The Girl With No Heart

by Marit Reiersgaard

  «I’ve thought that what made it even worse for Marte was that her best girlfriend came from such a warm, well-functioning home,» said Kari Halvorsen. «Poor parents!»

  She waved her hands violently in front of her face to stop the tears that threatened to burst out.

  «Idunn’s father is a minister; but of course you know that,» said the principal, whose voice was still steady.

  Verner nodded, thinking that he must go over the interviews with Idunn’s parents as soon as possible.

  «We are planning a memorial for the whole school over the weekend,» said the principal. «We need a ceremony. We need to gather in sorrow and find a way back to the everyday. The whole school is strongly affected by the death, and there is a great need to talk with each other. Idunn’s father has said that he would like to say a few words.»

  «I don’t understand how he can possibly manage that,» Kari Halvorsen interjected. She had completely given up trying to collect herself, and the tears were running freely down her cheeks.

  «I have class in ten minutes,» said the principal, handing the assistant principal a tissue that she fished out of the desk drawer. «I don’t think we have much more to contribute in terms of information now, so if we can finish up...»

  Verner stood, slightly surprised that he let himself be directed like a schoolboy. The women accompanied him to the lobby.

  «You’re probably aware,» said Kari Halvorsen, who blew her nose and then dried the tears with the same tissue. «That a group has been set up on Facebook. A kind of memorial page. It already has over a thousand likes. People post pictures and write a final message. Some express that they are angry too, that they are going to get whoever did this. It’s powerful. Have you seen it?»

  «No, but I’m sure someone at the station has. The police are working on tracking computer traffic. Social media will obviously be thoroughly checked. What kind of comments are we talking about?»

  «People want the perpetrator to burn in hell and that kind of thing. Strong emotions are understandable, and people grieve differently, so it’s probably not so strange that—»

  Kari Halvorsen cut herself off.

  «What do you mean, strange...?» Verner Jacobsen asked.

  «No, it probably doesn’t mean anything, but I’ve noticed that there are two, actually only two, in the whole school as far as I can see, who haven’t written or commented on anything on the wall. Not in the condolence book either,» she said, nodding toward the open book on the table.

  «Who are these two?» asked Verner Jacobsen, even though he already had a sense. The suspicion was confirmed by the assistant principal’s reply.

  «Fredrik and Marte.»

  30

  Bitte Røed was out of breath. The hills were steeper than she remembered, but now, fortunately, the ground leveled out. The icy air cut into her lungs. It felt as if her teeth had no enamel. She tried breathing through her nose, but gave up after two inhalations. She had hair in her nose. Tiny hairs that became a frozen lattice every time she breathed in. She pulled the scarf up in front of her face, but her breath made it damp against her skin.

  The smell of fire followed her into the forest, even as she approached the obelisk. It irked her a little that she had been taken off the case with the teenage girl. It seemed like it could turn into something big. She liked big cases. And she needed the experience. She consoled herself with the thought that maybe the hearse thief was involved. She could contribute to a resolution in the case that way.

  The police barricade tape was visible from far-off, and a constable in uniform stood guard. She showed him her ID. The CSIs were gone, and the constable explained that they were done photographing the site, but they still needed to carefully examine a small area covered by a tarp. In addition, they planned an expanded search in the terrain around where the body was found. She was given permission to go just inside the barricade tape, up to the edge of the cliff above where the girl had been found. Around the obelisk was an open space in the form of a semicircle, as if someone had taken a large, sharp spade and lifted away parts of the ground. White, framed placards described the cultural remains that had been found there.

  A marble quarry from the eighteenth century. That was probably the reason that here, from above, the area resembled a small, deep crater. From where she stood, she had to lean forward a little to see the place where the girl was found. The tent the investigators had placed over the spot was covered by a thin layer of snow.

  She looked around. The bare branches of the trees spread, with the obelisk towering in the middle, truly resembling a warning finger. Had the girl tried to tell them something with her outstretched arm? Bitte Røed stopped herself. It was always concrete evidence, witness statements, and painstaking investigation that produced results, not speculation. But as long as she was on the outside, speculation was all she had.

  She didn’t know what she had hoped to find. Some detail or other that she had overlooked the first time she and Verner were here, an idea about what might have happened. And, she thought reluctantly, where had Kristian been standing when he heard the call from the boy? Where had he walked, what had he seen? And thought? About Marte, obviously. Perhaps he had run along the snow-covered gravel path with hammering pulse, then heard someone call, heard a scream that struck him right in his paternal heart. Had he stood here at the edge and seen the girl lying there, lifeless? Was he scared to death because, at first, he thought it was Marte?

  He probably was. I would have thought that way too, Bitte told herself. I would have imagined my worst nightmare. And I would have been relieved that I’d been wrong. She was ashamed to admit it, but it was true. It was a side effect of crimes, this reminder that you were untouched, once again. The shameful relief that arose along with the need to uncover all the ghastly details that didn’t concern you. She was no better.

  Bitte Røed thanked the constable for letting her inside, and started home. It was easier to walk now, downhill most of the way. Maybe I ought to start taking walks, she thought. If I increase my activity, I could indulge in a cream puff, now and then. The thought was uplifting.

  It was starting to snow again, as she approached the house that from now on she would have to get used to calling home. The clouds had shut out the last patches of blue and made the sky almost colorless, like skimmed milk, the light-blue, transparent color that always made her retch. She rounded the corner by the mailbox, took the day’s dose of junk mail with her, and followed the narrow path between the townhouses. The townhouse area was as gray as a Norwegian winter, and every building was a shade of the same dead color. What is it with Norwegians and gray? she thought. Darn it, at the next housing association meeting she would propose painting the buildings. Maybe red, she thought, unlocking the door. She pulled off the damp scarf, hung up her jacket, and fished a lipstick from her pocket.

  «Hello? Anyone home?»

  The quiet and a silent demand for attention from a tower of moving boxes met her as she peeked into the living room. She turned on the ceiling light. It blinked a few times before it decided to go on. Must remember to buy spare bulbs, she thought, wondering at the same time if they were going to see the floor before Christmas.

  «Julie! Peder! Are you home?»

  No one answered, but an even hum from upstairs revealed that Peter was home anyway, playing Xbox. It produced a strange vibration in the house that could barely be heard, just sensed as an unpleasant buzz.

  She stood there a moment in the middle of the living room and suddenly felt that someone was watching her, out there in the gray twilight. I must get some curtains for the living room, she decided. Now everyone could see right in. And then—the sound of something breaking right outside. She could not see what it was that caused it, but it was a sound like tinkling glass. In a flash, she was up on the second floor where, from Julie’s room, she had a better view of the area.

  «And you’re supposed to be a police officer,» she said with a laugh when she noticed the green rec
ycling bin right across the street that someone had thrown glass into.

  31

  Friday, November 28. Evening

  Evil diary!

  I’ve tried letting the straight razor glide up along the veins on my left arm. Made a scratch. A kind of track I can follow later. Lengthwise this time. I know that you should cut lengthwise. When it’s for real.

  I thought it would be different. I actually believed that we would have a kind of harmony in sorrow. The others do. They stick together. Without me.

  How long can a person live alone? I’ve read that babies who don’t get physical contact early in life can actually die. I am dying a little every day. The others are picking me apart. Every day there is a new piece that’s missing. Soon everything will be gone. Then I will no longer be in the process of dying.

  Dad wears his worried face constantly now. He gets so sad when I’m not doing well. So, I’ve decided to be smarter about hiding it. When I’m sitting here, with the straight razor and this book, it’s almost not dangerous. Both things are a kind of salvation. I’m packing up the straight razor today, too. Maybe I’ll die soon on my own.

  32

  I’ll be damned if I’m not as smooth as a baby’s rump, thought Agnar, stroking one hand over his smooth skull, the other across his chin. He was standing in the bathroom in Finn and Elin’s apartment, admiring the man looking at him in the mirror. The man was fresh shaven and had a nice shirt on. The long beard was in a heap in the sink. He was ready to stage his presence, could not delay it any longer now, otherwise the police would ask uncomfortable questions about why he hadn’t heard the news. There had been some segments on TV. His childhood home was in ashes. A body had been found in the ruins. Finn had sat observing him from the corner of his eye. He noticed that, but he did not intend to say more than necessary. The fact that his old lady was pregnant had been a godsend. You would have to search a long time for a better coercion tactic than kids.

  Elin would report to the police now. In his stage-directed way: Agnar had been on a bender with his best buddy since he got out of prison, and hadn’t heard that his mother had been found dead. Drunkenness gets the blame, in brief. It only remained to drink himself into a stupor again, for the sake of credibility. Finn had shopped at the liquor store. Stronger goods were required; clear would work faster than that brown dishwater from Aass. It was almost moving to see how Finn was at his beck and call. He could quickly get used to that, but decided not to exploit him more than necessary. He understood Finn, that was true, but Elin he was less sure of. She looked like a tough dame. He would just lead them through this play-acting for the public authorities, and then he would leave them alone.

  He had taken the vodka bottle with him into the bathroom and let the contents fill him with the pleasant feeling that everything would work out. Maybe he should try going on the dole for a while himself? No. He knew it wouldn’t work out in the long run. He needed a job, something to go to every day, something that could keep him away from the bottle and trouble.

  For a strange moment he caught himself missing the cell and the security the strict routine in prison provided. It wasn’t so bad for him. Wake-up call and breakfast and the impatience for the first smoke of the day. Cleaning his cell. Being let out. Work. Smoke break. Locked in again. Lunch. Smoke. Let out. Exercise. Smoke and lockup. He had access to TV and didn’t miss a single episode of Hotel Caesar. Had a job in the kitchen puttering with salads and sausage. He and the cook had many good conversations. Agnar had never liked talking with people, but in the kitchen, over sizzling pans and the sound of the dishwasher, the conversations went on automatic. It was calming to stand and rinse the dishes, send plates and pots into the machine, and see how shiny and nice they came out on the other side. The clean side. How long would it be before he soiled himself again? Didn’t he already have blood on his hands?

  He pictured his mother. He knew that the house was totally destroyed. He had seen the TV images, but he tried to repress them. He didn’t want those memories, couldn’t, he might incriminate himself. But the thought of how he had lit the candle was all too clear to him. He still had the lighter in his pocket. He had stood there just long enough to see that the fire took hold of the newspaper and tablecloth, and then he’d left. He could still hear Lilly’s whining. Stupid dog, hope she had the sense to run away! He had studied the pictures that were taken of his childhood home. The roof had collapsed over the kitchen. What if they had managed to put it out before his mother was completely cremated? Before all the blood turned to ash? As long as the blood was gone, they would conclude that it was an accident. Everyone knew that old ladies shouldn’t live alone, without supervision.

  33

  The nursing home was in a nice location with a view of the fjord, and the picture windows ensured that the residents could enjoy it from all the common dayrooms. Verner Jacobsen suspected that it was lost on his mother. She was basically occupied with the view inside her own mind. He had delayed the visit far too long. Seeing her always made him feel bad, but now it didn’t matter. It couldn’t get much worse.

  His mother was sitting on a couch with a newspaper in her lap. Her lips were moving, and every time she turned a page, she made a jerk with her head, a tic, but her white hair stayed put, nicely styled and stiff from hairspray. She picked her nose, cleared her throat loudly. Poked one more time with her thumb, the other fingers over the bridge of her nose as if she was trying to hide what she was doing, but there was no doubt: she sat there picking her nose.

  She looked up and stared at Verner as he came out of the elevator. The suspicious gaze sent a familiar pain through his body. He was suddenly eight years old and had come to the dinner table late. I can turn around, he thought. I’m grown now and can decide for myself. I can turn and get back in the elevator. Let her sit there and wonder. Maybe she won’t even have registered that it was me, her son. Maybe she would think it was a substitute nurse. Just then the elevator doors closed behind him, and he took a step into the room.

  «Verner, my boy,» she said, reaching her bony hands out toward him.

  He sat down next to her, avoided the embrace, and instead put her hands in place on her lap. He patted the back of her hand.

  «How are you doing, Mom?»

  «Lots to do,» said his mother. «There are new clothes in stock and we don’t know what our theme should be for the Christmas display. See, we have an ad in the newspaper today!»

  Verner followed her index finger over a story about the price of houses in Drammen.

  His mother was back where she had spent a good part of his childhood—at the Ferner Jacobsen department store. His mother had been a merchandise displayer and created illusions of exclusive consumer happiness in the display windows in the capital. It was thanks to the department store that he got his name, as if she had to embellish everything she touched, an attempt to make the family more distinguished than it was. I’ve never measured up, he thought. Never measured up in my mother’s eyes.

  Verner felt a sudden need to talk about Victor. His mother knew nothing of his existence. In consultation with the doctors, he had decided not to tell her anything. That had been a wise decision, in Verner’s opinion. His mother had more than enough trouble relating to her confined world up here on the outskirts of Lier. But he missed being able to talk about him. Victor was there all the time, steadily digging new empty spaces inside him, like termites in porous wood. He looked out the windows. The fjord was ice-covered. Steam rose up toward the windows.

  «It gets dark early now,» said Verner.

  His mother raised her eyes, looked confused for a moment.

  A nurse he hadn’t seen before came over to him. Her blond hair tied in a ponytail. She looked stern, but her greeting was friendly.

  «Hi!» she said, extending her hand to Verner. «Have you got a visitor, Mrs. Jacobsen?»

  His mother looked from the nurse to Verner, smiled, but seemed confused.

  «You remember me, don’t you?» the nurse
continued. «We always take a walk together when I have a day shift. I’m Elin, do you remember?»

  Verner’s mother nodded.

  «I have a visit from my son,» his mother said, suddenly lighting up. «He’s a policeman!»

  Elin looked at Verner, held his gaze so long that Verner felt it was getting unpleasant.

  «Perhaps I’ve come outside visiting hours?»

  The nurse suddenly smiled and turned her eyes away, as if she were unaware that she had been staring.

  «We don’t have visiting hours here. Can I get you some coffee?»

  Verner said yes, and she came back shortly with two cups and a plate of Marie biscuits, which she set on the table in front of them.

  «If you’d come a little earlier, you would have gotten waffles. Your mother helped fry them today.»

  «I like waffles,» his mother said, smiling. «With good butter and soft cheese.»

  «I don’t mean to intrude, but is it true you’re a policeman?» the nurse asked. She spoke quietly, as if that would be less disturbing.

  «Of course he is,» his mother called. «He’s the best decorator at Buskerud, Søndre... Buskerud, no, what’s it called again?»

  She stared helplessly at him.

  «Søndre Buskerud police district,» Verner said calmly, patting her hand absent-mindedly. «Sometimes she mixes things up a bit,» Verner said apologetically. «She was a decorator. At Ferner Jacobsen.»

  His mother nodded and looked proud.

  «I’m a detective,» he added.

  «I heard that you’re looking for relatives of the owner of the house that burned at Tranby yesterday,» she whispered. «I meant to call on my break, but maybe I can just tell you?»

  «Tell me what?»

  «I think the son of the woman who owns that house is at our place right now.»