Thomas Enger - Scarred

‘Oh.’

Hagen looks down at his notes.

‘Her name is Vibeke Schou,’ he informs them. ‘She talked about relatives who moan and complain, patients who steal, broken equipment, medication going missing.’ Hagen throws up his hands. ‘You wouldn’t believe it, everything was a problem. That’s what they call care for the elderly today, eh,’ he tuts and sighs.

‘Medication going missing?’ Bjarne asks.

‘Yes, apparently. But she told me something that is quite interesting now that I think about it. Not all that long ago they had to introduce house rules in the TV lounge over there.’

Hagen points with his thumb over his shoulder.

‘House rules?’ Bjarne says.

‘Yes, about who gets to decide what they watch and when. Some of the men were hogging the remote control a little too much and the women got upset about it. Erna Pedersen was one of them.’

Sandland tries to keep a straight face, but fails to suppress her smile.

‘I can’t imagine that those rules went down terribly well with the men.’

‘No. Especially not with one particular resident, a—’

Hagen glances down at his lists again.

‘Guttorm Tveter,’ he says.

Bjarne looks over at Sandland.

‘I’ll see if I can find him,’ Sandland says.

‘Great,’ Bjarne says.

Sandland walks past both of them, past the TV lounge and turns left into the corridor. Both officers turn to follow her with their eyes. Her uniform seems to fit her figure exactly.

‘Have you seen Daniel Nielsen around?’ Bjarne asks and shakes his head to dispel the image. Hagen licks his lips.

‘Who’s he?’

‘Erna Pedersen’s primary care worker. I’ve tried calling him several times today, but there’s no reply. He’s not returning my calls, either.’

Hagen takes out a fresh sheet of paper from his jacket pocket. His eyes skim it a couple of times before he replies: ‘No. He’s not in today.’

‘Okay,’ Bjarne says and nods. ‘I’ll talk to some of the others instead. Who do you suggest I start with?’

It’s not often that Trine drives herself these days, but it feels good to be behind the wheel again, alone and in perfect silence. The steady sound of tyres against tarmac makes her feel drowsy, something that surprises her. She would never have thought she could feel sleepy now after what has happened and given what she is doing now.

Resign or the truth will come out .

Replying to that email was not an option. She would never agree to enter into an email exchange that would be difficult to keep private. But neither could she stand staying in her office, being interrupted every five minutes by new problems, new statements, new media stories and new demands. The walls were starting to close in on her. She needed to be alone for a while; she couldn’t bear the thought of fighting her way through a media scrum every time she tried to get in or out of a building. Not without knowing what to say or do.

She told Katarina Hatlem that she thought she had been set up, quite simply because she couldn’t keep her suspicions to herself any longer. But she said nothing about the email because she didn’t want Katarina to initiate her own investigation. Katarina can be quite headstrong once she gets the bit between her teeth.

Trine has a red baseball cap pulled down over her eyes and is wearing different glasses. She takes care not to look at any of the drivers in the oncoming traffic, but she thinks it’s unlikely that anyone would recognise her. She realises how tempting it would be to try to shake off her bodyguards who are in the car behind her, but she daren’t, she can’t. It would have repercussions not just for her, but also for Katarina.

It was Katarina who helped Trine leave the Ministry of Justice unnoticed less than an hour ago through the concrete tunnel under Building R5 where a man was waiting to take her to a hire car in which she drove off. Katarina had also bought some food, clothes and a new mobile phone, since it would be easy for the police to trace Trine’s old one.

Trine drives into the Lier Tunnel while she remembers the first question she was asked by a journalist when William Jespersen’s newly formed government stepped out on to Slottsplassen for the very first time. ‘Will you still have enough time for your husband now that you’re going to be Justice Secretary?’ Trine was completely taken aback; she had imagined she would have a chance to promote her core issues. No one had prepared her that the media would be more interested in her private life. Afterwards she wished she had been able to come up with something pithy and clever, but all she managed to stutter was: ‘Yes, of course.’

And now she is running away from Pål Fredrik too. She sent him a text message right before she left to let him know that she wouldn’t be coming home tonight, but she hadn’t got a reply by the time she had to leave.

The new mobile rings. She recognises the number.

‘Hi, Katarina,’ Trine says.

‘Hi. Where are you?’

‘I’m close to Drammen.’

‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes, of course, Katarina, I’m all right.’

‘Now this isn’t unexpected, but I thought I should draw your attention to it anyway. As you can imagine, the opposition is having a field day with this, but what’s worse is that the leader of the Labour Party’s youth branch is saying that if the allegations are true then it’s a very serious matter.’

Trine sighs.

‘You know what the media are like. Every headline is now going to preface the allegations with “very serious”. The disclaimer won’t be mentioned until halfway down the story.’

‘Typical. Anything else?’

‘No. That’s all for now.’

‘Okay.’

‘Call me when you get there.’

‘Mm.’

But Trine doesn’t want to call or talk to anyone. She just wants to get out of Oslo.

She glances up at the rear-view mirror and sees the black Audi behind her with the two men in the front. I bet they’re sweating , she thinks, given the situation and the job they have to do . They are going to an unnamed location and haven’t been able to secure it yet. She sympathises with them. What if something were to happen to the Justice Secretary on their watch?

He studies the colours and the contrasts on the screen. He can see that he needs to brighten the surroundings, intensify their colour. Or maybe it’s fine as it is.

He likes the mood in the picture. The early morning mist lying across the ground at the nursery. The trees around it, wrapped in nature’s floating cotton wool. He should have taken some pictures of that as well, not just of the boy who has sand around his mouth. He is not smiling in this particular picture. He sits on the ground, lost in a world of his own. His waders keep him dry and warm. He is blissfully ignorant that the world only seems to be a safe place. Anything could happen to a boy of two and a half.

He selects the boy, increases the contrast so his colouring stands out more sharply against the dim morning light, and plays with various filters. Even though he doesn’t need to, he prints out the picture. Soon a long, whooshing sound starts up under his desk. And the boy appears, clear and bright.

He studies the face, the cheekbones he can barely make out under the chubby toddler cheeks. Looks at the nose and the mouth. The teeth.

Does he bear any resemblance to me?

He knows the thought is absurd, but he can’t help himself. And he imagines her, imagines them, hand-in-hand, the way she often drags the boy along, usually because she is late for work. But she can’t have been late for work today given the leisurely pace with which she walked. And always so beautiful. Still so bloody beautiful. And the boy. Small and untouched.