It is just past nine o’clock in the morning when Henning rings Geir Gronningen’s doorbell at number 13 Toyengata. He presses the bell four times and keeps his finger on it extra long on the last ring. Soon afterwards he hears a hello in a voice still thick with sleep. Henning can’t be sure, but he thinks it’s Gronningen.
‘Henning Juul. May I come in, please?’
A few seconds of silence follow. ‘Now?’
‘Yes, now. I need to talk to you again.’
‘Are you kidding? At this time in the morning?’
‘I wouldn’t be here at this hour if it wasn’t urgent,’ Henning barks.
Again there is silence. A morose snort can be heard from the intercom. ‘Hang on a minute, I just need to put some clothes on.’
Henning looks around while he waits impatiently for the door to buzz. Soon he is let in, and he stomps up to the third floor. The smell of spices which hits him the moment he entered the stairwell grows less noticeable the higher he gets. Gronningen meets Henning in the doorway of his flat at the top of the stairs.
‘Do you have any idea what time it is?’ he says.
Henning nods while he tries to get his breath back.
‘I was working until the early hours,’ Gronningen continues.
‘In which case you went to bed just as I started work,’ Henning replies, unperturbed. ‘A colleague of mine was beaten up last night. I think you might know who did it.’
‘Me?’
‘Did you see a man with long hair wearing a corduroy jacket talking to your boss yesterday?’
Gronningen scratches his head while he tries to remember. His eyes are still sleepy.
‘When was this?’
‘About 10.30. Shortly afterwards, on his way home, he was attacked.’
‘Dammit, Juul, I did tell you.’
‘Yes, and I warned him not to be as cocky as he usually is, but I don’t think he heard me. Are you going to let me in?’
Gronningen hesitates for a long time before he nods and pushes open the door. ‘It’s a bit of a mess.’
‘Do I look like a guy who cares?’
‘No, I don’t suppose you do.’
‘I wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee if you could manage it.’
‘It’ll have to be instant.’
‘Instant is fine.’
Henning kicks off his shoes. In the hallway there is a mountain of shoes, socks and coats.
‘I don’t bother tidying up when I have things to do,’ Gronningen says as he fills up the kettle. Henning struggles to step over the mess.
‘So what are you doing, then?’ he asks.
‘Writing the eulogy. For the funeral.’
‘Yes, of course. When is it?’
‘Tuesday. In Tonsberg.’
‘That was quick.’
‘Yes, Veronica wanted it over and done with as soon as possible.’
Henning indicates with a nod of his head that he will wait in the living room. There he tries to find a vacant seat on the worn black leather sofa. He just about manages it. He sits down and takes a look around. There is carpet on the floor with bits of crisps embedded in the fibres, a bottle top, several empty bottles, bags of photocopies. A dumb-bell marked 17.5 kilograms has made a hollow in the carpet under the coffee table.
On the wall are pictures of bodybuilders in various glistening poses. A poster of Arnold Schwarzenegger in Terminator appears to take pride of place.
Gronningen comes in soon afterwards and sits down in an armchair next to the sofa.
‘Thank you,’ Henning says and slurps the hot coffee.
‘So what happened?’ Gronningen asks him.
Henning spends thirty seconds telling him about Iver’s meeting with Kent Harry Hansen and the Asgard visit later that same evening.
‘According to Iver, Hansen was quite angry when he left.’
Gronningen looks as if he has suddenly put two and two together.
‘What?’ Henning says.
Gronningen glances down. ‘No, it’s just that I… ’
‘What?’ Henning says again after a fresh pause. Gronningen stares at Henning for a long time before he answers unwillingly: ‘When Kent Harry came to the gym yesterday, he was angry about something. None of us knew what it was.’
‘Did he say anything?’
Gronningen shakes his head. ‘He just stormed into the office and slammed the door behind him.’
‘And you never found out why he was in such a bad mood?’
‘No. I left soon afterwards.’
‘And no one has been boasting about beating up some scummy journalist either?’
‘No. But I wouldn’t tell you if they had.’
Henning nods slowly before he decides to change the subject to something he has been pondering since their previous meeting.
‘Do you know if Tore made any enemies while he was inside?’
Gronningen looks up at him. ‘Not that I know of,’ he replies. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because I can’t work out why Tore was so keen to talk to me. There aren’t that many journalists in Norway, certainly not crime reporters, so I can’t ignore the fact that Tore might have known who I was before he was locked up. But how did he know that I was back at work?’
Gronningen keeps his eyes fixed on Henning for a few seconds before they glide away.
‘Tore doesn’t have access to the Internet in prison. And the only person to visit Tore, apart from Veronica, was you.’
Gronningen briefly meets his eyes again before they disappear out into the room.
‘Did you tell him I was back at work?’
‘Me? No.’
Henning makes no reply, but looks directly at Gronningen. ‘Do you know if Tore knew who I was before he went to prison?’
‘No idea.’
Henning takes a deep breath. I’m getting nowhere, he thinks. Every door slams in my face. ‘Okay,’ he says and signals that he is about to leave. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’
Gronningen nods to indicate that Henning is welcome.
‘I’ll probably see you on Tuesday,’ Henning adds. ‘Good luck with the eulogy.’
‘Thanks.’