Exposed at the Back (10 page)

Part 4

17 July

‘I’ve made a breakthrough, Per,’ said Golden
.

‘Have you?’ Diesen put down a programme from the 1982 FA Cup and sat down again. He leant forward against the sleek mahogany desk. Golden put his right ankle up on his left knee and brought his fingertips together to form a pyramid. He always enjoyed these moments when he was just about to tell a young footballer what lay in store for him. It was the one pure moment of his life as a football agent
.

‘But before we get to that, how are things going with Sabrina?’

‘Fine, but don’t torture me. Tell me about the breakthrough.’

‘Everton have registered their interest.’

‘Everton?’

‘If everything goes according to plan, you’ll be a Premier League player starting from August.’

There was something symbolic about them each sitting on opposite sides of the desk, Golden thought. Because that’s how it was supposed to be, in the eye of the law. And only like that. A football agent could only be on one side; as the player’s agent, he couldn’t represent either of the clubs. But in reality the trick was actually being in control on every side of the negotiating table
.

Vålerenga wouldn’t be a problem. Golden had sold players for the club time after time, and when he told them that he would lead the negotiations on their behalf, that’s what happened. Like most Norwegian clubs, Vålerenga were in deep financial straits and needed to make a sale, so they weren’t concerned about details like appointing an English lawyer
.

For practical reasons Golden would officially be acting for Everton in the negotiations. He was licensed with the NFF, and they didn’t have the courage to investigate what an English club was doing. In Norway, they had access to clubs as they knew the executives personally, but they had no such power in England
.

The problem was the player. That’s why Arild Golden handed Per Diesen a contract in triplicate
.

‘What’s this?’ asked Diesen
.

‘It’s your agent’s contract. We haven’t needed one before, but we do now. We don’t want any practical problems in connection with the signing. Everyone has to have one. Of course you and I trust each other, Per, but the NFF and Everton want all the papers in order.’

Nobody in the NFF had asked for such a contract, let alone anybody from Everton. Golden wanted it for himself. Regardless of how long he’d been working with Diesen and how well he knew him, Golden didn’t trust anybody when it came to the big money
.

‘If you think it’s best,’ said Diesen, signing the contract where Golden had put a small ‘X’
.

‘One copy’s for you, one’s for me, and I’ll deliver the other to the NFF.’

After Diesen had left, Golden took down a trophy that a tired former Lillestrøm player had sold him a few years ago. Golden had to protect himself in every way possible, he thought, with the contracts in his hands
.

Now Diesen would think he couldn’t allow himself to be represented by anybody else. He would only deal with Golden as his agent, he was bound by his contract. A footballer would never wonder why it was the agent’s lawyer who signed the papers in any potential transfer; he would only be happy that such details could be dealt with for him. And he would never check whether Golden actually delivered the papers to the NFF
.

The people Golden had to protect himself against were those who might find a paper trail. That meant the British or Norwegian broadsheets, but it could even get as serious as Økokrim, the Norwegian authority that dealt with financial crime, so he had to make sure the paper trail was cold. Golden had to make sure that he was only listed as Everton’s representative in the negotiations
.

He tore up the contracts and stuffed them in the trophy. Then he poured some lighter fluid on top and lit it. He turned the cup, moving the pieces of paper about, and let them burn until there were only ashes left
.

Walkover

At noon on the dot the case documents were ready at reception on the sixth floor of Oslo Courthouse. Steinar looked at the man on duty and thanked him.

‘No problem,’ he replied, holding the pile of papers tightly. ‘Would you like the closed files too?’

If Steinar wanted access to those, he’d have to sign an agreement that he wouldn’t share the information with anybody, not even his client. Steinar had heard of others in his profession who wouldn’t take closed documents for that reason. Personally, he wanted to know as much as possible and saw laziness as the reason many lawyers chose not to see the closed files. He signed the confidentiality agreement.

The files were several hundred pages in total, and Steinar had 58 minutes. In that time he would have to tease out the most important points and meet with his client in the basement. He went into the canteen and sat down at a free table.

His body recognised the feeling of pressure from his days as a professional footballer. He used to play better in important games. If he had to take a decisive penalty he might miss, but he never hesitated.

He rushed through the pile of documents. The police had indeed questioned Taribo before Steinar had been able to speak with him. Taribo had admitted to them that he’d met Golden at his office on the day he was killed. They’d had a disagreement over money at the meeting, particularly in terms of the percentage that Golden would get out of Stanley’s future deals. The police also had a witness who claimed Taribo had threatened to kill Golden. This had allegedly happened in the toilets at Bislett Stadion during the second round cup match between Skeid and Vålerenga.

The documents also included a letter from the Norwegian Directorate
of Immigration confirming that Taribo didn’t have a residence permit, and a report on a seizure made by the police. They’d taken a weapon that, according to the reports and pictures taken by the first response unit, could be a potential murder weapon.

In order to justify pre-trial detention, there had to be a 50 per cent probability, or just cause for suspicion, that the accused had committed the crime in question. Another old football expression came into Steinar’s mind: the prosecutor seemed to be heading for a walkover victory.

At 12:30 Steinar scurried down two flights of stairs only to be told by the floor guard that Taribo’s transfer from the lock-up to the courthouse had been delayed by a few minutes, the guard had just spoken with the driver. Steinar walked back and forth and read through the files while he waited.

At 12:52, eight minutes before the remand hearing, Taribo arrived.

‘Are you alright?’ asked Steinar.

‘Yes.’

‘We’ve only got a few minutes. I’ve gone through what I could of the files. When the judge asks, you should appeal against detention and plead not guilty,’ said Steinar, who went on to explain what would happen.

Taribo nodded repeatedly.

Steinar took a deep breath, just like he used to do as he stepped onto the pitch at Amsterdam Arena. Then he opened the door to courtroom number 152. The room was furnished with simple, light-coloured wooden fittings. The judge’s bench towered over the small courtroom. Directly above the judge’s bench hung the state coat of arms, a lion rampant armed with an axe.

The prosecution’s desk was to the right, beneath the judge, with Steinar and Taribo’s on the left. They all faced the witness stand, where Taribo would sit when giving evidence. The judge’s elevated position was usually intimidating for the accused, on this occasion, though, it was the judge who seemed intimidated as he looked at the mass of muscle in front of him.

At the back of the court there were a few chairs for the public. A lawyer might slip in now and then to learn from a senior colleague, or a law student might come if the case was relevant to their studies. Sometimes there were friends and family supporting their loved ones, but usually nobody could be bothered to come and watch as countless
human fates were sealed.

Today, though, room 152 was packed. Journalists fought for seats and elbow room. Both NRK and TV2 had their hand-held cameras, and chairs scraped on the floor as cameramen rearranged the furniture to find the best possible angles, while also checking their sound connections.

The prosecutor requested that the hearing proceed behind closed doors out of consideration to the investigation process. The judge passed the request on to Steinar, who instinctively wanted to object. He knew that the prosecutor might see it as a sign of weakness if he agreed but, when he glanced across at the pack of hungry wolves, he realised that conducting the case in front of the cameras wouldn’t do him any favours. He seconded the request.

The judge summarised the request made by the prosecutor and Steinar before stating his decision that the doors should be closed. His eyes met a row of annoyed journalists.

The courtroom was emptied.

The judge proceeded to confirm the identities of those present before turning to Taribo.

‘How do you respond to the police’s application for pre-trial detention?’

‘I’m appealing against detention.’

‘How do you plead to the charge against you?’

‘I plead not guilty,’ said Taribo, in almost perfect Norwegian. Steinar felt stupid. ‘Say no… say no…,’ Steinar had instructed him, as if he’d been speaking to a 12-year-old.

‘Are you willing to make a statement?’ the judge continued.

‘Yes.’

The prosecutor was a woman in her late thirties. She had her hair tied in a tight ponytail, a couple of wrinkles on her forehead, and she was wearing rectangular glasses with wide metallic arms, a white blouse with the top button undone. She stood up, raised the adjustable desktop to a suitable height and lay down her papers. She went through the charge and the evidence before concluding.

‘We request four weeks’ detention. Due to the serious nature of the charge and the risk of evidence being destroyed or tampered with, we also request two weeks’ solitary confinement and a ban on letters and visitors. Thank you.’

The prosecutor lowered her desk again and sat down.

‘And what does the defence counsel have to say?’

Steinar raised his hydraulic desk too, although not quite as effortlessly as his female opponent. He sensed her slight twitch of a smile when he needed to make a second attempt. Steinar spoke.

‘Your Honour, I won’t speak at length about whether the grounds for reasonable suspicion are met. It has been ascertained that Taribo Shorunmo was present immediately prior to the killing, but he denies having had anything to do with the act described by the prosecution. I refer you to his testimony in court and his police interview. The body of evidence is tenuous. The police are relying on a witness who supposedly heard Shorunmo threaten Arild Golden on a previous occasion. The seizure of a weapon is also mentioned, but there’s nothing to prove that this was used in the murder. The police claim that Golden and Shorunmo were also arguing on the day of the murder, but this is a daily occurrence for a football agent, so if that’s a criterion then many people will stand accused.’ Steinar shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He glanced up at the judge, unsure of how clearly he should insinuate that the police had got the wrong man.

‘As for the risk of destroying evidence, I would like to point out that Shorunmo gave the police a relatively long and detailed interview immediately after his arrest, without availing himself of his right to have a lawyer present. It’s too late for Shorunmo to co-ordinate his account with those of any other potential suspects in the case. Shorunmo also claims that he was on good terms with the victim and that Golden was alive at the time Shorunmo left him. As for the proportionality of the prosecution’s request, Shorunmo risks losing his job. Having built up his customer base with a 16-year-long unblemished record, he’s afraid he’ll lose that if he’s detained. Detention would be a disproportionate measure. I move to support the request by the accused to be released or, failing that, alternatively that the length of his pre-trial detention be reduced to two weeks,’ said Steinar, smacking his hand too hard on top of the desk, which started to descend. Steinar just managed to add a ‘thank you’ before the desktop reached the bottom.

The judge looked at the prosecutor. ‘Any reply?’

‘The counsel for the defence mentioned the work situation of the accused. This is work carried out without a residence permit, so it cannot be considered.’

The judge looked at Steinar. ‘Any response to that?’

‘But it’s paid work, and Shorunmo’s family depends on it,’ he said.

‘Alright. I’ll consider the case and give my ruling in 20 minutes.’

For the first time since he’d stopped playing football, Steinar was really being affected by the seriousness of a situation. He’d been nervous when Junior was born, but there were doctors, midwives and nurses at the hospital who knew what they were doing. Here in court he was back at the centre of events. He was pleased, but had no idea how it would go. Taribo was taken down to the court cell while Steinar went out to get some fresh air. He stopped at the door when he saw the journalists waiting on the steps outside the courthouse, then sneaked back inside and sat down in the canteen with a coffee. He checked his phone, there was a text message from Benedikte: ‘When can we meet?’

He wanted to meet her again, but he also needed time to read and think. He texted her back: ‘Lunch tomorrow. 12 o’ clock?’

He’d barely pressed ‘send’ when the reply came: ‘At the Delicatessen tapas bar in Grünerløkka.’

The judge’s ruling came after 20 minutes, as promised. Taribo was remanded in custody for four weeks, and was given two weeks of solitary confinement as well as a ban on letters and visitors. Steinar hadn’t stood a chance.

He’d suffered bad defeats on the football pitch too, but he always believed he’d win beforehand. He had to find that faith again. He had to find another murderer.

Astroturf Grows Fast

Benedikte was in the green room waiting to go on TV2’s
God Morgen Norge
. She looked over at the sofa where that day’s pop group were sitting. They were scheduled to give two performances, and the musicians always lay about on the sofas while they waited. Businesspeople paced back and forth while they scalded themselves on their coffee. Politicians were relaxed, like the musicians, but they sat on the sofas instead of lying on them. The studio runner gave Benedikte the signal that it was her turn.

It was Benedikte herself who’d asked to go on. The programme’s producer had agreed, even though he seemed sceptical when Benedikte didn’t want to tell him the details of what she had planned.

‘Coffee or water?’ asked the studio runner, when they’d got to the bottom of the stairs that led into the studio.

While the presenters were going through the newspaper review, Benedikte swapped places on the sofa with a child psychologist. She sat down and adjusted her cushion. The presenters were laughing at a crude article from
Vårt Land
, a newspaper with a traditional Christian outlook.

‘Now, you’re here to tell us the latest news on the Golden case, are you?’ said the male presenter, putting down the newspapers.

‘That’s right,’ said Benedikte, putting on her best morning smile.

‘It’s a terrible tragedy, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s hardly what you’d expect in the world of sport.’

‘No.’

‘For those who don’t already know, the football agent Arild Golden was found murdered at Ullevaal Stadion, and Benedikte Blystad here is the reporter from our channel who’s been working most closely on
the story.’

‘That’s correct. The police have arrested a man for the murder, and he was remanded in custody yesterday for four weeks. He was identified as having been at the crime scene, but it’s difficult to see what his motive might be.’

TV chef Wenche was stirring her pot in the background, with the channel’s wine expert next to her, corkscrew in hand. The breakfast show was really supposed to have a cosy atmosphere. Nevertheless, the male presenter had his journalistic instincts intact, and it was as if he was waking up from hibernation as he sat up straight on the sofa.

‘Are you suggesting that the police might have arrested the wrong man?’ he asked.

‘His motive is certainly unclear, and that’s important in a case like this one,’ said Benedikte.

‘What might the motive be then?’

‘Money’s one obvious possibility. Arild Golden and his company, Golden Boys, were making enormous sums of money in all areas of the football business.’

‘We know him best as an agent though. What else are you thinking of?’

‘Golden had gradually taken control of most things. He sold everything from TV rights to training camps for Second Division teams, but he probably made most money from astroturf.’

‘Astroturf?’

‘Golden practically had a monopoly on the market. If a hundred new pitches are being built a year, it goes without saying that there are huge amounts of money in the picture, so that means there will be people who are willing to cross almost any line.’

The female presenter was staring at the ceiling. Benedikte first thought it might be because she wasn’t interested in football, but then she realised that she was probably being told something through her earpiece. Just as the male presenter was about to follow up, she interrupted him.

‘Those are interesting thoughts Benedikte, but we have to move on now. Thank you for coming. After the break we’ll be in the kitchen. What’s on the menu today, Wenche?’

Benedikte spent the next few hours doing research. She was more and more convinced that she was onto something. She read through what she could find on Google, leading her to various pages with
research on synthetic turf, rubber granules and high-PAH oils. She read documentation on MRSA, allergies and cancer, as well as about a baseball team from Kansas that played on artificial grass and had experienced a disturbingly high cancer rate. To her surprise she discovered that Norwegian researchers had also emphasised the dangers, but this hadn’t been widely publicised. Their statements had only led to small notices about bad air quality in indoors sports halls and environmental pollution from granules made out of recycled tyres. She also read about benzene. She had visited similar websites before when she wanted to find out exactly why she’d fallen ill. Benzene had been one of the many possible factors then too, but she’d never been especially exposed to it. Her interest in the Golden case had been sparked by her journalistic ambitions, but now it had triggered something in Benedikte that had lain dead for a number of years. She was reading about delocalised bonding in benzene when a voice interrupted the monotonous sound of the computer fan.

‘I need to speak with you,’ said Bertil Olsen, without any of his usual introductory small talk. Benedikte’s eyes remained fixed on the screen.

‘What about?’ she asked, but Olsen merely led her into a meeting room. Benedikte was puzzled, wasn’t Olsen supposed to be in Bergen?

‘You’ve got to leave off this stuff about astroturf,’ said Olsen.

Benedikte looked over at her boss. It was part of her point to provoke a reaction, but she never thought in her wildest dreams the reaction would come from within. She’d expected that Olsen would want to discuss her next steps, as this was a big story, the more she read the more she felt sure that she was on the right track.

‘Why?’

‘Just do as I say,’ said Olsen, leaving Benedikte alone in the meeting room.