Thomas Enger - Scarred

Above him the wind nudges the grey, dense clouds along. Around him the swallows screech, loud and piercing.

How strange that they never crash into each other , Henning thinks, and tries to follow one of them with his eyes. It flies from side to side, it soars and it plummets. Choppy, sudden turns. A free display of inexhaustible energy. All its movements seem random, as if its entire existence is ruled by impulses, in sharp contrast to the migrating birds that will soon start their annual trip to the south in V formations.

It must be a lovely life, Henning decides, and takes a swig of his daily ration of liquid black sugar. Whether it be living exclusively on whims or having a fixed plan with your life. Right now either option seems equally attractive.

Henning takes another sip of his Coke while he thinks. And thinking is what he always does best in Dælenenga Sports Park. There aren’t many people around yet, but it’s still early afternoon. And even though the weather forecast is bad, he knows they will turn up eventually. Children, teenagers and adults.

So Erna Pedersen was a strict and unpopular teacher. But what was she apart from that? Did she have any interests? Did she get involved with anything?

He believes she enjoyed knitting. Perhaps she had joined forces with people with similar interests, in a club or in an association of some kind. Someone must have known her. But according to Bjarne Brogeland, she hadn’t had a visitor at Grünerhjemmet for ages. There is more and more evidence to suggest that she lived an isolated life while she waited for death to find her.

Henning is halfway through another mouthful when his mobile rings. He is surprised to see that the caller is Tom Sverre Pedersen, the victim’s son. Flustered, Henning puts down the Coke can and takes out his notepad from his inside pocket while he answers the phone.

‘Tom Sverre Pedersen here. You’ve been trying to get hold of me?’

‘Yes, I – yes I have,’ Henning says, biting off the plastic cap of his pen. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’

‘Thank you.’

Henning makes himself comfortable, wedges the phone in between his ear and shoulder and tries to find a position that means he can make notes at the same time. Not easy on the cold, hard planks.

‘And I’m sorry for disturbing you at such a difficult time.’

Pedersen makes no reply even after Henning has given him an opening.

‘I work for 123news , and I— ’

‘I know who you are, Juul. I follow the news.’

‘Er, okay. Then you can probably guess why I’ve been trying to contact you. I want to write a story about your mother. The kind of person she was. The idea is for our readers to get to know her a little better.’

‘I’m not so sure that they would want to.’

Henning is temporarily wrong-footed by the unexpected answer.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Listen, Juul, I don’t know how much you’ve found out about my mother, but if you’re looking for a fairy tale to splash across your front page, you’re wasting your time. My mother was no Mother Teresa.’

Henning presses his pen as hard against the paper as he can without tearing it, but no ink comes out. He tries, without success, to shake the pen alive.

‘Strong words coming from her son?’

‘Strong, yes, but true. My mother wasn’t terribly popular.’

Henning gives up, puts down his pen and accepts he will just have to try to memorise the conversation to the best of his ability.

‘I’ve been told she could be quite strict. As a teacher, I mean.’

‘Hah, that’s just for starters. She wanted things her way, and she was extra hard on the hard kids.’

‘She and The Phantom both.’

‘Yes. I’m sure you can imagine what it was like for me to grow up when my friends had my mother for a teacher.’

‘All the kids wanted to come home and play at your house?’

‘Not exactly. It’s hard to separate the apple from the tree, if I can put it like that.’

‘I understand.’

‘I’m not sure that you do, Juul. And the reason I’m telling you this is that I’ve read some of your articles. You seem like a reporter who wants to get to the truth. My experience with the media is that not many of you are. And people in Jessheim will laugh at you if you paint a pretty picture of my mother’s life.’

‘So your mother had many enemies?’

Pedersen snorts.

‘My mother was a real bitch. It’s a miracle that my father managed to stay married to her for all those years. Don’t get me wrong – she was my mother and I loved her in my own way. I made sure that she got a place at Grünerhjemmet because I had neither the time nor the inclination to look after her myself. Now that last bit you don’t need to include in your story, but despite her behaviour I wanted her to end her life in comfort. And with the exception of her actual death, I think she was really quite happy where she was.’

Henning nods to himself as he senses the temptation of handing over the responsibility for his mother to someone who can do a better job than him.

‘I’ve heard that there was quite a lot of vandalism done to your mother’s house while she lived in Jessheim?’

‘Yes, at one point it almost seemed as if it had become a sport.’

‘Did you ever find out who did it?’

‘No, but I know that my mother had her suspicions. And there were several different gangs of kids who could have done it. You only had to look at the graffiti on the walls of Jessheim School.’

‘Do you happen to know if anyone hated her more than others?’

Pedersen is quiet for a few moments.

‘Not that I can recall. Don’t forget it’s a really long time ago.’

Henning raises his gaze in the pause that follows. He spots Adil walking towards the Astroturf with a bag slung over his shoulder.

‘I presume the police have interviewed you?’

‘They have.’

‘Then they’ve probably asked you if you suspect anyone of murdering your mother.’

Pedersen waits a little before he replies.

‘They have.’

‘And do you?’

Long pause. Henning doesn’t push him.

‘No. But I’m concerned that someone might have a grudge against me too.’

Henning sits up.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m thinking about the damaged photo in my mother’s room.’

Henning doesn’t interrupt, but lets Pedersen tell him the story in his own words. And when he has finished, Henning feels a slight chill down his neck.

‘So do you have any enemies? Someone you’ve reason to be scared of?’

‘No. And that’s what I told the police.’

‘Okay.’

At that moment Henning sees another boy walking towards the football pitch, holding hands with his mother. And suddenly he remembers who the boy’s father is.

‘Thank you for being so frank with me, Pedersen. I really appreciate it.’

Henning gets up and looks at the boy.

‘You’re welcome. So will you be writing about my mother?’

Henning thinks about it.

‘Yes, I hope so. But right now I don’t know what kind of story it’s going to be.’

The incident room is filled with officers and investigators. As usual everyone’s attention is focused at the head of the boardroom table where Arild Gjerstad is reviewing the discoveries, evidence and facts of the murder case.

‘How far have you got with interviewing people at the care home?’ he asks.

Emil Hagen clears his throat.

‘We’ve yet to cross the finishing line.’

‘Does anyone stand out?’

Hagen shakes his head.

‘Many people have alibied each other and most of them say that they didn’t see anything. We’re going to have to be a little more thorough in our interviews.’