by Thomas Enger
Hagen looks down at his notes.
“Her name is Vibeke Schou,” he informs them. “She talked about relatives who moan and complain, patients who steal, broken equipment, medication going missing.” Hagen throws up his hands. “You wouldn’t believe it, everything was a problem. That’s what they call care for the elderly today, eh.” He tuts and sighs.
“Medication going missing?” Bjarne asks.
“Yes, apparently. But she told me something that is quite interesting now that I think about it. Not all that long ago they had to introduce house rules in the TV lounge over there.”
Hagen points with his thumb over his shoulder.
“House rules?” Bjarne says.
“Yes, about who gets to decide what they watch and when. Some of the men were hogging the remote control a little too much and the women got upset about it. Erna Pedersen was one of them.”
Sandland tries to keep a straight face, but fails to suppress her smile.
“I can’t imagine that those rules went down terribly well with the men.”
“No. Especially not with one particular resident, a—”
Hagen glances down at his lists again.
“Guttorm Tveter,” he says.
Bjarne looks over at Sandland.
“I’ll see if I can find him,” Sandland says.
“Great,” Bjarne says.
Sandland walks past both of them, past the TV lounge, and turns left into the corridor. Both officers turn to follow her with their eyes. Her uniform seems to fit her figure exactly.
“Have you seen Daniel Nielsen around?” Bjarne asks and shakes his head to dispel the image. Hagen licks his lips.
“Who’s he?”
“Erna Pedersen’s primary care worker. I’ve tried calling him several times today, but there’s no reply. He’s not returning my calls, either.”
Hagen takes out a fresh sheet of paper from his jacket pocket. His eyes skim it a couple of times before he replies: “No. He’s not in today.”
“Okay,” Bjarne says and nods. “I’ll talk to some of the others instead. Who do you suggest I start with?”
Chapter 18
It’s not often that Trine drives herself these days, but it feels good to be behind the wheel again, alone and in perfect silence. The steady sound of tires against tarmac makes her feel drowsy, something that surprises her. She would never have thought she could feel sleepy now after what has happened and given what she is doing now.
Resign or the truth will come out.
Replying to that email was not an option. She would never agree to enter into an email exchange that would be difficult to keep private. But neither could she stand staying in her office, being interrupted every five minutes by new problems, new statements, new media stories, and new demands. The walls were starting to close in on her. She needed to be alone for a while; she couldn’t bear the thought of fighting her way through a media scrum every time she tried to get in or out of a building. Not without knowing what to say or do.
She told Katarina Hatlem that she thought she had been set up, quite simply because she couldn’t keep her suspicions to herself any longer. But she said nothing about the email because she didn’t want Katarina to initiate her own investigation. Katarina can be quite headstrong once she gets the bit between her teeth.
Trine has a red baseball cap pulled down over her eyes and is wearing different glasses. She takes care not to look at any of the drivers in the oncoming traffic, but she thinks it’s unlikely that anyone would recognize her. She realizes how tempting it would be to try to shake off her bodyguards who are in the car behind her, but she daren’t, she can’t. It would have repercussions not just for her, but also for Katarina.
It was Katarina who helped Trine leave the Ministry of Justice unnoticed less than an hour ago through the concrete tunnel under Building R5, where a man was waiting to take her to a rental car in which she drove off. Katarina had also bought some food, clothes, and a new mobile phone, since it would be easy for the police to trace Trine’s old one.
Trine drives into the Lier Tunnel while she remembers the first question she was asked by a journalist when William Jespersen’s newly formed government stepped out on to Slottsplassen for the very first time. “Will you still have enough time for your husband now that you’re going to be justice secretary?” Trine was completely taken aback; she had imagined she would have a chance to promote her core issues. No one had prepared her that the media would be more interested in her private life. Afterward she wished she had been able to come up with something pithy and clever, but all she managed to stutter was “Yes, of course.”
And now she is running away from Pål Fredrik too. She sent him a text message right before she left to let him know that she wouldn’t be coming home tonight, but she hadn’t gotten a reply by the time she had to leave.
The new mobile rings. She recognizes the number.
“Hi, Katarina,” Trine says.
“Hi. Where are you?”
“I’m close to Drammen.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, of course, Katarina, I’m all right.”
“Now, this isn’t unexpected, but I thought I should draw your attention to it anyway. As you can imagine, the opposition is having a field day with this, but what’s worse is that the leader of the Labor Party’s youth branch is saying that if the allegations are true, then it’s a very serious matter.”
Trine sighs.
“You know what the media are like. Every headline is now going to preface the allegations with ‘very serious.’ The disclaimer won’t be mentioned until halfway down the story.”
“Typical. Anything else?”
“No. That’s all for now.”
“Okay.”
“Call me when you get there.”
“Mm.”
But Trine doesn’t want to call or talk to anyone. She just wants to get out of Oslo.
She glances up at the rearview mirror and sees the black Audi behind her with the two men in the front. I bet they’re sweating, she thinks, given the situation and the job they have to do. They are going to an unnamed location and haven’t been able to secure it yet. She sympathizes with them. What if something were to happen to the justice secretary on their watch?
Chapter 19
He studies the colors and the contrasts on the screen. He can see that he needs to brighten the surroundings, intensify their color. Or maybe it’s fine as it is.
He likes the mood in the picture. The early-morning mist lying across the ground at the nursery. The trees around it, wrapped in nature’s floating cotton wool. He should have taken some pictures of that as well, not just of the boy who has sand around his mouth. He is not smiling in this particular picture. He sits on the ground, lost in a world of his own. His boots keep him dry and warm. He is blissfully ignorant that the world only seems to be a safe place. Anything could happen to a boy of two and a half.
He selects the boy, increases the contrast so his coloring stands out more sharply against the dim morning light, and plays with various filters. Even though he doesn’t need to, he prints out the picture. Soon a long, whooshing sound starts up under his desk. And the boy appears, clear and bright.
He studies the face, the cheekbones he can barely make out under the chubby toddler cheeks. Looks at the nose and the mouth. The teeth.
Does he bear any resemblance to me?
He knows the thought is absurd, but he can’t help himself. And he imagines her, imagines them, hand in hand, the way she often drags the boy along, usually because she is late for work. But she can’t have been late for work today given the leisurely pace with which she walked. And always so beautiful. Still so bloody beautiful. And the boy. Small and untouched.
At least for now.
He sits down in front of his computer again and feels
the soft latex around his fingers when he rubs them together. He goes on Facebook to check the latest updates. Shakes his head. Everyone is so bloody happy and successful. He starts to play a computer game, but finds it impossible to concentrate.
He thinks about yesterday and how it all happened before he had time to savor it. The old woman died almost immediately. He didn’t really know what he had done before he had done it and so he never saw the light go out. He never felt the struggle, no matter how short and feeble it would have been, in her fingers.
Four intense beeps from his mobile snap him out of his reverie. He picks up the phone and heaves a sigh.
He visualizes his mother on her lunch break at work calling him to find out what he is up to, if he would like to come home for dinner tomorrow. He can’t be bothered to reply. Nag, nag, nag. Every time the same questions: “Have you been down to the job center yet? How do you pass the time?”
If only you knew, he thinks. And he won’t be coming home for dinner tomorrow. He has plans. Big plans.
He looks at the boy again. Then he scrunches up the printout and throws it at the wall, finds his USB-driven mini Hoover, points its nozzle at the keyboard, and removes any bread crumbs or dust that might have settled in the last few days. And especially any DNA.
When he has finished, he pushes himself away from the desk, opens the desk drawer, and looks at the open envelope with the large green G on the outside. He takes it out and puts it next to a wrap—slightly bigger than a street dose—of morphine capsules.
He can hardly wait until the next struggle. He is desperate to experience that. He wants to see the light. Especially when it goes out.
Chapter 20
Back at the offices of 123news, Henning sits down at his desk and reflects. Did he actually glean anything from his meeting with Pia Nøkleby?
Only a professional liar can control the reflexes of their facial muscles when confronted with compromising information. The tell is in the movements of the eyes. But rather than getting nervous or appearing ill at ease, Pia looked inquisitive and alert.
Is she really that good a liar?
If that’s the case, he has to find another way of solving the Indicia problem. And he thinks he has.
According to 6tiermes7, Henning’s secret Internet source, a man called Andreas Kjær was the officer on duty on the night of the fire. It’s not unthinkable that he might remember something from that night. Perhaps he can provide Henning with information about which patrol car he dispatched to investigate what Tore Pulli was doing in Markveien around 8:30 p.m. Perhaps the officers in that patrol car could be traced. It’s definitely worth following up, especially now when Henning has some free time. The police investigation at the care home is trundling along and the online newspapers are focusing mainly on Trine.
Henning discovers listings for several Andreas Kjærs, but only one who lives in Oslo. Henning steps inside an office the size of a telephone booth and calls the number. A deep, male voice answers after just two rings.
“Hi, my name’s Henning Juul. I’m looking for Andreas Kjær.”
“That’s me.”
“Hi,” Henning says again. “I’m calling because two years ago you were working at Oslo Police’s control center. Is that right?”
“Yes, that’s correct. I’m still there.”
“Okay. Fine. I have a question that might be a bit—which might not make sense right away, but I ask you to bear with me because it’s important.”
Henning gets no reply and takes it as a sign that he should keep talking.
“On September eleventh in 2007 there was a fire in my flat in Markveien in Grünerløkka. You were on duty that night and I know that a patrol car was despatched to 32 Markveien shortly before the fire started.”
Henning stops to make sure that Kjær is keeping up with him.
“Okay?” Kjær says, sounding unwilling. “I’m sorry to hear that. But why are you calling me?”
“Because you were on duty that night. I also know that it was—”
“How do you know that?”
“I lost my son in that fire,” Henning says and clears his throat. “And apart from being more than understandably keen to know what happened, I’m also a journalist. I have sources.”
Kjær says nothing. Henning decides to plow on.
“A traffic warden had observed a man sitting in a car several evenings in a row outside the building where I lived; he got suspicious, called it in, and you despatched a patrol car to the address.”
Henning holds another pause.
“Ring any bells, Kjær?”
Silence.
“The man sitting in the car was Tore Pulli,” Henning continues when Kjær still doesn’t say anything. “You’ve heard of him, haven’t you?”
“Yes, of course. But I don’t remember the case.”
“Are you sure? It would be really helpful if you could try to think back. Like I said, it’s very important to me.”
“I understand,” Kjær replies. “But yes, I’m sure. And even if I did remember that case, I wouldn’t be able to discuss it with you.”
“Okay, I understand, but—”
“I have to go now.”
Henning is about to launch a fresh protest before he realizes his words will have no effect. The line has already gone dead.
Chapter 21
Pernille Thorbjørnsen is perching on the edge of a chair and leaning forward with one leg slung over the other. The care worker has a round face with dimpled cheeks. Her brown hair is swept back in a low ponytail. Bjarne Brogeland puts her at thirty, perhaps a few years older.
They are in a meeting room on the ground floor of the care home where a couple of IKEA tables have been pushed together. The light from two large windows casts a layer of something sallow across Thorbjørnsen’s face.
“Thanks for coming in at such short notice,” he says.
“Don’t mention it.” She smiles and leans back.
“When did you leave work yesterday?”
“My shift ended at five o”clock.”
“Okay. Did anything strike you as unusual? I’m thinking about anyone who might have been acting differently. Staff. Patients. Visitors.” Bjarne flings out his hands. “Anything and anyone is of interest,” he says.
Thorbjørnsen squeezes her fingers for a moment, brushes a few stray strands of hair behind her ears; then she folds her arms across her chest.
“I don’t think so,” she begins. “I can’t really think of anything. I was working and I didn’t realize I was meant to be looking out for something.”
“No, I know. But try to think back. Was anyone a bit more agitated than they normally were, or calmer than usual, or more exalted—”
Thorbjørnsen looks up to the left. “I don’t think so.”
Bjarne doesn’t continue until he is sure that she has finished sifting through her memories.
“Were you here when the people from the volunteer service arrived?”
“Yes, but I didn’t join in the entertainment this time.”
“Why not?”
“I had things to do. The residents here are ill, Officer. Not everyone is able to take part in the entertainment every time. And there isn’t room for us all, either.”
“So you don’t know if Erna Pedersen took part yesterday?”
“Yes, I do, actually. Ole Christian told me that she didn’t.”
“Ole Christian—you mean Ole Christian Sund?”
Thorbjørnsen nods.
“When did you talk to him?”
“Last night.”
Bjarne looks at her for several long moments. A hand shoots up to her cheek and her nails scratch a dark brown mole.
“I’ve been told that someone had an argument in Ward Four yesterday afternoon.”
Thorbjørnsen quickly glances
up at him, but when she doesn’t comment on his statement, Bjarne continues, “Did you see or hear anything about that?”
She shakes her head.
Bjarne tries to make eye contact, but Thorbjørnsen is looking down now.
“There’s always a little bit of arguing here and there,” she says eventually and juts out her chin. “That doesn’t mean that anyone here would stick knitting needles through the eyes of our patients. You don’t seriously think that any of the staff or one of the patients could have done it?”
“It’s too soon to say,” Bjarne responds, surprised at the sudden resistance in her voice, but he doesn’t have time to think about it further before Ella Sandland knocks on the door and pops in her head to signal that she wants a word.
Bjarne apologizes, irritated at the interruption because it shouldn’t happen during an interview. But because Sandland is aware of that and yet still interrupts him, he gets up and asks Thorbjørnsen to stay where she is. Then he steps out into the corridor and closes the door behind him.
“What is it?” he asks.
Sandland’s gaze is serious. “There’s something I’ve got to show you.”
Chapter 22
Henning was sorely tempted to call Andreas Kjær back immediately, but on second thought decided against it. It was too desperate. Maybe Kjær was on his way to work, perhaps he was about to walk an impatient dog. Or maybe he is one of those people who don’t like answering the same question twice. Therefore another call would only make matters worse.
Henning grew up in Kløfta, seven or eight kilometers south of Jessheim, where Erna Pedersen originally came from. One of his childhood friends is named Atle Abelsen. They didn’t really get to know each other until after sixth form, when they discovered a shared love of music. They would meet up from time to time and try to put words to something that was supposed to be a melody. And where Henning’s interest in technology has remained at the gifted amateur level, Atle’s passion for cyberspace and computers fed and sustained him all the way into his choice of career. He now works as a programmer for a company in Lillestrøm, but every now and then he will take on work of a quirkier nature—as long as he considers it a challenge. Henning sends him an email and explains what he wants help with this time, with the usual promise of a bottle of Calvados as a thank-you.
