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- Herausgeber: Orenda Books
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
Investigative journalist Henning Juul follows a dangerous trail to find his young son's murderer, in the explosive, heart-breaking finale to the international, bestselling Henning Juul series. 'Outstanding' Ragnar Jónasson 'A gripping narrative that begs comparison to Stieg Larsson' Bookpage 'Satisfyingly tense and dark … a deep and complex book' Sunday Times –––––––––––––––––––––––– Crime reporter Henning Juul thought his life was over when his young son was murdered. But that was only the beginning… Determined to find his son's killer, Henning doggedly follows an increasingly dangerous trail, where dark hands from the past emerge to threaten everything. His ex-wife Nora is pregnant with another man's child, his sister Trine is implicated in the fire that killed his son and, with everyone he thought he could trust seemingly hiding something, Henning has nothing to lose … except his own life. Packed with tension and unexpected twists, Killed is the long-awaited finale of one of the darkest, most chilling and emotive series you may ever read. Someone will be killed. But who? –––––––––––––––––––––––– Praise for Thomas Enger 'One of the most unusual and intense writers in the field' Barry Forshaw, Independent 'MUST HAVE' Sunday Express S Magazine 'Intriguing' Guardian 'Sophisticated and suspenseful' Literary Review 'Full of suspense and heart' Crime Monthly 'Thomas Enger writes with verve, colour and a pace that builds to a thrilling climax' European Literature Network 'Superbly compelling … the characters leap right off the page' Shotsmag 'Destined to become Nordic Noir classic' Yrsa Sigurðardóttir 'Slick, compelling and taut' Chris Ewan
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Seitenzahl: 460
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017
PRAISE FOR THOMAS ENGER
‘One of the most unusual and intense talents in the field’ Barry Forshaw, Independent
‘Spine-chilling and utterly unputdownable. Thomas Enger has created a masterpiece of intrigue, fast-paced action and suspense that is destined to become a Nordic Noir classic’ Yrsa Sigurðardóttir
‘Thomas Enger is one of the finest writers in the Nordic Noir genre, and this is his very best book yet. Outstanding’ Ragnar Jónasson
‘A gripping narrative that begs comparison to Stieg Larsson’ Bookpage
‘An intriguing new voice in crime’ NJ Cooper
‘Slick, compelling and taut, Thomas Enger combines layers of sophisticated mysteries with an intensely scarred hero embarked on a tragic quest. A dark and suspenseful blast of Nordic exposure’ Chris Ewan
‘The Killing took us by surprise, The Bridge was a good follow-up, but the political drama Borgen knocked spots off both. For readers who enjoy these Scandinavian imports, this novel is a treat … the dialogue is sharp and snappy, and the characters seem to come alive in this sophisticated and suspenseful tale’ Jessica Mann, Literary Review
‘It has real strengths: the careful language, preserved in the fine translation, and its haunted journalist hero … An intriguing series’ Guardian
‘From the gritty tension of the plot, to its underpinning emotional depths, this is a powerfully compulsive page-turner’ LoveReading ‘Suspenseful, dark and gritty, this is a must-read’ Booklist
‘This promises to be a crime-fiction series worth watching’ Library Journal
‘Superbly compelling … the characters leap right off the page, and the relationship between them is as twisted and complex as the story itself’ Shotsmag
‘Although the narration moves at scary speed, somehow the melancholy lingers and slows it down. If feels as if everything is just about to explode, and eventually it does in the shocking finale of the novel. For those who are as yet unfamiliar with the intense presence of Juul, I am sure that you will find elements of Jo Nesbø’s fast-paced plots and brutal violence, touches of Karin Fossum’s thoughtful questions on morality, and Jørn Lier Horst‘s portrayal of decent human beings caught in crime – all delivered in a gripping intriguing plot. Enger is an author to be treasured’ Ewa Sherman, Crime Review
‘Unexpected and surprising … like a fire in the middle of a snowfall’ Panorama
‘I am always struck with the control of pace and plot that is a stand-out feature of his writing … a real feel of storytelling in its purest form’ Raven Crime Reads
‘An excellent read … fascinating’ Journey of a Bookseller
‘A fascinating addition to the Scandinavian Noir genre’ Crimesquad
‘It was stunning. It was patient, beautifully and precisely written, with a killer plot … a really classy read’ Louise Beech
‘Satisfyingly tense and dark’ Sunday Times
‘It’s clear the Henning Juul series has a large-scale plan and Cursed shows a great momentum, but it is the bombshell dropped in the very last sentence that carries his investigation one jaw-dropping step further and leaves you breathless for more’ Crime Fiction Lover
‘Thomas Enger writes with verve, colour and a pace that builds to a thrilling climax, cleverly and deftly weaving a complex of fictional elements into some uncomfortable details of his country’s history. Highly recommended!’ European Literature Network
‘This is Nordic Noir at its best. Thomas grabs you by the throat with this one and I found the novel impossible to put down’ Jacob Reviews Books
‘A masterful depiction of what sits in the murky and sometimes frightening background of family lives’ Ronnie Turner
‘The vivid descriptions of Oslo and the surrounding landscapes are mesmerising; I felt that I could conjure clear images from the details given’ The Quiet Knitter
‘Gripping throughout … Thomas Enger is definitely a writer to watch out for. Remember the name!’ Mrs Bloggs’ Books
‘Wonderfully written’ P Turners’ Book Blog
‘The imagery created in this book, the descriptions of Oslo and the Norwegian landscape, the creation of individual character, are all brilliant … I could picture it all perfectly’ Jen Med’s Book Reviews
‘With a tightly controlled plot, which is deeply moving at times, this is highly recommended’ My Chestnut Reading Tree
‘This book was all about surprises, from the subtle turns to the final shocking twist. It’s certainly left me intrigued to read more’ Off-the-Shelf Books
‘An enjoyable thriller filled with suspense and surprises that will leave readers eager to read the fifth and final book in the series’ The Norwegian American
‘Waves of guilty, denial and anger wash around this suspenseful book’ Blue Book Balloon.
‘Cursed is a very well-written (and very well-translated) book in the best traditions of Nordic Noir. Thomas Enger is up there with the very best’ TripFiction
‘The tension kept mounting and mounting until things all came to a head in a spectacular conclusion. Then there was the very end, I’m talking about the last line … Oh my God, did that throw me for a loop!’ Novel Gossip
‘A tightly written thriller that had me puzzling the clues throughout as the plot threads were untangled and then woven into place. An entertaining and suspenseful read’ Never Imitate
‘Cursed is dark and riveting, with a plot that zigs and zags through a twisting landscape of suspense, truth and lies. Brutal in places, but beautifully layered and plotted’ Espresso Coco
‘Brilliantly written and seamlessly translated’ Have Books Will Read
‘A gripping novel with strong characters. This complex backstory … has had me buying Enger’s previous volumes’ The Crime Novel Reader
‘The writing and story are gritty and hard hitting … I thoroughly loved this book and I will definitely be going out to pick up the other Henning Juul books’ Life of a Nerdish Mum
‘Not since reading Stieg Larsson’s The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo series have I felt so riveted by characters and plot … until now. And the ending … utter perfection!’ It’s Book Talk
‘Enger has written a complicated, skillfully drawn story that rewards your close attention. This translation by Kari Dickson captures all the pared-back Nordic style of The Bridge or The Killing, combined with the most compelling chapter-end hooks I’ve encountered since reading Harry Potter to my children’ Claire Thinking
‘Thomas Enger’s series reminds me why I love to read crime books. Its pacing is completely addictive, its characters are endearing and vivid, and it has that special something that makes me just plain happy to be reading. Scandinavian crime readers: Enger simply must be next on your reading list. Readers of any other kind of crime fiction: he should be your next read, too’ Crime by the Book
‘Enger’s Norway is chilling … a crime-filled page-turner that doesn’t disappoint’ Words Shortlist
‘A gripping thriller, plenty of twists and great characters to follow on the adventure. Dark, emotive and wonderfully written … kept this reader on the edge of his seat’ Grab This Book
‘Thomas Enger keeps you guessing right up to the end’ Books, Life and Everything
‘When I think of Nordic Noir, I think of cold climates, moody atmospheres, plots that are in equal measures dark and beautiful, books with the ability to capture, not only my interest but my heart too. After reading this book, in the above sentence, I can easily replace the phrase “Nordic Noir” with Cursed as this book encapsulated all that this genre is to me!’ Keeper of Pages
‘This book was exceptional. I am now adding more of Thomas Enger’s books to my library’ The Pages in Between
‘Fantastic, believable characters … some you will love, some you will loathe. Beautifully atmospheric, completely gripping and full of intrigue … I can’t wait for book five’ DampPebbles
‘Enger likes playing with language almost as much as he loves developing his characters, and there are times where he’s clearly enjoying himself, but this never seems self-indulgent; indeed we readers are treated to fresh and vivid metaphor’ Café Thinking
‘For any fan of Nordic Noir Thomas Enger is a must-read’ Liz Loves Books
‘Thomas Enger teases the reader all the way along, revealing a little more with each chapter … This whip-smart shot of Nordic Noir is riveting and recommended reading’ The Nut Press
‘A tight, well-crafted read, skillfully translated by Kari Dickson … Through this tale Enger highlights beautifully how the echoes of the past are still heard in the present’ Nordic Noir
‘A complex, taught and thoroughly gripping read, Thomas Enger’s Cursed is a first-rate, character-driven thriller that doesn’t disappoint’ Mumbling About…
‘If this is Nordic Noir then I’m definitely a fan’ The Belgian Reviewer
‘With an oppressive atmosphere full of mystery and secrets, Thomas Enger has created a psychological thriller that will leave you stunned from the beginning till the end’ Varietats
‘The slow-burning tension soars in a deliciously addictive fashion. The dark tone paints a very atmospheric and gritty picture. Cursed also delivers one of my very biggest fictional temptations – a story where the secrets keep on unravelling’ Book Drunk
‘The end?! The last few lines? I needed to pick my jaw up off the floor. Please, Thomas Enger. Write quickly. My heart can’t take it’ Clues & Reviews
‘Put simply, the more I read, the more I wanted to read’ From First Page to Last
‘From the stunning cover, to the atmospheric descriptions, all the way to that final page, I felt engaged and drawn into the story. The translation flowed well and I did not feel anything was lost. I’ve lately been savouring these dark, emotional Nordic Noirs and think it’s due to the fact they have all come from the same fabulous publisher!’ The Suspense Is Thrilling Me
‘This is a thrilling crime read that is so multi-layered that – especially through the first, chilling opening pages – makes you wonder what really is going on, then it explodes in your hands … A powerful new Nordic crime writer’ The Last Word Book Review
‘Fast and furious, the type of book for which one chapter is never quite enough. And oh my God that bloody ending! Flipping amazing!’ Emma the Little Book Worm
‘With a captivating storyline, a couple of rather curious protagonists with their tragic history and some sharp and bleak writing, it is easy to whiz through Cursed’ Northern Crime
‘I may still be battered and bruised from this novel but, as I recover, it’s a very satisfying’ The Book Trail
‘Craftily written and the translation is near perfect. The characters are fascinating with credible back stories. I can’t wait to see the next book in this series!’ Linda Strong
‘This is one brilliantly constructed plot with various threads and layers that will keep you gripped right until the end’ Novel Deelights
‘There’s a spell between those pages, and its power stems from the sophisticated writing style contrasting with the chilling and riveting crime it holds prisoner’ Chocolate N Waffles
‘A very enjoyable and satisfying read’ Mrs Peabody Investigates
‘The emotional roller-coaster is balanced out by the intricate criminal story and finely woven storyline. The book ends with a wee bit of a bookworm mousetrap by baiting the trap with a lovely morsel’ Cheryl M-M’s Book Blog
‘The ending was a huge shock. I purposely covered the last paragraph with my hand so I didn’t accidently see a name. And the name it revealed was one that had me aching for an immediate follow-up’ Steph’s Book Blog
‘The plot is intricate, with several twists, the motive unusual and convincing, and the final scenes page-turning’ Marsali Taylor, Promoting Crime
Killed
THOMAS ENGER
Translated by Kari Dickson
Killed
Cast of Characters
HENNING JUUL – Reporter at 123news who lost his son in a domestic fire in 2007. Scarred for life both physically and mentally he is now desperately trying to find those responsible for the fire.
JONAS JUUL KLEMETSEN – Henning’s son. Died age six.
NORA KLEMETSEN – Henning’s ex-wife and Jonas’s mother. Works for the Aftenposten newspaper. Now in a relationship with Iver Gundersen and pregnant with his child.
IVER GUNDERSEN – Henning’s closest colleague at 123news. A reckless but clever reporter who has taken a special interest in Henning’s case. Wants Henning’s friendship and acknowledgment.
TRINE JUUL-OSMUNDSEN – Henning’s estranged sister and former Secretary of Justice, who was photographed outside Henning’s apartment on the night of the fire, as she was handing something over to Durim Redzepi.
DURIM REDZEPI – A gun-for-hire from Kosovo. Works for ‘Daddy Longlegs’ – a facilitator of criminal activity. Durim Redzepi is wanted for double murder in his home country.
TORE PULLI – Former gun-for-hire and latterly a highly successful real-estate broker in Oslo. Wrongfully sentenced to fourteen years in prison for a murder he didn’t commit. Killed in prison. Henning Juul cleared his name post mortem, although Pulli was monitoring Henning’s movements in the days leading up to the fire. Was married to Veronica Nansen.
VERONICA NANSEN – Former model who now runs a model agency. Discovered the photograph of Henning’s sister among Tore’s things.
ØRJAN MJØNES – Employed by ‘Daddy Longlegs’ to facilitate the murder of Tore Pulli. Currently in prison awaiting trial.
WILLIAM HELLBERG – Childhood friend of Tore Pulli. Lives in Tønsberg. Runs a very successful real-estate business, which has earned him millions. Grateful to both Henning and Nora as they recently managed to find his missing sister, Hedda, and get to the bottom of their aunt’s murder in the late 1990s.
PREBEN MØRCK – Attorney-at-law. Long-time legal adviser to the Hellberg family.
CHARLIE HØISÆTHER – Tore Pulli’s closest friend growing up. Had a falling out with Tore before Tore’s arrest. Currently living in Natal, Brazil, where he makes a shady living laundering drug money and selling apartments to sun-seeking Norwegians.
RASMUS BJELLANDakaROGER BLYSTAD – A carpenter who worked for Tore Pulli and Charlie Høisæther in the 1990s. Started to work for Charlie in Brazil as well, before vanishing off the face of the earth following a police operation where a number of thugs were arrested for money laundering. It was rumoured that Bjelland sold them out, trying to save his own skin.
BJARNE BROGELAND – Policeman. Henning Juul’s friend from the small town of Kløfta.
ELLA SANDLAND – Bjarne Brogeland’s closest colleague in the force.
PIA NØKLEBY – Assistant Chief of Police. Legally in charge of all of the investigations that take place in the Oslo police district.
ANN-MARI SARA – Forensics expert of Sami descent.
6TIERMES7 – Henning’s secret online police source.
CHRISTINE JUUL – Henning and Trine’s alcoholic mother. Suffers from Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease. Widowed after her husband died, aged forty-four. It is believed he took his own life.
ALSO IN THIS BOOK
BODIL SVENKERUD – An old widow who lives in a posh neighbourhood in Oslo. Angry at Høisæther Real Estate for trying to force her to move.
ISABELakaCLÁUDIA ISABEL YPIRANGA – Charlie Høisæther’s girlfriend in Natal.
MARIANA DE LA ROSA – Rasmus Bjelland’s wife. Deceased. Also the love of Charlie Høisæther’s life.
FREDDY – Charlie Høisæther’s driver and hired help.
HANSEMANN – A muscle-for-hire who works for Charlie Høisæther in Natal.
EDUARDO DE JESUS SILVA – A young Brazilian man who wants to work for Charlie.
LARS INDREHAUG – Ørjan Mjønes’s defence attorney.
ANDREAS KJÆR – Policeman on call the night of the fire at Henning’s apartment. Also Pia Nøkleby’s lover.
HEIDI KJUS – Henning’s boss at 123news.
AGNES KLEMETSEN – Nora’s mother.
JETON POCOLI – One of Durim Redzepi’s friends and co-workers.
FLURIM AHMETAJ – Durim Redzepi’s childhood friend from Kosovo, who also works with him in Oslo. Computer expert.
ANNE CECILIE HELLBERG – William Hellberg’s wife. Works in a children’s clothes shop in Tønsberg.
HELENE NÆSS – Rasmus Bjelland’s love interest.
VANJA KVALHEIM – Rasmus Bjelland’s mother.
Prologue
The body lying at Henning Juul’s feet, in the bottom of the boat, was wrapped in two industrial rubbish bags. They had been pulled over at the head and the feet, and were sealed by several metres of silver-grey tape.
Henning tried not to think about the person inside. Instead he looked at the mist drifting in over the still, dark water – eerie wisps of white that seemed to reach out towards the shore. All he could hear were the oars breaking the surface and the drops of water that ran off the blades as the man in front of him lifted and lowered them. A pungent smell made Henning wonder if perhaps the lake had swallowed something old and rotten … and was struggling to digest it.
Henning liked water, but he didn’t like forest lakes like this. They could hide anything – whatever his imagination might stretch to. And soon he would lie hidden here too…
The boat glided slowly over the water. Henning looked at the man in front of him, at his short, messy hair, the ripple of his arm muscles. Durim Redzepi had been hunting him for a long time. Now, finally, he would be able to finish the job he’d be given.
It had been a long and strenuous journey to get to this point. When Henning looked back at all the events that had unfolded, he knew that all of them had occurred because he had chosen to return to work two years after the fire in which his son Jonas was killed. By doing so – by investigating the Henriette Hagerup case – Henning had managed to turn the spotlight on his own scarred face. And Tore Pulli had been alerted to the fact that Henning was back in business as an investigative journalist.
Pulli, a former muscle-for-hire turned real-estate broker, was serving fourteen years in prison for a murder he didn’t commit. Desperate to clear his name, he had reached out to Henning, claiming to know the people responsible for Jonas’s death. If Henning would help him, he had said, if Henning would find the real killer and clear Pulli’s name, he would then disclose what he knew about the fire.
Of course he’d jumped at the chance, Henning mused. Why wouldn’t he? But Pulli was killed in jail before Henning could meet his end of the bargain – and before Pulli had revealed the miserable secret he was harbouring. But the flood gates had been opened. What Henning had suspected all along had been correct: someone had set fire to his apartment. He was going to get to the bottom of it all, no matter what – without Pulli’s help, and despite the fact that memory loss meant Henning couldn’t recall the stories he had been following in the weeks leading up to that fateful day.
He’d worked with all the tunnel vision of a bereaved parent. Henning could see that now. He had finally managed to find an interview he had conducted in those weeks – with a carpenter who had been working for Charlie Høisæther, a friend of Pulli’s in the Brazilian real-estate business. This carpenter – Rasmus Bjelland – had fled Brazil following a police operation that had led to the arrest of several hard-hitting Norwegian gang members, who were laundering their drug money through apartment businesses in the Brazilian seaside city of Natal. These thugs were convinced it was Bjelland who had provided the cops with key information about their operations, and a price was put on his head.
Henning managed to track the carpenter down, but in the interview Bjelland had maintained his innocence. Even now, Henning could clearly remember believing him. And that was one of the points at which his investigation changed. The carpenter also told Henning that if he dug a little deeper into Tore Pulli’s past, he might just find out that he still had at least one foot in the criminal world. Go back to the 1990s, Bjelland told Henning, then you’ll see what kind of transactions Pulli was involved in when he first started to make a name for himself in real estate.
The bit firmly between his teeth – the truth of his boy’s death within reach, but still obscured – Henning was impelled to follow every lead, to rattle every cage, to put himself at risk. And he didn’t regret one single moment of that investigation. When he discovered that Pulli had been sitting in a car outside Henning’s apartment for three nights in a row before the day of the fatal fire, taking pictures and monitoring Henning’s movements, he became certain that it was Pulli’s business partners who were trying to prevent him from digging into the truth about Bjelland, the real-estate business in the Brazil, the drugs money and much, much more.
But it seemed these associates of Pulli would go to any lengths to silence anyone they thought might expose them. Not only was Pulli killed in prison, but a police report about Pulli’s actions on the night of the fire had also been altered by someone with access to the classified records. And Durim Redzepi – the very man now sitting in front of Henning in the boat – had been hired to track Henning down and to end his life once and for all.
After narrowly dodging two attempts on his life, Henning continued his quest with ever greater intensity, knowing that time was working against him. He had been unable to give up, driven by memories and love for his dead son. He hung his head, putting together the pieces that had led him to this boat. Pulli’s widow, Veronica Nansen, had supported his quest, and alerted him to another childhood friend of Pulli’s, William Hellberg – also a highly successful real-estate broker. After Henning and his ex-wife Nora had managed to find William’s missing sister Hedda, William, as a way of saying thank-you, disclosed that Pulli had broken Charlie Høisæther’s jaw during a fight about an apartment in Natal, and that the two of them were no longer friends.
The details provided by Hellberg made Henning certain that Høisæther was the man behind it all – that there were secrets in his life so dark, deep and dangerous, he would stop at nothing to protect them, including killing his old friend and business partner, Pulli. Henning had even believed that his own sister, Trine, had been involved in this tragic story, as Tore Pulli had taken a photograph of her outside Henning’s apartment on the night of the fire, handing something over to Durim Redzepi.
All of this felt like a lifetime ago, Henning thought to himself. But it had, in fact, all happened within the space of a short summer – just a few crazy weeks. And that was enough to bring him here. To his certain death.
During the last few hours everything had changed. And now, he was reconciled to his fate. He was convinced he could now die satisfied. His quest was over. He finally had the answers he’d been looking for.
None of them would bring Jonas back. None of them would take away the pain that lingered in his chest. Everything that meant anything to him belonged to the past now: the years he’d been a father; the years he’d been allowed to love Nora; the years she’d loved him.
Still, it was hard to let go, he thought, as the boat slid over the surface of the lake. He wondered if it would hurt. How it would all happen in the end.
No matter what, Henning told himself, die silently. Die with dignity. Don’t show him you’re afraid.
Redzepi took a few strokes with just one oar, the other resting, so the boat turned round. Then it stood still, the water lapping quietly at the prow. He pulled the oars in and got a hold of the body. He lifted it as though it weighed nothing, and threw it overboard like a bag of rubbish.
A heavy weight was attached to the body by a thick, rust-coloured rope. Redzepi dropped it into the water and the black plastic bundle immediately disappeared from sight.
Redzepi, businesslike and calm, then grabbed the rope coiled at his feet and started to tie a noose. He went to the back of the boat, pulled a grey concrete block from under a white tarpaulin, and put it down in front of him. There was a thick blue handle cast in the concrete. Redzepi fed the rope through it, then, without a single word, attached it to Henning’s right ankle.
It all seemed so simple, so practical, and Henning wondered if he should put up a fight. But his shoulder still ached. How on earth was he going to overcome a man with a knife and a gun?
Redzepi lifted the concrete block over the edge of the boat and dropped it into the water. The dull splash broke the silence that covered the lake like a blanket. The rope vanished quickly into the depths, as though strong hands were pulling it from below. Then Redzepi put his feet on what was left of the coiled rope at the bottom of the boat and stood up.
‘Your turn,’ he said, as if they were playing some kind of game.
Henning tried to stand up, but his legs wouldn’t do as they were told; he couldn’t feel them, couldn’t feel his feet in his shoes, the fabric of his trousers against his thighs.
‘Come on. I haven’t got all day,’ said Redzepi, then casually pulled out a gun and pointed it at Henning. He made a ‘get-up’ gesture.
Henning nodded and tried to push himself up. He succeeded this time. But the sudden movement made the boat rock. Henning had to step forwards to regain his balance. He took a deep breath and looked up again.
It was hard to see anything. The mist had come down now, obscuring the shore. It had to be thirty metres or more to land.
He cocked his head, thinking he heard something – a splash or something moving in the water. But it was nothing. There were no cars approaching. No branches snapping in the forest. No shouts that might bring a different fate from the one that was now so unavoidable.
Henning put a foot on the edge of the boat and made sure he was steady, even though the vessel rocked a little again.
The surface of the water in front of him was glossy. A thick, cold oil slick. The rope pulled down into it like a fishing line, heavy with new catch.
He jumped.
He held his breath and as soon as he felt the cold water envelop him, he started to kick, trying to push his way up. But the weight was pulling him down. He mustered all the strength he could and kicked hard with his legs. They surprised him by doing what he wanted them to. He managed to slow his descent, then centimetre by centimetre he used his good arm to thrust his way back up. He broke the surface of the water with a gasp.
He blinked furiously and gulped down air, trying to orient himself as he paddled and kicked and thrashed with one arm, not sure that he’d be able to withstand the pull of the weight that was dragging him downwards.
Henning stretched his neck and tried to breathe at the same time.
Then he found himself looking at the boat. He saw Redzepi lift his gun and aim, and it dawned on him that this man didn’t need to worry about blood or any traces of Henning anymore. In no more than a few seconds the muzzle of the gun would flash and Henning’s head would explode.
He pictured Nora’s smile, her beautiful face, the shine of her short hair. Her voice that made his body tingle. The warmth of her hands, how small they were.
He thought about Iver, and about Trine – about them playing in the water together at the cabin in Stavern, seeing who could hold their breath the longest.
And that was when he suddenly stopped kicking and let the water wrap round him like a shroud. He knew that no personal best time would help him now. That no one, nothing, could save him. And that he would rather die on his own terms.
That’s why he closed his eyes and let himself slowly sink down into the cold, black nothingness.
Contents
1
January 1996
Had it not been for the snow, it would have been pitch dark. The cars were tightly parked along the edge of the pavement, and the buildings towered into the sky. The street lights had either been turned off or were not working.
If she hadn’t lived there for over 50 years, Bodil Svenkerud might have been afraid – a lot went on after dark on the streets of Oslo these days.
But not in Eckersbergs gate.
She had never been afraid of anything there, and now she just wanted to get home and have a lovely cup of hot tea. It had been a long day.
Mrs Svenkerud urged her legs to keep moving on the soft snow. It was a disgrace that the roads and pavements weren’t cleared sooner and more often; she had the feeling they always left her street until last. The slippery, dry powder snow had brought her more or less to a standstill.
That was why when she spotted a gap between two parked cars, she went out into the middle of the road – after all, it was her street – having checked both ways first. She saw a car coming slowly towards her, but it was still some distance away. She had time, she reckoned, before the car got close, and even though she could feel there was ice under the snow, it was still easier to walk in the tyre tracks.
Mrs Svenkerud pulled her fur coat tighter, looked up at the building that was in front of her on the right, where she had lived for so long. This was where they had had their wedding party in 1957 – they couldn’t afford anything else. This was where they had had their children, and later played with their grandchildren, where life had raced by like a high-speed train. This was where the cancer cells had invaded Olav Sebastian’s body and reduced him to a morose, sick shadow of the great man he’d once been, a man who’d engaged in local politics, who’d run eight kilometres three nights a week, even when he was over 70, and who’d loved going for walks in Frogner Park on Sundays, especially when pushing little Sofus in his pram. This was where he’d said his final goodbye one beautiful late summer day in 1992.
There were lights on in some of the windows up on the third floor. So they’d started already, the joiners, but she was not going to let anyone force her out. She most certainly was not!
That was what she’d told the young adviser in Oslo Council as well, the one who hadn’t had time for her at first, but then had managed to squeeze in 15 minutes at the end of the day. The beautiful girl with dark hair – what was her name again? – had promised to take up her case as soon as she got to work in the morning. Were there no limits to how shameless people could be these days?
Mrs Svenkerud pressed on, and swung her arms to help her move faster. She was getting warm, and a thin layer of condensation had formed on the inside of her spectacles. She could just make out the crossing about 30 metres in front of her.
She looked back. The car was much closer now. Mrs Svenkerud tried to walk faster, but the snow was so loose and soft that it was hard to get a firm footing. She almost lost her balance, but fortunately managed to stay on her feet.
She looked round again. The car seemed to have speeded up. Surely the driver had seen her, with all the safety reflectors she was wearing?
She tried to wave at him, but the driver didn’t slow down; in fact, he did the opposite, and that was when she realised the car was going to knock her down.
She made a last-ditch attempt to get out of the way, but the ice was deceptive and slippery under her winter boats, and she didn’t manage to move before the car hit her side-on, throwing her up onto the bonnet. Her back was to the windscreen and she was forced up onto the roof, where she lay still for a brief second before the winter tyres bit into the ice as the wheels locked. She was thrown forward onto the bonnet again, and then rolled down onto the road, where she landed with her face in the soft, cold snow.
She couldn’t move, though strangely enough, it didn’t hurt; it was as though her whole body had been numbed. But she was bleeding from a cut on her forehead, and soon the whole side of her face was warm. The impact had also damaged one of the buttons on her hearing aid, and it was whining loudly, piercing her eardrum.
Mrs Svenkerud managed to haul herself up onto her knees. She felt the cold and damp seep through her trousers and long johns. She lifted her head and straightened her glasses, turned around and squinted at the car with its engine still running. She hadn’t noticed until now, but in the beam from the headlights, she saw that big white flakes had started to fall again.
Why didn’t the driver get out to help her?
The car reversed a few metres, then headed for her again. She couldn’t get out of its way; she knew she wouldn’t make it in time, even though the studded tyres were spinning on the ice and snow. Shouting wouldn’t help. She braced herself for the pain, and when it came, it was intense and paralysing. The weight and speed of the car made her skid across the road until she stopped close to the kerb.
And there she lay, unable to move while cold, white kisses melted on her burning cheeks. The glass in her spectacles was smashed and she could barely see. Fortunately, the ringing in her ears stopped and was replaced by silence, bringing with it a diamond-like certainty.
She knew what this was about.
There was no doubt about it.
She only hoped that the bright, helpful girl at Oslo Council – what was her name again? – would realise as well. That she would hear about this, and do something.
Trine, Mrs Svenkerud remembered as the car headed towards her again.
The girl in the council offices was called Trine.
Trine Juul.
2
October 2009
The light seeped in through the white curtains and bathed the bed in a faint shimmer. The woman lying next to Charlie Høisæther turned slightly and breathed in sleepily through her nose.
‘You’re awake already?’ she said in a drowsy voice, her face against the pillow.
‘Mm,’ he replied.
The light paled her cheeks as she curled up in a ball and pulled the thin duvet tighter. She stretched out a warm hand and found Charlie’s soft belly.
‘You always wake up so early,’ she mumbled.
‘Mm. You just go back to sleep.’
The curtains in front of the open window billowed in the wind that blew tirelessly off the Atlantic Ocean. The sound of the constant traffic rose all the way up to the fifteenth floor from the street below. Isabel opened her eyes, brown and dark. Charlie felt her look at him, more awake than before.
‘You were so restless last night,’ she said. ‘Were you dreaming?’
He shook his head.
‘What was it then?’
‘Nothing. You just go back to sleep.’
The truth was that he’d barely slept at all. There was so much going on at the moment. Tore was dead, and that journalist kept phoning and leaving messages. ‘Hi, I’d like to talk to you about Tore Pulli.’ ‘Hi, I’d like to arrange a time when I can talk to you.’ ‘Hi, would it be possible to have a few words about Rasmus Bjelland?’
No, it would not be possible.
Not at all.
And then there was the leisure complex they wanted to build, if only they could find the right place.
‘But now that I’m awake,’ Isabel said, and moved her hand, ‘don’t you think you should do something about it?’
She pressed her fingers a little harder against his stomach, just above the belly button, then moved down, but he barely reacted. Isabel pulled her hand back, turned onto her front and cupped her chin in her palms.
‘Tired?’ she asked affectionately.
‘Just a bit,’ Charlie said, grateful that she didn’t make a drama out of it. Instead she snuck a hand over to his chest this time, stroked the hairs down, then up towards his neck, chin, gently tugged at the stubble there and ran a more curious finger over his scar.
‘Don’t,’ he said, pulling his head back.
‘Sorry.’
He pushed the duvet to one side and swung his feet down onto the cool, hard tiles on the floor, stood up and walked naked over to the window. Put his ear to his left shoulder, then the other to the right. There was a crack.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said again.
‘It’s fine. You just go back to sleep.’
He lit up a cigarette and went out onto the terrace, where he was greeted by a clear, blue sky. The floor tiles here were already warm and burned the soles of his feet. He leaned against the railings. The rare shower they’d had last night had dried up long ago. The smell of dusty asphalt and rubbish rose up from the street below.
Charlie took a drag on the cigarette and looked out over the shining, silver ocean. From a distance, it didn’t look like the water was moving; it just lay there glittering, apparently smooth. Soon the beautiful wide beaches would start to fill up. Soon the local boys would meet to play football, filled with the dream of becoming the new Neymar or Pelé. People would buy chilled snowballs, chocolate and cigarettes, and lie dozing until the sun dipped down below the horizon again.
This was Natal.
Sun city.
The average temperature here was 28°C, with 300 days of sun a year. The town had previously been home to both Indians and French pirates, this town that he had helped to develop – certainly in terms of sun-seeking Norwegians.
It had all been a bit of an adventure, really, a dangerous one. They had played for high stakes, particularly in recent years. People had ended up in jail. Lives had been lost. But now things were back to where they’d been when they started in the late nineties. The way Tore wanted things to be.
Charlie looked over at the neighbouring terrace. The flat was still empty. A few dried leaves had been blown all the way up here to the fifteenth floor – he must remember to send someone round to sweep them away before the next viewing. He always felt a stab of guilt whenever he thought that they could have been neighbours, Tore and him, and that they could have stood each on their own side of the shoulder-high wall that divided the two terraces, with an ice-cold beer in their hands, looking out over the ocean while they reminisced about the good old days. When their bank accounts were filling up nicely and they partied practically every night.
But too much had happened between them. Things had been said and done that couldn’t be undone. Tore should perhaps still have got the flat. At the end of the day, he’d earned it.
Charlie put a hand to his chin and felt the scar that Tore had given him, looked down at the street and sucked in some more nicotine. A man was out running, his bare chest already gleaming in the morning sun. Old cars, discoloured by sand and rust, sped by.
Charlie’s eyes fixed on a dark Audi that was parked in the shade of a palm tree. The same car that had been in the same place every morning for the past few days. From up here it was impossible to tell if anyone was sitting inside. And it was always gone by the time Charlie came down to start his day, but he decided he’d get Freddy to check it out.
Charlie stubbed his cigarette against the wall and flicked it out over the railing. He watched it fall, slowly, down towards the street until it was caught by a gust of wind and blown onto another terrace. He went into his enormous flat, where the walls were as naked as the woman in his bed, who raised herself up onto her elbows. The duvet still covered her stomach, slim hips and legs.
‘Hi,’ she said, and brushed a long curl of black hair from her eyes.
‘Hi,’ he said.
Charlie pulled on a pair of shorts and some sandals.
‘What’s up?’ she asked.
‘Nothing.’
‘Are you sure? You’re so … distant these days.’
‘I’m going to make coffee,’ he said. ‘Do you want some?’
She pushed the duvet aside, revealing a suntanned body. Charlie didn’t look at her, nor did he get an answer. A few moments later, he was in the kitchen.
‘I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea,’ she called after him.
Charlie had met Isabel in the bar at Praia dos Artistas. She’d sent him stolen glances all evening, and when she later came over and said, in her broken Brazilian English, that she was a dancer and she’d like to show him what she could do – ‘but preferably somewhere else’ – he’d just assumed she was a prostitute.
But she was in fact looking for a job, and when she told him her name was Cláudia Isabel Ypiranga – ‘but everyone calls me Isabel’ – he’d turned and studied her dark skin, the Indian features, her long slender body. He’d seen the need in her eyes and wondered what poverty she’d suffered in the course of her barely 25 years, but most of all, he had seen who she looked like, and he’d felt a strange and rare need to be kind.
That was five months ago.
Now she danced at Senzuela six nights a week, and then came home to him.
To begin with, everything had been fine; for a while he’d even thought he might fall in love with her, but then one day he’d admitted to himself that she would never be Mariana. He’d been thinking of ending the relationship for a while, but hadn’t managed to do it. He liked her, after all. Appreciated her company and gorgeous body, as long she didn’t do anything stupid like get pregnant. He presumed he’d miss her if she wasn’t there, and he liked the thought that he’d saved her from … well, something. He’d never really asked about her life up to that point, what she’d done. Perhaps he should.
Charlie took a cup of chai latte back into the bedroom. He’d made it just the way he knew she liked it.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You’re so good to me.’
If only you knew, Charlie thought, as he pulled on a white t-shirt that stretched tight over his belly.
He noticed her watching him over the edge of the cup.
‘So, what’s happening today?’ she asked in a bright, expectant voice.
Charlie took a deep breath which he released as a long sigh.
‘Exactly the same as yesterday,’ he replied.
The dark Audi was gone when Charlie emerged onto the pavement. Instead, Freddy was standing there waiting in his usual jeans, t-shirt and light-brown linen blazer. Freddy was actually called Fred Are, and was from Oslo, but had taken his muscles and gun with him to Natal. Everyone in town knew he was on Charlie’s payroll, so not someone you wanted to cross. And no one tried, largely because of the gun that was always in its holster underneath his jacket.
‘I want you to post a man under that palm tree over there,’ Charlie said and pointed. ‘There’s been a black Audi in that parking space for the past three nights.’
‘Very good, boss.’
‘I want the driver’s name and who he’s working for, if anyone.’
‘Very good, boss.’
Charlie looked around. Then he got into Freddy’s car, a Mercedes CLS Grand Edition, and they sped off through the streets. It was impossible for Freddy to stick to the speed limit – it was against his nature – but it didn’t matter, because the police wouldn’t dream of stopping them anyway.
‘So, where are we going?’ he asked.
‘The club first,’ Charlie said. ‘And take an extra turn around the block before we get there.’
Freddy glanced over at him, but said nothing.
They drove through the town as it was starting to wake up. When they passed Juan’s shop, someone came out carrying fruit, bread and drinks. A boy of around nine or ten had just got an inflatable killer whale and was tearing off the plastic packaging when his mother stopped him with a firm hand. They passed Pepe the fishmonger, on his small ancient moped that spewed out black clouds of exhaust, on his way to the harbour for the night’s catch.
Charlie liked this time of day, when it hadn’t quite started yet and the temperature was bearable. It was still possible to get things done when you were up early in Natal.
For the past few months, Charlie had been focused on drumming up funds for a new leisure centre where people could skate, bowl, play minigolf – everything under one roof. There would be restaurants and shops there too – it would be unlike anything else in Natal. A recreational oasis. Several investors had already said that they wanted to be part of the project, but Charlie hadn’t found the right place yet. He had seen a few good possibilities in the past couple of weeks, but so far none of the owners had been willing to sell.
Charlie would continue to build residential complexes – it was clearly the best business in the area – but it was also smart to have more than one iron in the fire.
Ten minutes later, they stopped outside a fitness club. Freddy went in first and scouted the place, then gave Charlie a nod.
Charlie got out into the sunshine. Two women in their mid-thirties walked slowly by. One of them turned to look at Charlie, then said something to her friend. Charlie automatically followed them with his eyes, assessed their shoes, ankles, legs, behinds – trying to ascertain if they’d bought their fuckability or if it was natural.
A curtain twitched on the other side of the street. Freddy stepped out into the road and squared his shoulders. A car that was coming towards them braked. Charlie didn’t even look at the driver, just carried on across the road and into the club. There he was met with bass rhythms, sparkling mirrors and the thud of weights. Charlie walked through the gym without looking at any of the people who were there, and straight into the office – a small cupboard of around eight square metres that was in desperate need of a revamp, but Charlie didn’t see the point. He liked the fact that there was paper everywhere, that there were cracks in the walls – it reminded him of the early days in Norway when he couldn’t pay the bills, before Høisæther Property found its feet and then sprouted wings.
The only thing that was a must was a top-end computer, and he was more than happy with his latest procurement – the fastest iMac model Apple had on the market. Charlie liked the contrast between the stylish 27-inch screen and the shabby room.
‘There’s a flight landing from Amsterdam at 19:35 this evening,’ he told Freddy when he’d shut the door. ‘I want you to collect one of the passengers.’
Freddy smiled; he knew full well it wasn’t the passenger that they needed to get out of the airport, but rather the money that was glued to his body.
‘Shall I take Hansemann with me?’
‘No.’
‘But he’s the one who usually takes care of customs. I…’
Charlie turned abruptly towards Freddy.
‘I’ve got another job for Hansemann. You’ll go alone.’
Freddy hesitated for a moment, then he nodded.
‘Anything else you want me to do today, boss?’
Charlie sighed.
‘There’s the Audi.’
‘Very good, boss. I’ll get on to it right away.’
And a few minutes later, Charlie was alone in the office. He looked at the clock. Four o’clock in the morning in Norway. He wondered how everything was going at home, but it was too early to call Daddy Longlegs.
Charlie leaned back in the chair. Stared at the screen in front of him, which was currently black, saw his own reflection, the white hair, the blue eyes, the beard.
He’d been sitting here, exactly like this, when Mariana had come in for the first time.
‘Hi,’ she’d said. ‘My name is Mariana de la Rosa. You need an assistant.’
‘Do I?’
Charlie hadn’t advertised for anyone at the time, but then he never did.
‘Yes, you do,’ she’d replied. ‘Just looking round this office, I can see four things that need to be done immediately.’
‘Right.’
He’d straightened up.
‘First of all, you’ve got all your appointments written down there.’
She’d pointed to the diary that was lying open in front of him.
‘No one uses them anymore.’
‘Really?’
‘I can put all that information on your computer, and then you’ll get a message on your mobile phone 10 minutes before you have to leave.’
‘Hm,’ was his response, as he thought about it.
‘You also need a system for your receipts. Invoices. They’re all over the place. I can sort them out for you.’
Charlie had become increasingly curious about this tall, slim woman with jet-black hair and a slightly pointy chin – and not just because she had brown eyes that tempted him like an advert for caramel chocolate, but also because there was a resoluteness about her, she had opinions – and he realised she wasn’t afraid to air them.
‘You’re a man who can’t tidy up after himself,’ she’d continued.
‘Am I?’
She’d pointed at the two coffee cups on the table, both stained black. There was a plate by his mouse, with a scrunched-up baguette bag. An empty cigarette packet. An ashtray full to the rim with ash and stubs.
‘I’m good at tidying.’
Then she’d stopped talking, and just stood there looking at him.
‘But you’re not very good at counting,’ he’d pointed out.
‘Sorry?’
‘You said there were four things you could help me with.’
‘Oh.’
Then she’d smiled for the first time and her whole face had changed, opened. This person whom he’d initially thought was quite hard and angular, now revealed a playful side.
‘I forgot. Your t-shirt,’ she said, pointed at what he was wearing. Charlie had looked down at his belly.
‘You should keep a couple here in a drawer,’ she said. ‘In case…’
Then she stopped herself and lowered her eyes.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s none of my business to…’
‘Not at all,’ Charlie assured her. ‘You’re right. Spaghetti sauce stains don’t look good when you’re meeting clients.’
She’d looked up at him again and flashed another smile.
She had started the following day, Mariana de la Rosa, and stayed with him for just over three years. Until she found love. Until she was killed. And even though Charlie hadn’t attached the explosives to her car, he should have known what might happen.
And that was what haunted him at night.
3
Henning Juul stared at the screen in front of him, convinced that it couldn’t be right. But when he checked the date and time again, there was no doubt: Trine, his own sister, had been outside the building where he lived only 10 minutes before Jonas died.
She had given something to Durim Redzepi – a man Henning was sure had tried to kill him at least twice, and who he now also believed was responsible for setting fire to his home. Then she’d driven off.
Henning understood why Veronica Nansen had insisted that he sit down before looking through the 213 photographs that her late husband, Tore Pulli, had taken in the three days before Jonas’s death. It was hard to breathe and Henning felt hot all over.
He sat back and tried to think.
How the hell would Trine know a guy like Redzepi, who was wanted for a double murder in his own county? And what had she given to him?
‘Are you OK?’
Veronica Nansen’s voice was cautious, but warm.
‘Stupid question, really,’ she corrected herself. ‘Is there anything I can do?’
Henning leaned forward and took a sip of water from the glass she’d put down in front of him.
‘No,’ he replied. ‘Not sure that there is.’
He looked at the photograph of Trine again.
‘What are you going to do?’ Veronica asked, and put a hand on his shoulder. Henning used the arm of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. At the same time, he thought about Trine, who was in the Bahamas right now, recuperating from the scandal that had forced her to step down as Minister of Justice.
‘I’ve got a suggestion,’ Veronica said, sitting up straight. ‘Let’s go through everything that you know and think you know. Anything you’re not sure about.’
She closed the laptop.
‘I’m sure you’ve done it a hundred times before, but let’s go through it all again anyway. Maybe you’ll get more out of it if you say it out loud to someone else.’
Henning had only ever discussed his case with two people before: Bjarne Brogeland and Iver Gundersen – one was a policeman and the other, Nora’s boyfriend and a fellow journalist at 123News
