Scarred: A Novel Read online

  Osmundsen lowers his gaze again. A dark shadow falls across his coarse, weatherbeaten face. Even though he is tall and big, he looks small as he sits there. As if the strength in his upper body, the strength that kept him upright, has gone.

  “It’s happened before,” he says eventually. “Her disappearing, I mean. It happened one Sunday a few years ago, I think it was, and I didn’t find her until late in the evening, far away in Nordmarka Woods. She sat under a tree and was completely out of it. She came to when I touched her, but she couldn’t remember anything of what had happened.”

  “What did her bodyguards say?”

  “Trine didn’t have bodyguards in those days.”

  “But—”

  The words stop in Henning’s mouth.

  “There’s a name for it,” Osmundsen continues. “For what happened. Dissociative fugue,” he pronounces it clearly. “A person will leave their home or their job, apparently with a sense of purpose, but afterward they remember nothing.”

  The waiter brings Osmundsen’s coffee cup in one hand and a pot in the other. Henning covers his cup with his palm.

  “So what causes it?” he asks when the waiter has left.

  Osmundsen puts his head on one side.

  “No one really seems to know, but it’s usually trauma of some kind that the body is trying to protect itself against. Trine denies that she has ever experienced something that could trigger a reaction like that, so I guess we’ve agreed that it must have been due to work pressure. I could tell from looking at her in the days and weeks leading up to it. She was exhausted. And something was weighing her down.”

  “And still she carried on as justice secretary?”

  “Yes, anything else would have been unthinkable.”

  “And the media never got wind of it?”

  “No, they called it depression. The media write whatever you want them to write. Or they do some of the time.”

  Henning tries to digest the information he has just been given. “Do you think that’s what has happened now?”

  Osmundsen raises the coffee cup to his lips, takes a sip, and puts it down with a clatter. Then he throws up his hands.

  “Trine has always been a tough girl. I would have thought this kind of challenge would only have made her stronger. But who knows. And I don’t like the fact that I can’t get hold of her.”

  “She has probably just switched off her mobile.”

  Osmundsen nods helplessly and lowers his gaze again. Another silence descends on the table.

  “So what do you make of all this?” Henning says. “Did Trine do what they say she did?”

  Again Osmundsen flings out his hands.

  “She told me yesterday morning that the story isn’t true. That the accusations against her are false.”

  “But if that’s the case,” Henning says, “why doesn’t she defend herself? Why has she run away?”

  “I don’t know,” Osmundsen replies and lowers his gaze again. “It’s not like her. I’ve no idea what’s going on.”

  The next moment the mobile on the table between them starts to vibrate. Henning sees hope and fear rise in Osmundsen, who quickly picks it up. Only to put it down and let it ring out.

  “Journalists?” Henning asks.

  Osmundsen nods.

  “I think I must have got two hundred calls in the last twenty-four hours. They just refuse to give up.”

  Henning feels the need to say something, but the words won’t come out.

  “Do you have any idea where Trine might be?” he asks instead. “Is there somewhere the two of you go when you want to be alone?”

  Osmundsen thinks about it again, but Henning can see that he has given up. Shortly afterward Osmundsen makes his excuses, explains that he has to get back to work, where he is taking part in an important videoconference. Henning shakes his hand and says that he’ll pay, obviously. And the tall man disappears outside, out into a miasma of uncertainty.

  Henning doesn’t know why, but the sight of Pål Fredrik reminds him of his own father. In a rare TV profile he found about Trine last night, she talked about how hard her father’s death had been for her, how it shaped her as a person. And he wonders how Pål Fredrik will cope if Trine doesn’t recover.

  This line of thinking leads him straight to his mother. He wonders if the caretaker in the block where she lives has managed to do him that favor he asked him.

  Henning decides to find out.

  Chapter 45

  Pernille Thorbjørnsen and Ole Christian Sund are sitting down when Bjarne Brogeland and Ella Sandland enter the staff room. Their chairs are close together and they are leaning in toward each other, but both jump back when the officers greet them.

  “Hello,” Sund says with a stiff smile. He looks across to Thorbjørnsen, who immediately lowers her gaze and folds her hands in her lap. They don’t stay there for long; she fiddles with her hair, tries to sit upright, and glances quickly at the officers, who have yet to ask them any questions.

  Bjarne bides his time because he has a hunch about the two care workers, prompted by the first conversation he had with Thorbjørnsen after Erna Pedersen had been found dead. It started when she told him that Sund had called her after the murder.

  Now, it might just have been a conversation about a traumatic incident at the place where they both work. But given the looks they exchange and the closeness of the chairs, Bjarne suspects that their relationship is more intimate. Not only do they share a staff room, they also share a bed.

  The room is so small that the police officers remain standing.

  “Who would have thought we’d find you both here at the same time?” Bjarne says and looks at Thorbjørnsen. Her defenses were intact the first time he met her. Now he can practically see the cracks. Her face has lost some of its color.

  “Have you finished arguing?” Bjarne says.

  Thorbjørnsen’s gaze shoots up at him, then shifts to Sund, who starts picking at a callus.

  “There’s nothing wrong with having a quarrel, all couples do from time to time. I’m more interested in why you argued here, in Ward Four, on the afternoon Erna Pedersen was killed.”

  Bjarne sees the beginning of the protest form in Sund’s face.

  “And why we found your fingerprints on Erna Pedersen’s knitting needles,” Sandland interjects and points at Thorbjørnsen.

  “Mine?” She frowns.

  Sandland nods.

  “There’s nothing suspicious about that. I used to help her cast on and finish her mittens and socks. She couldn’t do it herself, poor thing, her hands weren’t what they used to be.”

  Bjarne looks at his colleague. It’s a plausible explanation, he thinks, and looks at the flame-red color in Thorbjørnsen’s cheeks.

  “What was your car doing up in Holmenkollen on Monday afternoon with you behind the wheel”—Bjarne points at Sund—“and Daniel Nielsen in the passenger seat?”

  Thorbjørnsen’s lips part.

  “Holmenkollen?” she exclaims and looks at her boyfriend. “You told me you were going to Storo.”

  Sund tries to look her in the eye, but can’t stand up to his girlfriend’s sudden, intense scrutiny.

  “I thought you were meeting a friend to see if he could fit my car with a new muffler.”

  Sund makes no reply, he simply bows his head.

  “Heaven help us.” She snorts and shakes her head.

  Bjarne gives them a little more time. Thorbjørnsen, who had briefly assumed a more upright posture, collapses again with fresh anger in her eyes.

  “Perhaps one of you can tell us what’s going on?” Sandland suggests.

  Thorbjørnsen’s face gets even redder. Finally Sund starts talking.

  “Please leave Pernille out of this. She’s got nothing to do with it.”

  “And what is ‘th
is’?” Sandland asks.

  Sund sighs.

  “You’re right,” he says, looking at Bjarne. “We did have an argument at work on Sunday. Daniel came by to drop off Pernille’s car because she needed it to drive herself home and he asked if he could borrow it again the next day for another job up in Holmenkollen.”

  “Another job?”

  “Well, you see—”

  Again Sund looks away. When he doesn’t start speaking immediately, Thorbjørnsen continues the story for him.

  “I was really upset about it,” she says and lifts her head. “Upset that they kept using my car for their scheme. I wanted out, pure and simple; I refused to be their accomplice any longer.”

  “Accomplice to what?” Sandland asks, sounding tired.

  Sund braces himself.

  “I’m a care worker,” he starts tentatively in a low voice and looks up at Sandland, now with a little more defiance in his gaze. “All I’ve ever done is help people in need.”

  Bjarne looks at him in disbelief.

  “You’re telling me you help people by selling them drugs that you steal from your employer?”

  Sund glowers at him. “Drugs? What are you talking about?”

  Sund puts on his most indignant face. “Just what exactly are you accusing us of?”

  Bjarne doesn’t reply.

  “We visit people in their own homes and give them the care they don’t feel they get enough of from social services.”

  Bjarne doesn’t realize that his jaw has dropped. This particular development has taken him completely by surprise.

  “Have you any idea how many people are let down by the health service in Norway today, Brogeland? Here in Oslo alone? How many people have watched relatives, people who helped build this country, be treated like rubbish? Like—” Sund can’t even find the words.

  “I’m sure it’s bad,” Bjarne says. “But are you telling me that you care for elderly people in their own homes?”

  Sund nods.

  “And you get paid cash?”

  Sund looks away.

  “That’s against the law,” Sandland says.

  “Don’t I know it,” Sund says, sounding cross.

  “And you’ve never stolen medication from the care home?”

  “Our clients have plenty of medication; they can get whatever they need for free on prescription. I don’t know why so much medication goes missing from Grünerhjemmet, but it’s something that happens in every care home. But care isn’t just about giving someone pills, Brogeland. Care is so much more.”

  “Mm,” Bjarne says again. “So this was a business you were running on the side?”

  Sund nods.

  “How long have you been doing this? When did you start?”

  Sund looks up at him again. The outrage he had worked up appears to have deserted him. His head hangs heavy.

  “My father had a stroke when he was only fifty-seven years old. He relied completely on full-time care for the rest of his life. I looked after him right up until his death a couple of years ago. My mother had died when I was little. Many of those who knew us also knew how I had cared for my father and they asked me if I might consider doing the same for their relatives. Not all the time, of course, but whenever I could. They would pay me. In the meantime, I had managed to get a job in the care sector and I was all too aware of the problems and the dissatisfaction people felt. So I said yes.”

  “And it took off?”

  Sund nods. “Daniel and I met through work and had become friends. I knew that he needed money so I asked him if he might be interested in a second job. Yes, we don’t declare it and yes, it’s illegal, but neither of us has a guilty conscience. Not for one second. People live better lives because of what we do.”

  “As do you.”

  Sund snorts. “I can pay my rent, yes. Just about. Something you would think was owed to a highly skilled man like me. But I guess you have to follow procedure,” he says, now sounding grumpy. “Lock me up. And when you get home tonight, look in the mirror and ask yourself if Oslo is a better place because you did. If we can all now sleep safely in our beds?”

  Bjarne says nothing; he sees no point in embarking on a discussion with Sund. So he thinks about Erna Pedersen again. His initial theory was that she must have seen something, but she hadn’t. Ole Christian Sund has nothing to do with her death. Nor, would it appear, do Daniel Nielsen and Pernille Thorbjørnsen.

  So who does?

  Sandland’s mobile starts to ring in her jacket pocket. She takes it out and signals to Bjarne that she will take the call outside. Bjarne is left alone with the care workers, who don’t say anything, nor do they look at each other.

  Sandland reappears shortly, but she stays in the doorway and summons him outside with her right index finger. Bjarne does as she asks. Sandland leans toward his ear and whispers, “We’ve got to go. There’s been another murder.”

  Chapter 46

  Two cars are parked quite a distance from each other outside the apartment block in Helgesensgate. Henning knows that reporters have been trying to call his mother and that they have rung her doorbell.

  He also knows that gaining access to a block of flats is easy, as is knocking on every available door until you find the person you are looking for. But when Henning lets himself in and walks up the stairs, he can see that the caretaker, Karl Ove Marcussen, has done his bit to make the job more difficult for the vultures. He has unscrewed the nameplate reading Christine Juul and hopefully disconnected her doorbell and telephone as well. In addition, he unplugged the aerial to make sure she can’t watch television. Henning’s mother is one of the few people left who still swears by landlines.

  He lets himself into her flat, but doesn’t call out her name until he has closed the door behind him. As always he is met by the stench of cigarettes, but the smell isn’t as pungent as usual.

  He walks in without first taking off his shoes, but pulls up short when he spots his mother in the kitchen. Or rather, slumped on the kitchen table, her cheek pressing against the surface. Next to her are an empty bottle and a shot glass.

  She’s dead, Henning thinks, and a mixture of grief and relief washes over him. The first emotion surprises him. The second fills him with shame. But then one of her fingers twitches and she moves her head. It looks as if she is trying to lift it, but she fails.

  His initial relief changes into disappointment while he tries to convince himself that it isn’t caused by the fact that she is still alive. Even so he can’t help wishing that she, for her own sake, would soon let go. She is trapped in her body, plagued by chronic obstructive pulmonary disease.

  With a feeling of dismay he helps her up, but she has no strength left in her arms. And he realizes from the smell of her breath that there is no point in trying to talk to her. She is quite simply too drunk.

  For a brief moment her eyes light up, she manages to focus, but then she sees who it is. Her excitement turns into contempt.

  “And here I was hoping it would be Trine,” she slurs.

  Henning looks at her. He sighs and allows yet another of her hurtful comments to pass. He tries to lift her up, but she fights him like a child. Henning lets her slump back down on her chair. Her upper body falls forward again. He takes hold of her shoulders; she makes a pathetic attempt to shake off his hands, but this time he keeps hold of her.

  “The radio,” she says, still slurring. “It’s not working. Can you do something about it? I haven’t been able to listen to the radio for two days.”

  Henning nods and promises to fix it.

  “And the TV,” she adds.

  “I’ll have a look at that as well. Come on,” he says, lifting her up again. “We’ve got to get you to bed. You can’t sleep here.”

  Once again she fights him.

  “Come on, Mum. Work with me here.”


  He realizes she doesn’t just smell of cigarettes and alcohol. Her clothes haven’t been washed for weeks. He dreads to think when she last had a shower.

  “Come on. Don’t be difficult now.”

  At times Henning had to resort to bribery when Jonas acted up and refused to go to nursery, get dressed, or go to bed. Sometimes Henning would bribe him with films, other times with pancakes or sweets. And when none of the usual inducements worked there was only one option left.

  Force.

  And Henning thinks about Jonas as he picks up his mother, ignoring the protests she spits at him. She mentions Trine again, she mutters something about cigarettes and her glass, but he just carries her out of the kitchen and into the bedroom. And when her struggle to free herself leads to nothing, but only wears her out and makes her breathless, she starts to gasp and point. Henning realizes what she wants and puts her down on the bed. He fetches her breathing apparatus and sees her grab the mask with the desperation of a drug addict. She closes her eyes and inhales the medication that loosens up the slime and relieves the gurgling in her chest.

  And it strikes him how desperately we cling to life, no matter how much each heartbeat hurts.

  Gradually she regains control of herself while the machine whirrs and hisses. And when her body has calmed down and her lungs are once more in a tolerable condition, she releases her grip on the plastic tube and sinks farther on the bed. A few seconds later she is asleep.

  Chapter 47

  It’s like trying to get up after a knockout only to be punched in the face again. Just as they have eliminated suspects in one murder inquiry, news of another comes in. And now they have to focus all their resources on that, at least for the next forty-eight hours. It’s not always like this, fortunately, but it happens more and more often. The cases are starting to pile up.

  Bjarne parks outside the police cordons next to several patrol cars and stays in his car while a gray light falls across rooftops that still show traces of days and nights of precipitation. And the rain continues to fall.

  As usual, curious onlookers have congregated nearby. It looks as if they are holding a bizarre vigil and there is an aura of morbid expectation in the raw air. Bjarne finds Emil Hagen at the entrance to the block of flats.