«Marte, do you know why I want to talk with you?» Verner Jacobsen asked, sitting down at the desk.
Marte shook her head, but she replied anyway.
«It has something to do with Idunn, I guess.»
«Yes,» said Verner. «Were you good friends?»
«Of course they were good friends,» her mother said.
«I want Marte to answer these questions herself,» Verner Jacobsen said.
Her mother sat there with her mouth half open. Her breathing made an even whistling, like from a ventilation system.
«Yes,» said Marte, noticing that she had tears in her eyes.
Were, she thought. That’s completely correct. We were good friends.
«It’s hard to lose a friend,» Verner continued. «I just lost my son, he was only a couple of years older than Idunn.»
«Was he killed?»
«No,» he said. «Only if cancer is a crime.»
«Oh,» said Marte, looking at the floor.
She shouldn’t have asked about that, but it just slipped out of her. Death and killing, that’s all I think about, she thought. And the only thing people talk about. No matter where she turned. At school, at the store, on the bus, on the sidewalk outside the apartment building. Everywhere people turned and whispered.
«I was just thinking,» she mumbled. «Idunn was killed, so then—»
«It’s okay,» said Verner. «Can you tell me a little about the evening of Wednesday, November 26? You were at Linnea’s party?»
«Yes.»
«Did anything unusual happen at that party?»
«No.»
«You went home early?»
«Yes.»
«We know that you called your father. Why did you do that?»
«I wanted to be picked up. I wanted to go home.»
«I was at the theater,» her mother interjected. «Marte was supposed to be with her father, but obviously he wasn’t home yet and—»
«Why did you want to go home?» Verner asked without looking at the mother.
Marte shrugged. The questions made her scared. Not scared the way she would have been if she was about to be run over by a truck and had to jump out of the way at the last moment. She was scared in a slow way. Like the anxiety that could lie there in wait for her under the bed at night. It was the same feeling. The feeling that made her pull her legs under her, squeeze her arms around her knees and make herself into a little clump of fear.
«Is this really necessary?»
Marte’s mother placed a hand on her daughter’s shoulder.
«You can see that these questions disturb her.»
Marte pulled to the side, shook the hand away.
Verner Jacobsen looked at Marte. She had tried to pull her legs up under her on the chair, but the seat was too narrow, so she had to put them down on the floor again. For some reason or other she was closing herself up more and more with every question. I have to try a different approach, Verner Jacobsen thought, but at the same time heard himself asking the same question again.
«Why did you want to go home, Marte?»
«Do I have to have a reason?»
Verner Jacobsen did not say anything for a moment while he tried to think of a way to reach her.
«I have a dog,» Verner Jacobsen said, taking out his phone and searching for a picture he had stored on it. «Look at this.»
He showed her Lorca, who was lying on his back with all four legs in the air while looking mischievously at the camera. Marte smiled politely.
«My dog makes me feel a little less lonely,» Verner Jacobsen continued. «I always wanted a dog when I was your age. I didn’t have that many friends, and I was always thinking that if I just had a dog, everyone would like me a lot better.»
That wasn’t quite true, but he had to try to find a way to her. It was something to do with bullying. As a rule, bullying victims said they were just fine if you asked, especially if parents were present.
Marte looked at him with a gaze that was not easy to interpret.
«Sweet,» she said without apparent interest.
«Do you have a pet, Marte?»
«No, and I don’t need one either.»
«Do you have many friends?»
«Yes, jeez.»
«Do you have someone you can talk with about everything?»
Marte thought a moment and nodded.
«Who is that?»
Another moment passed before she answered.
«Julie,» she said. «Julie Røed. I talk to her.»
Verner Jacobsen saw her mother’s face turn red with surprise. He tried not to show that he too was taken aback. He had been prepared for her to say Linnea, or someone else from her class. But Julie? He would have to ask Bitte if that were true. There was something that made him suspect that the girl was lying right to his face. Maybe it was just an attempt to provoke her mother.
«I would like you to tell me about the party.»
«I don’t have anything to say,» said Marte. «Linnea, Idunn and I went there together. There were only supposed to be a few girls, but suddenly there were a lot. And that was it.»
She threw out her arms.
«I called Dad, but I left before he came.»
«Why did you do that?»
«I figured that he would meet me. He said he’d had a glass of wine, so he couldn’t drive. I thought I was going to meet him on the way.»
Verner noticed that her mother was faintly rolling her eyes, as if in dismay.
«But you didn’t?»
«He took the bus, the one that goes down Ringveien.»
«So, you missed each other and never met,» said Verner, trying to recall the map that was hanging on the wall in the conference room.
«You passed the obelisk, Marte,» he stated. «What did you see?»
«What did I see?»
«Yes.»
«Should I have seen something? If you mean did I see Idunn, she hadn’t left Linnea’s yet.»
«And Idunn didn’t catch up with you on the road?»
«No.»
Marte answered curtly and sullenly, as if she had been instructed not to say anything, and maybe she had been. She’s not really contrary, more like uncomfortable, Verner Jacobsen thought, wishing he could have talked to her without her mother present. But she was a minor and had the right to have a guardian there. He decided to end the interview before it got stuck even more.
He spent the rest of the day going through the reports on Linnea’s party. A fair amount of electronic evidence had been collected. Text messages showed that rumors about the party had spread like the balls on a pool table.
Pictures from the party, taken with cell phone cameras, were stored in a separate file. Idunn was always surrounded. It was obvious that she was someone you wanted in the picture, as a trump card. Several of the boys had zoomed in on her breasts. There was something that bothered him. He didn’t know what it was, but there was something about these pictures that grated. He went back to the pictures from the crime scene and studied them. Nothing made him immediately react.
It was not until he went through the report about what the victim was wearing that something started to dawn on him. He did not know whether it was important, but a faint tingle on the back of his neck told him that he might be onto something. He looked at the pictures of Idunn that were taken at the party at Linnea’s one more time.
She had long, brown hair, her chin was sharp, her face heart-shaped. Her mouth was broad and glistened with lip gloss, her eyebrows unusually high and narrow, probably shaped that way, he assumed, without being any sort of expert. She had large breasts, and around her neck she was wearing a large silver heart on a black or dark brown strap, presumably leather. He reviewed the report one more time. Idunn had been wearing a down jacket and jeans when she was found. Size 39 Timberland brand boots. She also had on a white wool mitten; the other mitten was found a short distance away from the scene. Presumably, she lost it when she fell. He compared the description with pictu
res from the scene. She did not have a scarf, and the jacket was open at the throat.
That was it! Or, that is, that wasn’t it. The silver heart. It was not on the list of confiscated items, not on the summary of what the victim was wearing, not on the pictures from the crime scene. But she had it around her neck at the party. Of course, she could have lost it, or loaned it to someone.
Idunn, Verner Jacobsen thought, the girl without a heart.
68
The single-family house in Tranby seemed much too large to house only two grown-ups. Verner Jacobsen took a breath and rang the doorbell. It was Gustav who answered. His face had turned grayer since the last time, and Verner wondered whether there might be substance to this anonymous call. He had to confront him with it, regardless.
He was asked into the living room. Sølvi was nowhere to be seen.
«Where is your wife?» Verner asked.
«Up in Idunn’s room,» Gustav said flatly. «At first, none of her things were supposed to be moved, but now she stays up there all day. Goes through all the drawers and cupboards, she reads her textbooks and looks at albums from grade school. I don’t know what she’s looking for.»
Gustav Olsen sank down on the couch.
«I pray every day that God will show us the meaning in this. Why must we be tried so sorely?»
«You think there’s a meaning in what happened?»
«Of course! God wants something from us. I know that, but right now it’s hard to see what that is.»
«With all due respect, Gustav, I don’t think there’s any meaning in young people dying.»
Verner swallowed and considered how much he should say.
«I just lost a son,» said Verner. «I think death is just a reminder of how fragile life is.»
«What happened to your son?»
«Cancer. I don’t have to wonder how he died and who caused it, but for you it’s important that we find Idunn’s killer so that you can start the grieving process with certainty about what happened. It’s my job to help you.»
«The uncertainty is probably what gnaws at Sølvi most,» Gustav said with a sigh.
«Yes!»
Suddenly Sølvi was there. She had slipped into the living room without a sound. She was earth-toned. Her clothes, skin, hair. Everything had the same dirty brown color, as if she had risen from a deep grotto. She must not have washed her hair or combed it for days, Verner thought. The first time he was here, she had a kind of dignity. Now every layer of self-preservation instinct was peeled away, and she stood there in all her naked sorrow. This is what’s left of a person when all hope is gone, he thought, trying to shake off the eerie feeling that followed her into the room.
«When can we get an answer?» she asked.
«The investigation is proceeding with the same intensity,» Verner Jacobsen said. «But it’s not possible to give any timeline for a resolution.»
A possible resolution, he was about to say, but cut himself off, and decided right then that he would get to the bottom of this case.
«We’re gathering tips, and the forensics team will soon be done with all the analysis,» he continued.
«Have any new tips come in?»
«New tips are coming in constantly,» said Verner.
She looked disappointed.
It’s you! it suddenly struck Verner. It must be Sølvi who called in and asked them to focus on Gustav. Why? Verner Jacobsen stood up and quickly decided that both of them should be questioned. Separately. Immediately. That was the first thing that should have been done, he thought, cursing the fact that he hadn’t had control over what needed to happen from day one.
«You’ll be going with me down to the station,» Verner said, not letting them make any objections.
«Now. I’ll drive.»
69
It had been quiet at the police station when they arrived. The passport office with its usual long lines was closed. Most people had left for the day, and only the front desk was still manned. Verner Jacobsen had questioned Gustav and Sølvi by turn, without producing any results. It was two grieving parents he had met with, each grieving in their own way.
Sølvi had sat with her hands clasped in her lap, thin fingers like tough birch twigs. Consumed by her own sorrow, and with a deep-rooted irritation with her husband. At last, she admitted that she was the one who had called in the anonymous tip about checking out Gustav.
Gustav, on his part, was preoccupied with how the perpetrator might be doing.
«God may forgive,» he had repeated several times during the conversation. Verner had been a little surprised at the obvious worry and concern for the killer, but no specific clues led in the direction that Gustav would have taken the life of his own daughter. But he had been out driving in the area the night of the murder.
Verner Jacobsen had asked them both about the heart-shaped necklace, but neither parent could say with certainty if she owned one like that. According to her mother, Idunn had so much jewelry that it was impossible to keep track of it.
Some married couples form stronger bonds when they are struck by a tragedy, Verner Jacobsen thought while he drove Gustav and Sølvi Olsen home. Neither of them exchanged a word or a glance during the short ride back to Tranby. He doubted that this couple would contribute positively to that statistic, and caught himself wondering in what direction his own marriage would go when the grief had settled and only the raw day-to-day was left. A sudden longing for Ingrid made him go straight home. He could always write the report from there.
He knew it as soon as he opened the front door. Ingrid, he thought. Why now? She was sitting, half lying on the couch with Lorca on her lap. The dog jumped down to greet him, shyly with wagging tail to start with. But then it was as if he realized that Verner had been gone the whole day, and started to bark. His tail revealed, however, that he was not quite able to suppress the joy at seeing him. Ingrid also tried to smile.
«Hi,» she said tamely, taking hold of the wine glass on the table, as if she was afraid he would take it from her.
«Why are you doing this?» Verner said, gently conciliatory.
Was she also grieving that strongly? He sat down beside her and put his arm around her shoulders. She was crying. Soundless tears close to his face. It struck something vulnerable in him. He almost kissed her.
«I have no self-confidence in what I do anymore,» she sobbed, leaning against him.
He pulled back in a moment of disappointment. So, it was writer’s block again. That was why she was drinking, he should have realized that. It wasn’t Victor.
«Nonsense,» he said with a sigh. «Look on the bookshelf, you’ve written many books, you can do it again.»
«But other authors know what they should write about, they have something they want to say. I have no idea what I want to say, I just know that there’s something.»
She took another greedy gulp from the glass.
«And when I drink, I am transformed from an ordinary wage earner into something divine, someone who can make a difference.»
Verner smiled at her, half despairing, half patronizing.
«My words become amazing when I drink, and I think I can be the intellectual trump card of the working class, do you understand? Mama never thought I would amount to anything, and Papa...»
«Hush now,» said Verner, pulling her to him and rocking her as if she were a child who needed help settling down.
«You say yourself that you write badly under the influence, so no, I don’t understand, Ingrid. And your mother and father are proud of you. Very proud.»
«You’re right, Verner,» she said, exhaling the alcohol fumes with a gasp. «I only drink because I’m rooting around in the darkness, and this...» She held up the glass. It swayed unsteadily in her hand, but she rescued it from splashing over the rim by putting it to her mouth.
«This gets me to believe that there is a light.»
«I’m sure I’m rooting blindly too,» said Verner, paging aimlessly through the copy of Drammens Tiden
de that was on the table in front of them. The Idunn case covered several pages.
«I’m sure that some of these young people we’ve interviewed aren’t telling the truth, or in the best case, they’re holding something back. I’m convinced that the answer is in the youth environment at Tranby, but even the local paper is partial and thinks it must be someone from outside.»
«Can they be right?»
Verner shrugged his shoulders.
«Well, we can’t rule out anything at this point. No strangers were observed in the area that evening, apart from Agnar Eriksen, but in a way he’s local too.»
Lorca jumped up on the couch and placed his head on Ingrid’s lap. She stroked his coat.
«I should have been a dog,» she sobbed. «A completely useless lapdog whose only job is to look cute.»
«There is a slight resemblance,» Verner said with a smile. «But I ought to teach you some tricks.»
«Haha, like what?»
«Well, fetch balls of yarn that roll under the couch, for example.»
«But you’re not knitting anymore.»
«No, but I was thinking about taking it up again. Have you seen that it’s possible to knit Christmas tree ornaments? I was kind of wondering if...»
«You’re not serious that we should have knit Christmas decorations?»
She suddenly looked sober. «Out of the question. We should do it the way we always have.»
Verner did not say anything. She’d been drinking; it was impossible to have a discussion with her now. Everything should be like before? Nothing was going to be like before. Sometimes, such as now, he had an intense urge to break out. Escape the cloying smell of her mouth, escape meeting the cloudy gaze, escape feeling this aversion to continuing to love her. His thoughts continued until he could see the house dissolve. Everything would disappear, the garden, the patio he had built himself even though he was all thumbs. He saw the pleasant life go away and be replaced with a small studio apartment. It was easier to stay. He didn’t need self-realization, he could find happiness where he was, he said to himself, closing the door to the sugar-coated future of uncertainty once again.
The Girl With No Heart Page 20
