by Thomas Enger
Ida held up her hands and retreated down the steps. ‘We’re leaving,’ she said. ‘We just wanted to…’
She stopped herself. Mari’s mother sent me another look filled with hate. Then she went inside and slammed the door.
41
NOW
I need to pee, but I know there is still a long way to go before I’m finished. I push the thought away.
‘Really,’ Prosecutor Håkonsen says. ‘What did you expect was going to happen? That Mari’s mother was just going to open her arms to you, too? You didn’t think she’d heard the rumours?’
‘I admit, it was a stupid thing to do,’ I say. ‘But I was looking for answers, and I really thought that Cecilie might be able to help.’
‘Even in her moment of grief?’
‘Well, yes. And I felt it was the right thing to do.’
‘The right thing to do,’ Ms Håkonsen repeats, as if she can’t quite believe I’ve just said that.
‘I know it sounds silly, but I was hoping she would be able to look me in the eye and see that I couldn’t have murdered her daughter.’
‘Sounds a bit naïve, if you ask me.’
‘I realise that now. But back then I thought that if she would only just see me and talk to me, she would understand. A cold, evil murderer wouldn’t go to his victim’s parents like that.’
‘And that wasn’t you.’
‘That wasn’t me, no.’
‘How did her reaction make you feel?’
I let out a long breath. ‘Like shit. Sorry,’ I quickly add. ‘I was hurt and sad. Of course I was. Slightly shocked, too, however weird that sounds.’
‘But the shocks for you that day were far from over, isn’t that correct?’
I realise she’s talking about Imo. I nod and say:
‘Yes, that’s right.’
42
THEN
Ida and I barely spoke on the way back.
‘Do you want to come in?’ she said when we were outside her house again. ‘I make a mean smoothie, if you fancy it.’
The tone of her voice suggested there was more to her question than just concern and the need to be with someone. I tried to read the expression in her eyes.
‘I thought you only had milk and Coke?’ I said.
Ida smiled back.
‘Another time, maybe,’ I said. ‘I need to go home now.’
Ida put her arms round me and held me for a long time. It felt really good to get a hug. And it was good to hold Ida. She smelled nice, and she was soft.
‘Thank you for walking me home,’ she whispered in my ear.
‘No worries,’ I said, gently pushing her away. ‘Thanks for coming with me to…’ I nodded towards the road we’d just come down.
‘Don’t be upset by what Cecilie said,’ Ida said. ‘She’s just a bit crazy because of what’s happened.’
I nodded, even though I didn’t know how I couldn’t be upset about being branded a murderer without the chance of even speaking in my own defence.
‘Oh, and another thing,’ she said, just as I was getting onto my bike. ‘Mum and Dad are out this evening, so I thought I’d have a small party – for some of Mari’s friends. And Johannes’ too,’ she added quickly. ‘If you and your friends would like to come, just … well, come.’
I hesitated.
‘It’s not a party-party,’ she added. ‘More a get-together … to talk about what’s happened and to hang out.’
‘Thanks’, I said. ‘I’ll think about it.
Ida smiled – a big, beautiful smile. Then she went into the house. She didn’t seem sad anymore.
I could smell the cheese on toast even before I went into the kitchen. Sometimes it seemed like Mum never ate anything, so I assumed that I would find my brother in there, guzzling, eyes glued to his mobile phone.
‘Hello?’ Mum’s voice was bright and breezy. I wondered if there was a glass somewhere in the house with ice cubes in it.
Before I got to the kitchen door, I heard GP’s paws scratching across the floor. He barked, and as soon as I opened the door, he jumped up at me, wagging his tail. I gave him a good stroke and pat and told him how cute and lovely he was.
Tobias was anything but. He was sitting on a stool with his baseball cap on back to front, bent over his food. He was chewing with his whole face. Mum was leaning against the worktop beside him. She had a radiant smile and, yep, a glass in her hand.
‘Where have you been?’ she asked.
‘Here and there,’ I said. ‘Is there any more cheese on toast, or has that lard-arse eaten it all?’
I nodded at my brother. He raised his head and gave me an exaggerated smile, food still in his mouth.
‘God, you’re disgusting.’
‘There’s one left,’ Mum said and pointed to the stove. ‘I can make some more, if you like. Are you done, Tobias, or shall I make some more for you, too? It’s really no bother.’
My brother didn’t answer.
The cheese lay melted, thick and delicious on the toasted bread. I grabbed it and took a bite. Perfectly done, just the right amount of ketchup under the ham, and a light sprinkle of oregano on top. God, it was good to have something to eat again without feeling my insides turn over.
I chewed, observing my brother for a few moments. He was at least a head taller than Mum now. I wondered how he was getting on. If he was happy. He didn’t seem to care that his clothes were often a bit dirty and that you could smell the sweat on him from a few feet away. He lived his life online, sitting in his room all day, gaming. I knew he chatted to his friend Ruben almost every day, but I had no idea whether he had any other friends – ones he actually talked to face to face.
You should be taking care of him, I thought. You should be taking him out, introducing him to people. But it wasn’t easy. Travelling back and forth to Lillestrøm several times a week took up a lot of my time. And then there was Mari and my mates. The day only had so many hours. Still, I felt bad for him. And guilty.
My phone rang. It was Imo.
‘What’s up?’ I said.
‘Even,’ he began. There was an edge to his voice.
‘What is it?’ I asked, suddenly anxious.
‘Before I say anything else, it’s important that you listen to me now. Can you do that, Even?’
I was confused. Imo never talked like this. ‘Yes, of course,’ I said. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’
‘Don’t get wound up, but the police are coming round to see me.’
‘The police?’ I said. ‘Why?’
I felt a huge knot form in my belly.
‘It’s not what it sounds,’ Imo said. ‘But you know the leather glove the police are looking for?’
‘Yeah…’
It was a few seconds before Imo spoke again:
‘That leather glove is mine.’
43
‘What the hell are you saying, Imo?’
It had become hard to breathe. I noticed that Mum and Tobias had turned to look at me.
‘Well, at least I think it’s mine,’ Imo continued. ‘I just called the police to tell them.’
‘So…?’ My thoughts were all over the place. ‘So, were they stolen or something?’
‘Maybe,’ he answered. ‘I just know that I wore them before the show, when I carried the keyboard and all the other stuff inside the school, and that I couldn’t find them later when I was going home. I don’t know if anyone actually stole them. And I really didn’t look that hard for them, either. I thought I would find them the day after. I really just wanted to get home.’
I waited for him to tell me more.
‘I thought it best to be open and honest with the police,’ Imo said. ‘So I thought it was best to tell you too, in case, you know, rumours start to spread. You know how things get around here.’
I did have a good idea, yes.
‘Don’t worry, champ,’ Imo added. ‘It’s all good.’
‘Let’s hope so.
‘It is. It will
be.’
After we’d hung up, I filled Mum and Tobias in on what Imo had told me. Tobias finished his glass of milk and then went upstairs, without saying a word, while Mum seemed to retreat – to somewhere deep inside her mind. Her eyes faded, and she had a worried look on her face.
‘I want to know something,’ I asked her.
She needed a moment or two to realise that I’d spoken to her. ‘Hm?’
‘When did you leave the school that night?’
She looked at me, bewildered. ‘I left right away,’ she answered.
‘You went straight home?’ By ‘home’ I meant Knut’s apartment.
She seemed to understand. ‘Mhm…’
‘When did you get there?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I didn’t check the time. Why do you ask?’
‘Did you walk home alone?’
‘Yes. What is this? Why do I feel like I’m being interrogated all of a sudden?’
I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I just said: ‘I was just wondering.’
She snorted. ‘You’ll make an excellent cop one day.’
I wondered if Yngve Mork had talked to her yet, or if she had volunteered to go to the station. I was about to ask, but she downed the rest of her glass and turned to mix herself another drink.
When Oskar rang the bell a little while later, Mum was all smiles again. I could tell she was tipsy. She met my best friend in the hall with a broad smile.
‘Oskar,’ she almost shouted. ‘How nice to see you again. How are you?’
I sent her a quick look that said ‘don’t overdo it, Mum’, but she clearly didn’t take the hint. She wanted to know what we were going to do now, what we were going to do later. I don’t know how many times I said ‘Mum’ in a sharp voice, but it didn’t stop her. I finally managed to drag Oskar away from her and down to my room.
For an hour or so we just ate crisps and played Call of Duty. It felt really good to do something ordinary and normal again. We stayed away from group chats though, as I didn’t want to communicate with anyone.
Oskar’s phone rang after we’d been playing for a while. He looked at the display, but decided to ignore it. ‘Just my Mum having a go again,’ he explained.
‘Having a go about what?’ I wanted to know.
Oskar sighed heavily. ‘With everything that’s happened, she … she thinks I should just stay home.’
‘She’s afraid.’
‘Yeah, and…’ He looked at me quickly, then back at the monitor.
She’s afraid of me, I thought. She’s afraid that I would do something to her son.
I couldn’t quite believe it. But then again, I couldn’t really blame her, either. According to a lot of people in Fredheim I was capable of triple murder. I thought about that for a second, about the things I’d said to my friends earlier in the day – about anyone being capable of killing someone. Was that really true? Could my mother, for instance, do that? Could Oskar? Could I?
I really didn’t know.
And that was maybe what scared me the most.
44
The largest conference room at Fredheim’s arts centre was equipped with everything a good police investigation required. A whiteboard, pens in various colours, a projector, monitors and, most importantly, a coffee machine that took capsules of various sizes and strengths, and that only needed a refill of water every now and then.
Yngve Mork had gathered his detectives around a large table. He stood at one end, looking at a host of coffee mugs, water bottles, mobile phones, note pads, car keys and key chains, all belonging to a group of people who were waiting for him to take the lead. He was looking at men and women he didn’t know, officers and detectives who’d been transferred in from their districts, away from other pressing matters. Here they had been told what to do for the past day and a half by a sixty-three-year-old grieving widower they’d never met before. It was a demanding situation for all of them. For Yngve this was the first time he’d had a team this big under his command.
‘It’s almost strange,’ he started with a careful smile. ‘We’ve been working together for thirty-six hours or so, and this is this first time we’ve all been gathered in the same room for more than thirty seconds.’
His jovial tone – Åse’s idea – didn’t catch on in the way he’d hoped. ‘I’d like to thank each and every one of you for your efforts so far. They’ve been impressive. But there are still a lot of questions to be answered, so I thought we could go through them one by one. Maybe talking it through will help make things a little bit clearer.’
Some of the detectives leaned forwards.
‘Alright, let’s consider Mari Lindgren and Johannes Eklund first,’ Yngve continued. ‘Ann-Mari Sara from Kripos is as sure as she can be about Mari being the first victim. Her death also differs from the others, because she was murdered in a non-violent fashion – if that’s even a term we can use. What I mean is that she was strangled first. Then someone tried to bring her back to life again, which indicates remorse. Is our killer a close relation, perhaps? Now, a lot of people in this town seem to know that Even Tollefsen is the perpetrator, because he used to be her boyfriend. In other words, they believe it was an act of jealousy. Johannes Eklund may have become a victim because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He might have seen what happened, and in order to protect that truth from getting out, he had to die. Alternatively, jealousy might have been involved. Were Johannes and Mari becoming close?’
Yngve sought Therese Kyrkjebø’s eyes. She and the others seemed to be paying careful attention to what he was saying.
‘Even, however, vehemently denies being at the school premises that night, even though several witnesses claim otherwise. One of them is Børre Halvorsen, the sixteen-year-old who was found dead with half his head smashed in under the railway bridge.’
Cold, Åse said to him. That was uncalled for.
He immediately regretted his choice of words, and he could see the surprise in some of the detectives’ faces. He cleared his voice and decided to just press on.
‘It could be suggested that Børre’s sighting of Even was a potential motive for his killing. But Even has an alibi for the night in question. And if we do believe the sighting in itself is a motive, that would mean the others who also claim to have seen Even at the school that night might be in danger too. I really don’t think anything will happen to them as well.’
‘Question,’ one of the officers in the room said. It was Davidsen, the man from Lillestrøm who’d gone through the CCTV recordings. He had tipped his chair a little backwards, so that it rested only on two legs. ‘Do we have anyone else’s word besides this Emo fellow that Even, in fact, did spend the night at the pig farm place at the time of Børre Halvorsen’s murder?’
‘Imo,’ Therese corrected.
‘No, we don’t,’ Yngve said. ‘But—’
‘I guess what I’m really asking is if he’s trustworthy,’ the officer continued. ‘I mean, this thing with his gloves disappearing and having the janitor leave the door on the other side open for him and everything. Are we one hundred percent certain he’s telling the truth?’
‘It’s hard to be one hundred percent sure of anything,’ Yngve said. ‘But I know Imo well. He’s a good man, and he’s done a lot of good for this community over the last twenty-five years.’
‘That doesn’t have to mean anything.’
‘I know, but as far as I know, he’s not in the habit of lying about … stuff. And what would his motive be for giving Even a false alibi?’
‘The usual,’ the detective continued. ‘To cover for his nephew.’
‘So you’re saying that Imo knew that Even killed Mari and Johannes, and that Imo – knowing that – thought it was OK for him to take another life? “Go ahead, son, I’ll cover for you next time as well”?’
The detective didn’t respond, neither did anyone else. ‘Even was still drunk when I woke him last night,’ Yngve continued. ‘I find it hard to
believe that a teenager in such a state could make his way to Fredheim Bridge – an eight-kilometre hike – in the middle of the night, without anyone noticing him. Not to mention the fact that he would have to get back, too. A total of sixteen kilometres. In the middle of the night.’
Again a moment’s pause in the room.
‘It was just a question,’ Davidsen finally said.
‘And questions are good,’ Yngve said enthusiastically. ‘So we can chew over this thing properly. And we musn’t rule out that Børre Halvorsen’s murder might not be related to the other two at all. He’s been known to graffiti a lot of houses and buildings in the area over the last few years. He’s definitely pissed a lot of people off.’
‘It’s still a hell of a thing to do,’ Vibeke Hanstveit said. ‘Beat a sixteen-year old to death over some spray paint.’
‘I don’t disagree with you on that,’ Yngve said. ‘Which means that we need to find motives for all the murders. And because Mari was killed first, I think it might be a good idea to focus on her first. At least until we hit a dead end. Um, no pun intended.’
He knew that Åse would be frowning, but he quickly put her out of his mind.
‘If we can find the motive for her murder, I believe the other bits and pieces will fall neatly into place. So let’s talk about Mari.’
Yngve quickly brought the task force up to speed on the steps Mari had taken to find out more about the car accident that had ended Jimmy Tollefsen’s life. Yngve added that he’d taken another good look at the report he wrote after the accident, but hadn’t found anything irregular.
‘There was nothing wrong with the car, and he didn’t have any alcohol in his blood. Everything suggests that Susanne Tollefsen’s story checks out: Jimmy had a turn of some kind. He passed out. That’s why they skidded off the road.’
‘But we only have her word for it, right?’ The question came from Therese Kyrkjebø.
‘Yes,’ Yngve said.
