Thomas Enger - Scarred

Henning realises that news of the murder of Erna Pedersen has obviously reached her former employer. He introduces himself and explains the reason for his visit.

‘I’m trying to find someone who knew her when she worked here. Do you have any teachers who were hired before Pedersen retired in 1993?’

The secretary thinks about it.

‘We have quite a young team here, so I don’t think so. But if you’re looking for a photo of her, you’re better off trying one of her former pupils. If you can find one, that is.’

Another smile.

‘Yes, that’s just it,’ Henning says. ‘Anyway, thanks for your help.’

The uneven tarmac rumbles under the car. Bjarne looks across to the passenger seat where Ella Sandland is gazing out through the window.

‘I’ve been thinking about the care workers at Grünerhjemmet,’ he says. ‘Nielsen, Sund and Thorbjørnsen.’

‘What about them?’

Bjarne holds up one finger.

‘We know that Daniel Nielsen lied about what he had been doing when we visited him in his flat yesterday. He hadn’t been working out at Svein’s Gym as he claimed. We know that he stopped by the care home last Sunday to drop something off and that the time of his visit fits with the time of the killing. And none of the staff knew the victim better than him.’

Bjarne holds up a second finger.

‘We know that Ole Christian Sund was at work when Erna Pedersen was killed and that he was most likely the man who drove Daniel Nielsen up to Holmenkollen yesterday for reasons we’ve yet to establish. So they’re more than just colleagues. They could be protecting each other.’

‘Don’t forget that Sund’s son was present at the care home that evening,’ Sandland objects. ‘Surely you don’t think that Sund took part in a brutal murder while his son was just around the corner?’

‘Hush, I’m on a roll here. And then we have Pernille Thorbjørnsen,’ Bjarne says, holding up a third finger. But the train of thought that was so clear in his head has been derailed.

‘What about her?’

‘I don’t know,’ Bjarne says. ‘But it was her car they used to drive up to Holmenkollen yesterday. Sund and Nielsen, I mean.’

‘But that’s not exactly a crime.’

‘No, but I’ve had another thought. What kind of temptation might staff in a care home be exposed to?’

Sandland shrugs.

‘Not money, certainly.’

‘How about medication?’ Bjarne suggests.

Sandland looks unconvinced.

‘The manager of Grünerhjemmet did say yesterday that quite a lot of medication has gone missing.’

‘I don’t think that’s particularly unusual, Bjarne.’

‘No, you may be right, but prescription medication has a certain street value no matter what part of Oslo you live in. And Daniel Nielsen, you remember, has already admitted needing cash.’

At the entrance to Birkelunden Park the car rattles as it crosses the tramlines. Three trams are queuing at a tram stop. There is an endless flow of passengers getting on and off.

‘But what does that have to do with Erna Pedersen?’ Sandland asks while Bjarne manoeuvres in between two cars at the pedestrian crossing. ‘Could she have seen them pilfer medication and threaten to expose them?’

Bjarne doesn’t reply immediately.

‘I don’t know,’ he says, pressing the accelerator. ‘But let’s see if we can find out. There has to be a reason why Pernille Thorbjørnsen’s fingerprints are on Erna Pedersen’s knitting needles.’

The dots signposting the route aren’t quite as blue as she remembers them. Nor does she have a clear recollection of the coastal path, only that they used to walk it and that it was a great walk. Cocoa and gooey brown cheese sandwiches. Perhaps a bar of milk chocolate – on special occasions. Plastic bottles filled with yellow squash.

While she put some food in a rucksack she found in the cabin, she told her bodyguards to prepare themselves for a bit of a walk today. But when she announced where she was planning to go, they insisted on positioning themselves in front and behind her, so they could check the path first and warn her should anyone appear. If she really didn’t want anyone to know where she was, then that was what they had to do, they said. Besides, there was a security risk that couldn’t be ignored and which she obviously understood and accepted, but she still insisted that they keep their distance.

They have been walking for one and a half hours in spitting rain when Trine’s mobile rings. She takes it out from her anorak and stops on a knoll that reminds her of a bald head.

‘Hi, Katarina,’ she says. ‘I was wondering when you’d call.’

‘Yes, there has – there has been quite a lot to do this morning. Have you seen today’s headlines?’

‘No.’

‘It’s—’

Trine’s Director of Communications sighs heavily before she tells her about the press release that was issued last night.

‘You’re joking,’ Trine says.

‘I wish. The Permanent Secretary came up to me this morning and asked me what the hell you think you’re doing. “She’s holding us hostage,” those were her exact words.’

Trine closes her eyes. That incompetent, sour-faced bitch.

‘I don’t know for how long we can keep putting out the same statement, Trine. The press office is very frustrated. I think that Ullevik can weather the worst of the political pressure, but—’

‘What about the Prime Minister’s office? Have they said anything?’

‘Their Director of Communications called me this morning wanting to know what our strategy was. I said I would have to ring him back. That was some time ago now.’

Trine opens her eyes again and stares across the surface of the water where ripples are starting to form.

‘By the way, where are you?’ Katarina asks.

‘I’ve gone out for a walk. I’m trying to clear my head.’

‘That sounds like a good idea. And I don’t want to pressure you, Trine, because I know how hard it is for you. But have you given any further thought as to what you’re going to do?’

Trine sighs and takes a step nearer the edge of the knoll. There is a drop of several metres down to a pile of stones that leads on further to some rocks which are getting a thorough and constant wash from the waves. She feels the wind take hold of strands of her hair, which have torn themselves loose from under her red baseball cap.

‘No,’ she says.

Trine turns away from the wind, which makes the mobile howl. But it’s not true. She has thought about what to do. She’s going to do the only sensible thing she can. There is no other way out.

Brinken is a residential development the size of a small village. It lies to the left of the main road when you approach Jessheim from the south.

Henning has driven past it many times, but he has never driven through it. Once he does, it’s exactly as he imagined it would be. Criss-crossing streets, detached houses in a grid, tarmac roads and pavements. Not so many new builds, most of the houses seem to have been built in the seventies and eighties.

After entering the address he got from Atle Abelsen, Henning follows the instructions provided by the sat nav. Atle was also able to give him a plot number as well as a detailed description of the house Erna Pedersen used to live in – a terraced bungalow with two bedrooms.

As Henning pulls up he can see that the house is well maintained. It is timber-framed, clad with wooden panels and painted mustard yellow. A flat roof. A tarmac drive. There is a garden with a well-kept lawn, hedges, flowerbeds, an apple tree and a terrace.

The property has clearly been renovated.