Thomas Enger - Scarred

‘Is that for your hamster?’ he asks, pointing to the home-made cross. The boy follows Henning’s finger.

‘No,’ the boy mutters before he carries on raking.

‘It’s our dog.’

The tiny voice makes Henning jump and he turns around abruptly. A little girl, eight years old possibly, is standing right in front of him.

‘We were allowed to bury her over there,’ she says, pointing towards the white cross.

‘Aha?’ Henning replies while he looks at the children in turn. The boy forces the rake angrily across the grass as if scratching an itch.

‘One day we found her dead on the steps to the veranda,’ the girl continues.

Her brother glowers at her. A humid smell rises from the grass cuttings. Henning can’t stop himself so he asks: ‘On the steps, you said?’

‘Yes. I saw blood on her.’

‘Ylva,’ her brother warns her.

‘But I did.’

The boy starts to rake the grass again. Henning stands still and waits.

‘Here,’ the girl says, pointing to her own chin. ‘I know it, because I was the one who saw her first.’

‘Shut up, Ylva.’

‘And Dad has never let us have another dog,’ she continues now almost on the verge of tears. ‘I want a new dog.’

Henning tries to sift through his thoughts. He knows what he wants to ask the children, but he doesn’t think he needs to.

‘Okay,’ he says and feels his heart beat faster. ‘I’ll come back another time when your dad’s home.’

Neither of the children says anything. Soon the girl picks up her skipping rope and skips past him as if the conversation they have just had never happened. Henning follows her with his eyes, but his gaze is instinctively drawn to the white cross. It glows, even in the diminishing evening twilight.

Bjarne stares at the sheet in front of him with keywords from interviews they have carried out in the last couple of hours. Discoveries, facts.

He just can’t get it to add up.

Gjerløw’s parents were in shock. Though they had only sporadic contact with their son, neither of them could understand why he would do what he had done. They believed they had given him a good, Christian upbringing. As far as they were concerned he had no traumas that involved either Erna Pedersen or Johanne Klingenberg. They remembered the names, but had to be reminded who the women were. And though few children tell their parents everything that happens at school, she would have known if there was a problem, Gjerløw’s mother assured him. Markus was a popular boy, he had lots of friends, he was good at football, usually played in goal and was selected for the regional team for several years in a row. He was a happy-go-lucky person most of the time. He had lots of girlfriends as a teenager, though he had been unsuccessful in later life, on both the girlfriend and the job front.

The absence of success in adulthood, Gjerløw’s parents admitted, had probably affected or upset him, but not to such an extent that he would go and kill people he knew twenty years ago. Nor had he ever shown much interest in photography.

Bjarne just can’t understand what it was about Emilie Blomvik’s son that had so incensed Markus Gjerløw. When Bjarne called Emilie, she told him she hadn’t spoken to Markus for years. So why did Gjerløw decide to act now? Rather than when the little boy was born?

An event of some sort must have triggered this , Bjarne thinks, and leans back in his office chair. At the same time it occurs to him that they might never know what turned Markus Gjerløw into a killer. Sometimes it’s just the way it is, unfortunately.

Bjarne looks at his watch. It has been a long time since he was last home in time to have dinner with Anita and Alisha. A long time since the three of them sat chatting around the dinner table.

He doesn’t have time to finish his reflections before there is a knock on the door. Pia Nøkleby pops her head around.

‘Hi,’ she says. ‘Are you busy?’

‘Not more than usual,’ he replies. ‘Come in.’

Bjarne can’t remember when she last came to his office. Nøkleby takes a seat on a chair by the wall and crosses her legs. She folds her hands in her lap.

‘You know Henning Juul, don’t you?’

Bjarne nods.

‘I had a chat with him recently,’ Nøkleby continues. ‘He said something that got me thinking. He asked if anyone could access Indicia if they knew my username and password. And sadly, these days, that’s not very difficult. What I don’t understand is why he wanted to know.’

‘Didn’t you ask him?’

‘Yes, but—’

Nøkleby moistens a dry upper lip and sends her eyes on a voyage of discovery around the room.

‘I’m beginning to get to know Henning. He would never have asked me that question unless he had a very good reason. It roused my curiosity. I logged on to Indicia to check my account and I discovered something disturbing. I found one search that I’m absolutely one hundred per cent sure that I didn’t do.’

‘So someone had your login details and accessed the program remotely?’

‘Yes, so it would seem. And I don’t know which is worse: that it happened or that Henning knows it did. Nor do I know if it would be wise to pressure him about it. After all, he’s a journalist who’ll never reveal his sources or explain how he came to be in possession of such information. He would rather go to prison.’

It begins to dawn on Bjarne where she is going with this.

‘So you were hoping that I might—’

Bjarne breaks off; he can tell from her reaction that he is right.

‘I’m afraid it’s a serious security risk, Bjarne. Obviously I changed my password immediately, but in theory someone out there could be sitting on extremely valuable intelligence. I don’t know what we’re going to do. We can’t go public with it; there would be an outcry and years of work would go straight down the toilet. And the last thing we want is for Henning to write a story about it.’

Bjarne nods slowly.

‘I don’t know how much I’ll be able to get out of him. Or if I can prevent him from writing anything.’

‘No, but I have an idea that I’ll tell you about if you promise me that you won’t mention the security breach to anyone else in the investigation team.’

She suddenly lowers her voice. Bjarne pricks up his ears and moves closer to her.

‘Henning is a bright guy. And I’m thinking – perhaps we could make use of him ?’

Bjarne watches as Nøkleby struggles to phrase her suggestion.

‘Massage his ego,’ she says. ‘Include him a little in what we’re doing – off the record, of course – and make it clear that you’re doing him a favour, not the other way round. Make him feel that we’re on the same team. Though the breach is regrettable, I don’t think Henning is interested in damaging the police in any way. That has certainly never been his agenda before.’

‘He’s going to see through me,’ Bjarne objects.

‘Perhaps. But I think it might be worth a try. We’re fire fighting here, but I don’t want to call the fire brigade. It would only aggravate the situation.’

Bjarne’s shoulders tense up. A vein throbs in his temple.

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he says, attempting to sound confident though he isn’t sure Nøkleby buys it. Nevertheless she gets up, smooths her skirt and smiles. Bjarne gets up too; Nøkleby puts her hand on his shoulder and sends him a gaze laden with expectation.

‘But I can’t promise you anything,’ he says. ‘I can’t just ask Henning a question about Indicia out of the blue. I need time.’

‘Of course, I understand. Use your analytical skills. I know how good you are at extracting information from people.’