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when he was last aware that there was a difference between the days of the week.
    “The sun is shining, Henning. Buy yourself an ice cream. Get some fresh air!”
    “Mm. Listen . . . did you ever have anything to do with the Tore Pulli case?”
    The voices of excited children in the background can be heard through the receiver. Henning tries to shut them out.
    “No, I was still working on organized crime at the time. Why?”
    Henning pauses for a moment, not sure how to reply.
    “Oh, I was just curious.”
    “You’re never just curious,” Brogeland scoffs. “What are you sniffing around after this time? Does it have anything to do with his appeal?”
    “His appeal?” Henning replies and frowns.
    “Yes, it’s being heard in a couple of weeks, if I’m not mistaken.”
    “Is it? No, it doesn’t have anything to do with that. Or, at least, I don’t think so.”
    Henning holds his breath for a moment.
    “The guy is guilty as hell,” Brogeland says.
    “How do you know?”
    “Does the name Jocke Brolenius mean anything to you?”
    “Just about.”
    “Then you probably know that he killed Vidar Fjell?”
    Vidar Fjell, Henning thinks and runs the name over his tongue. It sounds familiar.
    “No?”
    “I thought you had a photographic memory?” Brogeland teases him.
    “My camera is broken.”
    Brogeland laughs.
    “You certainly haven’t lost your way with words. But here goes: Vidar Fjell managed a gym called Fighting Fit in Vålerenga. He was murdered a couple of months before Brolenius. Or perhaps a bit more. Pulli worked out at Fighting Fit and was a good friend of Fjell’s.”
    Henning is aware that his cheeks are burning hot.
    “Why was Fjell killed?”
    “I don’t remember.”
    “But Brolenius was a Swedish enforcer, am I right?”
    “Yes. The Swedish gangs dominated Oslo quite considerably at the time, you probably already know that. Alisha—don’t go up there, you could kill yourself if you fell down!”
    Brogeland’s voice disappears for a moment. Henning remembers the case now. Fjell was killed not long before Jonas died. He had done a little bit of research on the story, but he can’t remember when he stopped.
    “But if Brolenius was killed to avenge the murder of Fjell, did anyone later avenge Brolenius?”
    “There was a rumor going around that somebody had knocked over Vidar Fjell’s gravestone, I seem to recall, but nothing more than that. I don’t suppose there was much point in carrying out a revenge attack once Pulli had been arrested. Why are you working on this story now?”
    “I don’t know if I am.”
    “Hello, you’re calling me on a Saturday.”
    “Yes, I’m . . . sorry.”
    “Yeah, right. Tore Pulli had this woman, I recall. Damn—”
    “What?”
    “Why is it always the biggest arseholes who get the hottest chicks?”
    Henning makes no reply.
    “Anyway, talk to Assistant Commissioner Pia Nøkleby,” Brogeland continues. “She’s totally in charge of the case. And all other cases, for that matter.”
    “Good idea.”
    “But wait until Monday, please,” Brogeland hastens to add. Henning says hmm and hangs up.
    It’s not going to be easy, he thinks. Murders and revenge killings in gangs that are practically impenetrable—especially if you’re a journalist. But if Pulli is innocent then someone managed to kill Jocke Brolenius in a style that framed Pulli. That in itself was no simple task. The killer would have to be devious and without scruples. And this killer would almost certainly not like it if I tried to stir up the past.

9
    The distant headlights of a fast car weave their way in between the tree trunks and cast a white veil over the approaching autumn. Ørjan Mjønes grips the steering wheel hard and checks the mirrors to make sure he isn’t being followed. It would be something of an achievement if he was, he thinks, given the speed he is traveling.
    The clock on the sat nav shows 02:15, and it is some time since he left the nearest main