Death Deserved

by Thomas Enger

  He opened his browser so he could take a look at her, but instead of logging in, he raised his head. Someone had switched on the overhead TV. Gard Fosse was wrapping up a hastily called press conference. The main message was repeated in a strapline at the foot of the picture. Sonja Nordstrøm had been found dead. With the police closing in on him, the killer had set up a series of explosions and was now presumed to have died in the ensuing fire. Live aerial images from the farm in Nordmarka appeared in one corner of the screen. Smoke was still rising from the ruins.

  Blix turned to Kovic. ‘We should send Krohn up there,’ he said. ‘Get him to check the camera beside the track. It must transmit via Wi-Fi. Maybe there are some images on a server or something, so that we can see the comings and goings.’

  ‘You still don’t believe Dahlmann was acting alone?’

  ‘I just want absolute certainty,’ he replied, getting to his feet. ‘And the camera may have triggered the fire in some way.’

  Blix couldn’t find Krohn in the office, but managed to reach him by phone.

  ‘Can’t it wait till tomorrow?’ Krohn asked after Blix had explained the situation.

  ‘Only if you don’t think there could be data that might be recorded over and deleted,’ Blix replied.

  Krohn exhaled audibly. ‘OK,’ he said.

  Blix thanked him and headed for the toilet. He rinsed his face with cold water before returning to his desk and tilting his computer screen.

  ‘What did he say?’ Kovic asked.

  ‘He’ll check it out,’ Blix said as he clicked into the Worthy Winner website and located the live images from the house; there was no sound now. Iselin was sitting on top of the safe with the prize money locked inside, legs dangling. Toralf Schanke stood facing her. It was impossible to see if they had come any closer to a decision about who should leave as the victor.

  Five minutes later, Fosse entered the office, with Pia Nøkleby half a step behind him.

  ‘Let me first thank you all for your efforts,’ he began. ‘We still have a major task ahead of us. There’s a lot to be cleared up, but I’ve seen how all of you have hammered away, and before we move on to the next phase, you all deserve a bit of R&R with your families.’

  Blix shook his head. He was sure that, as far as Fosse was concerned, this wasn’t about the health and wellbeing of his investigators; it was more about his fear of an excessive overtime budget.

  All around him, computer screens turned black and people began to stream out of the section. Only Kovic remained at her desk.

  ‘I can’t go home now,’ she said. ‘I don’t have the peace of mind to do that. There’s a number ten somewhere to be found.’

  Blix had no plans to head for home either. He had an uncomfortable feeling there was an important connection somewhere that they had overlooked.

  94

  It was the smell that woke Emma. A sharp, putrid stench that slowly penetrated through her nostrils and up into her brain.

  She opened her eyes and blinked.

  Opened them wide, smothered a sob.

  Her brain took a few seconds to register what her eyes were staring at, a dead woman sitting in a rocking chair, her head dropped on to her chest. A blue rope encircled her neck and her hands were tied behind the chair. Emma took a trembling gasp for air. She hoped the man who stood facing the dead woman had not heard it.

  He was muttering something Emma could not quite catch. The elderly woman had undoubtedly been dead for some time. Her skin had shrivelled, and the decomposition process was fairly advanced. That was what Emma could smell.

  Emma closed her eyes as the man moved around, unwilling to let him know she was awake. Not yet. A length of fabric was fastened tightly around her mouth. Her arms and legs were also tied snugly to the chair she sat in.

  ‘Do you think I wanted to bring her here?’ he said. ‘I can’t go to anyone else in the media. Not now.’

  Anger, Emma thought. She had screwed up his plans. ‘Yes, I know that, Mum,’ he said. ‘I’ll get rid of her afterwards. When it’s all over.’

  Mum, Emma thought. The dead woman was his mother.

  She swallowed something dry and hard in her throat, struggling to gather her thoughts. She must have been brought back to the place where it had all started. To his own mother. She was the one who was number ten.

  But why had he murdered her?

  I’ll get rid of her afterwards. When it’s all over.

  Fighting a sudden urge to try to free herself, Emma opened her eyes and looked at him – there was no point in pretending any longer. She felt a fierce hatred swell within her. She detested every single tiny centimetre of this man and what he had done. To her, to everyone.

  Emma strained at the knots, but they were firmly tied. Underneath them she was already starting to feel pain. A wound in her head throbbed fiercely. A red-hot stinging sensation on her neck. He suddenly turned to face her, and Emma flung curses and shouts of aggression at him, but through the gag they all came out as mmmm-sounds.

  He smacked his lips, as if to tell her she was behaving stupidly and it was useless to struggle. This didn’t stop Emma from tugging and tearing at the knots, but with every exertion the rope just dug deeper into her skin. She would soon start to bleed.

  ‘You want to say something?’ he asked.

  With difficulty, Emma stopped herself struggling and making a noise.

  ‘Do you want to beg for forgiveness?’ he went on. ‘Do you regret your behaviour?’

  It felt as if the gag was about to strangle her.

  ‘I can take off your gag for a minute, if you want to apologise,’ he said. ‘And if you can promise me you won’t scream. Have you made up your mind to say sorry, Emma?’

  She gazed up at him, and received only a look of indifference in return. As if it didn’t matter to him what she answered. But she nodded. Anything to get rid of the gag.

  He moved so close to her that the fabric of his hoodie touched her nose. It smelled of deep-fried food. She felt his fingers on her neck. The knot gradually loosening. A headache that rapidly eased. Soon she was able to use her tongue to push the cloth all the way out of her mouth. It was easier to breathe.

  ‘Thanks,’ she gasped, surprised to find she actually meant it.

  He took a step away from her. Contemplated her. Waiting for her to say something.

  At first she didn’t understand what his expression meant. Then: ‘Oh,’ she said, moistening her lips. ‘Sorry.’

  He cast his eyes down. ‘For what, then?’

  ‘For … trying to destroy the laptop. I’ll finish writing the article about you. I promise. I’ll make sure it gets published, and read.’

  He appeared to consider her suggestion. But he didn’t answer. Instead he walked across to his mother again. Moved her head a little. Her lower jaw fell open, revealing nicotine-stained teeth. He pushed the jaw closed, but it fell open again.

  ‘How did you kill her?’ Emma asked, looking away at the same time.

  He gave no response.

  ‘I don’t need to write anything about it,’ Emma added.

  He took two steps back, as if to study his mother. There was a lengthy pause before he said: ‘Don’t you recognise her?’

  He was still standing with his back to Emma now.

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘Maybe you’re not old enough,’ he said. ‘But my mother was an excellent actress at one time. Performed at the National Theatre. Was in a couple of films too.’

  He paused again.

  ‘She injured her arm on stage one evening, but didn’t go to the doctor’s straight away. In fact she left it so long, the operation and the pain she had to suffer gave her an addiction to pills. It’s probably twenty years since she performed in her last play.’

  He perched on the edge of the table beside his mother. Swept back some of the grey hair that had fallen across her dead eyes.

  ‘I wrote a few stories,’ he continued. ‘For her. To try to bring the actress in her
back to life again. I hoped that she might want to develop the stories further, together with me. Think professionally again. Gradually regain the desire to live, not merely exist, one pill at a time.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Instead she made a fool of me. Who was I to believe I could create something? She may have been bitter,’ he said. ‘That her career was over. Furious at life, perhaps, furious that she had ended up with a son like me.’

  He entwined his fingers. ‘She never supported me,’ he said softly. ‘Never helped me. Didn’t ever appreciate the things I was good at.’

  For a brief second Emma felt a scintilla of sympathy for him. But an attempt to move her hand reminded her that she sat tied to a chair in a dead woman’s house, and that she would suffer the same fate if she didn’t think of something clever, and fast.

  ‘She didn’t have much of a life,’ he said. ‘So I took it from her. Did her a favour. She’s going to be famous again now, after this.’

  He smiled, fleetingly, pleased with himself.

  ‘On that subject,’ he said, moving from the table, ‘I need to get a move on.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ Emma asked.

  ‘I’ll tell you all of it later,’ he replied. ‘When I come back. Then you can include it in your article.’

  The next minute he was beside her again, forcefully shoving the cloth gag back into her mouth and pulling it tight at the back. Emma tried to protest, to scream, but she couldn’t do anything about it. He was too strong. Too determined.

  Once he was satisfied, he grabbed a bunch of keys from the table and turned to his mother again.

  ‘I’ll be back again in a couple of hours, Mum,’ he said. ‘You’re going to be so proud of me.’

  He smiled at her. Smiled at Emma.

  Then he turned heel and left.

  95

  Emma had to rip her gaze away from the dead woman. She tried to move her mouth to loosen the gag, but it was impossible. The same was true of the knots at her hands and feet.

  Through the flimsy curtains Emma caught sight of a grand, white house not far off. Neighbours, she thought. People.

  Exerting her whole body, she found she was able to jerk herself forwards. It was possible: she managed to shift the chair a centimetre or two, turning in the direction of the window. Emma executed another hop with the chair, forwards again. And another jolt, moving a little closer.

  Her body ached, but she had to grin and bear it. Centimetre by centimetre she edged closer to the window. Her efforts were making her hot, and when the first drop of perspiration ran down the side of her head, she stopped for a second, suddenly aware that she was no longer wearing her wig. It made her feel naked. Exposed. But she had no choice but to escape. She pushed the thought of her baldness out of her mind and stretched her legs against the chair to get a better grip. She strained her stomach muscles and jumped another few centimetres towards the window.

  The sweat was pouring off her now. Her clothes were sticking to her skin. Eventually she began to get into a rhythm, but her enthusiastic movements almost tipped her over. She stopped and held her breath until the chair was steady again. Then she continued.

  A table blocked her route now. Emma hopped as close to it as she could manage, trying to think how she would manage to move it. When she felt the chair make contact with the edge, she tried with all her might to give the table a push.

  It did not budge.

  She would just have to go on trying. She took a breath and relaxed her muscles a little before contracting them again and making another gargantuan effort – but the table did not give an inch. But this time she didn’t stop; she just continued hopping, into the table, time after time after time, and soon she saw that it was moving, ever so slowly. Heartened by her progress, she went on bumping herself and the chair into the table. She was bleeding underneath the knots, and her muscles were screaming in protest, but it didn’t matter: it was working – she managed to move the table. Perspiration trickled down into her eyes, but she blinked it away.

  Finally she was beside the window. The most important task was still ahead of her. Making contact with someone. She craned her neck, and succeeded in dipping her head under the curtain. The light from outside seemed to hit her in the face.

  It was late afternoon.

  She saw a light on in an exterior lamp outside the grand, white house, but she could see no movement, outside or inside the small window nearest the driveway.

  Emma managed to push her head against the windowpane; it felt cold on her bare scalp. She managed to grunt out a few sounds; they would never be loud enough to alert anyone. She had to attract attention by some other means.

  She’d been sitting gazing out of the window for a while when her ears suddenly pricked up. Was that the thrum of an engine? She scanned the scene, and a moment later spotted a car driving up to the house next door.

  Emma immediately began to shriek, but the gag muffled the sound. She tried to jiggle the chair closer to the wall and the window, but there was no more space. However, her movements made her head strike the window, making a noise.

  That gave her an idea.

  She watched the car come to a halt. Heard the engine noise cease.

  Emma breathed in with all her might. Shut her eyes. Mustered renewed strength and steeled herself for the pain she knew would follow. It felt as if it was now or never. Life or death.

  She opened her eyes and saw a man step out of the car. She had to do it now. She banged her head against the window with all her strength.

  No response. He didn’t see her. Harder, she said to herself. You have to do it harder. To amplify the noise.

  Once again she took a deep breath. Focused on the window. Forgot the pain. Thought of the future, however short or long it may be. That what she was doing here and now might well be the most important thing she would ever do.

  Using every scrap of energy she possessed, Emma banged her head on the windowpane again.

  Then she did it again.

  And again.

  She heard a splintering noise and saw that the glass was cracking. She just had to continue, one thump at a time; she didn’t stop to see if the man outside had noticed her – she just thumped and thumped and thumped, until all at once the window shattered over her, around her – the crashing sound of breaking glass was ear-splitting, and she screamed behind the gag – from fatigue, joy, and pain.

  Shards of glass, sharp as knives, rained down upon her; she could feel them slicing into her skin, and the blood immediately start to drip from her head and throat. But what she clung to, what gave her hope while the colours danced around her, was the wind, cold against her skin. It came from outside.

  96

  Blix studied the footage of Dahlmann planting the phone belonging to the Danish footballer at the press conference. Krohn had pieced together a sequence in which the double murderer was caught by the cameras outside the police station.

  He played the sequence several times. With each repetition, he grew increasingly uncertain about whether it was Dahlmann he had spotted on his way to Pastor Hansteen’s house. There and then he had felt confident. He had stopped the subway trains, closed off streets and sent a helicopter into the air to search for a man in a suit that was slightly too small for him. Because there had been something familiar about the man. His build had tallied, but not his stiff gait.

  His phone rang. It was an internal number, from the operations centre. The female caller introduced herself as head of operations.

  ‘We have a standing order here that you should be notified of all messages that have any kind of connection to the number ten,’ she began. ‘At the moment we have a patrol car en route to Drivhusveien number ten in Bryn.’

  ‘What’s happening there?’ Blix asked.

  ‘A woman who was tied to a chair has managed to use her head to break a window,’ the caller explained. ‘She’s bleeding pretty badly. It was the man in the house next door who called it in.’


  ‘Someone held prisoner?’ Blix queried.

  ‘It seems so,’ the woman replied.

  ‘Who lives there?’

  ‘We have a Martha Elisabeth Eckhoff listed at that address,’ she told him. ‘Sixty-seven years of age.’

  Blix stood up.

  ‘Repeat that name,’ he said.

  ‘Martha Elisabeth Eckhoff. I think she’s an old actress or something.’

  A distressing thought flashed through Blix’s mind.

  ‘Hold the line!’ he bellowed as he logged into the Worthy Winner page.

  ‘What is it?’ Kovic asked.

  Blix didn’t answer, but clicked through the website to locate the recordings of the tests the contestants had been subjected to.

  ‘Hidden camera,’ he said, pointing at the film showing the contestants’ reactions when they found their 500-kroner notes.

  On screen, the farmer parked his red Nissan. Even Eckhoff entered the picture, dropped a 500-kroner bill and walked off.

  ‘He’s limping,’ Blix said, to himself just as much as to Kovic. He still had the head of operations on the phone. ‘Check whether she has a son called Even,’ he told her, looking at the time. ‘Pronto!’

  He heard the sound of a keyboard tapping at the other end. Blix pulled on his jacket while he waited. Kovic stared at him in anticipation.

  ‘Looks like it, yes,’ the head of operations answered. ‘Even Eckhoff, born thirty-first of January nineteen eighty-seven; mother – Martha Elisabeth Eckhoff; father – Erling Sebastian.’

  It all added up. The studios in Nydalen and Emma’s bike left there after the broadcast. Now Blix remembered who Eckhoff had reminded him of.

  ‘The estate agent guy,’ he said. ‘He walked the same way. He had a limp too.’

  Blix didn’t take time to explain, but asked the head of operations to keep them posted about what they found at Drivhusveien ten. Then he tilted the computer screen showing the Worthy Winner web page so that Kovic could see it.