Scarred: A Novel Read online

  Henning then thinks about Erna Pedersen’s closest family. Surely no one is better placed to tell him about any former enemies that she might have had, and he finds out that Pedersen has a son named Tom Sverre Pedersen, who works as a doctor at Ullevål University Hospital.

  Tom Sverre Pedersen has featured in the media a few times in recent years because he believes that the training of doctors is ripe for reform. If Henning is not mistaken, Pedersen took part in a debate on NRK on exactly this subject not that long ago.

  Henning finds Pedersen’s mobile number, but his call goes straight to voicemail. I’m not the only one who wants to get hold of him today, Henning guesses. For all he knows, Pedersen could be being interviewed at the police station right now. Even so, Henning leaves a message and asks Pedersen to return his call. He probably won’t, but you never know, he just might. Sometimes people with a public profile are happy to speak to the media when the opportunity presents itself.

  The buzz in the offices of 123news hasn’t diminished—on the contrary, Henning can’t remember when he last heard his sister’s name mentioned so many times in one day. And it occurs to him that he hasn’t even bothered to find out why every news organization in Norway seems to have gone overboard with this story.

  He brings up the front page of 123news, where he encounters fat, bold typeface against a black background and large pictures of Trine standing on a podium with a hotel logo strategically placed as near the microphone as possible. “Shortly after giving this speech she assaulted a young, male politician,” the lead-in says.

  Henning clicks on it and learns that Trine took part in the Labor Party’s annual conference on October 9 last year, where she is alleged to have forced a young man to have sex with her. “The worst abuse of power,” someone states. “Shameful,” cries another. A third person says that Trine ought to be reported to the police. So far the police haven’t taken action; they are waiting for someone to file a complaint, but the public prosecutor the newspaper has spoken to will not rule out that the police might launch their own inquiry.

  The lead story is accompanied by background material, reactions, comments, blogs, and quotes. There are several other pictures of her; Henning looks at the new Trine as he has slowly started to know her. Smooth skin, nice makeup, elegant clothes, excellent posture, and political gravitas in her eyes.

  Henning clicks his way through several articles. An unnamed source claims that the unidentified, up-and-coming politician had tried to resolve the issue with Trine, to get her to apologize unreservedly, but that she refused. There are also speculations as to whether the party knew about the accusations and failed to deal with them.

  Henning’s attention is drawn to the TV screen to his right. The news channel is on and Prime Minister William Jespersen is seen getting out of a car. The footage is from earlier that morning and Jespersen is asked to comment on the story in today’s edition of VG. But Jespersen merely says that he agrees with the justice secretary, that he, too, refuses to comment on anonymous allegations, and that is all he is prepared to say for the time being.

  The camera cuts back to the studio, where a news anchor and a commentator look gravely at each other. The anchor asks how toxic this issue is for Jespersen’s government.

  “It’s highly toxic,” the commentator replies. “Last year alone the prime minister had to replace several government ministers and many have started to doubt his judgment when it comes to making appointments. Trine Juul-Osmundsen represents a huge headache for the prime minister since she—despite speculation to the contrary—has proved to be a very popular and effective minister. The fact that even someone like her finds herself in hot water must cause the prime minister to lose sleep, I’m absolutely sure of it.”

  “Talking about sleep,” the anchor continues, “how do you think that Juul-Osmundsen is feeling? It’s no secret that she struggled with mental health issues not all that long ago and that she had been on sick leave due to depression. How do you think all this is going to affect her?”

  “It’s far too early to say, but it clearly isn’t going to be easy for her. I don’t recall that we’ve ever had a case where a female minister is alleged to have exploited her position in this way. Now, we have to treat this matter with caution because we’ve yet to hear the justice secretary’s side of the story, but I find it hard to see how she can continue in her post after this.”

  Depression, Henning thinks and frowns. That comes as news to him, but perhaps it shouldn’t. Until his return to work last spring, he had barely read a newspaper or seen any TV while he was in Haukeland Hospital or later at Sunnaas Rehabilitation Center. But why was Trine depressed?

  The screen blurs and an image of Trine as a little girl appears in Henning’s head. She is jumping through a garden sprinkler at their home in Kløfta; she is probably no more than six or seven years old. Her hair is wet; it sticks to her back and neck. Excited, she races toward him with a triumphant smile across her face. She takes a run-up, leaps through the water, breaking the jets before they point up at the sky in an elegant arc once more. “Come on, Henning,” she calls out in her childish voice. And for a moment her voice reminds him of Jonas.

  Henning watches himself take a step toward her. Just one, then he stops. Trine shouts that he must have a go because it’s such fun. Sitting on a flimsy director’s chair nearby is their mother, who is holding a cigarette and smiling. She follows her daughter with her eyes, but her expression changes as she looks at him as if to order him into the water. So Henning does it, he takes a run-up and jumps; the jets cut through him like icy knives and he hears Trine squeal and shout out: “I told you it would be fun!”

  Henning blinks and is back in the office. He sees all the people in front of him, he hears the noise, senses the mood, the chaos; everything springs to life again. And he understands, possibly for the first time, the kind of strain Trine will be under for days to come. People will follow her wherever she goes, demand answers, try to speak to anyone who knows her, friends, family. Opposition politicians will make statements, there will be opinion polls, and the telephones won’t ever stop ringing in the office of any Norwegian newspaper with more than ten readers. Every news organization will try to catch up with the head start that VG currently has with its exclusive. This means high frequency of publication and low threshold of quality for what is published. Single-source journalism. And it won’t be long before other stories will come out; anything even vaguely controversial that Trine has ever done will be reexamined.

  But this isn’t just about Trine, Henning thinks. There are other people to consider. So he gets up and walks away from the others. He takes out his mobile and sees that the time is 12:21. Then he rings his mother. But instead of a dial tone he gets a message telling him that the number is temporarily unavailable.

  Henning nods happily to himself.

  Chapter 23

  How is that even possible?”

  Bjarne Brogeland is still standing outside the meeting room on the ground floor of Grünerhjemmet, flicking through the documents that Ella Sandland has had faxed over from the police station. Sandland shrugs.

  “I mean—don’t they run checks on people before they hire them? I thought anyone who wanted a job in the care sector had to disclose criminal convictions.”

  Brogeland reads the document from the beginning again, and sees that the conviction of Daniel Nielsen, Erna Pedersen’s primary care worker, dates back to May 2006. Nielsen suspected his girlfriend of being unfaithful and tried to beat the truth out of her. The fact that he was right wasn’t regarded as a mitigating circumstance.

  “So he has a temper and a predisposition for violence,” Bjarne says.

  “But is it likely that Erna Pedersen could have provoked him in quite the same way?” Sandland wonders.

  Brogeland grimaces quickly before he takes out his mobile and sees that Nielsen still hasn’t returned his call. Brogeland rings
the number again, but it goes straight to voicemail. This time he doesn’t leave a message.

  “When is he due in at work?” he asks Sandland and hangs up.

  “Not until four o’clock this afternoon.”

  “Okay,” Brogeland says. “Let’s pay him a home visit.”

  * * *

  The city is gray from the low-hanging clouds when Bjarne starts the car and maneuvers out into the traffic.

  “What did she have to say in her defense?” he asks as he turns left into Søndregate. At the bottom of the hill the River Aker winds its way under several bridges, warbles between dense alders and weeping willows whose branches arch down and only just avoid getting wet.

  “Who?” Sandland asks.

  “The manager of the care home. I presume she was the one who hired Nielsen?”

  “No defense,” Sandland says with a sigh. “She was desperate for people, she said, and Nielsen came across as a good candidate at the interview. And you don’t have a legal obligation to disclose criminal convictions before you start working in a care home.”

  Brogeland shakes his head and drives up through Grünerløkka. The wheels find their own path between tram lines and potholes in the streets after years of cable laying and poor maintenance. The buildings they pass look like unwashed LEGO bricks, square and painted a range of different colors.

  The ground in Sofienberg Park is sated with foliage from the chestnut trees in between patches of wet green grass and dark brown, slippery paths. They continue driving in the direction of Sinsen, where the green area of Torshovdalen lies like a deep ravine in between arms of crisscrossing roads leading out of the city. The car plows through the wind.

  “Did you get a chance to speak to that angry man from the TV lounge?” Bjarne asks. “Guttorm Tveter or whatever his name was?”

  “I did,” Sandland says and a smile forms around her lips. “It’s a wonder I’ve got any voice left. The old guy’s deaf as a post. And he refuses to wear a hearing aid.”

  “Typical,” Bjarne says. “Did he see anything? Did you get the impression that he might be involved?”

  “It was difficult to get much sense out of him. I’m not even sure he understands that Erna Pedersen is dead.”

  “Really?”

  “He was much more interested in telling me about his childhood in Linderud. He could remember every single detail of that.”

  “That’s often the way it is,” Bjarne says. “Old people can’t remember what happened yesterday, but you try asking them about the war.”

  Sandland laughs.

  “Do you know what he asked me?”

  “No?”

  “He asked me to bring a bottle of cognac next time.”

  Brogeland smiles.

  “Braastad XO, preferably,” Sandland says.

  “That’s priceless,” Brogeland laughs. “I think I have a bottle of that at home.”

  There is silence between them again. Brogeland turns into Sinsenterrassen, says goodbye to an open, gray Oslo and hello to denser development where the cars drive closer to the pavements and people lean into the weather.

  “But Guttorm Tveter must have had something to say about what happened yesterday. Doesn’t he remember anything?”

  “Doesn’t seem like it,” Sandland says. “He was more concerned about what time it was. There was something he wanted to watch on TV.”

  Bjarne finds a parking space outside the supermarket and reluctantly leaves the car in favor of an uninspiring walk that puts an end to their conversation. They step out on the pavement, where wet leaves cover the tarmac like a blanket, find the brown building where Daniel Nielsen lives and press a button with his name on it. Brogeland stuffs his hands in his jeans pockets in a vain attempt to warm them up and looks up at the gray-and-white windows.

  Soon they hear a voice saying, “Hello?”

  “Hello, this is the police,” Ella Sandland says. “Are you Daniel Nielsen?”

  A long silence ensues before the intercom on the wall finally buzzes to let them in.

  The officers enter and take the lift up to the fourth floor, where a man meets them in the stairwell. Dark hair falls to his ears from a messy center parting and three-day-old stubble steals the light from his face. He is wearing a black T-shirt with a picture of Whitney Houston. Below the artist’s face the caption says Houston, we have a problem in red letters. His trousers, also black, are sagging. Over his belt hangs a belly that would make Bjarne run to the nearest treadmill in sheer panic.

  “Hi,” Daniel Nielsen says quickly and smiles at the investigators. “Have you been trying to get hold of me today?” He laughs. “I’ve been to the gym, you see, and I’ve only just gotten home this minute.”

  “So you haven’t managed to shower yet?” Bjarne says.

  “No, I—” Nielsen runs a hand through his hair. “I haven’t got around to that.”

  He rubs his hands on his trouser leg. He smiles at them again.

  “Where do you work out?” Bjarne asks.

  “Eh, Svein’s Gym,” Nielsen says.

  Bjarne nods.

  “Could we come in, please?” Sandland asks.

  Nielsen looks at her.

  “Can’t we just take it out here? My flat’s a real mess and I—I—”

  “We prefer to talk inside,” Bjarne says firmly and doesn’t offer any explanation.

  “Of course.” Nielsen nods and goes in first, holds the door open for them, and kicks some shoes out of the way before they reach a narrow hallway. Pegs on the wall are taken by jackets, baseball caps, and a sad-looking umbrella. They walk past a cracked mirror and a three-drawer white chest where one knob is falling off.

  They step inside the living room. There is an open laptop on a desk. Next to it is a plate with a half-eaten sandwich. There are teeth marks in the sausage. A full glass of milk is standing beside it. On the walls are big framed pictures. Snowboarders in a white mountain terrain. An angler in a river in water up to his waist. Some smaller close-ups of flowers in vivid colors.

  “Let’s talk about Caroline,” Bjarne says and takes a seat.

  The old sofa cushions sag under him and he ends up sitting close to the floor. Nielsen’s eyes widen. And then he slumps.

  “Of course,” he says, looking down. “I should have known you’d find out about her.” Nielsen heaves a sigh and clenches his fist.

  “Why didn’t you tell your boss about your conviction?”

  Nielsen looks at Sandland.

  “Do you think I’d have gotten the job if I had?” He shakes his head. “I needed money and I—”

  He shakes his head again. The officers let him take his time. Soon he looks up at them.

  “But I’ve got nothing to do with what happened to Erna Pedersen,” he says. “I give you my word.”

  Nielsen does his best to give them a look that inspires confidence, but it is a staring competition that Bjarne wins easily.

  “Did you know her?”

  “No,” he says quickly and loudly. “I mean, only through work, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “That was what I was asking.”

  “No,” Nielsen repeats. “Absolutely not.”

  Bjarne nods slowly.

  “Did you go to work yesterday?”

  “Eh, no. I mean, I stopped off at work, but I wasn’t working.”

  “Why did you stop off at work?”

  “I was just dropping something off.”

  Bjarne looks at him, waits for a continuation that doesn’t come.

  “When was this?”

  “Late afternoon. Four thirty, five, or thereabouts.”

  It grows quiet between them while Bjarne stares at him.

  “Did you see anyone enter or leave Erna Pedersen’s room while you were there?”

  Nielsen shakes his head
in jerks before he wipes his nose with the back of his hand.

  “Did you notice anything while you were there? Anything unusual?”

  Nielsen scratches his nose vigorously with the nail of his index finger. “No, I don’t think so.”

  High up his forehead along his hairline the sweat has darkened his brown hair.

  Sandland looks around.

  “Why did you need money?” she asks.

  Nielsen looks at her. His eyebrows narrow. “Do you know how much it costs to rent a one-bedroom flat in Oslo these days? Even up here?”

  Sandland shakes her head.

  “I’m paying just over twelve thousand kroner a month before utility bills and phone charges. I have to have a job. Though I guess I’ll get the sack now.”

  Nielsen tears a tiny bit of skin off his thumb. It starts to bleed so he reaches out for a roll of toilet paper in the middle of the table, next to two lumpy stones that look glued together.

  “How would you describe Erna Pedersen’s behavior recently?”

  Nielsen hesitates, rips off a sheet, and wraps it round his thumb.

  “Difficult to say. I didn’t really know her all that well. I’ve only been her primary care worker for a couple of months and I rarely got a sensible word out of her.”

  “Okay,” Bjarne says and gets up. Sandland does the same. “We’ll probably want to speak to you later. And it would be good if you could pick up the phone the next time we call, that way we don’t have to come up to your flat.”

  “Yes, er, sorry, I—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Bjarne says. “You were at the gym. At Svein’s Gym.”

  Bjarne stares at him for a long time.

  “Yes,” Nielsen says and laughs quickly. “So I was.”

  “Thanks for the chat,” Sandland says and leaves first.