Pierced by Thomas Enger Page A

he shakes his head.
    ‘Good place to work, is it?’
    ‘No,’ he replies, and smiles quickly.
    ‘Why not?’ she says, and lights up. Henning stares at the flame.
    ‘I don’t know if I would like it anywhere in the media, to be honest.’
    ‘So why are you in this line of work?’ she asks, and blows out hard blue smoke through pursed lips.
    ‘It’s the only thing I’m good at.’
    ‘I don’t believe that. Everyone has hidden talents.’
    ‘In that case my talents are very well hidden.’
    She smiles. ‘Isn’t there something you would like to do?’
    Henning hesitates. ‘I like making music. Playing the piano.’
    ‘So why don’t you do that?’
    ‘I’m not good enough.’
    ‘Says who?’
    ‘Says me.’
    A furrow appears on Nansen’s brow when she takes another drag of her cigarette.
    ‘Also, it’s been a while since I last played, so—’
    ‘Didn’t you just say that you enjoy playing?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘So why haven’t you played for a while?’ Nansen fixes him with her eyes.
    ‘Because – because I can’t bear it.’ Henning looks down, surprised at how quickly they have reached such an intimate point in their conversation. And the fact that they got there at all.
    ‘It reminds me of my son,’ he says, quietly. ‘And what . . . what—’
    Henning can hear how desperate he sounds.
    ‘Tore told me what happened.’
    Henning looks up. ‘Did he? What did he say?’
    ‘He said that you lost your son in a fire.’
    ‘Did he say anything else?’
    ‘No.’
    Nansen doesn’t elaborate. She looks at the smoke that wafts randomly from the embers of the cigarette.
    ‘He hasn’t mentioned my son before?’
    ‘No. Why would he?’ she says.
    Henning can’t think of a suitable reply. Nansen takes another tight-lipped drag.
    ‘You really should try to play again,’ she says, blowing the smoke up right in front of her face. ‘For your own sake. You never know, you might surprise yourself. It might do you good.’
    ‘I don’t think so,’ he says.
    They drink coffee in silent seconds.
    ‘And you run a modelling agency?’
    ‘Yes,’ she says, matter-of-fact. ‘Someone has to look out for them.’
    ‘Is there that much to look out for?’
    Nansen smiles faintly. ‘The things I’ve seen . . . One day I’ll write a book about it.’
    ‘Really?’
    She nods and sucks the cigarette again.
    ‘Are you busy?’
    ‘Not at the moment. It has been tough, what with the recession and all that. I’ve had to lay off a lot of staff recently, and that’s never much fun. Tore being convicted of murder didn’t exactly help either.’
    Her face darkens.
    ‘How has it been . . . since?’ Henning asks. Nansen sighs.
    ‘It has been tough, I won’t lie. I haven’t had the energy to go out much.’
    She looks down. He can barely make out the contours of her face in the warm light from the kitchen window.
    ‘But,’ she says, and straightens up. ‘I’m boring you talking about myself. What do you want to know?’
    ‘As much as possible,’ Henning smiles.
    ‘I don’t really know how to begin,’ she says, looking at him. Her ponytail winds its way down one side of her neck like a blonde snake. Her eyes, ice blue and sharp, contain something Henning can’t quite fathom.
    ‘I’ve done some homework on the case,’ he begins. ‘I understand that Tore was arrested at the crime scene and that he had arranged to meet Jocke Brolenius there.’
    Nansen nods, takes a final drag and stubs out the cigarette, grinding it into the ashtray.
    ‘Why did Tore ask Brolenius to meet with him?’
    ‘How much do you know about Vidar Fjell and all that?’
    ‘I’ve read that the murder of Jocke Brolenius was regarded as revenge for the murder of Vidar Fjell.’
    Nansen nods again. ‘Vidar had worked with the Drug Rehabilitation Service for many years. Young addicts who were trying to get clean were encouraged to work out in his gym.’
    ‘You’re referring to Fighting Fit?’
    ‘Yes. Christ, what a