Berg was still sleeping when Isabell woke him. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, already dressed, staring at him. That look in her eye. The unimpressed look. The disapproving look. The disappointed look.
‘You were late last night.’
He shuffled up in the bed. ‘I’ve got a lot going on.’
‘Don’t you always?’
With that, she stood up and walked out of the room. Moments later he heard a clunk then a bang as the front door opened and closed.
Berg rolled his eyes and stood from the bed. Within twenty minutes he was fed, watered, and in his car on the way to work. Though he didn’t head straight to the factory. For some reason, he couldn’t face it. Not after last night. Not with the thoughts of those barrels, the contents, what he’d done, still rattling through his mind.
This was all for the best. All part of the bigger plan. He had to keep telling himself that.
He parked up in the town and grabbed a takeaway coffee and pastry before heading back to his car. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard his name being hissed.
‘Sigurd!’
He spun and looked over to the dumpster at the side of the café.
Berg gritted his teeth when he saw who it was. Nyland.
‘What the hell are—’
‘She’s here,’ he said, barely a whisper. ‘Right over the road.’
Berg knew what Nyland meant. ‘Shit. Where?’ he said, as he for some reason ducked and rushed to Nyland’s side.
Nyland pointed across the street. A few buildings further down. A house.
‘They’re inside.’
‘Right here?’ That sneaky bitch. ‘Who is he?’
‘I can tell you… but, perhaps not here. Just in case they see us. And I thought you wanted me watching?’
Berg gazed over to the other side of the street again. He half expected to see his wife appear at the window, her naked breasts bouncing as that piece of filth ravaged her from behind.
‘Get in the car,’ he hissed through gritted teeth.
‘But—’
‘Just get in the damn car.’
They both did so and Berg sped off in the direction of the factory, though within a hundred yards he pulled up by the side of the road, right on the edge of town.
‘Who is he?’
His heart thudded, his brain was on fire. Rage consumed him. He needed to rein it in but how was he supposed to do that?
Nyland shuffled as he pulled his hand from his pocket. ‘The file is in my car,’ he said. Apologetically? Or was he irritated by the fact he’d been whisked away? ‘But I have these photos on my phone.’
He handed the device over and Berg stared at the screen. His wife, a bigger smile on her face than he’d seen in years, walked side by side with a man he didn’t recognize. A tall, well-dressed, handsome man, even to Berg’s eyes.
Various shots of them. Walking, smiling. But that was all, really. Hardly anything scandalous, much less conclusive.
‘His name’s Stefan Tronstad,’ Nyland said. ‘Forty-one years old. From Oslo originally. He’s a lawyer.’
‘What kind of lawyer?’
He looked at Nyland who seemed a little confused. The PI shrugged.
‘Just a lawyer. He’s based in Trondheim. Or was before.’
‘Before? Before what?’
‘If it matters to you I can look into it?’
Berg didn’t answer that. Wasn’t the answer obvious?
‘What about the house?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know yet. It’s not Tronstad’s home address. I was following her from your home this morning. It’s the first time I’ve seen them go into that house.’
What the hell was going on?
Well, he had a pretty good idea. Yet these pictures… Was there a reasonable explanation?
‘Tell me exactly what you’ve seen. Of the two of them together. Of him on his own.’
‘I haven’t followed him on his own before.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because… Look, Mr Berg, I’m just one man. I’m doing my best to get information for you. If you want me—’
Berg stared at the pictures on the screen once more. Inside, his blood continued to boil. Not just at his wife and this Tronstad, but at the man sitting next to him.
‘There’s nothing here,’ Berg said, his voice surprisingly calm. For a moment at least. ‘There’s nothing here!’ he boomed, tossing the phone at Nyland who reeled back. ‘You know what I want? Find out what she’s doing with him. I want everything you can get. Emails, text messages, pictures. Pictures of them fucking. Not the two of them walking side by side on the street.’
‘Mr… Mr Berg.’
Berg glared at him.
‘Will you calm down?’
Berg said nothing. Nyland looked like he’d shat his pants. What kind of a PI was he? Available. Local. That’s what kind.
‘I-I explained to you before,’ Nyland stammered. ‘There are limits to what I can do. Legally. You’re asking for me to obtain private infor—’
‘Are you telling me you can’t do it, or you won’t?’
‘Is… is there a difference?’
Berg didn’t answer. He continued to hold Nyland’s eye. Willing the younger man to concede.
‘I have to ask, Mr Berg, what is the endgame here? For you?’
Good question. And Berg didn’t yet know the answer. The answer, of course, depended on exactly what Nyland found.
One thing Berg did know: plenty of space remained at the bottom of the North Sea.
Nyland sighed. ‘OK, I’ll do what I can. But… to cross this line, you know you’ll have to—’
‘Just tell me how much. Money isn’t the issue. I’ll have it in your account today.’
Nyland opened his mouth as though to say something else, but nothing came out except a strange sigh. Almost a whimper. To think this man was once a real-life detective in Trondheim. A catcher of rapists and murderers. Berg guessed there were reasons why seasoned detectives became PIs. Burnouts. Alcoholics. Those who couldn’t deal with the stresses of major crimes. Those on the opposite side of the spectrum who were loose cannons who couldn’t stick to the police’s many rules. Where did Nyland sit on that line of morality, ethics, mental health, and aptitude? Certainly not the loose cannon type, who was nothing more than a sadist with a badge. Nyland was far too strait-laced. Most likely he’d wet his pants at the first bad thing he’d seen so had turned to this watered-down version of a PI as some sort of recovery mechanism.
Berg would persist with him. For now. To get another chump in he’d have to look further afield, probably to Oslo, and that would cost him both time and money, and he wasn’t going to sit around and wait while some bastard screwed his bitch of a wife behind his back, probably both laughing at him while they did so.
‘So we’re agreed?’ Berg said.
Nyland nodded.
‘Good. Now get out of my car.’
Nyland didn’t hesitate. He opened the door and stepped out without another word. Berg had half expected the PI to grumble and ask for a lift back to town.
Berg floored it and the tires screeched and skidded, kicking up snow and dirt before the car sped down the road, away from Nyland.
Berg looked at his watch. Quarter to ten. People would be wondering where he was. A passing thought rushed through his mind. Not for the first time. Had he cleared up properly last night? He’d been so tired, so mentally out of it with the grim task at hand, and he was sure he’d done his best at the time. But in the cold light of day… Had he? Even despite the lack of sleep, shouldn’t he have made an effort to get up early and get to the factory before anyone else to make sure everything was in order? To make sure he’d cleaned up every last drop of blood. Inside and out. Out? Well, hopefully, the early morning sleet had cleared up anything there, but he couldn’t be sure, and the more and more he thought about it now, the more worried he became.
At least the thoughts were enough to take his mind off his wife.
Yet, what would await him as he drove through the gates? A bunch of burly workers standing debating what had taken place? A gaggle of police officers, lights on their cars flashing, cuffs at the ready as they waited for him to arrive?
No. None of that. When he arrived, everything was quiet and… exactly as it should be.
He parked his car in his spot, shut down the engine, stepped out, and shivered as a blast of icy cold wind from the sea hit his skin. Pleasantly refreshing. He’d never not enjoy the sea air. It had a way of bringing clarity of thought.
Walking a little taller, Berg headed on inside. Machinery whirred. The forklift rattled back and forth. Men and women shouted and talked and joked. Berg nodded greetings to the people who looked over as he headed to his office. He didn’t quite make it.
Marius.
‘Sigurd, finally. Where’ve you been?’
‘Is there a problem?’
‘I don’t know. You tell me?’
The men stared at each other, as though each was waiting for the other to cave.
‘Two men are here to see you,’ Marius said.
Berg glanced over and through his office window. Sure enough, he could just make out the tops of two heads.
‘Who?’
Visitors? He thought about the cars outside in the parking lot. He hadn’t spotted any that caught his eye. Certainly not a police car out there. An unmarked detective’s car, perhaps?
‘Who is it?’ Berg asked again. ‘I don’t have any appointments.’
‘I know. I saw that from your diary. They wouldn’t even tell me their names. They simply insisted they speak to you, and you only.’
‘And you showed them in?’
Marius rubbed the back of his neck. ‘They were very insistent.’
‘Insistent how?’
‘You’ll see for yourself, I mean, I don’t know them, but… Well, I’m pretty sure they’re Russian.’
Berg’s heart faltered.