Thomas Enger - Scarred

His initial relief changes into disappointment while he tries to convince himself that it isn’t caused by the fact that she is still alive. Even so he can’t help wishing that she, for her own sake, would soon let go. She is trapped in her body, plagued by chronic obstructive pulmonary disease as she is.

With a feeling of dismay he helps her up, but she has no strength left in her arms. And he realises from the smell of her breath that there is no point in trying to talk to her. She is quite simply too drunk.

For a brief moment her eyes light up, she manages to focus, but then she sees who it is. Her excitement turns into contempt.

‘And here I was hoping it would be Trine,’ she slurs.

Henning looks at her. He sighs and allows yet another of her hurtful comments pass. He tries to lift her up, but she fights him like a child. Henning lets her slump back down on her chair. Her upper body falls forwards again. He takes hold of her shoulders; she makes a pathetic attempt to shake off his hands, but this time he keeps hold of her.

‘The radio,’ she says still slurring. ‘It’s not working. Can you do something about it? I haven’t been able to listen to the radio for two days.’

Henning nods and promises to fix it.

‘And the TV,’ she adds.

‘I’ll have a look at that as well. Come on,’ he says, lifting her up again. ‘We’ve got to get you to bed. You can’t sleep here.’

Once again she fights him.

‘Come on, Mum. Work with me here.’

He realises she doesn’t just smell of cigarettes and alcohol. Her clothes haven’t been washed for weeks. He dreads to think when she last had a shower.

‘Come on. Don’t be difficult now.’

At times Henning had to resort to bribery when Jonas acted up and refused to go to nursery, get dressed or go to bed. Sometimes Henning would bribe him with films, other times with pancakes or sweets. And when none of the usual inducements worked there was only one option left.

Force.

And Henning thinks about Jonas as he picks up his mother, ignoring the protests she spits at him. She mentions Trine again, she mutters something about cigarettes and her glass, but he just carries her out of the kitchen and into the bedroom. And when her struggle to free herself leads to nothing, but only wears her out and makes her breathless, she starts to gasp and point. Henning realises what she wants and puts her down on the bed. He fetches her breathing apparatus and sees her grab the mask with the desperation of a drug addict. She closes her eyes and inhales the medication that loosens up the slime and relieves the gurgling in her chest.

And it strikes him how desperately we cling to life no matter how much each heartbeat hurts.

Gradually she regains control of herself while the machine whirrs and hisses. And when her body has calmed down and her lungs are once more in a tolerable condition, she releases her grip on the plastic tube and sinks further on the bed. A few seconds later she is asleep.

It’s like trying to get up after a knockout only to be punched in the face again. Just as they have eliminated suspects in one murder inquiry, news of another comes in. And now they have to focus all their resources on that, at least for the next forty-eight hours. It’s not always like this, fortunately, but it happens more and more often. The cases are starting to pile up.

Bjarne parks outside the police cordons next to several patrol cars and stays in his car while a grey light falls across rooftops that still show traces of days and nights of precipitation. And the rain continues to fall.

As usual curious onlookers have congregated nearby. It looks as if they are holding a bizarre vigil and there is an aura of morbid expectation in the raw air. Bjarne finds Emil Hagen at the entrance to the block of flats.

‘What’s happened?’ Bjarne asks.

Hagen stuffs a piece of chewing tobacco under his lip.

‘Woman in her mid-thirties, strangled. There appears to have been a struggle.’

Bjarne looks up to get an impression of the building. Grey walls. Black gunk from spray cans on the walls. The windows overlook the city, but they are dark as if there is nothing behind them. The whole building has been cordoned off. Blue lights are flashing all around them. It’s a grim day in Oslo.

‘The victim’s name is Johanne Klingenberg,’ Hagen continues.

‘Who found her?’ Bjarne asks.

‘A neighbour, her landlady, heard the cat whimper,’ Hagen explains. ‘I believe it’s been a problem before and she knocked on the door to ask her to put a stop to the noise. When there was no reply, she tried the door. And found it was open.’

‘Had she heard anything leading up to that point?’

‘No.’

‘Did anyone else see or hear anything?’

‘Don’t know yet,’ Hagen says. ‘I’ve only just arrived myself.’

Bjarne takes another look around.

‘I think I’ll go upstairs and view the crime scene.’

‘Okay,’ Hagen replies. ‘I’ll find Sandland and start speaking to the other neighbours while you do that.’

Bjarne can smell mould as he climbs the stairs. A wall lamp is askew. No light bulb. The rent is probably in the same league as Daniel Nielsen’s , he thinks, even though the hessian wallpaper is a little more faded and grimier.

The door to the victim’s second-floor flat is open. He enters and nods to familiar faces. Ann-Mari Sara, the crime scene technician, is already there.

‘Always working,’ he says.

‘As long as people keep dying in this city, then—’

Sara takes a photograph as Bjarne steps inside the living room. There are definite signs of a struggle. There is a cushion on the floor. The glass coffee table has been knocked over, but not damaged. The remote controls lie scattered; the batteries from one of them have fallen out. The rug under the coffee table, brown and threadbare, is bunched up as if someone quickly pushed the table away. Shards from a broken mug are smeared with thin and sticky brown dregs. Bjarne thinks it must be tea, he can see black flecks in it. Tea leaves, possibly. Or cigarette ash.

The victim is lying on her back on the sofa. Her long hair spills out in a wreath around her head. A hair band from a ponytail lies next to her, brown just like the sofa. One leg hangs over the front. She is still wearing her trousers and her blouse, white, but wet. Sweat, possibly. The upholstery under her is also damp.

Bjarne detests the thought that the bladder empties itself at the moment of death. The loss of dignity at the end of life. One of nature’s little cruelties. But at least she’s dressed , he thinks, which makes it unlikely that the motive is sexual, if the struggle is related to her death. And the fact that there has been some kind of fight in the living room gives him some encouragement. The chance of finding DNA evidence is considerable. And God knows they need an open and shut case right now.

‘Did she live alone?’ he asks.

‘Looks like it,’ Sara remarks. ‘Only one toothbrush in the bathroom.’

More flashlights go off, which blind Bjarne for a second before he can see properly again and take another look around. There is a candle stuck in a red wine bottle on the windowsill. He would have expected a woman in her thirties to have had flowers here and there, but all he sees are lamps and candlesticks. Pictures on the wall.

Sara’s camera flashes again and it’s as if the sharp, artificial light makes the pictures stand out more clearly. Bjarne goes over to the wall and looks at one of the framed photographs.

The glass has been smashed.

He takes a step closer as a chill runs down his spine. Even the broken glass can’t hide the smile of a boy who can’t be more than two years old.