Scarred: A Novel Page 3

  Henning is left standing with a reply that withers on the tip of his tongue.

  Ten minutes later a man appears. He is happy to stop, but neither speaks nor understands Norwegian terribly well. It doesn’t, however, prevent him from chatting and smiling. Henning eventually works out that the man has washed the floors on the ground and first floors tonight, but he doesn’t know anything about what happened on the floors higher up.

  “Who lives on the third floor?” Henning asks him.

  “All the mad people,” the man says.

  Henning frowns.

  “The mad people?”

  “Yes, the ones who’ve gone gaga.”

  The man smiles and reveals a row of bright white teeth.

  “Right,” Henning says.

  The man gives him a thumbs-up before he gets on his bicycle and rides off.

  So the victim suffered from dementia, Henning concludes. It’s not a story in itself, but it’s a useful detail to include. He needs more.

  Henning knows that care staff have a duty of confidentiality, but it’s not a rule that has bothered him before. In his experience some people simply enjoy chatting. It’s just a question of finding them. Working on them.

  Not so easy on a Sunday night.

  A woman in a hijab comes out. Again Henning smiles, but she ignores him. A little later he tries a man with dark stubble, but learns only that he has been to visit his mother and is annoyed that he missed the Brann versus Vålerenga match on TV.

  Henning is about to call it a day and crosses his fingers that 6tiermes7—his secret Internet source in the police—can give him some information, when a man in a black leather jacket and trousers comes out. His hair, long and blond, swings rhythmically from side to side as he quickly crosses the car park. Henning thinks he recognizes him from somewhere and goes up to him.

  “Hi, my name is Henning Juul. I work for 123news. Could I have a word with you?”

  The man glances at Henning. “I’m busy,” he says.

  “I can walk with you if that’s more convenient?”

  The man still doesn’t say anything, but Henning can see there are signs of recognition in his face too.

  “What’s going on up there?” Henning asks.

  The man looks at him quickly.

  “I won’t quote you. I’m just trying to find out what happened. I hear someone killed a demented old lady?”

  The man glances at him again. “Sorry,” he says. “But I have to get home. My son—”

  The man breaks off halfway through the sentence and his eyes flicker. Henning continues to follow him.

  “Okay, fine,” Henning says. “But here’s . . . ”

  He starts to jog as he produces a business card from his pocket. “If there’s anything you want to tell me, on or off the record, then just give me a call. Anytime. Okay?”

  Reluctantly the man takes the card Henning is holding out.

  “Thank you. Then I won’t keep you any longer. I hope your son isn’t asleep yet.”

  He smiles after the man, who looks over his shoulder several times before he disappears in the night. There, Henning thinks, was an interesting person, someone who stands out from the crowd. A staff member who didn’t look exhausted after working, but upset. Or possibly frightened.

  For the next hour Henning tries to speak to more people, then he goes home. He sits down in front of his laptop hoping to chat to 6tiermes7, a hope that gradually diminishes as the clock approaches midnight. A little desperate now, Henning sends Bjarne Brogeland a few more text messages. He doesn’t give up before his police contact rings him back.

  “You’re a pest,” Brogeland says.

  “You said you’d call when you had two minutes.”

  The roar of traffic mingles with the sound of Brogeland’s exasperation.

  “Are you on your way home?”

  “Wow, you should’ve been a detective, Henning. It’s five to one in the morning.”

  “Then let’s make it quick. Demented old woman found killed. What happened?”

  “Your version is fine.”

  “Mm. But she wasn’t shot or someone would have heard it. And it would’ve been messy. So, for the same reason, I don’t think she was stabbed, either, because then you would already have arrested the killer.”

  “Who says we haven’t?”

  “You do. I can tell from your voice. You’re exhausted. You sound defeated. You wouldn’t if the case had been solved.”

  Brogeland sighs.

  “I can’t give you much, Henning. Tactical considerations, you know.”

  “Mm. What if I were to tell you that I spoke to a staff member tonight, a man with long, blond hair who looked like he’d seen the Grim Reaper—”

  “Did he talk to you?” Brogeland interrupts him.

  Henning makes no reply.

  “I hope he didn’t say anything?”

  Henning doesn’t reply immediately.

  “He said he had to hurry home to his son.”

  “Damn,” Brogeland hisses softly down the phone. Seconds pass. Henning knows better than to ruin a moment like this with more questions.

  Finally Brogeland heaves a sigh. And when he pulls over at a bus stop and starts talking, Henning fills a whole sheet of paper with a story that, back in the old days when he was a cynical and less sensitive reporter, he would have summarized in three words: Granny brutally slain.

  MONDAY

  Chapter 7

  She chose the ring tone because it reminded her of a fabulous party with a deluge of presents. Even so, the sound of her mobile is never a welcome intrusion.

  Trine Juul-Osmundsen, secretary of state for justice, flings out her arm toward the bedside table and tries to silence her phone before the noise wakes up Pål Fredrik, who often complains that Trine always gets up at the crack of dawn. She is too tired to open her eyes while she fumbles for the rectangular instrument of torture. Finally she gets hold of it and slides her thumb across the screen. Peace at last.

  Trine sinks back on her pillow. How many hours of sleep did she manage this time?

  Far too few.

  She had woken up in the middle of the night, soaked in sweat. In her dream she had found herself in a big, open space surrounded by a large crowd. She knew she couldn’t move her hands or her arms, but she still tried to free herself, calmly at first, then with rising panic. She turned her head to one side and gasped as she looked up at the gray sky. Something metallic was gleaming above her and she could see that it was sharp. Cheers broke out just as she saw the rope being cut and the huge blade come crashing down toward her. She knew it was the last thing she would ever see; the feeling was so strong, so vivid that she thought she must have died and was still clasping her neck when the terror of her nightmare woke her up and she had to remind herself to breathe.

  Trine turns over to look at Pål Fredrik, who is snoring away with his mouth half open. Sometimes he will ask what her night terrors were about and every time she gives a vague answer or tries to make light of them before she asks him a question in return in the hope it will distract him. And every time, he replies, “I dreamed about you, darling. I only ever dream about you.” And then he smiles, that remarkably charming smile of his that she couldn’t help falling in love with one evening God knows how many years ago when they met in Lillehammer at a conference about economic crime.

  She resists the urge to sneak a couple of minutes in his embrace before the day claims her. This tall, slim, muscular man who when he is awake is a bundle of energy, never happier than when he is on a bike or climbing a mountain. Now he is far away in a carefree slumber.

  Trine smiles tenderly; she has always envied her husband his ability to sleep. She can’t remember when she was last able to just close her eyes and drift off. She lies awake at night, though she tries not to think about that day
’s events, the people and the stories she encountered, tomorrow’s challenges and how she will meet them. Her brain refuses to go into hibernation mode. There is rarely or never room for personal reflection, even though Pål Fredrik is good at giving her something to smile about during the night before he turns over on his side and goes to sleep.

  Another reason Trine dreads sleep is that her nightmares seem to have a recurrent theme. Things she doesn’t want to dream about. Things she doesn’t want to remember.

  She can see that it’s light outside, but it’s not as bright as it was yesterday. Autumn is upon them and the mere thought of it makes it harder to leave the bed. But she forces herself to sit up, stretches out her arms, and opens up her lungs, exhaling slowly in a yawn. Naked, she shuffles out into the passage and into the bathroom, steps under the shower, where she ponders what lies in store for her this week.

  She is off to Sandvika Police Station later today, where the police’s IT support and purchasing services department are presenting a technical solution for electronic monitoring of people who have been served with restraining orders. This will be followed by lunch at the prime minister’s office and a cabinet meeting. Tomorrow she is making a visit to Bruvoll Prison and later she will open a new children’s home in Oslo. She’s also going on a trip to Kongsvinger in eastern Norway to discuss initiatives to strengthen border control. And she has a feeling she is due to speak about police preparedness in this Wednesday’s question time in Parliament.

  It’s going to be a busy week.

  When she has dried herself and applied body lotion and not too heavy makeup, she returns to the bedroom to select today’s skirt, blouse, and jacket. On her way to the kitchen she picks up her mobile, wakes the screen up purely out of habit, but stops in her tracks when she sees that she has already received a call from a VG journalist. Before 6:30 in the morning.

  The same man had tried to call her last night, but she never answers calls or requests from the fourth estate on Sundays. Or before she has had her first cup of coffee.

  So she goes to the kitchen, turns on the coffee machine, and adds ground coffee and water. She waits until the light stops flashing and presses a button with a picture of a miniature cup. Soon she is inhaling the aroma of an espresso, something that usually wakes her up.

  Then her mobile rings again.

  Trine puts down her cup. This time it’s a reporter from Dagbladet. She sighs and ignores the call. When will they learn that all requests must go through her press office? Trine decides to get a new mobile number—again. Far too many people in the media know it even though she changes it regularly. Someone in her department is clearly keen to curry favor with the press. As if the press has ever done anything to help her.

  Trine has gone over to the fridge to get some orange juice and cream cheese when her mobile starts ringing again. Nettavisen this time.

  She stops and stares at the display. Three calls this early.

  Something must have happened.

  Trine is about to go to her study to check the Internet newspapers when her mobile lights up again and beeps. A text message. A moment later another one arrives. And another one. Trine is in the process of opening the first message when the ringing of the doorbell makes her jump.

  A visitor at this hour?

  Trine pulls her jacket tightly around her, goes into the living room, and peeks out from behind the white curtains. There is a reporter outside with a pen and notepad in his hands. A photographer stands right behind him with the camera ready at head height.

  But what piques her curiosity, what makes her particularly anxious, is the sight of many cars arriving outside the house she and Pål Fredrik bought in Ullern in west Oslo for almost 18 million kroner last year. She sees that several of the cars bear the logos of NRK and TV2. A slightly bigger car with a satellite dish on its roof pulls up and parks outside her front door.

  Not only has something major happened, Trine realizes. Something is terribly, terribly wrong.

  Chapter 8

  Late to bed, early to rise.

  That’s how it has turned out, Bjarne Brogeland concludes, as he sits in his car on his way to work—again. And sometimes that is just the way it has to be. He resigned himself to it long ago and usually he loves giving his all to his work as an investigator. Using his body and his brain to solve a case and then moving on to the next one. Doing his bit to help make Oslo a city that’s safe to grow up and live in.

  But even Bjarne, who has been fit and healthy all his life, who has always watched his diet and rarely poisons his body with alcohol, has started noticing how life as a police officer in the capital takes its toll on him. More importantly it takes its toll on those about him, his family, because he is seldom with them when they get up or go to bed. And when he finally gets home, he is usually so tired and worn out that he can’t be bothered or doesn’t feel like doing anything. He just wants to relax. Enjoy some peace and quiet.

  He hasn’t told anyone, not even Anita, that he has written but not yet sent off an application to Vestfold Police. They have a six-month vacancy for a head of investigation starting in just four weeks. The current post holder is taking leave to write a book; a crime novel, Bjarne believes. Bjarne thinks this job could give him an opportunity to gain valuable management experience. Everything is about experience.

  And that’s the rub. He hasn’t been a detective for very long, but he has been with the police force all his life and is regarded as a safe pair of hands. He has studied management and he has recently made a name for himself with his analytical skills. Previously he always felt he had something to prove whenever he spoke up in a meeting, especially to his boss, Arild Gjerstad, head of investigation, but he has gotten over that, thank God.

  He has no idea how Anita would react if he were to get the job. It would mean his being away from home, from her and even more from Alisha; it would take him further away from the ideal of family life that is so important to his wife. Isn’t he making enough sacrifices as it is?

  He can see it in his daughter’s eyes and hear it in the conversation around the kitchen table on the rare occasions they are all there at the same time. He has absolutely no idea how she is getting on. What she learns at nursery, who her friends are. Who is mean to her and who is nice. It’s not easy being a kid, he remembers that from his own childhood. But it’s not easy being a dad, either. Or a dad and a policeman at the same time.

  Alisha deigned to let him put her to bed last night as long as he played with her first. Playing covers everything that makes her laugh out loud. He read to her from a Karsten and Petra book, scratched her on the back with sharp fingernails, something she loves. But he wasn’t allowed to lie next to her when she finally settled down. Only Anita gets to do that.

  And maybe it makes no difference how much he plays and reads and scratches. He will always come second. And, yes, that’s still a spot on the podium, but Bjarne has never enjoyed not being first. He has always loathed the thought that someone might be better at something than he is.

  I need more hours in the day, he thinks, and turns off toward Grønland. If you could buy time, he would have ordered it by the wagonload. Then there would be time for trips to Legoland, a seaside holiday to Sørlandet, he could have gone camping in the mountains, caught those fish. He could have given Anita the children she always said she wanted.

  But if he’s going to do his job properly, if he’s going to be as good a policeman as he wants to be, then he has to live the job. He has to be the job. And the job has to be him. All of him.

  And soon they will turn forty, both he and Anita. And even if time isn’t running out for him, then it is definitely running out for her. Exactly what that means they haven’t yet sat down to discuss. They haven’t had the time.

  Bjarne met Anita at Idretthøgskolen, the Norwegian School of Sports Sciences, in the mid-nineties. She was in the year below him and not really hi
s type; she was into Aerosmith and TV soaps such as Beverly Hills 90210 and Melrose Place, she was twenty-two centimeters shorter than him and played soccer from time to time. But with her shoulder-length blond hair, a slightly crooked front tooth, and her echoing, infectious laughter, she grew increasingly irresistible to him. He was happy to ignore the fact that she had grown up in Hamar and kept declaring her intention to move back east, to the home of the Hamar Olympic Hall, even though she was born in the beautiful scenic fishing village of Henningsvær in the Lofoten Archipelago. She had charm. The raw charm of Arctic Norway. He simply had to have her.

  At first she resisted him, primarily because she already had a boyfriend, but she surprised him by going for what she could get, rather than holding on to what she had. Six years later they got married, and because of Bjarne’s job they now live in a semidetached house on Tennisveien in Slemdal. Their car is a Volvo station wagon with a fan belt that never stops complaining. They don’t have a holiday cabin and they don’t have a dog, either, but they have a daughter whom he would happily throw himself under a bus to protect. Even if he is only second-best.

  You’ve been lucky, he tells himself, and watches the gray band of tarmac that stretches out in front of him. He sees people going to work, cyclists jumping a red light, and grim-faced pedestrians. The wind urges them on. Bjarne can feel the gusts against the car. A new spell of bad weather sails toward the city over the pointed roof of Oslo Plaza Hotel.

  It’s going to be a cold day, Bjarne forecasts, but hopefully a productive one, even though they didn’t learn much about the eighty-three-year-old victim last night. A widow, retired teacher, born and raised in Jessheim, moved to Oslo in the early nineties. She has a son who doesn’t visit her very often, but he was the one in the photograph, Tom Sverre Pedersen, and his family. He is a doctor and lives in Vinderen. And the photograph of him and his family had indeed been torn down and smashed.

  I’m sure it’s important, Bjarne thinks, but for reasons he has yet to find out. What he finds most peculiar about the case so far is that no one seems to have seen or heard anything. Neither the care workers nor any other staff had noticed if anyone entered or left Erna Pedersen’s room that afternoon. And no one Bjarne spoke to had had a bad word to say about the victim. She never made a fuss, barely communicated with anyone, and spent most of her time knitting. An old lady who kept herself to herself and did what little she was capable of.