Thomas Enger - Scarred

Henning’s mobile rings. Talk of the devil , Henning thinks when he sees that the caller is Iver Gundersen. Henning immediately experiences a rush of guilt because of what nearly happened with Nora last night. Perhaps that’s why Iver is calling? Did she say anything to him?

Reluctantly, Henning puts the phone to his ear.

‘Hello?’ he says, sounding a little less confident than he had hoped.

‘Hey, man,’ Iver says in his usual cocky voice. Slowly the air escapes from Henning’s lungs. ‘How are you?’ his colleague continues. ‘Are you busy?’

‘Fairly,’ Henning replies. ‘I’m waiting for a source, but he hasn’t shown up yet.’

‘Oh, so it’s a he,’ Iver laughs conspiratorially.

‘Mm. And now you obviously know who he is.’

‘If you tell me where you are, then I can guess.’

‘Yes, I’m not going to do that, obviously.’

Iver laughs again. Henning realises that he is beginning to smile.

‘How are you?’ he asks Iver. ‘Are you coming back to work soon?’

‘I hope so. I’m going for a check-up at Ullevål Hospital in a couple of days, and then we’ll see. I’m getting cabin fever from sitting around all day doing nothing.’

Henning remembers how he felt in the weeks and months before he decided to return to work. He spent most of his time at home, staring at the wall, watching a bit of TV. The world had ground to a halt. Then he started going for a walk every day. He would sit in Dælenenga Sports Park in the evening. Gradually he got used to being around people again, though he hardly ever spoke to anyone.

‘Sorry for not stopping by last week at the hospital,’ Henning says.

‘Ah,’ Iver snorts. ‘Sod that.’

‘Only there was so much to do after the Pulli case. I didn’t have a single—’

‘Forget about it, I said. Isn’t that what you’re always telling me?’

‘What?’

‘To forget about it?’

‘Yes, I… I suppose I do.’

‘Well, then, forget about it.’

Iver laughs again. Henning smiles and gazes out at the street where a woman with three shopping bags trundles along the pavement.

‘So how are you?’ Iver says. ‘Anything happening in your life?’

‘You can say that again.’

‘So what’s going on? I mean apart from the stuff I can read in the paper myself.’

Henning would have liked to share some of his thoughts with Iver, but he hesitates before he replies. Perhaps because of Nora. Or perhaps he clams up like he did in the past when he sensed that someone was getting close to him.

Across the street he sees Bjarne Brogeland coming towards him.

‘My source is here,’ Henning says. ‘I’ve got to go.’

‘But—’

‘Sorry, Iver. I’ll tell you all about it later.’

‘Do you promise?’

Henning doesn’t reply immediately. Then he says: ‘I promise.’

In time Olympen has become Bjarne and Henning’s regular meeting place when they need to talk shop. Usually at Henning’s request, but this time it was at Bjarne’s initiative. Henning didn’t mind, not in the least; the morning had come and gone without him finding anything he could feed to his editor. Nor had he spotted any developments in the story about Trine, other than more negative publicity about her.

Henning gets up from the table and greets Bjarne with a firm handshake. They find a table further towards the back and order coffee.

‘You look tired,’ Henning says as they sit down.

‘Thanks, mate,’ Bjarne grins and runs a hand across his face. ‘I didn’t sleep very well last night. There’s something about this case that—’

He fumbles for the words before he continues.

‘We’re still in the dark, to tell you the truth,’ he says. ‘And I thought that perhaps you could, that you—’

Bjarne looks around.

‘Everyone knows you have a sharp eye for detail,’ he says.

Henning smiles quickly while he studies the police officer with mild curiosity. Bjarne looks as nervous as a teenager on his first date.

‘And your bosses have obviously given you their full support for this conversation?’

Bjarne shakes his head slowly. The aroma from their coffee cups wafts towards them.

‘No, I didn’t think so,’ Henning says. ‘So, tell me, what’s really going on here? Normally I have to play the jester to get a seat at the king’s table, and suddenly it’s the other way round? Don’t tell me you’re banging your head against a brick wall already? The guy killed himself less than twenty-four hours ago.’

Bjarne’s face hardens.

‘A fresh perspective is always useful,’ he says.

Henning takes a sip of his coffee while he looks at his old school friend. Bjarne’s dark hair appears to have gone grey at the temples during their short conversation. His cheeks are clean-shaven as always, but his skin, usually golden from a summer tan, looks pale now.

‘But you obviously can’t report any of what I’m about to tell you,’ Bjarne continues.

‘So you want me to help you, but you’re not going to give me anything in return?’

Bjarne’s brow furrows.

‘Let’s agree on the things you can report. Not all of it is sensitive.’

Henning looks at him for a while.

‘Okay,’ he says eventually and shrugs. ‘Go on then. Tell me about the pieces that don’t fit.’

Bjarne heaves a sigh, then he glances around again before he leans forward and tells Henning about Gjerløw’s past connection with the victims. He tells him about the crime scenes, the broken pictures on the walls, the photos of the victims on Gjerløw’s laptop, his visits to Grünerhjemmet, the envelope they found in his flat addressed to Tom Sverre Pedersen. The Facebook apology.

‘But nobody understands why Gjerløw did it,’ Bjarne concludes in exasperation. ‘We haven’t found any evidence that links the adult Gjerløw to any of his victims, apart from the fact that he was friends with Johanne Klingenberg on Facebook, and that he volunteered at the care home where Erna Pedersen lived. I quite simply can’t discover a motive.’

Henning, too, has moved closer to the table. It comes as a surprise to him that the murders were carried out by the same killer. It also intrigues him in a way he hasn’t felt for a long time.

‘And there are a couple of other oddities. One of Gjerløw’s two laptops was completely clean. The one with the photographs. There wasn’t a single fingerprint or a speck of dust on it. The other one, a more recent model, was covered in grime. Plus Gjerløw sent a text message to a friend shortly before he died, saying he was busy playing a computer game. “ Hate the graphics, but love the sound. ”’

Bjarne looks at Henning for a few seconds, then he lowers his gaze.

‘I just don’t understand,’ he says and shakes his head.

‘What did Gjerløw do for a living?’

‘He was unemployed. Or he was at the time of his death.’

‘What kind of jobs did he used to do?’

‘Casual jobs. He had worked in a nursery school, for example, mostly here in Oslo. He also did a bit of removal work, I believe. He has a lorry driver’s licence and worked for Ringnes Brewery for a couple of months, delivering beer.’

Henning rests his chin in his hand.

‘And there’s something about that little boy that sends shivers down my spine,’ Bjarne continues.

Henning tries to visualise the killer, sees him lose his temper in Erna Pedersen’s room and smash a picture of her son’s family. He sees him go berserk in Johanne Klingenberg’s flat and smash the photograph of her godson.

And he remembers the emotions that welled up in him last night when he looked at the lovely picture of Jonas. The guilty conscience that nearly choked him, how he would never, ever, be able to bear having Jonas’s eyes look out at him from the wall. That could have been the reason why Gjerløw put up that school photo he was in on Erna Pedersen’s wall. Perhaps he wanted her to remember something. Perhaps he wanted her to feel guilty.