Thomas Enger - Scarred

Henning had hoped that she would comment on the story he filed last night, but she simply stops and looks around. The pumping vein on her neck is working hard. Her cheekbones are – if possible – even more pronounced than usual.

‘I’ve been wondering about something,’ she begins.

Henning waits for her to continue.

‘As you probably know the—’

Heidi looks across the room as if the atmosphere will justify what she is about to suggest. Henning has a pretty good idea of what is coming next.

‘No one can get hold of your sister,’ Heidi then says.

She fixes him with a look again. In the past the expression in her eyes has been icy, but not today. Now they are dark brown, verging on black. They match her personality.

‘Have you spoken to her today?’ she asks him.

He snorts and bursts out laughing.

‘Heidi, I haven’t spoken to Trine for years.’

‘No, but—’

‘And even if I had been in contact with her, I couldn’t ring her now, you know that. I can’t work on a story that involves Trine.’

‘No, but I thought that maybe you could—’

Again her gaze disappears out into the room.

‘You thought that I might try to get a comment from her all the same,’ he says and checks her face for a reaction. And it comes. Her gaze is sharp, a little offended at first, then it changes to aggressive.

He shakes his head.

‘Even if I did have Trine’s number, which I don’t, then I highly doubt that she would pick up if I called. Trine and I haven’t seen each other for a long time. She didn’t even attend Jonas’s funeral. Nor was I invited to her wedding.’

Henning sits down and switches on his computer.

‘Yes, but at least you could have tried,’ Heidi says, showing no signs of leaving. ‘That’s the problem with you, Henning. You won’t even try. You can never do as you’re told, you always have to argue. Is it too much to ask that you show a bit of team spirit just once in a while?’

Henning looks up at her again.

‘Team spirit?’

He spits out the words as if they had a bad taste.

‘If your sister has screwed up, then it’s our duty to report it, Henning, you know that.’

‘Yes, I know. But there’s a difference between—’

Henning stops, checks himself.

‘It’s a waste of time, Heidi. I don’t like wasting my time.’

‘No, I know,’ she snarls. ‘Just imagine if you actually had to work with other people.’

‘I work with Iver.’

‘Yes, but Iver isn’t here. And he’s not coming back for a while.’

Henning makes no reply, he can’t think of anything to say. Neither can Heidi. So she storms off in a huff.

‘I need a moment to myself,’ Trine says in a low voice.

She is aware of the looks being exchanged in the meeting room, but right now she is focusing mainly on not throwing up.

‘Please,’ she says. ‘I need a few minutes alone.’

Chairs are quietly pushed back. It takes half a minute, then only Katarina Hatlem remains. She stops with her hand on the door handle.

‘Is everything okay?’ she asks.

Trine turns around, but doesn’t look at her friend; she just nods quickly while her eyes well up. Everything is not okay. When the room is silent, she sits down again. Buries her face in her hands. Sniffs and shakes her head.

9 October.

With hindsight it’s not difficult to list the reasons why she could and should have acted differently. But she remains convinced that she did the right thing. And she would do it again, should the same situation arise. She would just have been more careful about covering her tracks. Because that must be what happened. Someone must have seen her and talked. It’s the only logical explanation.

Why on earth did she ever say yes to this job?

When the Prime Minister called, her first thought was the opportunities opening up to her. A chance to achieve more, more power, bigger budgets. But also more publicity, more disapproving voices, more criticism. There will always be someone who wants more, who thinks your priorities are wrong, that your strategy is a mistake, that you’re not up to the job. Even so, she said yes, she didn’t consider the offer for more than a few seconds before she jumped at the chance. Prime Minister William Jespersen wanted her to work for him. William Jespersen.

She knew it was a thankless task, but that was part of its appeal. Norway hadn’t had all that many strong Justice Secretaries in the post-war period. The chance to put her name on the map, writing herself into history as an effective Justice Secretary, was too tempting. She wanted to be a respected Minister whose visions were implemented. She imagined that life as Justice Secretary would be about prevention, response, investigation and rehabilitation.

And now – it’s all gone.

Her dreams, her ambitions, her visions. All gone. This is what they’ll remember her for. Not for any of her achievements.

The Prime Minister had warned her what to expect. He said that everyone’s eyes would be on her because she wasn’t an obvious choice. She hadn’t even been in the reserve, he said, and hey presto, suddenly she is playing in the first eleven. Trine didn’t understand what he meant, nor did she ask, after all it was the Prime Minister who was talking to her. Later she realised it was a football metaphor.

Jespersen also warned her that there was bound to be gossip ‘because you’re a beautiful woman’, and he wanted to know if she had the guts to handle it. She had responded by giggling like a little girl.

What she wouldn’t give to be a little girl again. She feels so vulnerable, so unprotected against the media scrutiny that has already begun and so scared of what else might surface in the next few days. The consequences it can have. For everyone.

But will they really manage to dig that deep?

Trine wakes up the screen in front of her. Her mailbox comes up. Countless emails appear, the unread ones marked in bold. Her gaze stops at an email that was sent less than ten minutes ago. She doesn’t recognise the sender; it’s the text in the subject field that attracts her attention.

9 October

She clicks on it against her better judgement. And the message makes her clasp her hand over her mouth.

I know what happened on 9 October last year. Or should I say – the next day?

Consider this a warning. Resign or the truth will come out.

The radio is on, but Bjarne Brogeland isn’t listening. His eyes scan the city that glides past him. There is a muffled sound of tyres against wet tarmac.

They finished the morning briefing only fifteen minutes ago. Today’s tasks were explained and allocated under Arild Gjerstad’s skilful management. Now a large number of officers, led by Emil Hagen, are on their way to Grünerhjemmet to continue interviewing everyone who was there yesterday. At the police station Fredrik Stang is doing background checks on all the staff members at the care home, focusing on those who worked on Erna Pedersen’s ward. Crime scene officers are supporting the investigation by taking fingerprints and looking for matches on record.

Bjarne was tasked with visiting Ulrik Elvevold Sund, the boy who discovered Erna Pedersen’s body; a job he was happy to accept since Ella Sandland, the station’s femme fatale, was coming with him. Bjarne has been smitten with her for a long time, but none of his flirtatious remarks or come-ons has ever provoked as much as a shrug. That, however, Bjarne thinks, only makes working with her all the more charged.

He gazes at her, at her discreet make-up, the elasticity of her cheeks, her chin, her lips slightly dry right now, but normally moist and soft. Her eyelashes arch up over her eyelids. Sandland is like the sun. It’s always warm wherever she is.