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Thomas Enger

PIERCED

Prologue

Jocke’s Harley-Davidson is already there.

Tore Pulli parks his motorbike and removes his crash helmet. The gravel crunches when his feet touch the ground. The windows in the old factory stare blindly out into the darkness. The silence is dense and eerie.

Pulli hangs his helmet on the handlebars and walks across to the door. The hinges groan when he pushes it open. He enters warily.

‘Jocke?’

His voice bounces off the walls. His boots slam against the concrete floor. Little by little his eyes acclimatise to the darkness, but all he can see is the naked floor and walls, beams and pillars wreathed in cobwebs. The October wind howls through the panes of broken glass. White clouds of frozen breath pour from his mouth.

It’s almost like the old days, Pulli thinks as he moves forwards. The build-up to the confrontation. He can feel the adrenalin pumping and he likes it.

His eyes are drawn to something lying on the floor deeper into the shadows. He approaches with caution and is met by a pungent smell of urine and metal. He steps in something slippery and has to take a step to the side to avoid falling over. He pulls out his mobile and uses it to light up the floor.

Then he sees what he trod in.

A body lies in front of him. The back of the bloodstained leather jacket has been slashed repeatedly. Above the collar the skull shines brightly through the shaven and tattooed scalp.

He recognises the tattoo immediately. Only Jocke Brolenius has Go to Hell tattooed on the back of his neck.

His mobile goes dark.

His eyes dart around and he pricks up his ears, but he hears nothing in the profound silence. The room appears to be empty — apart from Jocke‚ a man Pulli loathed with a passion, but didn’t want dead for anything in the world.

Or, at least, not now.

He bends down, grabs hold of the leather jacket and turns over the heavy body. The face is contorted and bloody, the mouth is open. Pulli presses two fingers against the artery on Jocke’s neck, but withdraws his hand at once. Though Jocke’s throat is warm, it is also soft and loose like a moist, mangled sponge.

Then he sees it, on the floor. The knuckle-duster.

His knuckle-duster.

How the hell did it end up here?

He is overcome by a horrible realisation. A lot of people knew about this meeting, and even more saw him set out for it. Far too many knew that the knuckle-duster hung on the wall in his study. And now he has Jocke’s blood on his hands, his clothes and his boots.

Someone has set him up. Some bastard has set him up.

Pulli is about to pick up the knuckle-duster and flee the scene, but he stops himself. You touched the body, he thinks. Your fingerprints are on Jocke’s leather jacket. Don’t make things worse for yourself; it’s bad enough as it is.

He takes out his mobile again. With bloodstained fingers he enters the number of the emergency services to call the police. You know what really happened, he says to himself. Tell them the truth and you’ll be all right.

You’ve got nothing to be scared of.