Thomas Enger: Scarred

‘So,’ he says, exhaling hard. ‘What do you make of all this?’

Sandland, who sits straight upright and looks out of the window with an alert expression, turns to him.

‘I don’t know what to think. Who would do something like that? I mean – even thinking of pushing knitting needles through the eyes of an old lady in the first place? How sick is that?’

As always her west Norwegian accent tugs at his heartstrings. She shakes her head; her short, blonde hair doesn’t even move.

‘Someone must have really hated her,’ she concludes.

‘Do you think it’s symbolic that he used the Bible to whack the knitting needles through her eyes?’

‘I don’t know,’ Sandland replies. ‘Was she a Christian?’

‘Or perhaps it was about her eyes,’ Bjarne speculates. ‘Perhaps she’d seen something. It’s a very symbolic action, targeting her eyes.’

Sandland makes no reply, she just nods to herself.

Bjarne switches on the sat nav and takes a right, finds where he is going and parks facing the direction of traffic in Jens Bjelkesgate, right outside the entrance to an apartment block with the number 43. The wall is yellow with white painted windowsills and render below them. The door to Entrance B is blue.

Bjarne has phoned ahead to say that they are on their way, that Martine Elvevold should prepare both herself and her son for a chat. When Sandland rings the bell, they are admitted immediately, and are met on the ground floor by a woman with a gaunt face who greets them with a ‘hi’. Her face is pale and drawn as if she hasn’t slept well. Her brown hair lies messily on her shoulders.

‘Come in,’ she says when they have shaken hands. They enter a living room filled with film sounds. Bjarne recognises it immediately as one of the Shrek movies. Ulrik, a boy with blond, longish hair – just like his father – sits slumped on the floor in front of the TV.

‘Can I get you some coffee or something?’ Martine offers.

‘No, thank you,’ the officers reply in unison.

‘How is he?’ Bjarne says.

Martine Elvevold hesitates for a few seconds before she answers.

‘It’s difficult to say,’ she begins. ‘I’ve kept him at home from school today, but he seems a little – how can I put it – detached. There are moments when he’s his old self, but every now and then he’ll stare vacantly into space. Ulrik has always been a rather fidgety boy. Always a little on the anxious side.’

Bjarne nods.

‘Has he said anything about – about what happened?’

Elvevold shakes her head.

‘I haven’t pressed him, either. I decided it might be good to give him time.’

‘Unfortunately time isn’t a luxury that we can allow ourselves,’ Bjarne says. ‘Do you mind if I have a word with him?’

‘No,’ Elvevold says, but her eyes immediately assume a worried expression. ‘Only – go easy on him.’

Bjarne smiles empathetically.

‘Of course.’

He signals to Sandland that he will take this chat on his own.

‘I think I would like that cup of coffee after all,’ she says.

Martine Elvevold smiles and leads the way to the kitchen. Bjarne waits until he and Ulrik are alone. He sits down on the floor, not too close to him, but a little to the side.

‘What are you watching?’ he says, looking at the boy’s flitting eyes, which follow the images on the screen. Fiona is busy beating up a guy pretending to be Robin Hood.

‘Holy cow,’ Bjarne says. ‘That’s one tough lady.’

Ulrik makes no reply.

‘My little girl loves this film,’ Bjarne says after a pause. ‘I think I must have seen it thirty times.’

Ulrik still hasn’t got anything to say. Bjarne lets his gaze roam around the room while he thinks about how best to approach this nine-year-old boy. DVD boxes for several films are piled up in front of the television. There is a crate of Lego under the coffee table. Marbles lie scattered around. There is an indoor football on the floor near the sofa.

‘Ulrik,’ Bjarne says, turning to the boy. ‘My name is Bjarne. I work for the police.’

The boy doesn’t take his eyes off the screen.

‘I’m trying to find out what happened at the care home yesterday. I know that you were the first person who saw that Erna Pedersen had died.’

This time the nine-year-old looks at Bjarne.

‘Can you tell me what you saw?’

Ulrik’s eyes return to the TV.

‘Would you mind if I turn down the volume?’ Bjarne says, pointing to the remote control. ‘Makes it easier to talk?’

Ulrik says nothing, but Bjarne takes it as an indication that it’s fine. He reaches out for the remote control and turns off the sound. Immediately they can hear noises coming from the kitchen. Muffled talking, a cup clattering.

‘We know that somebody hurt her,’ Bjarne continues. ‘And it’s my job to stop anything like that from happening again. I’m hoping you might be able to help me.’

Ulrik meets Bjarne’s eyes.

‘Did you see someone hurt Mrs Pedersen?’

Ulrik lowers his gaze and fidgets. This time Bjarne waits.

‘She was just dead,’ Ulrik says eventually.

‘You didn’t see what happened when she died?’

Ulrik shakes his head fiercely. Bjarne nods and tries to think of another way to ask the same question. Can’t think of one.

‘Did you see anyone in her room?’

Same response. Again there is something brooding and sad about Ulrik.

‘Was she nice, Mrs Pedersen?’

The boy nods.

‘She used to give me toffees.’

‘Toffees? That was nice of her,’ Bjarne says. ‘So you knew her?’

‘Not very much.’

‘But a little?’

Ulrik stares down at the floor again. Bjarne doesn’t know if there is any point in continuing the interview. Though he doesn’t know the boy, it’s clear to see that he has retreated deep inside himself. If that is for any other reason than having seen a dead body, a murdered body at that, it is hard to say.

‘Okay,’ Bjarne says and gets up. ‘Thanks for talking to me, Ulrik. I hope we can talk some more another time.’

The boy says nothing and Bjarne gives him the remote control. The room immediately fills with song. It’s a pretty melody, totally unsuited to the moment.

Bjarne finds the others in the kitchen.

‘He’s a great kid,’ he says to Martine Elvevold. ‘I think he’s going to be all right.’

Ulrik’s mother smiles tenderly.

‘Was he any help?’

‘He was,’ Bjarne says and nods at the same time.

‘I think perhaps I should let him spend some time with his friends after school today. If he wants to. It might be good for him to do something normal again.’

Sandland smiles and puts down her cup.

‘That sounds like a good idea,’ she says.

The words in the email hit Trine so hard she starts to hyperventilate. It is as if the room begins spinning and she has to sit down in order not to fall. At her desk she rests her head in her hands and leans forwards on her elbows. Her hair falls over her eyes and forms a shield around her face, but one that offers no protection.

She raises her head and notices that the email was sent by biglie0910@hotmail.com. She splutters at the sender’s name and guesses that whoever is threatening her isn’t using an IP address that will prove easy to trace. Nor will she tell the Security Service about it either; she doesn’t want to involve anyone else.

Then she remembers that her secretary automatically receives copies of all emails that go to the Justice Secretary’s email address. Trine gets up, a little too quickly and instantly feels dizzy again. She clutches her head and regains her balance. Then she goes to the door and opens it. Sees that her secretary isn’t at her desk right now.