Thomas Enger - Scarred

Gjerstad nods. ‘Forensics have finished analysing the crumbs and the dust they found on Erna Pedersen’s clothing,’ he informs them, running his index finger and thumb over his moustache. ‘It’s rock, that’s all. Tiny rock fragments, probably from the other weapon that we’ve yet to trace.’

‘The weapon used to whack the knitting needles into her eyes?’ Ella Sandland asks. Gjerstad nods to confirm it is.

‘A few wool fibres were found on one of the fragments. Wool with a tiny speck of glue.’

‘Wool?’ Emil Hagen says in disbelief and licks his upper lip.

‘Rock, wool and glue,’ Gjerstad says, looking around. ‘What does that make?’

The officers stare at each other.

‘Hair,’ Sandland says.

More baffled expressions.

‘Didn’t you ever make stone trolls when you were little?’

‘No,’ Hagen says quickly and snorts at the same time.

‘You take two stones,’ Sandland explains. ‘You glue them together and decorate them with straw or wool or something like that to make the hair. Then you paint on the eyes, the nose and the mouth. It’s a very popular activity in nurseries and schools.’

‘That’s what Ann-Mari Sara thought as well,’ Gjerstad says. ‘So we’re probably looking for a stone troll that has lost a little hair and has dents or marks from knitting needles.’

Hagen shakes his head.

‘Do people normally make stone trolls in a care home?’ he asks and looks at Sandland.

‘I haven’t seen that particular activity before, but it’s not uncommon for patients to take part in different kinds of art and craft work – if they feel up to it. But I asked one of the care workers about leisure activities and it’s not something they do very much of.’

‘So how did the stone troll end up there?’ Pia Nøkleby asks.

Bjarne coughs and looks at Sandland.

‘Daniel Nielsen had something similar on his table when we visited him earlier today, but I didn’t notice if it was dented. And I don’t think he would be stupid enough to keep a weapon in plain sight. Incidentally, it was right next to a loo roll.’

‘Perhaps he’s one of those guys who gets turned on by that,’ Hagen suggests.

‘Turned on by what?’ Sandland frowns.

‘The guy lives alone. Murder weapon. Loo roll.’

Sandland still looks clueless. Hagen sighs in despair.

‘Perhaps he was sitting there looking at his weapon, reliving the whole episode and got so excited that he needed something to wipe up the mess afterwards,’ he says.

‘I know what you meant. I just wanted to see if you had the guts to say it out loud,’ Sandland replies with a mischievous smile.

‘It might have been the little boy who made the stone troll,’ Bjarne suggests. ‘According to his father the boy came with him to work quite often. He was a popular visitor. Perhaps he made several stone trolls at school and brought one with him as a present. You know how kids love giving away things they’ve made themselves. He could have given one to Erna Pedersen and that’s another reason to surmise that the killing wasn’t premeditated. The use of the Bible also suggests that. Erna Pedersen always had it lying on her bedside table.

Bjarne can feel that he is starting to warm to his subject.

‘So you’re saying the killer simply used whatever he found in the room?’ Gjerstad says.

Bjarne nods.

The room falls silent for a few seconds.

‘It’s a good theory,’ Gjerstad then says.

‘There’s something else about Nielsen,’ Bjarne says and quickly summarises Nielsen and Sund’s trip up to Holmenkollen earlier that day.

‘And you’re quite sure it was Ole Christian Sund driving Pernille Thorbjørnsen’s car?’ Nøkleby asks.

‘Absolutely,’ Bjarne nods.

‘But you don’t know the address they went to or what they did when they got there?’

‘No. But there is something fishy about Daniel Nielsen, I’m sure of it. I’ve already caught him lying to me once. He never worked out at Svein’s Gym that morning, like he told me. I checked.’

‘What an idiot,’ Hagen sighs.

‘Yes, but that’s just it,’ Bjarne says. ‘It seems like a white lie to me. He doesn’t want to tell us where he really was or what he was doing. So he says the first thing that comes into his head.’

‘In which case he’s unlikely to be a hardened criminal,’ Nøkleby says. ‘If he lies about something we can quite easily find out.’

‘I agree,’ Bjarne says.

But the point Nøkleby has just made troubles him. Only a total amateur would drop himself in it like that. It’s not the action of a man capable of bashing knitting needles into the eyes of an old lady. It is too crude and too brutal. But the care workers at Grünerhjemmet are up to something, he just doesn’t know what or how he can get to the bottom of it – or indeed if it has anything to do with Erna Pedersen’s death.

‘Do we have anything else?’ Gjerstad says.

No one says anything.

‘Okay,’ Gjerstad says, getting up. ‘What do you think, Pia – Nielsen’s flat first and the care home afterwards?’

Pia Nøkleby nods.

Henning’s hips ache as he gets up from the rough seating planks. His legs feel stiff and he shakes them to boost his circulation.

He stops at the entrance to watch Adil and his friend who have sat down on the ground. They are not talking to each other; they just watch others play football on the Astroturf.

Henning turns and looks around for the boy’s father, the man he met behind Grünerhjemmet yesterday, the man who was in such a rush to get home to his son. His son, who was the first person to realise that something was terribly wrong with Erna Pedersen.

Henning bends down, slips through a gap in the fence and carefully approaches the boys.

‘Hi, boys,’ he says. Only the boy with the blond fringe turns to face him. Henning smiles as he takes another step forwards.

‘So you’re a United fan too?’ he says to Adil, pointing to the sticker of Wayne Rooney on his sports bag. The name of the football club makes Adil glance up at Henning.

‘Is Rooney your favourite player?’

It takes a few seconds, then he nods.

‘Mine too. But then again I’m a big fan of all the Man U players.’

Henning smiles and sees a tiny twitch reflected in the corner of Adil’s mouth.

‘Boys, I’ve been watching you practise. Can I show you something?’

The blond boy continues to sit motionless on the ground. Adil looks up at him; this time his gaze is more alert.

‘Come on then, up you get.’

Adil hesitates.

‘Come on,’ Henning says again. ‘It works, I promise you.’

He holds out his hand to help Adil to his feet, but the boy doesn’t take it. Instead he looks at his friend before he gets up unaided.

‘Do you have a football in your sports bag?’

Adil slowly loosens the strings and takes out a ball. Henning smiles.

‘A Man U football. Good heavens,’ he says and looks at the ball, which is printed with pictures of the whole team. He squeezes it. Not enough air. But it will have to do.

‘Right, let’s get started,’ Henning says, putting the ball on the ground. ‘Can you see that wall over there?’

He points to a high wall at the end of the football pitch. He takes care not to look at the other boy.

‘The best way to practise passing and gaining possession of the ball is to kick it against a wall. That way you have a fellow player who never moves. Watch me.’

Henning kicks the ball quite hard. It hits the wall and bounces back.

‘When the ball comes back towards you, you stick out your foot to meet it and then you use your foot to slow it down. You have to move your leg or the ball will simply slip under your foot. It’ll be much harder for you to regain possession of the ball. Do you understand?’