Thomas Enger - Scarred

‘Mine?’ she frowns.

Sandland nods.

‘There’s nothing suspicious about that. I used to help her cast on and finish her mittens and socks. She couldn’t do it herself, poor thing, her hands weren’t what they used to be.’

Bjarne looks at his colleague. It’s a plausible explanation , he thinks, and looks at the flame red colour in Thorbjørnsen’s cheeks.

‘What was your car doing up in Holmenkollen on Monday afternoon with you behind the wheel,’ Bjarne points at Sund, ‘and Daniel Nielsen in the passenger seat?’

Thorbjørnsen’s lips part.

‘Holmenkollen?’ she exclaims and looks at her boyfriend. ‘You told me you were going to Storo?’

Sund tries to look her in the eye, but can’t stand up to his girlfriend’s sudden, intense scrutiny.

‘I thought you were meeting a mate to see if he could fit my car with a new silencer?’

Sund makes no reply, he simply bows his head.

‘Heaven help us,’ she snorts and shakes her head.

Bjarne gives them a little more time. Thorbjørnsen, who had briefly assumed a more upright posture, collapses again with fresh anger in her eyes.

‘Perhaps one of you can tell us what’s going on?’ Sandland suggests.

Thorbjørnsen’s face gets even redder. Finally Sund starts talking.

‘Please leave Pernille out of this. She’s got nothing to do with it.’

‘And what is “this”?’ Sandland asks.

Sund sighs.

‘You’re right,’ he says, looking at Bjarne. ‘We did have an argument at work on Sunday. Daniel came by to drop off Pernille’s car because she needed it to drive herself home and he asked if he could borrow it again the next day for another job up in Holmenkollen.’

‘Another job?’

‘Well, you see—’

Again Sund looks away. When he doesn’t start speaking immediately, Thorbjørnsen continues the story for him.

‘I was really upset about it,’ she says and lifts her head. ‘Upset that they kept using my car for their scheme. I wanted out, pure and simple; I refused to be their accomplice any longer.’

‘Accomplice to what?’ Sandland asks, sounding tired.

Sund braces himself.

‘I’m a care worker,’ he starts tentatively in a low voice and looks up at Sandland, now with a little more defiance in his gaze. ‘All I’ve ever done is help people in need.’

Bjarne looks at him in disbelief.

‘You’re telling me you help people by selling them drugs that you steal from your employer?’

Sund glowers at him.

‘Drugs? What are you talking about?’

Sund puts on his most indignant face.

‘Just what exactly are you accusing us of?’

Bjarne doesn’t reply.

‘We visit people in their own homes and give them the care they don’t feel they get enough of from social services.’

Bjarne doesn’t realise that his jaw has dropped. This particular development has taken him completely by surprise.

‘Have you any idea how many people are let down by the health service in Norway today, Brogeland? Here in Oslo alone? How many people have watched relatives, people who helped build this country, be treated like rubbish? Like—’

Sund can’t even find the words.

‘I’m sure it’s bad,’ Bjarne says. ‘But are you telling me that you care for elderly people in their own homes?’

Sund nods.

‘And you get paid cash?’

Sund looks away.

‘That’s against the law,’ Sandland says.

‘Don’t I know it,’ Sund says, sounding cross.

‘And you’ve never stolen medication from the care home?’

‘Our clients have plenty of medication; they can get whatever they need for free on prescription. I don’t know why so much medication goes missing from Grünerhjemmet, but it’s something that happens in every care home. But care isn’t just about giving someone pills, Brogeland. Care is so much more.’

‘Mm,’ Bjarne says again. ‘So this was a business you were running on the side?’

Sund nods.

‘How long have you been doing this? When did you start?’

Sund looks up at him again. The outrage he had worked up appears to have deserted him. His head hangs heavy.

‘My father had a stroke when he was only fifty-seven years old. He relied completely on full-time care for the rest of his life. I looked after him right up until his death a couple of years ago. My mother had died when I was little. Many of those who knew us also knew how I had cared for my father and they asked me if I might consider doing the same for their relatives. Not all the time, of course, but whenever I could. They would pay me. In the meantime, I had managed to get a job in the care sector and I was all too aware of the problems and the dissatisfaction people felt. So I said yes.’

‘And it took off?’

Sund nods.

‘Daniel and I met through work and had become friends. I knew that he needed money so I asked him if he might be interested in a second job. Yes, we don’t declare it and yes it’s illegal, but neither of us has a guilty conscience. Not for one second. People live better lives because of what we do.’

‘As do you.’

Sund snorts.

‘I can pay my rent, yes. Just about. Something you would think was owed to a highly skilled man like me. But I guess you have to follow procedure,’ he says, now sounding grumpy. ‘Lock me up. And when you get home tonight, look in the mirror and ask yourself if Oslo is a better place because you did. If we can all now sleep safely in our beds?’

Bjarne says nothing; he sees no point in embarking on a discussion with Sund. So he thinks about Erna Pedersen again. His initial theory was that she must have seen something, but she hadn’t. Ole Christian Sund has nothing to do with her death. Nor would it appear do Daniel Nielsen and Pernille Thorbjørnsen.

So who does?

Sandland’s mobile starts to ring in her jacket pocket. She takes it out and signals to Bjarne that she will take the call outside. Bjarne is left alone with the care workers who don’t say anything, nor do they look at each other.

Sandland reappears shortly, but she stays in the doorway and summons him outside with her right index finger. Bjarne does as she asks. Sandland leans towards his ear and whispers: ‘We’ve got to go. There’s been another murder.’

Two cars are parked quite a distance from each other outside the apartment block in Helgesensgate. Henning knows that reporters have been trying to call his mother and that they have rung her doorbell.

He also knows that gaining access to a block of flats is easy, as is knocking on every available door until you find the person you are looking for. But when Henning lets himself in and walks up the stairs, he can see that the caretaker, Karl Ove Marcussen, has done his bit to make the job more difficult for the vultures. He has unscrewed the name plate saying ‘Christine Juul’ and hopefully disconnected her doorbell and telephone as well. In addition he unplugged the aerial to make sure she can’t watch television. Henning’s mother is one of the few people left who still swears by landlines.

He lets himself into her flat, but doesn’t call out her name until he has closed the door behind him. As always he is met by the stench of cigarettes, but the smell isn’t as pungent as usual.

He walks in without first taking off his shoes, but pulls up short when he spots his mother in the kitchen. Or rather, slumped on the kitchen table, her cheek pressing against the surface. Next to her are an empty bottle and a shot glass.

She’s dead, Henning thinks, and a mixture of grief and relief washes over him. The first emotion surprises him. The second fills him with shame. But then one of her fingers twitches and she moves her head. It looks as if she is trying to lift it, but she fails.