Scarred (15 page)

The uneven tarmac rumbles under the car. Bjarne looks across to the passenger seat where Ella Sandland is gazing out through the window.

‘I’ve been thinking about the care workers at Grünerhjemmet,’ he says. ‘Nielsen, Sund and Thorbjørnsen.’

‘What about them?’

Bjarne holds up one finger.

‘We know that Daniel Nielsen lied about what he had been doing when we visited him in his flat yesterday. He hadn’t been working out at Svein’s Gym as he claimed. We know that he stopped by the care home last Sunday to drop something off and that the time of his visit fits with the time of the killing. And none of the staff knew the victim better than him.’

Bjarne holds up a second finger.

‘We know that Ole Christian Sund was at work when Erna Pedersen was killed and that he was most likely the man who drove Daniel Nielsen up to Holmenkollen yesterday for reasons we’ve yet to establish. So they’re more than just colleagues. They could be protecting each other.’

‘Don’t forget that Sund’s son was present at the care home that evening,’ Sandland objects. ‘Surely you don’t think that Sund took part in a brutal murder while his son was just around the corner?’

‘Hush, I’m on a roll here. And then we have Pernille Thorbjørnsen,’ Bjarne says, holding up a third finger. But the train of thought that was so clear in his head has been derailed.

‘What about her?’

‘I don’t know,’ Bjarne says. ‘But it was her car they used to drive up to Holmenkollen yesterday. Sund and Nielsen, I mean.’

‘But that’s not exactly a crime.’

‘No, but I’ve had another thought. What kind of temptation might staff in a care home be exposed to?’

Sandland shrugs.

‘Not money, certainly.’

‘How about medication?’ Bjarne suggests.

Sandland looks unconvinced.

‘The manager of Grünerhjemmet did say yesterday that quite a lot of medication has gone missing.’

‘I don’t think that’s particularly unusual, Bjarne.’

‘No, you may be right, but prescription medication has a certain street value no matter what part of Oslo you live in. And Daniel Nielsen, you remember, has already admitted needing cash.’

At the entrance to Birkelunden Park the car rattles as it crosses the tramlines. Three trams are queuing at a tram stop. There is an endless flow of passengers getting on and off.

‘But what does that have to do with Erna Pedersen?’ Sandland asks while Bjarne manoeuvres in between two cars at the pedestrian crossing. ‘Could she have seen them pilfer medication and threaten to expose them?’

Bjarne doesn’t reply immediately.

‘I don’t know,’ he says, pressing the accelerator. ‘But let’s see if we can find out. There has to be a reason why Pernille Thorbjørnsen’s fingerprints are on Erna Pedersen’s knitting needles.’

The dots signposting the route aren’t quite as blue as she remembers them. Nor does she have a clear recollection of the coastal path, only that they used to walk it and that it was a great walk. Cocoa and gooey brown cheese sandwiches. Perhaps a bar of milk chocolate – on special occasions. Plastic bottles filled with yellow squash.

While she put some food in a rucksack she found in the cabin, she told her bodyguards to prepare themselves for a bit of a walk today. But when she announced where she was planning to go, they insisted on positioning themselves in front and behind her, so they could check the path first and warn her should anyone appear. If she really didn’t want anyone to know where she was, then that was what they had to do, they said. Besides, there was a security risk that couldn’t be ignored and which she obviously understood and accepted, but she still insisted that they keep their distance.

They have been walking for one and a half hours in spitting rain when Trine’s mobile rings. She takes it out from her anorak and stops on a knoll that reminds her of a bald head.

‘Hi, Katarina,’ she says. ‘I was wondering when you’d call.’

‘Yes, there has – there has been quite a lot to do this morning. Have you seen today’s headlines?’

‘No.’

‘It’s—’

Trine’s Director of Communications sighs heavily before she tells her about the press release that was issued last night.

‘You’re joking,’ Trine says.

‘I wish. The Permanent Secretary came up to me this morning and asked me what the hell you think you’re doing. “She’s holding us hostage,” those were her exact words.’

Trine closes her eyes. That incompetent, sour-faced bitch.

‘I don’t know for how long we can keep putting out the same statement, Trine. The press office is very frustrated. I think that Ullevik can weather the worst of the political pressure, but—’

‘What about the Prime Minister’s office? Have they said anything?’

‘Their Director of Communications called me this morning wanting to know what our strategy was. I said I would have to ring him back. That was some time ago now.’

Trine opens her eyes again and stares across the surface of the water where ripples are starting to form.

‘By the way, where are you?’ Katarina asks.

‘I’ve gone out for a walk. I’m trying to clear my head.’

‘That sounds like a good idea. And I don’t want to pressure you, Trine, because I know how hard it is for you. But have you given any further thought as to what you’re going to do?’

Trine sighs and takes a step nearer the edge of the knoll. There is a drop of several metres down to a pile of stones that leads on further to some rocks which are getting a thorough and constant wash from the waves. She feels the wind take hold of strands of her hair, which have torn themselves loose from under her red baseball cap.

‘No,’ she says.

Trine turns away from the wind, which makes the mobile howl. But it’s not true. She has thought about what to do. She’s going to do the only sensible thing she can. There is no other way out.

Brinken is a residential development the size of a small village. It lies to the left of the main road when you approach Jessheim from the south.

Henning has driven past it many times, but he has never driven through it. Once he does, it’s exactly as he imagined it would be. Criss-crossing streets, detached houses in a grid, tarmac roads and pavements. Not so many new builds, most of the houses seem to have been built in the seventies and eighties.

After entering the address he got from Atle Abelsen, Henning follows the instructions provided by the sat nav. Atle was also able to give him a plot number as well as a detailed description of the house Erna Pedersen used to live in – a terraced bungalow with two bedrooms.

As Henning pulls up he can see that the house is well maintained. It is timber-framed, clad with wooden panels and painted mustard yellow. A flat roof. A tarmac drive. There is a garden with a well-kept lawn, hedges, flowerbeds, an apple tree and a terrace.

The property has clearly been renovated.

Henning parks outside and rings the bell. No one is in. It’s to be expected; he imagines the owners are probably at work. Henning takes out a business card, writes on the back that he would like to speak to them and pushes the card under the front door before it strikes him that the new owners might not have known Erna Pedersen.

So he decides to call Tom Sverre Pedersen.

‘You again?’ says the doctor.

‘Yes, me again,’ Henning replies. ‘Listen, I’m in Jessheim now and I’ve just had a thought. I know that you said that your mother was unpopular, but do you know how she got on with her neighbours?’

Pedersen doesn’t reply immediately.

‘I know that some neighbours will chat over the fence for hours, especially in the summer. I was wondering if your mother liked or knew some of her neighbours better than others.’

‘Then it would have to be Borgny,’ Pedersen says. ‘But I don’t know if she still lives there.’

‘What’s her full name?’

‘Borgny Ramstad. I know they belonged to the same knitting club a lifetime ago. Give her my best if you manage to track her down.’

‘Okay. Thanks for the tip.’

Henning ends the call and walks up to a row of letterboxes nearby. He reads the name ‘RAMSTAD’ on one of the boxes with a clumsy number ‘25’ written below. Henning looks around, finds a house wall with the same number and rings the bell. Again, no one answers so he slips yet another business card under the door.

Henning is on his way back to the car when a text message from the paper’s breaking news service arrives. Henning clicks on the link.

He reads on and learns that Trine didn’t come home last night. Nor did she turn up at her office at the usual time this morning. No one in the department has been able to contact her. All media requests are being passed through Katarina Hatlem, Trine’s Director of Communications, but she is playing everything down. She repeats yesterday’s statement that Trine doesn’t wish to comment on anonymous allegations and she has gone into hiding due to the enormous media pressure. ‘Surely most people can understand this if they just take a moment to think about it.’ But Hatlem refuses to say if she knows where Trine is.

Nor have any witnesses seen his sister. No one has spotted her at a petrol station, in a shop or in the lobby of a hotel. Though the Security Service say that they are aware of Trine’s movements, many people don’t believe them. The questions don’t change. Where is she? What is she doing?

Henning might not have been so worried if he hadn’t learned yesterday that Trine had been on sick leave suffering from depression. A story that triggers this level of media witch hunt can affect even the most resilient. There isn’t a bodyguard in the whole world who can prevent Trine from doing something drastic if she makes up her mind.

And that changes everything.

Henning thinks about his brother-in-law, Pål Fredrik Osmundsen. He might know something. According to the article no one, including
VG
, has been able to get hold of him in the last twenty-four hours.

Henning gets into the car; he has forgotten all about Erna Pedersen. Before he drives back to Oslo, he finds Osmundsen’s mobile number on the website of Predo Asset Management and sends him a text message:

Henning drives to Oslo as fast as he dares. When his mobile buzzes, he snatches it up. It’s a text message from Pål Fredrik Osmundsen:

Johanne Klingenberg tends to do a weekly food shop. She was due to go shopping yesterday, but when she realised that the leftovers from the ready-made lasagne she had on Sunday could be reheated in the microwave, there was nothing she really needed to get. Now she is wishing she had done her big shop as planned because then her arms wouldn’t have been hurting as much as they are right now. The carrier bags weigh a ton.

You shouldn’t have given Emilie those dumbbells for Christmas
, she mutters under her breath.
You should have kept them for yourself
.

But when she finally approaches the building where she lives, the fear creeps up on her. The fear that someone might have broken in again, that someone might be lying in wait for her in the stairwell or in her flat. She has grown more anxious recently. Before she goes to bed at night, she checks every cupboard and every room. She even looks under the bed before she climbs under the duvet and listens out for strange noises that never come. Eventually, far too late, she slips into a restless sleep.

Perhaps she should have mentioned the break-in to Emilie, but she didn’t want to worry her, didn’t want their lunch to be all about that. They hadn’t seen each other for such a long time and they had so much other news to share even though she had secretly been a little cross with Emilie. Emilie has always had her pick of men. And now when she has finally settled down with a good-looking guy, she can still find fault with him.

Look at me, Johanne felt like saying. I haven’t had a steady boyfriend for years. I would be on cloud nine if I had someone to love. If only someone would be prepared to look past the exterior and give me a chance.

She knows she is overweight and that she talks too loudly, especially when she is drunk. But she has lots of love to give. Lots! Emilie has always been blessed with men ready to give her anything she wants.

There is no justice in the world.

Johanne feels the sweat press on her brow. And, of course, the carrier bags manage to get caught on bicycles and pushchairs as she makes her way up the narrow stairwell.

It takes time, but eventually she reaches the second floor. Panting heavily she lets herself in, dragging the heavy bags behind her. A fire has started under her jacket that spreads to the rest of her body. She feels the need for a shower, but right now she only has the energy to collapse in a chair in the kitchen.

She sits down while her heart tries to resume its normal rhythm. She looks around for Baltazar, the little rascal, but he is not in his basket. Nor does she get a meow in response when she calls out his name.

It takes a few minutes before Johanne is able to get up and go into the living room. She calls out his name again, but there is no reply this time, either. Is he hiding under the sofa again? Johanne gets down on all fours, sees a lot of stuff that ought not to be under the sofa, but no cat. She gets back on her feet and heaves a deep sigh.

Then she senses movement right behind her.

Johanne spins around and her eyes widen.

‘What are you doing here?’

If she hadn’t recognised him straightaway, she would have screamed. But there is something about his eyes. They are empty and cold. And they don’t shift from her until he says: ‘Cute kid.’

He nods towards the wall. Then he takes a step closer. Johanne moves back, but her retreat is blocked by the coffee table.

Then she realises it. He is the man who broke into her flat two weeks ago, who has been following her and waiting for her outside the lecture hall.

She looks at him, at his eyes. And she realises she has never been more scared in her life.

He takes a step closer. Somewhere deep inside his ears he can hear the steady beating of his heart, strong and fast. He tries to see clearly, but everything blurs. It’s as if he is watching her through a veil; he swallows and blinks, he tries to breathe as calmly as he can, but the room doesn’t change. The details don’t come into view.

Wait
, he says to himself.
Be patient
.

He clenches his fists, but he can’t feel a thing. There is no pain. The pills are working. And that’s wonderful.

He blinks a second time. Suddenly he can focus.

‘You owe me an apology,’ he says.

Her eyebrows shoot up.

‘Me? What for?’

Then his sight grows fuzzy again; he doesn’t feel his hand punch the picture on the wall, all he can hear is the shattering of glass. Johanne raises her hands up to her face to protect herself. When she takes them away, he lashes out again; he is not sure what he hits, but he hopes it’s her head this time. Whatever it is, it makes her fall backwards across the glass coffee table; she lands on the sofa and bangs the back of her head against the wooden armrest. Then she goes quiet.

Not yet
, he tells himself,
wait for the veil to fall. Wait until you can see
. When his eyes can focus again, he sees that although the years have changed her, it’s still there. Her contempt for him. She still despises him, the boy who saved her life that cold night in 1994.

It had been a Friday like any other Friday in Jessheim. Emilie and Johanne had been to Gartneriet Bar and as usual were high on life. They staggered along the pavement, arms linked. On their way home they had stopped at the takeaway by the Esso petrol station, right by the junction, for something to eat. And as usual Emilie was surrounded by boys.

He was there with some friends and they watched as the girls’ behaviour, giggling and eating drunkenly, changed completely when Johanne choked on some food and couldn’t breathe. Emilie freaked out and screamed at the top of her voice for someone to please help Johanne. In the light from the takeaway he could see everyone freeze to the spot while Emilie’s shrill voice hurt his ears. A strange calm came over him. What he really wanted to do was stay where he was and watch Johanne’s light go out. But what about Emilie. Sweet, lovely Emilie, who was running around wailing and shouting.

So he went over to Johanne who was clutching her throat. Her lips were starting to turn purple. He had to make an effort to snap out of his trance and remember the first-aid course they had been taught at school; the soft, revolting plastic doll he had pressed his lips against and that had tasted grotesquely sterile, and he thought about the other procedures they had learned, the bit about the Heimlich manoeuvre and he couldn’t quite remember how to do it, but he positioned himself behind her and half lifted and half squeezed her, and suddenly Johanne was able to breathe again. She stood there, spitting and coughing, hawking and crying.

Emilie threw herself around his neck and stayed there. She stayed there for a while. And, he supposed, that was what Johanne had never been able to accept. That someone could get between her and her best friend for more than a few weeks.

Seriously, Emilie, it’ll never last. You’re not going to marry him, are you?

And he knows now that she won’t ever apologise to him. She is another one of those who won’t. So he bends down and waits until signs of life return behind her eyelids. The moment she regains consciousness she tries to escape, but she is trapped. Frantically she looks around; she kicks and screams so he squeezes her neck. A little harder while he tells himself to stay calm.
Remember, you want to watch. You want to watch
, he repeats to himself while he straddles her midriff. Her legs hit his back and thrash in the air, her arms flail wildly and she claws at his jumper and gloves. But when he tightens his grip around her neck and feels her sinking into the sofa like a balloon slowly deflating, that’s when he sees it.

He sees it.

And it’s the most incredible sight ever.