The duty editor raises an eyebrow when Henning lets himself into the office and presses the button for black coffee. Henning gives him a quick update before he sits down at his desk.
On his way to the office he wondered how he should approach the story. The headline was obvious: Famous Journalist in Coma. He knows that anyone awake at this time of night will click on it. Given the headline it could be anyone in the media, an industry fond of turning its own into celebrities. And celebrities sell. That’s just the way it is. If the story is also placed on the front page, where the introduction can’t be seen so that the readers won’t automatically see which celebrity it concerns, the story will generate loads of hits.
It’s macabre, Henning thinks, to take such things into consideration at a time like this, but he is sure that Iver wouldn’t have minded. On the contrary: he would have insisted on it.
Henning starts to write. When he was at the hospital, he couldn’t take it in. Nor did it sink in when he was talking to the duty officer at the police station to get some quotes. But when he types the word ‘coma’ and writes that Iver Gundersen is hovering between life and death, the brutal truth that Iver might actually die finally dawns on him.
*
Orjan Mjones turns towards the morning sun, shielding his face with one hand as he peers towards the entrance door, which only stays closed for short periods. Passengers with bags and suitcases on wheels are walking in his direction. Mjones looks at his watch. The train leaves in five minutes.
He lights another cigarette and sucks it greedily. He is about to ring Jeton Pocoli when both Pocoli and Durim Redzepi come shuffling down the platform. Their tired faces grimace when the sun greets them.
Mjones nods when they reach him and pulls them aside.
‘Let’s go over this once more: Durim, you get off at Fla, you take a picture of Brenden with you and start looking around. Check out shops, petrol stations, hotels, post offices and restaurants.’
Redzepi grunts.
‘And you,’ Mjones says, looking at Pocoli. ‘You’ll do the same at the next station. Nesbyen. I’ll take Gol. And we’ll keep each other updated.’
More bleary-eyed looks.
‘What about Flurim? Isn’t he coming?’ Pocoli asks.
‘He’s monitoring data traffic, you know that. This wouldn’t have been necessary if you had done your job properly in the first place.’
Pocoli looks down and makes no reply.
‘If we don’t strike lucky at any of those stations we’ll carry on to Al, Geilo and so on.’
Mjones looks at them. Nobody nods. A ticket inspector with a backpack passes to one side of them. Mjones checks the clock on his mobile. Ten minutes past eight.
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘We’ll travel in separate compartments. I don’t want anyone seeing us together.’