Death Deserved Page 7

  The caretaker had apparently been attacked in a tool shed, and after a brief search she found it. As she propped her bike against its wall, her mobile vibrated inside her jacket pocket. When she saw that it was a text message from Kasper Bjerringbo, butterflies began to flap in her stomach. He was congratulating her on her coverage of the Nordstrøm case. Emma smiled to herself and sent a quick thank-you.

  Now it was time to investigate. No one was inside the tool shed right now, but she saw that a hosepipe was attached to a tap on its wall and stretched around to the rear. Following it, she came across an older man, who had laid down the hose with the water still pouring out, forming a puddle in a thicket where plants were growing wild. He carried a green plastic watering can in his hand and was using it to water the flowers at one of the gravestones.

  The man looked startled when Emma approached. ‘Oh!’ he ex­claimed, quickly followed by a somewhat shamefaced, ‘Sorry.’

  ‘I should apologise for scaring you,’ she said.

  ‘Not at all,’ the man replied, moving his free hand to the small of his back. ‘You just took me by surprise, that’s all.’

  The man, who looked to be in his early sixties, smiled at her, and when he drew himself up to his full height, she saw he had stitches above one eye. His nose also seemed slightly red.

  ‘That’s maybe not so strange,’ Emma said, ‘after what happened here yesterday.’

  She was pleased with her own comment, as he could think it was aimed at him directly, but it could also simply refer to the attack re­ported in the media.

  ‘Yes…’ he said, lowering his eyes.

  Emma took a few steps closer. ‘Were you the one who was at­tacked?’ she asked as gently as she could.

  He looked up at her. ‘Yes, it … was me.’

  ‘And you’re back at work already?’ she said, sounding impressed. ‘I’d have taken the chance of some time off while I was at it.’ Emma forced a smile and a chuckle.

  ‘There aren’t many other staff here, apart from me,’ he said. ‘So…’

  ‘If only all employees were like you.’

  The man smiled. ‘Can I help you with anything?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, maybe,’ she said. ‘I’m Emma Ramm, and I work for news.no. I’m a journalist.’

  ‘I don’t want to end up in a newspaper,’ he rushed to say.

  ‘You don’t need to, either,’ Emma said. ‘I was just wondering why there was such a large police presence here last night?’

  ‘Yes, there were lots of them,’ the man said. ‘But it probably wasn’t because of me.’

  ‘No?’

  The caretaker shook his head. ‘It was something about a lady they were looking for.’

  Emma didn’t know if she could hide her elation. ‘A lady?’ she re­peated, taking another step nearer.

  ‘Yes, but all they found was her phone, lying somewhere in the graveyard.’

  Emma gave this some thought. It couldn’t possibly be about anyone but Sonja Nordstrøm. In that case, this was certainly a dra­matic development. The police had been searching for her among the gravestones. And in the end they found her phone – but not Nord­strøm herself.

  ‘Was there anything else you wanted to know?’ he asked. ‘I arrived a bit late today, and we’ve a burial in a couple of hours.’

  Emma mulled this over. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘Thanks a million for your help.’

  21

  Nicolai Wibe tossed a newspaper on to the conference table.

  ‘I found him,’ he said, as he approached Blix.

  ‘Found who?’

  ‘The junkie in the graveyard.’

  ‘How’s that? Where is he?’

  ‘Long story,’ Wibe said, half turning away. ‘He’s down in the base­ment. Starting to get the shakes and keen to get out as fast as possible. I haven’t taken a formal statement yet because I thought you might want to be present. It’s an interesting tale.’

  Blix got to his feet and glanced at the time. Half an hour to go before the morning meeting.

  ‘What’s his name?’ he asked, skirting the row of desks.

  ‘Geir Abrahamsen. Geia to his friends.’

  The lift took them down to the basement, where their shoes echoed along the corridor of cells. The duty officer rattled his keys and opened the cell for them. A pale man glanced up from the mat­tress at the far end. Blix had no doubt he was the right person – the red mark on his cheek was conspicuous. The man tried to stand up, but his legs were wobbly, and as Blix hunkered down and spoke his name, Geia slumped back. The stench of alcohol hit Blix full in the face.

  ‘Tell us about the man with the money,’ Wibe said.

  Geia opened his mouth, as if to protest. Blix saw that the caretaker at Gamlebyen Graveyard had been correct: there were hardly any teeth left in the man’s mouth. ‘Tell us what you said to me before,’ Wibe encouraged him. ‘Tell us what happened.’

  The look on Geia’s face was tortured. ‘Yesterday morning,’ he began, scratching his cheek with dirty fingers. ‘A guy came over to me and said I could earn some dough if I did him a favour.’

  Blix shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His knees were playing up.

  ‘He gave me a phone that he wanted me to switch on at eight o’clock on the dot. I was to drop it in one of the graves at the Gam­lebyen Graveyard – without being seen. I was planning on doing it, but then I panicked when that caretaker turned up, so … I had to…’ He shook his head. ‘I got ten thousand kroner for it,’ he said quickly, making eye contact with Blix. ‘Do you know how much money that is to me? Plus promises of more if I just did exactly what he said. But…’ He looked down and then looked up again, searching for the cell door. ‘He also said that…’ Once again he scratched his cheek, on the red mark. ‘…That if I didn’t do exactly what he told me, that he would find me and … get me.’

  Blix raised an eyebrow. ‘Get you? Did he say that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Geia nodded quickly. ‘I’d no doubt he meant it.’

  ‘This man,’ Blix said, now on tenterhooks. ‘What did he look like – do you remember?’

  Geia shook his head. ‘All I remember is he was wearing a hoodie. And he was very careful not to let me see his face.’

  ‘How tall was he?’

  Geia gave this some thought and looked up at Blix. ‘About the same as you, maybe.’

  Blix was six feet tall.

  ‘Colour of his eyes?’

  ‘I didn’t see.’

  ‘What did he sound like? What was his voice like?’

  Another pause.

  Blix waited impatiently for a response. ‘Was it light, deep, harsh, soft…?’

  ‘It was … quiet.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Quiet. It was quiet. Cold. Kept an even tone, if you know what I mean. Exactly the same tone of voice.’

  Blix mulled this over as he stored Geia’s information into his memory banks.

  ‘Any facial features you noticed?’

  ‘I never saw it,’ Geia said, before adding: ‘His face, I mean. Please. I don’t want to get mixed up in anything. OK? I…’

  As Blix stood up, his knee joints clicked.

  ‘You said he’d promised you more if you did as he said. Did he say anything about when he would come back? When you would meet him again?’

  Geia shook his head and tried to stand up too. This time he managed it, only just.

  ‘Can I get out now?’ he asked.

  Blix looked at Wibe and pulled him back a few metres.

  ‘Go through the formalities with him,’ Blix whispered, ‘and then let him go. He has to tell us at once if he’s contacted again. And this time he has to be careful to see what this guy in the hoodie looks like.’

  Wibe nodded.

  Geia gave a deep sigh.

  Blix left the cell, and as soon as he was out of the stuffy basement corridor, his phone buzzed:

  Hello again. Gard Fosse isn’t
returning my calls … I’ve just chatted to Borre Simonsen at Gamlebyen Graveyard. I have a good story I’d like to publish. Ring or text me when you have a minute. Regards, Emma Ramm, news.no

  22

  The owner of Kalle’s Choice was called Karl Oskar Hegerfors, and he was from Sweden. He stood behind the counter serving an old man with a walking stick. Hegerfors smiled at Emma as he handed a double macchiato and a cinnamon bun to the old man.

  ‘Tjäna, grabben,’ Emma said after the man with the walking stick had moved away.

  ‘Tjäna, tjejen,’ Kalle replied. ‘How’s your left leg today?’ he then asked, in Swedish. Emma stopped and raised her eyebrow. ‘I’m fed up asking you about the weather or suchlike,’ the Swede went on, ‘so today I thought I‘d ask you about your left leg.’

  Emma looked down at it in consternation.

  ‘Is there something wrong with my left leg?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  Kalle knocked some coffee grains from an espresso press. The tapping penetrated straight through Emma’s skull.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with it,’ she said, taking a step closer to the counter. ‘Can I have an orange juice, a glass of water and a Greek salad, please?’

  ‘OJ, GW and GS,’ Hegerfors jotted down on a notepad in front of him. ‘You don’t want to try anything new, then?’

  ‘New things are dangerous.’

  He smiled and looked up at her. With only a pinch of benev­olence, Emma could place him in the category ‘attractive’; he had short dark hair and was just tall enough – seven or eight centimetres taller than she was – and he always pushed his shoulders back a little and had good posture into the bargain.

  ‘You look stressed out, my girl,’ he said.

  ‘Indeed I am, my boy. And hungry too.’

  Her phone gave off a message signal. The text was from Blix. He had taken his time answering her message about Gamlebyen Grave­yard, but here it was at last.

  Where are you? was all it said.

  ‘I’m a slave to your command,’ Kalle said, giving a deep bow as he backed into the kitchen.

  Emma smiled.

  Kalle’s Choice, Sofies plass. Why do you ask? she typed, before heading for her usual seat on the first floor. Once she was there, she took out her laptop.

  As she’d pedalled back from the graveyard, Emma had planned her story about Nordstrøm’s mobile phone. Now it was just a matter of writing it out and getting a comment or confirmation from the police.

  Soon Kalle arrived with the food.

  ‘When are you going to reward me for my efforts?’ he asked.

  ‘When you become a rich man with a house in the Stockholm archipelago,’ Emma said with a smile, as she speared a cube of feta cheese with her fork. Hegerfors turned around with another theatrical bow. Emma smiled again and checked her phone. No reply from Blix.

  Her phone rang while she sat holding it in her hand. It was Irene, her sister.

  ‘Hi,’ Emma said. ‘You’ll have to be quick; I’m a bit busy right now.’

  ‘OK,’ her sister answered. ‘I was just wondering if you could look after Martine today?’

  ‘Today?’ Emma replied, slightly crestfallen.

  ‘I know it’s short notice, but … I’ve been asked to take an extra night duty, and … well, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.’

  Emma glanced at the half-finished story on her computer screen. It wasn’t exactly convenient to look after a five-year-old girl – today of all days. But she knew Irene didn’t earn a huge amount as a nurse. She rented a two-bedroom flat in Sagene, but with rents as high as they were, things weren’t easy financially. Emma had offered to let them rent one of her rooms for a notional sum, but even though the offer had clearly been tempting, her sister had been too proud to accept.

  ‘OK, then,’ Emma said. ‘But I might have to do some work.’

  ‘Martine’s well used to that, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose,’ Emma said. ‘She’s used to pancakes, at any rate. So that’s what we’ll have today too.’

  ‘Just don’t let her eat too much sugar,’ Irene said. ‘She sprinkles it on pancakes if she gets half a chance.’

  ‘Just like you did when you were a little girl.’

  ‘I still do.’

  ‘Me too.’

  They both laughed.

  ‘Thanks so much, Emma,’ her sister said in the end, and Emma could hear how tired Irene was. One more night duty, on top of all the others she took as often as the chance arose.

  ‘And you’ll pick her up from nursery too, then, won’t you?’

  Emma looked at the time. That gave her a few more working hours.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Thanks again, Emma. You’re a star.’

  They rang off.

  A movement on the stairs made Emma raise her eyes. Alexander Blix was approaching her.

  ‘Hello, Emma,’ he said.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, taken aback.

  ‘Can I sit down for a couple of seconds?’ He pointed at a chair on the opposite side of her table.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she said after a brief hesitation. She drew her laptop closer to her side of the table and closed the screen.

  Blix sat down.

  ‘Have you found her?’ Emma asked.

  He shook his head.

  ‘But you’ve found her phone?’

  The policeman paused for a moment before nodding. One corner of his mouth rose in a tentative smile. First he wanted to know what had led her to the graveyard and the caretaker. While Emma ex­plained, he rubbed one hand over the bristles that had begun to sprout on his chin.

  ‘Well thought through,’ he said, an impressed look on his face.

  Emma accepted the compliment with a smile.

  While Blix explained what had led the police to the cemetery, Emma opened her laptop again.

  ‘Who switched it on?’ she asked, writing at the same time.

  ‘I can’t answer that,’ Blix replied. ‘But what I can say is that we don’t think it was Nordstrøm.’

  ‘What more can you tell me?’

  Blix hesitated.

  Emma lifted her fingers from the keyboard, and put her hands up, showing she wasn’t going to type what he might tell her. ‘I can keep it out of the story if you prefer.’

  ‘Her phone was found in an open grave,’ he said finally.

  Emma’s eyes widened.

  Blix leaned across the table. ‘But you can’t quote me on any of that,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t really be here. The two of us shouldn’t even be talking to each other, but there’s something I—’

  His phone rang, interrupting him. He looked both discouraged and anxious, then looked away and plucked his mobile from his jacket pocket. He seemed to consider turning it off, but then changed his mind.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I need to take this.’ He answered the call. ‘Yes, Blix here?’

  Emma went on writing as he talked. Keeping what she had already included about the police source, but changing the headline.

  ‘Where, then?’ Blix inquired into his phone.

  He stood up with a serious expression on his face. Turned halfway around, and then back again.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Thanks. I’m on my way.’ He hung up. Stared straight ahead.

  ‘What is it?’ Emma asked, getting to her feet too.

  ‘I … don’t entirely know,’ Blix began, meeting Emma’s gaze. He seemed to reconsider rapidly, then said: ‘You can’t write about any of this, Emma. Not yet. But a dead body’s been found close to Sonja Nordstrøm’s summer cottage.’

  Emma sat gawping for a few seconds.

  ‘Is it her, then, or what?’

  ‘It’s too early to answer that,’ he said. ‘But I have to run. Don’t write about this latest development either. Understood?’ He placed one hand on the back of the chair. ‘Can I rely on you not to?’ he asked, his tone more severe.

  Emma nodded, tentatively at first, then
more insistently.

  Blix disappeared down the stairs.

  Emma sat down again and moved her bowl of salad to the neigh­bouring table. A corpse found. At Sonja Nordstrøm’s cottage.

  Oh. My. God.

  A quick Internet search told her that the cottage was located on Hvaler, an archipelago south of the Oslo Fjord and close to the Swedish border. Google informed her that it was 108 kilometres away, and that driving there would take one hour and twenty-nine minutes.

  She looked at the time. The nursery closed at half past four. It was doable, but there was a chance she might not make it. Should she call her sister and ask to borrow her car, and then get someone else to look after Martine? But she knew Irene didn’t have anyone else to turn to at such short notice.

  One more possibility existed. Wollan. She didn’t like him or the way he put stories together. He usually drew hasty conclusions and exaggerated his descriptions, but Anita wouldn’t be happy if the chance of being first out of the blocks to report Sonja Nordstrøm’s death slipped through their fingers.

  She picked up her phone and turned it over in her hand. To Wollan, journalism was generally all about clicks and ratings. If some piece of information or aspect of a story diminished its sensational­ism he usually left it out. Emma was reluctant to let him spoil the Nordstrøm story like that, but her respect for Anita forced the deci­sion upon her. She keyed in his number and, in a few hurried sentences, told Wollan what she knew.

  ‘So Sonja Nordstrøm’s dead?’ he asked.

  ‘We don’t know that for sure.’

  ‘But who else could it be?’ he added, not expecting an answer. ‘Are you on your way out there?’

  Emma explained why she couldn’t go.

  ‘OK, then, I’ll do it.’ He made it sound as if he was doing her a favour. ‘Have you published anything yet?’ was his next question.

  ‘I need to get official confirmation first.’

  ‘Hello?’ he said. ‘You’re sitting on a scoop here. If you’re certain of your information, then obviously you should publish it.’