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Overview
'Outstanding' Ragnar JÓnasson
'A gripping narrative that begs comparison to Stieg Larsson' Bookpage
'Satisfyingly tense and dark ... a deep and complex book' Sunday Times
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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?
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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 SigurethardÓttir
'Slick, compelling and taut' Chris Ewan
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781495628191 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Orenda Books |
| Publication date: | 12/24/2017 |
| Series: | Henning Juul , #5 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 276 |
| File size: | 821 KB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 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.
CHAPTER 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.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Killed"
by .
Copyright © 2015 Thomas Enger.
Excerpted by permission of Orenda Books.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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