Death Deserved

by Thomas Enger

  Martine grunted under the quilt and took in a long slow breath through her nose.

  ‘Did you sleep well?’ Emma asked.

  ‘Mm,’ Martine said, with a yawn.

  ‘I’ve got an important question for you.’

  Martine blinked repeatedly before hauling herself up.

  ‘What would you prefer for breakfast –a smoothie or some dry old slices of bread?’

  The youngster wrinkled her brow with displeasure. ‘Smoothie, of course. With blueberries.’

  Smiling, Emma stroked the girl’s cheek, burning hot after a night’s sleep.

  ‘Blueberries it is, then. Run into the bathroom now, get yourself washed and tidied, and I’ll get it made.’

  ‘OK.’ Martine pushed the quilt away and leapt out of bed. All at once she was as wide awake as if it were the middle of the day. Emma watched her niece scamper through to the bathroom, singing a Disney song they’d heard on TV the night before.

  Emma got up herself and was about to make the bed when a strand of hair on Martine’s pillow brought her up short. It was fairly long, and brown, and there could be no doubt that it came from her niece. Emma folded back more of the quilt so that the rest of the pillow was visible. Several more strands of hair, the same colour, had col­lected on the sheet. Emma quickly lifted the pillow and saw more hairs there too – Martine was always such a restless sleeper.

  No, Emma told herself. It can’t be…

  She removed the quilt completely, but found no more strands of hair. Please, Emma said inwardly, not…

  Martine came back.

  ‘Aren’t you going to make me a smoothie, then?’ she demanded, sounding precocious and almost critical.

  Emma didn’t answer at first. Then: ‘Yes, of course…’ She looked fleetingly at Martine’s hair, partly combed. Had this happened before? Did Irene know about it? Did they know at nursery?

  Emma perched on the edge of the bed as Martine hunkered down on the floor to get dressed.

  ‘Come here a minute,’ Emma said in a gentle voice.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Just … come here a minute.’

  Jumping up, Martine approached Emma and sat down at her side. Emma stroked the nape of her neck and studied her niece’s scalp sur­reptitiously. She could see some light patches there.

  Fuck.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Martine asked.

  Emma pulled her close. ‘I just haven’t had my morning cuddle yet,’ she said, kissing the top of her head. ‘Aunties need morning hugs, don’t you know.’

  ‘And children need smoothies.’

  Emma blinked repeatedly. ‘So they do. With blueberries.’

  *

  After they’d had their breakfast and prepared a packed lunch, Emma cycled her niece to nursery. The autumn weather was glorious today too, with clear air and blue skies.

  At nursery, after Martine had said good morning to the adults, Emma lingered to watch her niece play with the other children. Happy-go-lucky. As if she had no idea at all about her hair.

  Maybe she didn’t, Emma thought, all the time wondering whether she should say anything, or ask someone.

  After a prolonged goodbye-hug from Martine, Emma went outside and tried to turn her thoughts to something else. The police were having a press conference at ten o’clock, so she had time for a visit to Kalle’s Choice first, where she could read up on all the other media coverage of Nordstrøm’s vanishing act and the discovery of Jeppe Sørensen’s body.

  But it seemed like nothing new had occurred overnight. All the new stories were attempts to say something fresh with the old in­formation.

  At a quarter to ten, Emma was parking her bike outside the police station. She’d never felt like an ‘ordinary’ or ‘proper’ journalist, as she’d only ever written about celebrities, so it was a kick to be leading the pack in the Nordstrøm disappearance. When she entered the press room, she couldn’t help but notice that she was being scruti­nised by several of the other reporters. She didn’t say hello to anyone, though, but she did notice Henrik Wollan glowering at her.

  The press turnout was enormous – there were at least a hundred people present: TV, press and online reporters and photographers, radio journalists and the usual writers. A man in a black hoodie jostled her, murmuring a brief apology. She saw journalists she only knew by face and name but that she both liked and respected. Nora Klemetsen from Aftenposten was there. Petter Stanghelle from VG. Line Wisting, whose podcast Emma had listened to frequently when she was out cycling. They were all here.

  Kasper Bjerringbo too.

  Emma spotted him in the throng of people, engaged in enthusi­astic conversation with another reporter. He caught sight of her mid-sentence. Stopped and smiled. Emma took a deep breath and felt a sharp tingling in her chest. She smiled back, with glowing cheeks.

  Four months had gone by since the seminar in Gothenburg. When he’d asked her, as she was rushing out of his hotel room at five o’ clock in the morning, why she didn’t want to stay and sleep beside him, she hadn’t been able to bring herself to answer. She never did, when men asked.

  Now Kasper listened dispassionately to what his colleague had to say, before excusing himself and starting to weave his way through the crowd. Emma felt the hammering in her chest grow louder and faster.

  Kasper was slightly taller than her. His short, curly hair hardly moved when he walked and he wore round glasses, which made him look intelligent. Four months ago his face had been smooth-shaven, almost boyish, but now he sported a beard, which he must have been growing for a few weeks. It suited him. My God, how it suited him.

  When he stopped right in front of her, the smile didn’t leave his face. There was something magnetic about him; she couldn’t explain it in any other way. And when he took another step towards her and opened his arms, she let it happen – and ended up in his embrace again, just as she had on the dance floor that night in Gothenburg. This time, though, it was not a lingering one, just a brief hello.

  ‘So lovely to see you again,’ he said. ‘Even though the circum­stances are not so pleasant.’

  ‘Hi, Kasper,’ she said. ‘Did you arrive today?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’ve been in Norway for a few days,’ he replied. ‘My aunt’s moving back to Denmark and I’ve been helping her. We’re a small family.’

  ‘So you were in Norway when I spoke to you on the phone yes­terday?’

  He responded with a burst of quick, nervous laughter. They were surrounded by a buzz of voices.

  ‘The removal lorry left today,’ he said instead of answering her question. ‘So for the rest of the month I have a big, empty apartment in Slemdal all to myself.’

  Something in the way he said this made it sound like an invita­tion.

  ‘It’s not completely empty, though,’ he added. ‘There are a few items left that I’ll take back down with me. A double bed, among other things.’

  Emma made no comment, and was grateful when the awkward pause between them was interrupted by a side door opening beside the podium. Gard Fosse entered the room with a woman Emma knew to be the police prosecutor, Pia Nøkleby. Fosse was two heads taller than her, and despite the seriousness of the situation they looked rather comical as they walked in side-by-side.

  ‘I hope we can talk afterwards?’ Kasper said, indicating that he had to get back to his photographer.

  Emma nodded, though she felt the look she gave him failed to express how much she wanted that.

  ‘You’re looking good, Emma Ramm.’ He backed away as he spoke, smiling all the while.

  ‘You too,’ she said, feeling herself blush.

  The police lawyer gently tapped the microphone, and a hush fell on the room, even the last few garrulous reporters falling silent. Her chat with Kasper meant Emma was too late to find a seat, so she re­mained on her feet beside the wall at one side.

  ‘Good morning. Thanks for coming.’ Pia Nøkleby cleared her throat. She
was a woman in her early forties with short brown hair. Slightly too much make-up, Emma noted. Her lipstick was bright red.

  ‘You all know why we’ve invited you here this morning. Our dis­covery of the body out at Sonja Nordstrøm’s summer cottage yesterday afternoon has naturally raised her disappearance to an en­tirely new level, and I’d just like to reassure everyone here, and the general public at home, that we’re doing all we can to find her and to get to the bottom of this case. I’ll hand over now to Police Super­intendent Gard Fosse.’

  Sitting up straight, Fosse appeared to enjoy having everyone’s eyes on him for a few moments. Then he leaned closer to the microphone and said: ‘We can confirm that Sonja Nordstrøm is now officially a missing person, and that she may be the victim of a crime. I can’t elab­orate on our specific reasons for saying that here and now, but the discoveries we’ve made both in Nordstrøm’s home and at her cottage mean that we’re now actively asking for help from the public.’

  He coughed softly into his hand, before continuing.

  ‘To be explicit, we’re interested in all possible sightings, especially of vehicles at and around Nordstrøm’s residence on Sunday evening. We’re also looking for similar observations on Hvaler, where Nord­strøm has a summer cottage, the following evening.’

  That very moment, a mobile phone began to ring. The ringtone was an old-fashioned dance-band tune, a melody that Emma had often heard on the radio. The phone continued ringing, and people started to look around for the phone’s owner. But the tune did not stop.

  Fosse glared around the room in irritation, not continuing with his speech.

  Finally, Emma saw one of the reporters bend down and pick some­thing up from the floor. It was the ringing phone. The reporter pressed a button and the sound stopped.

  ‘Thank you,’ Fosse said. ‘Please switch off the sound on your phones while we’re busy here, to avoid any further disturbance.’

  But the reporter who’d picked up the phone held it up in the air, and looked around, apparently searching for its owner – no one came forward. The reporter shrugged and returned the phone to the floor.

  ‘It’s only natural to ask ourselves if Sonja Nordstrøm and Jeppe Sørensen had anything to do with each other,’ Fosse went on with renewed vigour in his voice. ‘This is one of the things we’ll be looking at more closely in the hours and days to come. We’re also working with the Danish police on this, and we’ve sent one of our investiga­tors to Copenhagen.’

  Emma took notes. A Norwegian detective going to Denmark was the only new piece of information so far. Maybe it was Blix, she thought, since he wasn’t present. Sofia Kovic, the other investigator Emma had met at Nordstrøm’s house, was here though, watching the press conference from the sidelines.

  Gard Fosse continued talking about the importance of giving the police space to investigate the case on a broad front, both technically and tactically, and he repeated Nøkleby’s assurance that all available resources were being employed to get to the bottom of this case.

  The conference was then opened up to questions from the room, and Petter Stanghelle of VG led off. He asked a question Fosse was unwilling to answer. Emma had a number of queries, but decided that she had a better chance of having them answered if she took them to Blix.

  29

  Copenhagen had been their city – Blix and Merete’s favourite place; this was where they loved to go when they wanted some extra-special time together. They’d been here several times, even after Iselin had come into the world, sometimes by car, but as a rule they had flown. Copenhagen had been like a second home to them, the only city apart from Oslo where they both felt completely at home. The feeling enveloped them the minute they came upon Vesterbrogade, passing cafés and stores and strolling along Værnedamsvej – that short little street chock-a-block with restaurants and small fascinating shops. Blix hadn’t been to Copenhagen since his final break with Merete, but right now, as the plane’s wheels touched down and taxied smoothly to its parking spot at Kastrup airport, he felt how much he missed those times, that life. The company. The sense of belonging to something. A family. A future.

  Blix tried to shake off these thoughts. He had a job to do, and as soon as he exited the arrivals hall, he flagged down a cab that took him to the Danish Police HQ in the heart of the city.

  Stian Josefson had not been difficult to find; he’d used his credit card in one of Copenhagen’s many watering holes at 10.38 the pre­vious night – this one in Strøget, the city’s pedestrianised shopping street. Armed with a description of him, two officers on Lone Cramer’s staff had brought him in. Because of the condition Josefson was in, however, and the resistance he had put up when the po­licemen had genially asked him to accompany them, they had felt obliged to let him spend the night in the drunk tank, where he lay, still fast asleep, when Lone Cramer escorted Blix inside.

  ‘You’re welcome to take him back with you to Norway,’ Cramer said. ‘Even though he clearly lavishes money on our bars.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Blix replied.

  He stepped into the cell and pulled the door closed behind him. The sound made Josefson open his eyes, and at the sight of Blix he nearly jumped out of his skin. He sat bolt upright, too quickly it seemed, as the movement caused him to pull a face and touch his temples.

  Blix tried to wave away the stench of drink, urine and sweat.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘Or … I guess it’s nearly lunchtime by now.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Josefson asked. ‘And what the fuck are you doing here?’ He looked around, as if unsure where he was.

  ‘You’re in a police station in Copenhagen,’ Blix explained. ‘I’m Alexander Blix, and I’m here because Sonja Nordstrøm is missing, and because we suspect that some kind of crime has been committed against her.’

  Josefson sat up straight, at once adopting a more alert expression. ‘What’s happened?’ he asked in a submissive, cracked voice.

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to find out. Do you need to splash some water on your face?’

  Blix looked at the hungover man before him. Three days’ worth of stubble. Crumpled, white shirt with a splat of mustard in the middle of his chest. A pair of jeans with what looked like a recent tear on one knee. Blood had dried around the gash.

  ‘Yes, that … might be a good idea.’

  Blix gestured in the direction of the hand basin. Manoeuvring himself up into a standing position, Josefson staggered across the room and turned on the tap. He belched discreetly, and put his hands under water, then rinsed his face and massaged his eyelids a little before turning off the tap and drying himself with a paper towel that lay beside the basin.

  ‘Better?’ Blix inquired.

  ‘A bit,’ Josefson agreed.

  Blix produced a digital recorder and explained to Josefson the for­malities associated with providing a police statement.

  ‘Are you willing to give a formal statement?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve nothing to hide,’ Josefson answered, looking obstinately at the recording device.

  ‘Is it true you’d arranged to visit Sonja Nordstrøm on Sunday evening?’ Blix began.

  ‘Yes, I … I was there. I was to drop off a copy of our book to her. There had been so much secrecy about it that neither Sonja nor I were to receive any copies until the evening before the official launch to the general public.’

  ‘What time were you at her house?’

  Josefson gave this some consideration. ‘About eight o’clock, pro­bably. It was around that time when I arrived.’

  ‘How long did you stay?’

  His glance veered off to the left. ‘A couple of hours, maybe.’

  ‘That’s a long time just to hand over a book?’

  Josefson met Blix’s penetrating gaze. There was a long, lingering pause, before he finally let his head sink as he said: ‘Sonja and I … we were more than just partners in crime.’

  ‘You were lovers.’

  ‘Yes.�
��

  He waited for a moment before adding: ‘Were is also the right way to put it. She said she didn’t want to meet on that basis any longer.’ It came out with a touch of bitterness, as well as perhaps a trace of sadness, Blix wasn’t entirely certain. ‘We were attracted to each other while we were working on the book, our shared project. There were quite a few long and intense working days. One thing … led to another, and…’

  He looked away for a second or two.

  ‘But then she didn’t want to have anything more to do with me, so…’

  ‘Why didn’t she?’

  ‘Good question,’ Josefson said. ‘I wondered about that too. She just said we’d got what we wanted from our collaboration, and then she told me to leave.’

  ‘Was that how she expressed it?’

  ‘Virtually. That was what she meant, at least.’

  Blix gave this some thought before launching into his next ques­tion.

  ‘The crime-scene technicians have found … traces of sex in her bed,’ he said. ‘Did you have sex that evening?’

  Josefson hesitated a little before nodding his head. ‘It was probably what we might call in good Norwegian a farewell fuck,’ he said with an acerbic undertone.

  ‘Did she end things with you first, or did she do that afterwards?’

  ‘Afterwards,’ he said. ‘At first she behaved exactly as usual, but then it was as if she just flicked off a switch and went completely frigid. From one minute to the next. While we lay in bed. It was … brutal.’

  ‘Did you lose your temper with her?’

  Josefson looked up at Blix. ‘You can bet your boots I did.’

  ‘Were you so angry that you—’

  Josefson interrupted him with a brusque hand gesture. ‘I know where you’re going with that, and I realise why you’re here,’ he said. ‘But no matter how angry I got, I could never have laid a finger on her. I adored Sonja Nordstrøm. The past nine months are the best I’ve had in my life.’

  Blix noticed Josefson glance down at his wedding ring.

  ‘I didn’t want to go home to Kristine afterwards and pretend nothing had happened. I just couldn’t bear to do that.’