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the truth. And whether or not it was arson, nothing will change the fact that he could have saved Jonas if his eyes hadn’t been stuck together with melted skin. If he hadn’t slipped on the wet railing. If he hadn’t been so bloody—
    A vibrating sound from the kitchen table makes him turn around. He doesn’t feel like talking to anyone right now, but the eight numbers on the display arouse his curiosity. He presses the green answer button and puts the mobile to his ear.
    “Is this a better time?”
    Tore Pulli’s voice is deeper than Henning managed to register in the noisy street in Grønland.
    “Eh, yes, I think so, but—”
    “Eleven September 2007.”
    Henning stops.
    “What did you say?”
    “I know what happened that day.”
    Henning feels a sudden rush of heat to his forehead. Something sharp stirs in his stomach, his throat tightens. He tries to swallow.
    “You lost your son,” Pulli continues.
    “Y-yes,” Henning replies in a weak and dry voice. “I did. What do you know about it?”
    “So now you’re prepared to listen to me? Now you’ve got time for me?”
    “Yes, I’ve got time to talk to you now,” he says, rather more combatively this time. “What do you want? Why are you talking about my son?”
    “I’ve a story for you.”
    “Yes, so you said. What does that have to do with my son?”
    Henning is unaware that he is standing on tiptoes.
    “Nothing. Not directly.”
    “What do you mean? And cut the bullshit, Pulli, I’m starting to get bored—”
    “Do you know who I am?”
    “Yes, I told you when we spoke earlier today. What about it?”
    “Then perhaps you know why I’m calling.”
    Henning racks his brains. He doesn’t remember reading anything about Tore Pulli since returning to work earlier this summer. Before Jonas died, the former enforcer was still in the newspapers, often depicted with a broad grin on his face and usually accompanied by his glamorous model wife.
    “No,” Henning says.
    Pulli starts to laugh.
    “What’s so funny?”
    “Sorry, I just—”
    He leaves the sentence hanging in the air.
    “You just what?”
    “So you don’t know that I’m inside?”
    “No.”
    “Okay, I guess you’ve had other things on your mind inthe last two years. But I’m calling you because you’re a good reporter. You’re good at finding things out.”
    “Do you know anything about the fire in my flat?”
    There is a long silence. Then Pulli replies:
    “Yes.”
    Henning stands as if rooted to the floor, no longer on tiptoes. Pulli’s deep voice drills into him. There is something about the depth of gravity in it. He is not joking.
    “Are you there, Juul?”
    “What do you know about the fire?” Henning demands to know and fails to hide the aggression lying right under the surface. “Did you start it?”
    “No.”
    “So who did?”
    “Before we talk about that, I want you to do something for me.”
    “What?”
    “You obviously don’t know why I’m in jail. When you’ve found that out we can talk again.”
    Outraged, Henning starts to pace around the flat.
    “You can’t just expect me to—”
    “I’m only allowed twenty minutes of phone calls per week, Juul. I need a few minutes with Veronica as well.”
    “What do you know about the fire?” Henning shouts and stops right in front of the piano. “What do you want from me? Why are you calling?”
    There is a short silence while Henning holds his breath.
    “Because I want you to find out who set me up,” Tore Pulli says, slowly. “I want you to find out who should be sitting in here instead of me. If you can do that then I’ll tell you everything I know about the fire in your flat.”

8
    Henning puts down the mobile, runs his sweaty hands through his hair, and resumes pacing up and down the living room floor. How the hell could a man like Tore Pulli know anything about the fire? What exactly does he know and why hasn’t he said anything before?
    If it hadn’t been for the fact that Pulli was