‘You’re right,’ Erik said. ‘Let’s run the risk.’
‘Oh, please, Erik, passive-aggressive arguing is the preserve of us ladies, isn’t that right?’
‘Was I being passive aggressive just now?’
‘Oh, Jesus, give me a break.’ Silje laughed.
‘What do you think, Mikkel?’ Grung said, turning to him.
For once, the other two fell silent. Everyone wanted to know his opinion. He was loath to admit it, but mysterious caller had inadvertently done him a favour.
‘I’m not sure.’ Mikkel cleared his throat. ‘On the one hand, I know that we could run a story on it, no doubt about it.’
‘And it would be an exclusive,’ Erik interjected, rolling the stress ball along the table in front of him. ‘Just us. No one else. I say go.’
‘But on the other hand,’ Mikkel continued, ‘it would be silly to blow it on a headline or two and then lose the source. We might actually be able to help.’
There was silence around the table again.
‘Help?’ Silje said. ‘Do you mean, go to the cops?’
‘The police.’ Grung sighed. ‘This isn’t the Socialist Worker, you know. We work for Aftenposten.’
‘Does that mean we can’t call them cops?’ Silje argued back and took another bite of her apple.
‘Whatever,’ Grung said. ‘It’s something we have to make a decision about.’
‘What is?’ Erik asked.
‘If we go to the police with what we know.’
‘What good would that do?’ Erik sighed. ‘Number one: we haven’t got anything. No hard evidence. Not something the police can use – but we can, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘It feels strange to hear myself say it but, on this point, I actually agree with Erik. Not that we shouldn’t go to the cops…’ Silje nodded.
‘The police,’ Grung corrected her.
‘… but that we don’t have anything they can use. Not yet.’
‘That’s what I said.’ Erik nodded.
‘But that doesn’t mean we should blow it. If we run the story now, who knows what we’ll lose out on? And besides, hello! Three days ago? Old news?’
‘No, it isn’t,’ Erik interrupted her. ‘It’s still fresh.’
‘Shhh, it’s starting,’ Grung said, turning up the volume on the TV.
It was Anette Goli who was giving the press conference today, together with Heidi Simonsen, the public prosecutor.
‘Goli and Simonsen,’ Erik said with a sigh, and started fidgeting with his stress ball again. ‘Why don’t they bring out Munch or Krüger? I fancy writing another feature on Krüger.’
‘Hah.’ Silje laughed scornfully. ‘We all know what you fancy doing to Krüger. A feature? Is that what they call it now?’
‘Hush,’ Grung said, turning up the volume even more.
Anette Goli had just welcomed everyone to the press conference when Mikkel Wold’s phone rang. The meeting room fell completely quiet.
Unknown number.
‘Let it ring twice!’
‘Answer it!’ said Erik and Silje in unison. Grung pressed the mute button on the remote control and mimed ‘Put it on speaker’ to Mikkel Wold. Mikkel sat up in his chair, cleared his throat and answered the call.
‘Yes, hello. Mikkel Wold, Aftenposten.’
Crackling noises in the handset. They couldn’t hear anyone at the other end.
‘Wold, Aftenposten,’ Mikkel said again, rather more nervous now.
Still nothing. Just hissing.
‘Is anyone there?’ Erik said impatiently.
Grung and Silje both grimaced.
‘Shut up,’ Grung mouthed across the table.
A few seconds passed. Then a grating, metallic voice could be heard.
‘We’re not alone, I gather?’
Even Erik fell quiet at this; he had also stopped messing about with his rubber ball, just sat with his eyes wide open and his mouth gaping. To a large extent, they had assumed that it must be a prank. The killer calling – what was that about? Every journalist’s dream, surely, and why should Wold be the lucky one? Now, there could be no doubt. This was real. Silje spat out the apple bite and placed it carefully on the desk.
‘No,’ Wold said. ‘You’re on speakerphone.’
‘Good heavens, what an honour,’ the metallic voice said archly. ‘Aftenposten listens to its readers, but that’s quite all right: it means more of you can take responsibility.’
‘For what?’ Mikkel Wold croaked.
‘We’ll get to that later,’ the voice said. ‘By the way, I thought you were going to the press conference. Didn’t you have a question to ask?’
‘Why did the pig drip on the floor?’ Wold said nervously.
‘Good boy, you remembered it,’ the voice said.
‘I know how to do my job. I don’t ask questions I didn’t come up with and can’t explain,’ Wold said.
He looked across to Grung, who was frantically shaking his head to signal that Wold had given the wrong answer. They had to play along with the caller, not antagonize him or her; they had agreed that in advance. There was silence at the other end.
‘A journalist with integrity,’ the voice laughed after a lengthy pause.
‘Yes,’ Mikkel said.
‘You’re very sweet,’ the voice said scornfully. ‘But everyone knows there’s no such thing as a journalist with integrity. It’s just something you like to think you have. You are aware, aren’t you, that journalists came bottom in a survey last year? About which professions we trust? You were beaten by lawyers, advertising agencies and second-hand-car salesmen. Did you not see it?’
The metallic voice laughed again, almost heartily this time. Erik Rønning shook his head and made a rude gesture at the mobile on the table. Grung glared furiously at him.
‘But that’s not why we’re here,’ the voice said icily.
‘So why are we here?’ Mikkel Wold demanded to know.
‘My, my, you are on form tonight. Did you think of that question all by yourself?’
‘Stop messing about,’ Erik burst out, unable to restrain himself any longer. ‘How do we know you’re not just some time-wasting weirdo who likes playing games?’
Grung’s face turned puce. Unable to control himself, he kicked out at Erik under the table. Another silence followed, but the voice did not go away.
‘That’s a good question,’ the voice said dryly. ‘To whom do I have the honour of speaking?’
‘Erik Rønning,’ Erik said.
‘Good heavens! Would you believe it, Erik Rønning himself! The winner of the 2011 Scoop Prize. Congratulations.’
‘Thank you,’ Erik said.
‘How does it feel to write about the homeless before going home to Frogner to drink Chardonnay in the hot tub? You call that journalistic integrity?’
Erik was about to say something, but thought better of it.
‘But, obviously, Rønning, you’re quite right. How can you be sure that I am who I say I am? Why don’t we play a little game?’
‘What kind of game?’ Erik cleared his throat.
‘I call it Being in the News. Want to play?’
There was total silence around the table. No one dared to say a word.
‘Why don’t I explain the rules before you make up your mind?’ the metallic voice said. ‘You lot always report the news, so I thought you might be getting a little bored. Why not be the news for once? How is that for a kick?’
‘What does it involve?’ Mikkel Wold asked.
‘You get to decide,’ the voice said.
‘What do we get to decide?’