Thomas Enger: Scarred

‘Not too bad,’ he says.

Henning hasn’t seen Nora since the end of the Tore Pulli case, but she sent him an email a couple of days ago after reading an article he had written about how and why Pulli was killed. It wasn’t a long email, just two sentences, but it has been on his mind ever since.

Bloody good article, Henning. You’re still the best.

Hugs

Nora

He should have replied and thanked her for her kind words, of course he should, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. What he definitely ought to have done was to thank her for saving his life as he lay unconscious in that grave, hovering between life and death just over one week ago. Nora had realised that something was wrong when she called at his flat and got no reply. She contacted Bjarne Brogeland who took action so that Henning was eventually found and saved.

He hasn’t managed to thank her for that, either.

It doesn’t make things any less awkward that her voice is gentler than it used to be and that he can detect genuine concern.

‘My head still hurts a bit, but I’m all right,’ he adds. ‘How is Iver?’

Nora imitates Henning’s shrug.

‘He says hi,’ is all she says.

‘Is he out of hospital yet?’

‘Mm,’ she says and nods. ‘Bored rigid on the sofa.’

Nora’s skin is still smooth. Her dark, shoulder-length hair falls in waves down her blue anorak, an anorak Henning has seen her wear before. He can even remember when. Between Gjendesheim and Memurubu when they hiked Besseggen Ridge on a day that started as summer, but ended in full-blown winter. The wind gusting towards them now holds some of the same promise.

‘So what’s happened here?’ he asks.

Nora turns to the redbrick building. Again she shrugs her shoulders.

‘We don’t know very much yet other than the victim is an old lady.’

Nearby a journalist bursts out laughing. Henning glares at him.

‘No statements yet?’

Nora shakes her head.

‘I imagine the police will hold a press conference tomorrow morning,’ she says with a sigh.

‘Yes, I suppose they will.’

Press conferences, however, are open to everyone and tomorrow is too far away. So Henning takes out his mobile and texts Bjarne Brogeland asking him for a quick chat about the case. The reply comes in a couple of minutes later:

Rushed off my feet. Will call when I have two minutes.

Just as I thought , Henning thinks. In other words: no reason to hang around.

He looks about him. It’s getting late. The deadline for printed newspapers is imminent, which means that duty editors everywhere are now screaming for copy. But there is a limit to what field reporters can write tonight. The investigation has only just begun and no one knows the name of the victim or how she died, so it’s still possible to be the first reporter to break the story tomorrow. All he needs is a detail or two that no one else knows yet.

Henning uses his mobile to check out the online competition and sees that none of them is reporting anything other than the obvious. Nor is anyone going to let him into the care home this late in the evening and possibly not tomorrow, either. The residents and the investigation take priority. Standing here watching police officers come and go is a waste of time.

And that gives him an idea. What about the staff? And the visitors? How will they get out of the building tonight?

Henning catches Nora’s eye and he signals that he’s off.

But going home is the last thing on his mind.

A care worker in a white uniform sits on a chair outside the television lounge picking his nails. He flicks away a bit of skin that lands on the floor. Then he jumps up as though the seat has suddenly got hot.

Bjarne Brogeland is standing in front of him.

‘Ole Christian Sund?’

The man nods and rubs his neck with his right hand. Sund has a sparse, blond moustache on his acne-scarred face. His eyebrows meet in the middle. His thin arms stick out from the loose-fitting sleeves.

‘How is your son?’ Bjarne says, finding himself a chair and indicating to Sund to sit down again.

‘I don’t know,’ the care worker says, looking glum. ‘He’s with his mum now, but she’s not replying to my texts. But I’m sure he’s fine with her.’

‘Yes, mums are great at that sort of thing,’ Bjarne says, smiling sympathetically. ‘I presume you’ve been offered counselling?’

Bjarne takes out his notebook and pen.

‘We have. But Martine, Ulrik’s mum, is a psychologist and no one knows Ulrik better than her, so—’

‘I understand,’ Bjarne says. ‘But we’ll want to talk to him as soon as possible. He might have seen something important.’

Sund nods and rakes a hand through his long, blond fringe.

‘I’ve never seen him like that,’ he whispers. ‘He seemed almost in a trance.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘He just sat there. Rocking back and forth. His eyes were all glazed and distant.’

Sund’s face takes on a sad, anxious expression.

‘Did he say anything to you?’

‘Not straightaway. But when I came back out from Erna Pedersen’s room, he muttered something about fractions.’

‘Fractions?’

‘Yes. He kept repeating it. Fractions, fractions, fractions.’

Bjarne notes down the word in capital letters.

‘Now he’s been very excited about his maths homework recently so it might have something to do with that. What do I know?’

‘How old is he?’

‘He’s nine.’

Bjarne nods.

‘I won’t keep you for very much longer,’ he says. ‘But do you have any idea who might have done this?’

Sund heaves a sigh.

‘No.’

‘Can you think of anyone who didn’t like her?’

Sund mulls it over.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Have there been any disagreements here recently? Did someone get angry or upset with her?’

Again Sund racks his brains.

‘Sometimes our residents get agitated and their discussions heated. But I really don’t think that anyone would hurt Erna Pedersen. She never made a fuss; she was quite frail and unwell. And if she hadn’t died like… like this, she would have died soon, anyway.’

Bjarne scratches his head with the pen. A female care worker walks past them. Sund takes out his mobile and checks for new messages. Then he turns it off and puts it away.

‘Did you notice if anyone went to her room today?’

Sund shifts slightly on the chair.

‘I was working mainly at the other end of the corridor. A lot of staff are off sick at the moment.’

Bjarne nods again.

‘I can see from the visitors’ log that no one visited her today. Do you know what it was usually like? Did she have a lot of visitors?’

‘You’re better off asking Daniel, Daniel Nielsen. He was her primary care worker. But, no, I don’t think they were queuing round the block, to be honest.’

Bjarne writes down Nielsen’s name and circles it.

‘Are you aware of any relatives who might have visited her from time to time?’

‘If they did, it can’t have been very often. I barely know what her son looks like.’

‘So she has a son?’

Sund nods.

Bjarne writes ‘son’s family in broken photograph?’ on his notepad.

‘The camera outside the main entrance,’ he continues. ‘Do you happen to know if it records?’

Sund shakes his head.

‘It’s only there so we can see who rings the bell outside regular visiting hours.’

‘So people can come and go as they please?’

‘They can.’

Bjarne nods again.

‘Did something unusual happen here today? Anything out of the ordinary?’