Thomas Enger - Scarred

Henning parks outside and rings the bell. No one is in. It’s to be expected; he imagines the owners are probably at work. Henning takes out a business card, writes on the back that he would like to speak to them and pushes the card under the front door before it strikes him that the new owners might not have known Erna Pedersen.

So he decides to call Tom Sverre Pedersen.

‘You again?’ says the doctor.

‘Yes, me again,’ Henning replies. ‘Listen, I’m in Jessheim now and I’ve just had a thought. I know that you said that your mother was unpopular, but do you know how she got on with her neighbours?’

Pedersen doesn’t reply immediately.

‘I know that some neighbours will chat over the fence for hours, especially in the summer. I was wondering if your mother liked or knew some of her neighbours better than others.’

‘Then it would have to be Borgny,’ Pedersen says. ‘But I don’t know if she still lives there.’

‘What’s her full name?’

‘Borgny Ramstad. I know they belonged to the same knitting club a lifetime ago. Give her my best if you manage to track her down.’

‘Okay. Thanks for the tip.’

Henning ends the call and walks up to a row of letterboxes nearby. He reads the name ‘RAMSTAD’ on one of the boxes with a clumsy number ‘25’ written below. Henning looks around, finds a house wall with the same number and rings the bell. Again, no one answers so he slips yet another business card under the door.

Henning is on his way back to the car when a text message from the paper’s breaking news service arrives. Henning clicks on the link.

According to VG, there has been no word from Justice Secretary Trine Juul-Osmundsen since yesterday afternoon. The Prime Minister is concerned.

He reads on and learns that Trine didn’t come home last night. Nor did she turn up at her office at the usual time this morning. No one in the department has been able to contact her. All media requests are being passed through Katarina Hatlem, Trine’s Director of Communications, but she is playing everything down. She repeats yesterday’s statement that Trine doesn’t wish to comment on anonymous allegations and she has gone into hiding due to the enormous media pressure. ‘Surely most people can understand this if they just take a moment to think about it.’ But Hatlem refuses to say if she knows where Trine is.

Nor have any witnesses seen his sister. No one has spotted her at a petrol station, in a shop or in the lobby of a hotel. Though the Security Service say that they are aware of Trine’s movements, many people don’t believe them. The questions don’t change. Where is she? What is she doing?

Henning might not have been so worried if he hadn’t learned yesterday that Trine had been on sick leave suffering from depression. A story that triggers this level of media witch hunt can affect even the most resilient. There isn’t a bodyguard in the whole world who can prevent Trine from doing something drastic if she makes up her mind.

And that changes everything.

Henning thinks about his brother-in-law, Pål Fredrik Osmundsen. He might know something. According to the article no one, including VG , has been able to get hold of him in the last twenty-four hours.

Henning gets into the car; he has forgotten all about Erna Pedersen. Before he drives back to Oslo, he finds Osmundsen’s mobile number on the website of Predo Asset Management and sends him a text message:

Hi. I know everyone wants to talk to you right now, but I’m probably the only journalist who wants to help Trine. Can we talk? Preferably face to face. Henning Juul (Trine’s brother)

Henning drives to Oslo as fast as he dares. When his mobile buzzes, he snatches it up. It’s a text message from Pål Fredrik Osmundsen:

Can you meet me in Stargate in half an hour?

Johanne Klingenberg tends to do a weekly food shop. She was due to go shopping yesterday, but when she realised that the leftovers from the ready-made lasagne she had on Sunday could be reheated in the microwave, there was nothing she really needed to get. Now she is wishing she had done her big shop as planned because then her arms wouldn’t have been hurting as much as they are right now. The carrier bags weigh a ton.

You shouldn’t have given Emilie those dumbbells for Christmas , she mutters under her breath. You should have kept them for yourself .

But when she finally approaches the building where she lives, the fear creeps up on her. The fear that someone might have broken in again, that someone might be lying in wait for her in the stairwell or in her flat. She has grown more anxious recently. Before she goes to bed at night, she checks every cupboard and every room. She even looks under the bed before she climbs under the duvet and listens out for strange noises that never come. Eventually, far too late, she slips into a restless sleep.

Perhaps she should have mentioned the break-in to Emilie, but she didn’t want to worry her, didn’t want their lunch to be all about that. They hadn’t seen each other for such a long time and they had so much other news to share even though she had secretly been a little cross with Emilie. Emilie has always had her pick of men. And now when she has finally settled down with a good-looking guy, she can still find fault with him.

Look at me, Johanne felt like saying. I haven’t had a steady boyfriend for years. I would be on cloud nine if I had someone to love. If only someone would be prepared to look past the exterior and give me a chance.

She knows she is overweight and that she talks too loudly, especially when she is drunk. But she has lots of love to give. Lots! Emilie has always been blessed with men ready to give her anything she wants.

There is no justice in the world.

Johanne feels the sweat press on her brow. And, of course, the carrier bags manage to get caught on bicycles and pushchairs as she makes her way up the narrow stairwell.

It takes time, but eventually she reaches the second floor. Panting heavily she lets herself in, dragging the heavy bags behind her. A fire has started under her jacket that spreads to the rest of her body. She feels the need for a shower, but right now she only has the energy to collapse in a chair in the kitchen.

She sits down while her heart tries to resume its normal rhythm. She looks around for Baltazar, the little rascal, but he is not in his basket. Nor does she get a meow in response when she calls out his name.

It takes a few minutes before Johanne is able to get up and go into the living room. She calls out his name again, but there is no reply this time, either. Is he hiding under the sofa again? Johanne gets down on all fours, sees a lot of stuff that ought not to be under the sofa, but no cat. She gets back on her feet and heaves a deep sigh.

Then she senses movement right behind her.

Johanne spins around and her eyes widen.

‘What are you doing here?’

If she hadn’t recognised him straightaway, she would have screamed. But there is something about his eyes. They are empty and cold. And they don’t shift from her until he says: ‘Cute kid.’

He nods towards the wall. Then he takes a step closer. Johanne moves back, but her retreat is blocked by the coffee table.

Then she realises it. He is the man who broke into her flat two weeks ago, who has been following her and waiting for her outside the lecture hall.

She looks at him, at his eyes. And she realises she has never been more scared in her life.

He takes a step closer. Somewhere deep inside his ears he can hear the steady beating of his heart, strong and fast. He tries to see clearly, but everything blurs. It’s as if he is watching her through a veil; he swallows and blinks, he tries to breathe as calmly as he can, but the room doesn’t change. The details don’t come into view.