory exactly at the agreed time of eleven o’clock that night and that Brolenius was already dead when he arrived. But Pulli didn’t call the police to report the death until 11.19. So tell me this: does it take nineteen minutes to discover a body and call the police, or does it take nineteen minutes to kill someone, conceal the murder weapon and then return to the crime scene to pick up anything you have forgotten?’
Henning doesn’t respond immediately. ‘But in that case why call the police at all?’
‘Because he had come to the conclusion that showing his hand was his best chance of getting off. He knew he would be our prime suspect. But nobody bought his story.’
Nokleby gets up. ‘Pulli did it, Henning.’
Henning doesn’t reply.
‘I’ve got to get back,’ Nokleby continues. ‘If you’re going to write about this, I want copy approval if you quote me. You haven’t made any notes.’
He nods.
‘Thanks for the ice cream,’ she says. ‘It was really good.’
‘And quite sickly.’
She smiles, waves and walks away. Henning gets up too. He shakes his foot, which has gone to sleep, and watches her stride towards the entrance at a brisk pace. He notices with a certain degree of fascination that he likes what he sees.