Scarred (11 page)

A short morning of freedom.

Ever since Emilie Blomvik had a child there is practically nothing she treasures more than that. Several hours in a row where she can do whatever she likes. She can go to the gym, she can read that magazine that has been gathering dust on top of the fridge, she can watch a movie that has taken up space on the recorder for ever. No one needs watching or looking after or checking in. Nor will anyone disapprove if she drinks a can of Coke on a weekday.

Quality time with a capital Q, that’s what it is. However, it continues to surprise her that she rarely ends up doing any of the things she had planned, just like today. She was going to waste some time on the computer, possibly look for some lovely holidays, start one of the books she was given last Christmas. But if she tries to reconstruct the morning, remember what she actually did after taking Sebastian to nursery, she is stumped for an answer. She doesn’t remember anything other than reading the newspaper and tidying up the kitchen. The rest is one big fog of nothing.

Even so it has been bliss. No one needed her to do anything. The sheer knowledge that such moments exist gives her precisely the breathing space she needs.

She only wishes that Mattis would call soon. It has gone eleven now. Perhaps the meeting with the partners didn’t go as well as he had expected?

She hopes he won’t get disappointed or upset. Children hurting themselves or not getting what they want is one thing. It’s part of growing up, meeting resistance and maturing as a result. Adults sulking is another matter. She just can’t deal with it. And Mattis is one of the worst offenders when things don’t go his way. The whole house becomes enshrouded in a thundercloud she can’t get away from soon enough. On this specific point she has very little patience. One child in the house is enough.

Emilie has barely had this thought when the phone rings. She jumps, gets up from the kitchen chair and fetches her mobile from the worktop next to the bread bin.

It’s Mattis.

‘Hello?’ she says with expectation in her voice.

‘You’re speaking to Mattis Steinfjell, partner in Bergman Hoff, Solicitors. Am I speaking to Emilie Blomvik, the most wonderful girl in the world?’

Emilie clasps her hand over her mouth.

‘Is it true?’ she screams.

Self-satisfied laughter bubbles away quietly before Mattis gives up trying to suppress it. He starts laughing out loud.

‘But that’s wonderful, darling. Congratulations.’

Emilie doesn’t know what else to say. Neither does Mattis, or so it seems.

‘So go on then, tell me all about it.’

‘Well, there’s not much to say except that I’m moving up the food chain, sweetheart. You know what that means.’

Emilie shakes her head to herself, but she says ‘yes’ all the same. And then she lets him brag to his heart’s content and she has to pull herself together in order not to cry. One of several things she dislikes about herself since she became a mother is that she cries at the slightest thing.

‘That’s absolutely fantastic, Mattis,’ she says when he finally stops talking. ‘Once again, congratulations.’

‘We’re going to celebrate, sweetheart. I’ll buy some champagne we can open tonight. We’ll order a takeaway and get drunk.’

Emilie doesn’t reply immediately.

‘I’m on nights this week, Mattis. Don’t you remember?’

‘Can’t you swap with someone?’

‘It’s too short notice,’ she replies, but what she is thinking is that she could have asked someone if she really wanted to. And yet there is a part of her that doesn’t want to be with Mattis in his moment of glory. She realises she is worried what he might ask her while he rides his happiness wave. Like, for example, if she will marry him.

‘You’ll just have to celebrate without me,’ she says trying to sound kind, happy and exuberant. And she is, she really is, for him.

‘So when is it official?’ she asks. ‘Can I tell my friends the good news?’

‘Of course you can,’ he says. ‘But I’ve got to go now, darling. Love you.’

Emilie doesn’t reply straightaway. Then she says, more quietly than she had planned to: ‘I love you too.’

The doorbell rings.

He turns around and frowns. He doesn’t remember the last time he had visitors.

Probably someone trying to get into one of the other flats
, he thinks. Or one of his neighbours who has accidentally locked themselves out again. That must be it.

He turns his attention back to the computer monitors.
World of Warcraft
on one. Facebook on the other where he has clicked on a profile he visits every day even though it always hurts.

The doorbell rings again. He tilts his head slightly and gets up from his chair reluctantly. Shuffles towards the door and looks through the spy hole.

A man he doesn’t remember seeing before is standing outside next to a woman.
Plainclothes police officers
, he thinks, and is immediately gripped by panic, but he forces himself to think rationally.
Even if they are police officers, this can’t possibly be about that old witch.

Or can it?

The man looks like a local politician. Long and lean with thin, grey hair. Can’t be too difficult to knock out. The woman doesn’t look very tough, either. Maximum 1.65 metres. Practically flat-chested. Skinny arms.

He opens the door and is blinded by the light outside. He has to shield his eyes with one hand in order to see them.

‘Hello, we’re from the bailiffs.’

The man introduces himself and the woman beside him, names he instantly forgets.

‘Perhaps you know why we’re here?’

He looks at them and shakes his head. He leans against the door frame and feels the pointy, cold edges of the steel lock.

‘You haven’t paid your rent for a long time and as a result you were issued with an eviction notice in accordance with the Eviction Act paragraph 13 section 2. This notice was sent to you and you were given fourteen days to move out. But I can see that you’re still here. Haven’t you packed your stuff yet?’

He had completely forgotten that notice. He has been lost in a world of his own in the last few weeks. And before that he always thought that he would find a way out, that he would be able to get hold of money from someone other than his mother.

The debt collector tries to look over his shoulder, but he blocks his path.

‘I’m sorry, but there is no way around this.’

The debt collector’s words fall like hammer blows. A taste of metal has settled on his tongue. He hugs himself, looks at the young woman with her blonde, shoulder-length hair. There is a hint of contempt in her eyes. And he feels the urge to—

‘So am I right in thinking that you’re not able to move out today?’

He turns his gaze to the debt collector again.

‘No, I – I—’

‘Okay,’ the man says turning to the woman next to him. ‘You’re lucky; you’ve a very kind landlord. He has said he’s willing to give you another three days, but that’s the absolute final deadline. We’ll come back at ten o’clock on Thursday morning and change the locks. So you’ve got three days. That should be more than enough.’

The debt collector seems to be expecting some kind of response, but it is not appropriate to nod or to thank him. So instead the man nods by way of goodbye and they start walking back to the stairwell and the lift. He takes a step back inside and closes the door behind him.

Three days
, he thinks when everything around him is quiet again. What the hell is he going to do? He certainly can’t ask his mother if he can move back home again for a while.

With heavy footsteps he plods back to his desk and the computer monitors. The back of the chair creaks as he sits down. It creaks in his brain as well as if the bones inside his head are stretching.

Again he stares at her Facebook profile and the status she posted just after eleven o’clock this morning. Now with forty-nine likes and thirteen comments. Another one is added while he watches.

And that’s when the rage overwhelms him.

He shakes his head, feels a lump in his stomach and clenches his fists. Something cold pricks him in the back of his neck and turns into a restless itch he has to scratch. A light he just has to extinguish.

To dread coming home is the worst thing.

Or rather, Johanne Klingenberg doesn’t dread it because Baltazar will be there waiting for her, always happy, always eager for her company, but she has been on edge since the break-in – how long has it been now – two weeks ago?

She returned home after a lecture and got a strange feeling that someone must have been in her flat because Baltazar acted so out of character when she went up to greet him. As if he wasn’t sure that she was someone he recognised or that she was a friend. It wasn’t until she poured him a little milk and gave him some treats that she was allowed to stroke his neck and back.

She didn’t get truly scared until she saw the damaged picture on the wall. And the red stain next to Baltazar’s basket. It looked as if someone had smeared blood across the floor. She immediately checked the cat and discovered that he hadn’t hurt himself.

Johanne proceeded to check out the rest of the flat, tiptoeing as quietly as she could from room to room and brandishing a kitchen knife. She wrenched open cupboards and doors in case someone was hiding behind them, but she found no one. Even so she called the police. She knew that these days they can identify a criminal from only a single hair or a trace of blood, but the officers who turned up told her she would just have to be patient. Such tests took forever to carry out. And when the sample finally got to the front of the DNA queue, it would only prove useful if they found a match – something for which there was absolutely no guarantee.

It might have been easier to forget the whole thing – after all nothing was taken. But there have been other incidents. On several occasions she has been absolutely sure that she was being followed, both when she has been for a night out or making her way home after a lecture. Once she saw a man in a khaki army jacket press himself against the wall one hundred metres away from her. He had been staring at her and he had had a camera. The strange thing was that she was sure she had seen him somewhere before, she just couldn’t remember where.

Fortunately she doesn’t believe anyone is following her today. Or yesterday, now that she thinks about it. Perhaps that is why the lecture is still buzzing around her head. Though to call that a lecture is insulting to lecturers. Reading out loud would be a more accurate description. Like sleeping tablets without the need for a prescription.

Johanne had hoped that she would start the new term invigorated after a long warm summer, but from day one she could feel it, the weight of something starting to oppress her. She didn’t want to be there. She was quite simply fed up, fed up with marketing and the crackle of stiff new books being opened for the very first time. But she made herself get out of bed the next day and the day after and decided to put it down to a post-holiday depression that would lift of its own accord once she got back into the routine. But it hasn’t passed. Everything just gets drearier and more exhausting.

It’s no help, either, that the dreaded thesis is lying in wait for her like a troll under a bridge. And her useless supervisor who is always busy and never interested in hearing what she thinks or believes. He is the expert, not her. She is just a student, one of many who have filed through his office over the years. Fresh perspectives, hah!

She has no idea how she will find the strength to get through the last few terms. She recognises the feeling from her time at sixth form when she came to hate everything to do with school. She just wanted to finish the course as quickly as possible. It showed in the grades she got, something that prompted her to try to improve her academic results when she reached her early thirties. And to begin with, going back to school was fine. The partying from her teenage years came back, with all that entailed. And perhaps that’s the only thing that has kept her going.

Her thumb glides up and down her mobile as she walks. She is on Facebook and she feels a warm glow when she reads Emilie’s last status update. Johanne presses ‘Like’ and writes a comment. Only occasionally does she look up to see where she is going.

Luckily the college she attends in Oslo is not far from her flat and it feels good to get home and see that everything is still the same, that Baltazar lies in his basket just as he did when she left him. Black, white and happy.

Johanne Klingenberg throws down her keys, takes out her mobile and goes back on Facebook to update her status.

Home.

Safe at last.

Henning looks at the clock. The working day has come and gone without Erna Pedersen’s son returning his call. Henning has sent him a text message as well, but has had no reply. Nor does Bjarne Brogeland appear to have had the time to return his calls. Things are moving slowly.

Henning files a story about how Erna Pedersen was strangled, a story he illustrates with a photograph of her that the police have issued to the media. The story reads well even though it is far less sensational than the stories being written about Trine.

The online version of
VG
,
VG Nett
, has managed to track down an old boyfriend of his sister’s when she was a law student who can tell the newspaper’s readers that ‘Trine Juul, as she then was, was known for her excessive partying. It certainly wouldn’t surprise him if she is guilty of the accusations being made against her.’ None of the newspapers has a single new picture to publish. The most recent ones they have are from this morning when she hurried inside the Ministry of Justice and didn’t make eye contact with any of the cameras. A headline repeated by several papers is
TRINE HIDES
.

Henning would have expected that the identity of the young Labour Party politician would have become known during the day, but even though online speculation is rife, no one has yet come forward, nor has any particular name taken more hold in the public imagination than others. As far as Henning can work out, most members of the Labour Party’s youth branch who took part in last year’s conference must have been interviewed by now. All of them are denying that they went to Trine’s hotel room.

The picture the media are creating of her now is very far removed from the little girl he grew up with. He remembers how every Christmas Eve they would sit in front of the television with bags of sweets and watch Christmas movies. They also used to have some bean bags; Trine’s was pink, while Henning’s was mint green. Some evenings he would go to her room just to give her a goodnight hug, and he would stay there and chat for a long time until there would be a knock on the wall from his parents’ bedroom because their talking was keeping them awake.

They also used to play and exercise together down in the basement passage on the grey, knobbly carpet. Often there would be an acrid smell of urine because local cats favoured the foundations of their house. Trine and Henning had a foam ball and switched between playing handball and football; the door to the lavatory and the door to the larder served as goals. One Christmas they were given Adidas shorts, which they wore when they played and their game appeared to improve because they felt they looked so much smarter.

He wonders if Trine ever thinks about those days.

Perhaps they started drifting apart as teenagers when they developed different interests. Once he had finished sixth form and joined the army to do his national service, he barely spoke to her. Whenever he called home, it was always his mother who answered the telephone. Trine never called. Never gave him a welcome-home hug when he visited; instead she would usually go out straight after dinner and come back late.

Despite the lack of contact between them, there is something about her plight that moves him. He doesn’t like to see her bleed. But no matter how tempting it is to get involved, he can’t report on a story about his own sister. Besides, he would meet with closed doors everywhere. He doesn’t have any contacts in the world of politics. And what could he really do? So far her young accuser hasn’t even been named.

Leave it alone
, Henning tells himself.
It’s not your story
.