Thomas Enger - Scarred

Henning watches himself take a step towards 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 organisation will try to catch up on the head start that VG currently has with its exclusive. This means high publication frequency and a low quality threshold 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 re-examined.

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.

‘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 grey from the low hanging clouds when Bjarne starts the car and manoeuvres out into the traffic.

‘What did she have to say in her defence?’ 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 defence,’ 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 tramlines 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 colours.

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 criss-crossing roads leading out of the city. The car ploughs 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, grey 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 favour 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. Brogeland stuffs his hands in his jeans pockets in a vain attempt to warm them up and looks up at the grey 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 centre 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 got 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 round to that.’