by Thomas Enger
‘Did you see any cars in the parking lot in front of the train station?’ Yngve asked.
‘A couple,’ Ulf said. ‘I know for sure that there was a taxi sitting there. A couple of normal-looking cars, too.’
‘Did you see anyone inside any of them?’
‘No, sir.’
‘No one moving away from the station as you got here?’
‘There are always people around,’ he said. ‘But I didn’t notice anyone special.’
Ulf took another sip. The smell of coffee reached Yngve’s nostrils.
‘Has he been here before?’ Yngve pointed towards the body, now, thankfully, covered with a white blanket.
‘Plenty of times,’ Ulf replied. ‘He doesn’t drink or get high or anything like that. He just likes to hang out with us.’
‘Alright,’ Yngve said. ‘Thanks for calling us out so quickly. And thank you for your patience.’
‘Where the hell am I going to go now?’ Ulf whimpered. ‘You’ve cordoned off the whole area.’
‘You don’t have somewhere else you can stay tonight?
‘I was going to stay here,’ he said. ‘My sleeping bag is just around the corner.’ He wiped his lips and looked up at Yngve with an open mouth. There were more black teeth than white inside.
‘I’m sorry,’ Yngve said. ‘I really can’t help you with that right now.’
Once again he thanked Ulf for his help. Ulf got to his feet and retrieved his sleeping bag, before staggering up to the pavement. He began to walk slowly towards the town centre. It looked as if he was carrying the weight of the town on his shoulders.
Yngve went back to Therese, whose teeth were now chattering in the cold.
‘Let’s get it over with,’ he said. ‘Let’s go and see his mum.’
They were about to return to their cars, when one of the crime-scene technicians called out to them. The man was standing close to the bridge wall, where Børre Halvorsen in all likelihood had been killed.
‘What is it?’ Yngve asked, walking over.
‘This might be helpful,’ the technician said, holding up some tweezers, from which hung a piece of dark-brown leather.
‘Looks like a piece of a glove or something,’ Therese said.
‘Yeah,’ the technician said. ‘I’m willing to bet on it, actually.’
30
For the next few hours, Imo and I just sat in his living room with our mobile phones out, constantly checking for updates. In between, I read interviews with people I knew and others I didn’t know. Everyone was telling the media how scared and sad they were. Their thoughts were with Mari and Johannes’ families. Some were worried about their own children as well, about what they should do while the police carried out their investigation. Should they keep their children at home? Accompany them wherever they went?
It took a while for people to wake up, but once they did my social media feeds started buzzing. I checked Børre’s Facebook comment from the day before, and noticed that even more people had joined in on the thread. A few had supported me, telling the others to give me the benefit of the doubt, but after Christina, one of Mari’s friends, said that she’d seen me inside the school hall during the show that night, all the comments were full of hatred and disbelief.
I shook my head. This isn’t happening, I said to myself. This isn’t fucking happening. Someone had killed Børre. And given what Christina had written, there would no doubt be people around town who would once again be pointing the finger at me. Børre had ‘seen me’. Seen me do what? For fuck’s sake!
I had no idea, though, what I’d done after I vomited. I presumed I had been asleep in Imo’s bed. In theory, I could have gone out while Imo was working in his studio, but that just didn’t make any sense. I hadn’t been able to move. How the hell could I have made it to Fredheim and back again without being aware of it?
I wanted to tell Christina and the others that I’d already been questioned by the police, and that I hadn’t been arrested. Wouldn’t PCI Mork have brought me in or charged me if he thought I’d done it? I wanted to retaliate or tell my friends and the rest of Fredheim that I was innocent, but somehow I didn’t think they’d believe me.
At one point I put my phone down and walked away from it. Every ping from each notification felt like a stab or an attack. But it was impossible not to go back and see what people were writing. They wanted to know where I was, where I had been. Come on, Even, talk to us. I turned off the sound. Put the phone away, then grabbed it again. More and more it felt like someone was trying to destroy my life. At the moment he or she was succeeding.
One of the news stories on the VG Nett site caught my attention. It was an interview with Oskar, my best friend – or former best friend. Apparently he was one of the last people to see Johannes alive. And Børre, I now realised. I had asked Oskar to find Børre and to confront him.
The thought gave me goosebumps. I clicked on the article. I was afraid to read on but couldn’t stop myself. Oskar and some of Johannes’ groupies had left the school together after the show, but Johannes had left his phone in the room where Mari had interviewed him. He went back to get it. ‘If only Johannes had remembered his mobile,’ Oskar said to the interviewer, ‘he would still be alive today.’ The headline read ‘Chance Victim?’
Why the hell hadn’t Oskar told me about this?
I took a shower and found some painkillers among the tablets in Imo’s medicine cupboard. Washed them down with some water. They helped a little, but I still felt like I’d played three football matches in a row, without having a break in between. I had a training session later that day, but I just couldn’t face going. I decided to give my coach a ring to explain, but I hung up before he had a chance to reply.
Afterwards, I sat on the bathroom floor, my back against the wall, thinking about Mari, Johannes and Børre, but mostly about Mari. I couldn’t believe I would never get to see her again. Feel her skin against mine. Her lips. Her touch. What on earth had she said or done that was so bad she had to be killed for it?
‘Your Mum called,’ Imo said when I went back into the living room. ‘She wants me to drive you home as soon as possible.’
‘Why?’
‘I think she wants to apologise for the argument you guys had yesterday,’ he said.
‘I didn’t have a fight with her,’ I said. ‘She had a fight with me.’
‘Whatever.’
He moved one of the logs in the fire, which was about to go out. ‘I said I’d give you some breakfast first, and then take you home. Are you hungry?’
I shook my head, a little too hard – it felt like nothing inside my skull was attached to anything. ‘I don’t think I’ll want food ever again.’
Imo smiled and put his hands to his back as he stood up. One of his hands was shaking. I had noticed it before, too, but I didn’t want to ask what was wrong – if he was ill or something.
‘I’ll make some breakfast anyway,’ Imo said, walking towards the kitchen. ‘You might change your mind.’
I wasn’t looking forward to getting home. Mum quite often exploded for no reason, only to regret it when she had sobered up.
I followed Imo into the kitchen and forced myself to drink some coffee. I wondered once again what the people of Fredheim would think about the murders – and about me. I checked Facebook and the other feeds at regular intervals. The feeling of being slowly strangled got worse by the minute, as more and more people connected Børre’s name to mine.
‘They’re having a memorial service at school later,’ Imo said. ‘Are you thinking of going?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I have to.’
‘Are you sure that’s wise?’ my uncle asked me. ‘I mean…’ He stopped himself, but I knew what he was thinking.
‘I’m not going to hide,’ I said firmly. ‘No fucking way.’
Imo looked at me for a few seconds. ‘OK,’ he said and held up his hands. ‘I’m not going to try and stop you. More coffee?’
‘No, thank
s, I’m good.’
I decided to send a message to Ida Hammer, Mari’s best friend. I kept it simple: just asking if we could talk. Of course, I wanted to know how she was – if she’d recovered from her violent reaction the day before. But I also needed to know how Mari had been in the days before she was killed. Maybe Ida knew why Mari had broken up with me and why she had Ole Hoff ’s business card in her pocket when she was found.
A minute passed then my mobile phone pinged. A reply from Ida:
Not really, considering.
Right. I couldn’t be bothered to ask for an explanation; I was pretty sure I knew it.
‘You know Ole Hoff, the journalist?’ I said to Imo.
‘Mhm.’
Imo had been in the local paper a lot because of his music and Ole and Imo were about the same age. ‘Do you know what Mum might have against him?’
‘Against Ole?’ Imo laughed. ‘No, I have no idea. Why do you ask?’
‘Yesterday, she wasn’t happy about me talking to him.’
‘Probably because he works at the Chronicle,’ Imo said. ‘Your mum doesn’t like any focus on the family. And certainly not the kind of attention you’ll be getting now.’
Maybe that was what she’d tried to tell me. I didn’t know. I wasn’t sure I even cared.
31
Yngve could tell that Therese wanted to say something as they were walking towards the entrance to the police station. But there was no opportunity: Yngve had tried to ward off the press, but they were hanging on to them like stray dogs around a bone.
‘Let me just get inside and meet with my team,’ Yngve said to the reporters, ‘Then I’ll come back out and talk to you. Briefly.’
Therese opened the door for him, as Yngve was carrying heavy bags of files and papers that he’d brought from home. Once inside, Therese finally spoke: ‘There has to be another reason why Børre Halvorsen was murdered. Something other than saying he’d seen Even Tollefsen at a window in the school that night.’
‘I’ve been thinking the same thing.’
They started up the staircase to their offices. ‘And anyway that sighting doesn’t prove anything,’ Therese continued. ‘Even if Even Tollefsen lied about being there that night, it doesn’t automatically make him a killer.’
‘No, but it weakens his credibility,’ Yngve said.
‘Still. And why kill him? It only makes Even look more guilty.’
Yngve had to agree with that.
‘Are you going to tell the press about the piece of leather we found?’ Therese asked.
‘Yes I am. A single observation, someone seeing someone with a glove that matches the general description, could be enough.’
‘We’re going to get thousands of calls.’
‘I know.’
’And we will have to follow up on every single lead.’
‘I know that too.’
The detectives Vibeke Hanstveit had managed to round up had gathered in the large conference room. They were all drinking coffee or tea as Yngve entered the room. He greeted them all and thanked them for their efforts the previous day. By the looks of things, some of them had needed to vent a little last night. He could smell a faint odour of alcohol in the room. As long as they did their job, Yngve thought, he didn’t care. They all had their coping mechanisms.
He gave them the same, tiring task as the day before: interviewing everyone at the school, this time the emphasis would be on their whereabouts the previous night.
The handball court was being used for the memorial service, which was scheduled for 11 a.m. So Yngve had asked for permission to use the arts centre in the middle of Fredheim, as it had several conference rooms suitable for interviews. What they needed now was word of the change of venue to get to the good people of Fredheim. Yngve was counting on Mr Brakstad, the principal of Fredheim High, to help out.
‘I made some headway last night on the surveillance tapes,’ one of the detectives from Lillestrøm said. ‘I think I’ve found something interesting.’
‘Very good,’ Yngve said. ‘I’ll just give the press a quick briefing, then I’ll come and look at it with you.’
The detective nodded.
‘Therese, can you make sure the press gets a photo of that piece of leather we found?’
‘I’m on it.’
Yngve went back downstairs. Rumours had apparently spread that he was going to come out and talk because there were now at least twenty-five reporters gathered around the entrance. Their microphones almost hit him in the face, and he noticed from their logos that journalists from Sweden and Denmark had now made their way to Fredheim as well. Vibeke Hanstveit had called him the night before to let him know that the town was making headlines all over Europe.
He gave them a quick update, which really didn’t consist of any details they didn’t already know. He reassured them that the police were taking every measure possible, and that he had every confidence they would be able to apprehend the person or persons responsible for the killings.
‘Are the three murders connected?’
‘Are you closing in on any suspects?’
‘Mr Mork, are you going to call in specialists to help you out with the investigation?’
He didn’t answer any of the questions that were thrown at him, but insisted that they were still in the early stages of the investigation, and that the press would be kept updated as soon as there were any new developments in the case.
‘I’m sorry,’ he added. ‘That’s all I can say at this point.’
As Yngve hurried back inside he found Åse waiting for him at the top of the stairs.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I could have handled it better.’
I think you managed quite well. I know you don’t like large crowds, especially with cameras around. You even looked kind of handsome in front of all those reporters.
‘Ha,’ Yngve snorted. ‘I most certainly did not.’
Inside Yngve left his jacket on his stool, before stepping into Weedon’s office. The tech analyst was a ginger-haired, heavy-set man in his early thirties. When Yngve entered the room, the large man’s face was so close to one of his three computer screens he was almost touching it. Behind him the surveillance tape detective from Lillestrøm was leaning in, watching over Weedon’s shoulder. The room smelled of old food and sweat.
A picture on Weedon’s screen was enhanced almost to the point of no recognition, but as Weedon zoomed out, the figure in the image became more and more clear. It was a man, and he looked to be of average height. He wore a jacket that might have been black, might have been blue, with no clear logos or notable designs on it. His trousers were almost identical in colour. A group of teenage girls were standing close by. The image was taken from one of the CCTV cameras outside Fredheim High School, and was pointing towards the entrance.
‘Who’s this?’ Yngve asked.
The detective from Lillestrøm – Yngve now recalled his name was Davidsen – spoke:
‘I watched the tapes, trying to determine whether everyone who went in between ten-thirty and eleven, also came back out. Everyone is accounted for. Except this guy right here.’ He pointed to the screen. ‘He entered the school premises at ten forty-nine p.m.’
‘And he didn’t come back out?’
‘Well, if he did, he certainly didn’t come out the same way he came in. I’ve triple-checked the tapes. He’s not on any of them.’
The man in the photo had his back to the camera. There was something familiar about him, but Yngve couldn’t quite determine what. He was slouching somewhat. Skinny. Brown hair.
‘A parent, maybe?’ Weedon offered. He replayed the video tape, frame by frame. On screen the man placed his right hand on the door handle and pulled it towards himself. Then he entered the school.
‘Can you zoom in on his hand, please?’ Yngve pointed to the screen again.
Weedon nodded, clicking and moving with his mouse. He then reversed the tape and did as Yngve had asked. The image was grainy, but th
e man’s fingers were still visible.
‘No ring,’ Yngve said.
An image appeared before Yngve’s mind’s eye. Frode Lindgren, squeezing his ball of socks. Yngve hadn’t noticed it then, but now, when he came to think of it, he was almost a hundred percent sure that Frode hadn’t been wearing his wedding ring that day.
Yngve studied the picture more closely. He couldn’t really say that he knew Frode Lindgren well, but there could be some resemblance, at least in height and posture.
‘Print out the best image you can find,’ Yngve said to Weedon. ‘Make eight to ten copies to begin with, and then we’ll bring everybody who was still at school around that time in for questioning again.’
Weedon began searching through the recording straightaway.
‘Let’s see if we can identify those girls as well,’ Yngve continued and pointed to the screen, even though they weren’t on it anymore. ‘Find out if they noticed the guy as he was passing. Maybe one of them knows who it is.’
‘I’ll see if I can pull a picture of his face from a reflection in the window as well,’ Weedon said.
‘I’d be very pleased if you can,’ Yngve said. ‘Excellent work, gentlemen.’
Back at his desk he called Therese Kyrkjebø over and quickly briefed her on what they’d found on the CCTV recordings.
‘I want you to try and get hold of some of Børre Halvorsen’s friends,’ he said. ‘We need to know what he was doing the last days of his life. Whether he was having trouble with anyone – conflicts his mother wasn’t aware of.’
‘She wasn’t aware of a whole lot of things.’
‘I know. We also need to know if anyone saw Børre at school. If he did see Even Tollefsen there, then someone must have spotted Børre there, too, right? What was he doing there? It wasn’t his school. He goes to Fredly Junior High. Where did they see him? Did he talk to anyone?’
‘And if he did – who?’ Therese seemed to understand where he was going with this.
‘We need to find out exactly what Børre was doing between the show and last night. As of now, there is every reason to believe that his murder has something to do with the others, we’re just lacking a common denominator. A common motive. And Even Tollefsen has an alibi for last night, so the Børre’s sighting of Even seems to be irrelevant. At least for now.’
