Even though the working day is far from over, Henning tells the cab driver to take him home to Grunerlokka. Perhaps he should have checked with Heidi Kjus first, but even she knows that he works just as effectively from home as at the office.
As the cab bumbles over the potholes at Schous Plass junction, Henning thinks about Jocke Brolenius. What if his murder is related to Tore Pulli’s death? Does anyone in Pulli’s circle have the means to hire a guy like Furio?
How about Veronica Nansen? Now that Pulli is dead she inherits a huge pile of money. But is she really that cold and calculating? She didn’t strike Henning as a psychopathic gold-digger. Nor can he see that she had any motive for killing Brolenius and framing her own husband unless there is more to her than meets the eye. So who else could it be?
None of the people he has met so far appears to have had the means or the motive. This leads him to believe they might be dealing with two unrelated cases. The murder of Jocke and the murder of Tore.
The cab turns into Seilduksgaten.
‘Just drop me off at the lights over there,’ Henning says, pointing across the passenger seat. The driver switches off the meter at the junction with Markveien. A receipt is printed out on which Henning scribbles his signature in handwriting even he can’t decipher.
Outside the tarmac is hot. Glumly, Henning kicks a pebble along the dusty pavement and hobbles to the door. What kind of story can he write about the things he has discovered today? Has he discovered anything at all?
He is about to unlock the door when his attention is drawn to a picture of a cat that has been stuck to the wall above the doorbells. ‘Have you seen Mans?’
No, I haven’t, Henning says to himself as he goes inside. But Mans has given him an idea.
*
Thorleif had forgotten how quiet the mountains can be. After they moved to Oslo, the ever-present traffic foisted itself on them like an invisible family member even though the street they chose — Nobelsgate — is relatively quiet. But the number 13 tram is always rumbling and squealing past, and then there are the sirens from emergency vehicles that frequently hare up and down Bygdoy Alle.
In the mountains, the silence is interrupted only by the wind and sporadic signs of people nearby. Under different circumstances Thorleif would have embraced the change, relished the opportunity to step away from the pressures of everyday life and simply immerse himself in the magnificent landscape that surrounds him. And even though it is difficult to think of anything other than the mess he has ended up in, he can feel with his whole body the value of having a place to go to, just the four of them, to fish, to ski, to feel their cheeks glow in front of an open fire after a long day outdoors.
Thorleif has tried to read The Mourning Cloak by Unni Lindell, but every time he reaches the bottom of the page, he can’t remember the words he has read or what happened. His thoughts keep straying, and he has considered every imaginable way he might contact Elisabeth without finding one that would be safe.
Thorleif closes his eyes and begins to relive the long car journey from Julie’s nursery to Larvik that day. Did the man with the ponytail give anything away? Thorleif shakes his head. Every time he asked him a question he would receive no reply or the man would simply change the subject. Nor can Thorleif remember if the man spoke on his mobile or if he Thorleif opens his eyes.
The mobile.
At one point the man received a text and had to remove his glove in order to press the keys. And Thorleif remembers that he didn’t put his glove back on straight away but texted a reply on his mobile and then put his arm on the armrest. He rested his hand in the same place, not for long, but possibly long enough for him to leave a fingerprint.
Agitated, Thorleif sits up. It’s not much, but it could be enough. It might be just what he needs to extricate himself from this nightmare.