what you’re saying?’
Nansen sucks in one last drag before stubbing out the cigarette.
‘The police force is riddled with incompetent two-faced idiots.’
The glance she throws out into the room is bitter, but she doesn’t elaborate. Henning considers the wisdom of discussing this particular topic with her.
‘So who could have killed Brolenius – if Tore didn’t do it?’
‘It must have been one of those morons Tore surrounded himself with.’
‘You’re referring to his friends at Fighting Fit.’
She nods and looks away.
‘Tore’s so-called friends,’ she says, acidly. The darkness in her eyes is still there when she continues, ‘How many of them have visited Tore in prison, do you think?’
Henning looks at her quizzically.
‘Just one,’ she says, holding up a single finger in the air. ‘Just one.’
‘And that is?’
‘Geir. Geir Grønningen. I suppose you could say he’s one of the more decent of that bunch. He’s still a moron, though. And that was one of the reasons I was so sceptical when you called.’
‘In what way is he decent?’
‘Geir has been trying to help Tore ever since he was first arrested. But he hasn’t managed to find out a sodding thing. And then you turn up out of nowhere, and—’
She interrupts herself.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to—’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Henning says. ‘But Grønningen, who is he? What does he do?’
‘I think he still works as a debt collector, not that I have much contact with him these days. He also works as a doorman in a strip club in Majorstua. Åsgard, it’s called, or something like that.’
‘Who runs Fighting Fit now?’
‘A guy called Kent Harry Hansen.’
‘Is he okay?’
‘Well,’ she says, after a short pause. ‘I don’t really know how to answer that. There certainly isn’t much left of Vidar’s old gym, that much I can tell you.’
‘What do you mean?’
Nansen looks at him for a little while before she continues. ‘I think Kent Harry is happy to look the other way when it comes to drugs. I also think people call him up when they need some muscle. And there is a lot of that in the gym.’
Henning nods again.
‘Do you have any more names?’
‘There’s Petter Holte, Tore’s cousin. He works as a doorman at Åsgard and is a wannabe debt collector, though I can’t imagine that Kent Harry would ever dare to use him. Tore certainly never did even though Petter was always pestering him.’ Nansen looks him straight in the eye as she explains. ‘When Tore was still involved with his old life he got so many requests he had to outsource some of his work for a while. He passed on several jobs to Geir, that much I do know, but never to Petter. Petter had a temper.’
Henning, who has forgotten to drink his coffee for several minutes, raises the cup to his lips again.
‘There are plenty of other morons down at the gym,’ Nansen goes on. ‘Or . . . at least there used to be. I don’t have very much to do with them these days.’
Henning looks out of the window. Outside in the street a tram glides past.
‘Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that Tore is innocent,’ Henning says, looking at her. ‘That means someone managed to beat up and murder Jocke Brolenius, a hardened criminal, something which in itself is no easy matter. But not only that: the same person also made it look as if Tore did it.’
Nansen doesn’t reply. She just looks at him.
‘It would require brains,’ Henning says, tapping his forehead. ‘And a level head. Do you think that any of the people you’ve mentioned so far fits that description?’
‘I don’t know,’ she says, quietly.
‘You keep referring to them as morons.’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘But that is mostly because I hate everything they stand for. Everything they are.’
‘You blame them,’ he says. ‘That’s understandable.’
She sighs and takes out another cigarette.
‘It’s just so bloody frustrating,’ she bursts out. ‘I know
Nansen sucks in one last drag before stubbing out the cigarette.
‘The police force is riddled with incompetent two-faced idiots.’
The glance she throws out into the room is bitter, but she doesn’t elaborate. Henning considers the wisdom of discussing this particular topic with her.
‘So who could have killed Brolenius – if Tore didn’t do it?’
‘It must have been one of those morons Tore surrounded himself with.’
‘You’re referring to his friends at Fighting Fit.’
She nods and looks away.
‘Tore’s so-called friends,’ she says, acidly. The darkness in her eyes is still there when she continues, ‘How many of them have visited Tore in prison, do you think?’
Henning looks at her quizzically.
‘Just one,’ she says, holding up a single finger in the air. ‘Just one.’
‘And that is?’
‘Geir. Geir Grønningen. I suppose you could say he’s one of the more decent of that bunch. He’s still a moron, though. And that was one of the reasons I was so sceptical when you called.’
‘In what way is he decent?’
‘Geir has been trying to help Tore ever since he was first arrested. But he hasn’t managed to find out a sodding thing. And then you turn up out of nowhere, and—’
She interrupts herself.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to—’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Henning says. ‘But Grønningen, who is he? What does he do?’
‘I think he still works as a debt collector, not that I have much contact with him these days. He also works as a doorman in a strip club in Majorstua. Åsgard, it’s called, or something like that.’
‘Who runs Fighting Fit now?’
‘A guy called Kent Harry Hansen.’
‘Is he okay?’
‘Well,’ she says, after a short pause. ‘I don’t really know how to answer that. There certainly isn’t much left of Vidar’s old gym, that much I can tell you.’
‘What do you mean?’
Nansen looks at him for a little while before she continues. ‘I think Kent Harry is happy to look the other way when it comes to drugs. I also think people call him up when they need some muscle. And there is a lot of that in the gym.’
Henning nods again.
‘Do you have any more names?’
‘There’s Petter Holte, Tore’s cousin. He works as a doorman at Åsgard and is a wannabe debt collector, though I can’t imagine that Kent Harry would ever dare to use him. Tore certainly never did even though Petter was always pestering him.’ Nansen looks him straight in the eye as she explains. ‘When Tore was still involved with his old life he got so many requests he had to outsource some of his work for a while. He passed on several jobs to Geir, that much I do know, but never to Petter. Petter had a temper.’
Henning, who has forgotten to drink his coffee for several minutes, raises the cup to his lips again.
‘There are plenty of other morons down at the gym,’ Nansen goes on. ‘Or . . . at least there used to be. I don’t have very much to do with them these days.’
Henning looks out of the window. Outside in the street a tram glides past.
‘Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that Tore is innocent,’ Henning says, looking at her. ‘That means someone managed to beat up and murder Jocke Brolenius, a hardened criminal, something which in itself is no easy matter. But not only that: the same person also made it look as if Tore did it.’
Nansen doesn’t reply. She just looks at him.
‘It would require brains,’ Henning says, tapping his forehead. ‘And a level head. Do you think that any of the people you’ve mentioned so far fits that description?’
‘I don’t know,’ she says, quietly.
‘You keep referring to them as morons.’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘But that is mostly because I hate everything they stand for. Everything they are.’
‘You blame them,’ he says. ‘That’s understandable.’
She sighs and takes out another cigarette.
‘It’s just so bloody frustrating,’ she bursts out. ‘I know
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