Scarred (10 page)

‘How is that even possible?’

Bjarne Brogeland is still standing outside the meeting room on the ground floor of Grünerhjemmet, flicking through the documents that Ella Sandland has had faxed over from the police station. Sandland shrugs.

‘I mean – don’t they run checks on people before they hire them? I thought anyone who wanted a job in the care sector had to disclose criminal convictions.’

Brogeland reads the document from the beginning again, and sees that the conviction of Daniel Nielsen, Erna Pedersen’s primary care worker, dates back to May 2006. Nielsen suspected his girlfriend of being unfaithful and tried to beat the truth out of her. The fact that he was right wasn’t regarded as a mitigating circumstance.

‘So he has a temper and a predisposition for violence,’ Bjarne says.

‘But is it likely that Erna Pedersen could have provoked him in quite the same way?’ Sandland wonders.

Brogeland grimaces quickly before he takes out his mobile and sees that Nielsen still hasn’t returned his call. Brogeland rings the number again, but it goes straight to voicemail. This time he doesn’t leave a message.

‘When is he due in at work?’ he asks Sandland and hangs up.

‘Not until four o’clock this afternoon.’

‘Okay,’ Brogeland says. ‘Let’s pay him a home visit.’

The city is grey from the low hanging clouds when Bjarne starts the car and manoeuvres out into the traffic.

‘What did she have to say in her defence?’ he asks as he turns left into Søndregate. At the bottom of the hill the River Aker winds its way under several bridges, warbles between dense alders and weeping willows whose branches arch down and only just avoid getting wet.

‘Who?’ Sandland asks.

‘The manager of the care home. I presume she was the one who hired Nielsen?’

‘No defence,’ Sandland says with a sigh. ‘She was desperate for people, she said, and Nielsen came across as a good candidate at the interview. And you don’t have a legal obligation to disclose criminal convictions before you start working in a care home.’

Brogeland shakes his head and drives up through Grünerløkka. The wheels find their own path between tramlines and potholes in the streets after years of cable laying and poor maintenance. The buildings they pass look like unwashed Lego bricks, square and painted a range of different colours.

The ground in Sofienberg Park is sated with foliage from the chestnut trees in between patches of wet green grass and dark brown, slippery paths. They continue driving in the direction of Sinsen where the green area of Torshovdalen lies like a deep ravine in between arms of criss-crossing roads leading out of the city. The car ploughs through the wind.

‘Did you get a chance to speak to that angry man from the TV lounge?’ Bjarne asks. ‘Guttorm Tveter or whatever his name was?’

‘I did,’ Sandland says and a smile forms around her lips. ‘It’s a wonder I’ve got any voice left. The old guy’s deaf as a post. And he refuses to wear a hearing aid.’

‘Typical,’ Bjarne says. ‘Did he see anything? Did you get the impression that he might be involved?’

‘It was difficult to get much sense out of him. I’m not even sure he understands that Erna Pedersen is dead.’

‘Really?’

‘He was much more interested in telling me about his childhood in Linderud. He could remember every single detail of that.’

‘That’s often the way it is,’ Bjarne says. ‘Old people can’t remember what happened yesterday, but you try asking them about the war.’

Sandland laughs.

‘Do you know what he asked me?’

‘No?’

‘He asked me to bring a bottle of cognac next time.’

Brogeland smiles.

‘Braastad XO, preferably,’ Sandland says.

‘That’s priceless,’ Brogeland laughs. ‘I think I have a bottle of that at home.’

There is silence between them again. Brogeland turns into Sinsenterrassen, says goodbye to an open, grey Oslo and hello to denser development where the cars drive closer to the pavements and people lean into the weather.

‘But Guttorm Tveter must have had something to say about what happened yesterday. Doesn’t he remember anything?’

‘Doesn’t seem like it,’ Sandland says. ‘He was more concerned about what time it was. There was something he wanted to watch on TV.’

Bjarne finds a parking space outside the supermarket and reluctantly leaves the car in favour of an uninspiring walk that puts an end to their conversation. They step out on the pavement where wet leaves cover the tarmac like a blanket, find the brown building where Daniel Nielsen lives and press a button with his name on. Brogeland stuffs his hands in his jeans pockets in a vain attempt to warm them up and looks up at the grey and white windows.

Soon they hear a voice saying ‘hello?’

‘Hello, this is the police,’ Ella Sandland says. ‘Are you Daniel Nielsen?’

A long silence ensues before the intercom on the wall finally buzzes to let them in.

The officers enter and take the lift up to the fourth floor where a man meets them in the stairwell. Dark hair falls to his ears from a messy centre parting and three-day-old stubble steals the light from his face. He is wearing a black T-shirt with a picture of Whitney Houston. Below the artist’s face the caption says ‘
Houston, we have a problem
’ in red letters. His trousers, also black, are sagging. Over his belt hangs a belly that would make Bjarne run to the nearest treadmill in sheer panic.

‘Hi,’ Daniel Nielsen says quickly and smiles at the investigators. ‘Have you been trying to get hold of me today?’ He laughs. ‘I’ve been to the gym, you see, and I’ve only just got home this minute.’

‘So you haven’t managed to shower yet?’ Bjarne says.

‘No, I—’ Nielsen runs a hand through his hair. ‘I haven’t got round to that.’

He rubs his hands on his trouser leg. He smiles at them again.

‘Where do you work out?’ Bjarne asks.

‘Eh, Svein’s Gym,’ Nielsen says.

Bjarne nods.

‘Could we come in, please?’ Sandland asks.

Nielsen looks at her.

‘Can’t we just take it out here? My flat’s a real mess and I – I—’

‘We prefer to talk inside,’ Bjarne says firmly and doesn’t offer any explanation.

‘Of course,’ Nielsen nods and goes in first, holds the door open for them and kicks some shoes out of the way before they reach a narrow hallway. Pegs on the wall are taken by jackets, baseball caps and a sad-looking umbrella. They walk past a cracked mirror and a three-drawer white chest where one knob is falling off.

They step inside the living room. There is an open laptop on a desk. Next to it is a plate with a half-eaten sandwich. There are teeth marks in the saveloy. A full glass of milk is standing beside it. On the walls are big framed pictures. Snowboarders in a white mountain terrain. An angler in a river in water up to his waist. Some smaller close-ups of flowers in vivid colours.

‘Let’s talk about Caroline,’ Bjarne says and takes a seat.

The old sofa cushions sag under him and he ends up sitting close to the floor. Nielsen’s eyes widen. And then he slumps.

‘Of course,’ he says, looking down. ‘I should have known you’d find out about her.’

Nielsen heaves a sigh and clenches his fist.

‘Why didn’t you tell your boss about your conviction?’

Nielsen looks at Sandland.

‘Do you think I’d have got the job if I had?’

He shakes his head.

‘I needed money and I—’

He shakes his head again. The officers let him take his time. Soon he looks up at them.

‘But I’ve got nothing to do with what happened to Erna Pedersen,’ he says. ‘I give you my word.’

Nielsen does his best to give them a look that inspires confidence, but it is a staring competition that Bjarne wins easily.

‘Did you know her?’

‘No,’ he says quickly and loudly. ‘I mean, only through work, if that’s what you’re asking.’

‘That was what I was asking.’

‘No,’ Nielsen repeats. ‘Absolutely not.’

Bjarne nods slowly.

‘Did you go to work yesterday?’

‘Eh, no. I mean, I stopped off at work, but I wasn’t working.’

‘Why did you stop off at work?’

‘I was just dropping something off.’

Bjarne looks at him, waits for a continuation that doesn’t come.

‘When was this?’

‘Late afternoon. Four thirty, five or thereabouts.’

It grows quiet between them while Bjarne stares at him.

‘Did you see anyone enter or leave Erna Pedersen’s room while you were there?’

Nielsen shakes his head in jerks before he wipes his nose with the back of his hand.

‘Did you notice anything while you were there? Anything unusual?’

Nielsen scratches his nose vigorously with the nail of his index finger.

‘No, I don’t think so.’

High up his forehead along his hairline the sweat has darkened his brown hair.

Sandland looks around.

‘Why did you need money?’ she asks.

Nielsen looks at her. His eyebrows narrow.

‘Do you know how much it costs to rent a one-bedroom flat in Oslo these days? Even up here?’

Sandland shakes her head.

‘I’m paying just over 12,000 kroner a month before utility bills and phone charges. I have to have a job. Though I guess I’ll get the sack now.’

Nielsen tears a tiny bit of skin off his thumb. It starts to bleed so he reaches out for a loo roll in the middle of the table, next to two lumpy stones that look glued together.

‘How would you describe Erna Pedersen’s behaviour recently?’

Nielsen hesitates, rips off a sheet and wraps it round his thumb.

‘Difficult to say. I didn’t really know her all that well. I’ve only been her primary care worker for a couple of months and I rarely got a sensible word out of her.’

‘Okay,’ Bjarne says and gets up. Sandland does the same. ‘We’ll probably want to speak to you later. And it would be good if you could pick up the phone the next time we call, that way we don’t have to come up to your flat.’

‘Yes, er, sorry, I—’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Bjarne says. ‘You were at the gym. At Svein’s Gym.’

Bjarne stares at him for a long time.

‘Yes,’ Nielsen says and laughs quickly. ‘So I was.’

‘Thanks for the chat,’ Sandland says and leaves first.

Nielsen accompanies them to the door and closes it firmly behind them.

‘I don’t think he went to the gym,’ Bjarne says once they are inside the lift.

‘Why not?’

‘Did you see a sports bag anywhere?’

Sandland thinks about it, but doesn’t reply.

‘And why was he wearing regular clothes if he hadn’t showered yet? Where were his workout clothes?’

The lift stops at the ground floor. The officers get out.

‘So what do we do now?’ Sandland asks and turns to him with her hand on the front door handle. Brogeland thinks about it.

‘I think he’s hiding something. I’ll call Svein’s Gym to check if he really was there. If it turns out that he wasn’t, we’ll put him under surveillance.’

‘There’s no way you’ll ever get a unit together at such short notice, Bjarne. Don’t—’

‘Oh, yes,’ Bjarne says and smiles. ‘I still have a few favours I can call in. And it would only be for a couple of hours. At least to begin with.’

He smiles, but Sandland merely shrugs.

Bjarne sighs to himself. She is still unimpressed.

Atle Abelsen replies much more quickly than Henning had expected, but not by email, which is his usual form of communication.

‘Yo,’ Abelsen says when Henning answers the call.

‘Hi, Atle. I guess this means you got my email.’

‘No “how are you?” No “what are you up to these days?”’

‘How are you, Atle? What are you up to these days?’

‘Overworked and underpaid.’

‘I’m surprised to hear that.’

‘It’s a tough life.’

‘So I’ve been told. But I presume you’ve read my email since you’re calling?’

Henning is about to ask Atle what he has found out when he remembers something.

‘Before we start, did you know Erna Pedersen yourself? Did she ever teach you?’

‘No, but I called my mother. She still teaches in Kløfta. She said she had heard about her.’

Henning straightens up a little.

‘And what had she heard?’

‘Erna Pedersen had something of a reputation, as far as I can gather. Positively terrifying. Old school, I mean. We’re talking canes slamming against the desk, that sort of thing. Stand up when the teacher comes into the classroom, mind your manners and always say good morning.’

‘Ah, the good old days.’

‘Quite. But I know that wasn’t the reason for your email. I’ve managed to find out a couple of things about Erna Pedersen that might be of interest. In 1989 she filed a complaint at the local police station because her house had been vandalised. The old witch had finally had enough.’

‘I see,’ Henning says, picking up and clicking on a pen lying next to him.

‘She claimed she knew who the culprits were, but their names aren’t listed in the report. I don’t know if the police ever bothered investigating her complaint, but no one was convicted of anything.’

Henning ponders this for a moment.

‘Did the report say anything about what kind of vandalism it was?’

‘Eggs had been thrown at her house, basement windows had been smashed, that kind of thing. She used to cycle to school, I believe, but someone deliberately damaged her bicycle. Let down the tyres.’

‘Right,’ Henning says.

It sounds mostly like typical schoolboy pranks
, he thinks.

‘Then her husband fell off a ladder in the garden in 1991, I think it was, and had a heart attack. Or the other way round, I don’t remember. I can’t imagine that made her less strict and bitter.’

‘No, I don’t suppose it did,’ Henning says while he mulls it over. ‘Was there anything else?’

‘No.’

‘Okay. It would be great if you could email or text me her old address.’

‘Will do. But how are you, mate? Do you still play music these days?’

Henning hesitates before he replies.

‘No, not often, I’m afraid.’

‘For God’s sake, man, you mustn’t stop. You had talent!’

‘Mm. Are you still drinking Calvados?’

‘Oh, forget about that. Let’s go for a beer the next time I’m in town.’

‘Okay. Thanks for your help, Atle.’

‘You’re welcome, dude.’