by Thomas Enger
“That’s what Ann-Mari Sara thought as well,” Gjerstad says. “So we’re probably looking for a stone troll that has lost a little hair and has dents or marks from knitting needles.”
Hagen shakes his head. “Do people normally make stone trolls in a care home?” he asks and looks at Sandland.
“I haven’t seen that particular activity before, but it’s not uncommon for patients to take part in different kinds of art and craft work—if they feel up to it. But I asked one of the care workers about leisure activities and it’s not something they do very much of.”
“So how did the stone troll end up there?” Pia Nøkleby asks.
Bjarne coughs and looks at Sandland.
“Daniel Nielsen had something similar on his table when we visited him earlier today, but I didn’t notice if it was dented. And I don’t think he would be stupid enough to keep a weapon in plain sight. Incidentally, it was right next to a toilet paper roll.”
“Perhaps he’s one of those guys who gets turned on by that,” Hagen suggests.
“Turned on by what?” Sandland frowns.
“The guy lives alone. Murder weapon. Toilet paper.”
Sandland still looks clueless. Hagen sighs in despair.
“Perhaps he was sitting there looking at his weapon, reliving the whole episode, and got so excited that he needed something to wipe up the mess afterward,” he says.
“I know what you meant. I just wanted to see if you had the guts to say it out loud,” Sandland replies with a mischievous smile.
“It might have been the little boy who made the stone troll,” Bjarne suggests. “According to his father, the boy came with him to work quite often. He was a popular visitor. Perhaps he made several stone trolls at school and brought one with him as a present. You know how kids love giving away things they’ve made themselves. He could have given one to Erna Pedersen and that’s another reason to surmise that the killing wasn’t premeditated. The use of the Bible also suggests that. Erna Pedersen always had it lying on her bedside table.
Bjarne can feel that he is starting to warm to his subject.
“So you’re saying the killer simply used whatever he found in the room?” Gjerstad says.
Bjarne nods.
The room falls silent for a few seconds.
“It’s a good theory,” Gjerstad then says.
“There’s something else about Nielsen,” Bjarne says and quickly summarizes Nielsen and Sund’s trip up to Holmenkollen earlier that day.
“And you’re quite sure it was Ole Christian Sund driving Pernille Thorbjørnsen’s car?” Nøkleby asks.
“Absolutely.” Bjarne nods.
“But you don’t know the address they went to or what they did when they got there?”
“No. But there is something fishy about Daniel Nielsen, I’m sure of it. I’ve already caught him lying to me once. He never worked out at Svein’s Gym that morning, like he told me. I checked.”
“What an idiot.” Hagen sighs.
“Yes, but that’s just it,” Bjarne says. “It seems like a white lie to me. He doesn’t want to tell us where he really was or what he was doing. So he says the first thing that comes into his head.”
“In which case he’s unlikely to be a hardened criminal,” Nøkleby says. “If he lies about something we can quite easily find out.”
“I agree,” Bjarne says.
But the point Nøkleby has just made troubles him. Only a total amateur would drop himself in it like that. It’s not the action of a man capable of bashing knitting needles into the eyes of an old lady. It is too crude and too brutal. But the care workers at Grünerhjemmet are up to something, he just doesn’t know what or how he can get to the bottom of it—or indeed if it has anything to do with Erna Pedersen’s death.
“Do we have anything else?” Gjerstad says.
No one says anything.
“Okay,” Gjerstad says, getting up. “What do you think, Pia—Nielsen’s flat first and the care home afterward?”
Pia Nøkleby nods.
Chapter 32
Henning’s hips ache as he gets up from the rough seating planks. His legs feel stiff and he shakes them to boost his circulation.
He stops at the entrance to watch Adil and his friend, who have sat down on the ground. They are not talking to each other; they just watch others play soccer on the Astroturf.
Henning turns and looks around for the boy’s father, the man he met behind Grünerhjemmet yesterday, the man who was in such a rush to get home to his son. His son, who was the first person to realize that something was terribly wrong with Erna Pedersen.
Henning bends down, slips through a gap in the fence, and carefully approaches the boys.
“Hi, boys,” he says. Only the boy with the blond fringe turns to face him. Henning smiles as he takes another step forward.
“So you’re a United fan too?” he says to Adil, pointing to the sticker of Wayne Rooney on his sports bag. The name of the soccer club makes Adil glance up at Henning.
“Is Rooney your favorite player?”
It takes a few seconds, then he nods.
“Mine too. But then again I’m a big fan of all the Man U players.”
Henning smiles and sees a tiny twitch reflected in the corner of Adil’s mouth.
“Boys, I’ve been watching you practice. Can I show you something?”
The blond boy continues to sit motionless on the ground. Adil looks up at him; this time his gaze is more alert.
“Come on then, up you get.”
Adil hesitates.
“Come on,” Henning says again. “It works, I promise you.”
He holds out his hand to help Adil to his feet, but the boy doesn’t take it. Instead he looks at his friend before he gets up unaided.
“Do you have a soccer ball in your sports bag?”
Adil slowly loosens the strings and takes out a ball. Henning smiles.
“A Man U soccer ball. Good heavens,” he says and looks at the ball, which is printed with pictures of the whole team. He squeezes it. Not enough air. But it will have to do.
“Right, let’s get started,” Henning says, putting the ball on the ground. “Can you see that wall over there?”
He points to a high wall at the end of the soccer pitch. He takes care not to look at the other boy.
“The best way to practice passing and gaining possession of the ball is to kick it against a wall. That way you have a fellow player who never moves. Watch me.”
Henning kicks the ball quite hard. It hits the wall and bounces back.
“When the ball comes back toward you, you stick out your foot to meet it and then you use your foot to slow it down. You have to move your leg or the ball will simply slip under your foot. It’ll be much harder for you to regain possession of the ball. Do you understand?”
Henning demonstrates again and stops the ball with his foot.
“Your turn.”
Adil is still a little reluctant. Then he takes a step back, kicks the ball, but has to move to the side to stop it as it comes back. It jumps out from under his foot, just like before. He looks at Henning.
“Okay, not bad. But you saw what happened if you don’t kick the ball straight to your teammate, didn’t you? It forces him to move to one side and makes it more difficult for him to control the ball. Have another go. And remember your foot is there to slow down the speed of the ball, not to stop it completely. Your foot is not a wall. Come on, try again.”
Adil sets down the ball on the ground, kicks it, it hits the wall, and this time he doesn’t have to move; it comes straight back toward him. He sticks out his foot again. Same result, the ball escapes.
“Try to exaggerate the movement to start with so you learn how the ball behaves. And try to relax your foot, let your leg be loose and flexible when the ball com
es toward you.”
Henning demonstrates again and then it’s Adil’s turn.
This time the ball doesn’t roll quite as far away from his foot as it did before.
“Great!” Henning shouts out a little louder than he had intended. “Good job! Now do the same again. And relax your leg even more.”
Adil kicks the ball against the wall one more time. Then he sticks out his foot and slows down the speed of the ball so it comes to a halt against his trainer.
Henning says nothing; he just waits for Adil to look at him.
“I don’t think even Wayne Rooney could have managed that.”
Adil smiles shyly.
“So all you have to do now is to practice this again and again until you can do it in your sleep.”
Adil smiles. Henning goes over to him and ruffles his hair.
“You did really well.”
Adil doesn’t say anything, but this time he looks straight at Henning. Henning turns and looks at the blond boy.
“So how about you? Would you like a turn?”
Chapter 33
Not only does Henning show the boys how to practice passing, he also teaches them how to improve their technique by keeping the ball in the air with either foot, not just their better one. He also shows them basic techniques for side foot passing, again using both their left and their right feet. Standing in a triangle, they kick the ball back and forth to one another. And Henning can see that the boys pay attention to his instructions.
They have been practicing for about an hour when Henning says he is tired and needs to sit down for a little while. Adil and his friend do likewise; their brows are sweaty.
“Doesn’t your coach ever show you things like that?” Henning asks.
The boys shake their heads.
“Nobody gets better from being yelled at,” Henning says. “Don’t you agree?”
The boys nod.
Henning leans back on his elbows. It’s a long time since he last played soccer. He has lost count of the number of times Jonas and he would come down here on a Sunday morning when they would have the whole pitch to themselves. Jonas playing goal. Jonas taking penalties. Practicing side foot passing, doing ball tricks using both feet. He could have kept going all day if Henning had let him. Without even stopping for food.
Henning looks over at the boy whose name he has learned is Ulrik, a boy who reminds him a little of Jonas. Same facial coloring, same hair. But where Jonas was a powder keg, frequently exploding, Ulrik is withdrawn. He is more of a thinker and not quite so chatty. Jonas talked the whole time. He used to ask all sorts of questions.
“Do you know what happened to me today?” Henning says, and doesn’t continue until he is sure that he has the attention of both boys. “I saw a bird get hit by a car in Markveien. It didn’t die; the car just clipped it so the bird rolled over and landed near the curb.”
Henning pauses.
“What happened?” Ulrik asks.
“Well, I went over to it and picked it up. I saw that it had broken its leg, poor thing, so I put a splint on it. Do you know what that means?”
They both shake their heads.
“It means making sure the fractured bone is kept completely rigid. So it has a chance to heal.”
Henning looks at them. “I couldn’t just leave it there. Some cat would have gotten it.”
The boys nod. Henning stretches out on the ground even though it is damp. He stares up at the ominous gray sky, which will soon turn black. He stays where he is. Right until Ulrik says, “I saw a dead person yesterday.”
Henning tries not to lift his head too quickly.
“Did you?”
Ulrik nods.
“It was an old lady in a care home.”
Henning sits up and leans forward across his knees. His heart starts to beat faster and he has to force himself to stay calm.
“She just sat there in her wheelchair. It was really gross.”
Henning waits until the boy looks at him. Then he nods without saying anything.
“I had been to see her the day before and she told me that she was scared.”
Henning is sorely tempted to bombard the boy with questions, but he manages to restrain himself.
“And she sat like this,” Ulrik says, holding up an index finger. “Pointing at the wall.”
“At a picture or something?” Henning tries.
The boy nods.
“And she kept saying, ‘Fractions. Fractions. Fractions.’ ” Ulrik imitates her crowlike voice.
“Fractions?”
The boy nods.
“What a strange thing to say,” Henning remarks.
“That’s what I thought.”
“Was that all she said?”
“Yes. And when I came to see her the next day, she was dead.”
Henning can no longer control himself.
“Was anyone else there?”
Ulrik shakes his head.
“Did you see anyone else who had been to her room?”
Same response.
Hm, Henning says to himself. Interesting.
He thinks about the photograph of Tom Sverre Pedersen and his family, the photograph that had been smashed. Surely she couldn’t have been pointing at that? What connection could there be between a family photo and some fractions? After all Tom Sverre Pedersen is a doctor, not a teacher.
So what was she pointing at?
Chapter 34
The stone troll in Daniel Nielsen’s flat proved to be free of dents and scratches, exactly as Bjarne had predicted. Before they entered the flat, Nielsen told them that it had been a present from Sund’s son; he got it a couple of weeks ago after the boy had made several stone trolls in a science lesson after a school trip. Nielsen also confirmed that Ulrik had given one to Erna Pedersen as a thank-you for all the toffees she had given him.
They found nothing else of interest in Nielsen’s flat, only signs of a family-free life. Nor did his finances suggest anything other than that his income was his monthly salary from Oslo City Council and that he had bills to pay like everybody else.
They are currently checking all his electronic traffic, but something tells Bjarne that it’s a dead end as well.
He is about to get back in his car when his mobile rings for the umpteenth time today. It’s Henning Juul. Bjarne looks around. Ella Sandland is still inside Nielsen’s flat, so he takes the call.
“How many pictures were on the wall in Erna Pedersen’s room?”
“Eh?”
Henning repeats the question.
“Why do you want to know that?”
“I might have something for you. But first answer my question.”
Bjarne sighs.
“None. That’s to say there had been a picture, but someone had torn it down.”
“Was that a photo of Tom Sverre Pedersen and his family?”
Bjarne freezes.
“How the hell do you know that?”
“Take another look at the wall. See if you can find anything to suggest there might have been other pictures.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Because I think you’re missing one.”
* * *
Bjarne hangs up after talking to Henning and immediately calls Daniel Nielsen. This time he fully expects Nielsen to pick up—even though he is at work. It takes only a couple of seconds before Bjarne is proved right.
He tells Nielsen about the evidence—or lack of—in Nielsen’s flat.
“That’s what I kept telling you.”
“I know, but we still had to check it out. However, I want to talk to you about something else. You’re very interested in photography, aren’t you? I noticed that you have a lot of pictures on your walls at home.”
“Yes, I suppose I do,”
Nielsen replies unwillingly.
“And no one went to Erna Pedersen’s room more often than you in the last few months?”
“No, that’s . . . probably true.”
Bjarne waits a moment before he continues.
“If I were to say there were two photographs on her wall, next to the chest of drawers—what would you say?”
There is silence for a few seconds.
“That you would be right. Or at least there used to be two until recently.”
Bjarne sticks a finger in his ear to block out the background noise.
“What do you mean?”
“When I started looking after Erna Pedersen, there was only one picture on the wall, a photograph. But not all that long ago a second photograph appeared. Why do you ask about that?”
Bjarne makes eye contact with Ella Sandland, who realizes the conversation is important. She comes up to him.
“I want you to think carefully, Nielsen. One photo was Erna Pedersen’s son and his family. The other one—do you remember what kind of picture it was?”
“It was a school photo,” Nielsen replies immediately.
Sandland makes a what’s going on movement with her head, but Bjarne ignores her.
“A school photo?”
“Yes, you know—a typical group photo of everyone in the same class.”
“Aha?” Bjarne says.
“But it was taken quite a few years ago.”
Bjarne nods while he thinks about Erna Pedersen again. She was a teacher and she muttered something about fractions before she was killed. And someone recently put up an old school photo on her wall, a picture that wasn’t there after she died. Which means it’s highly likely that the killer took it with him.
Why on earth would he want to do that?
TUESDAY
Chapter 35
The press release had been sent by fax late last night and it caused frantic activity in every newspaper office, both before and after their deadlines. The first paper versions hitting the streets of Norway didn’t have time to include the news that a young Labor politician had made contact with every editor in the country, but that was about to change.
