Thomas Enger: Scarred

The roar of traffic mingles with the sound of Brogeland’s exasperation.

‘Are you on your way home?’

‘Wow, you should’ve been a detective, Henning. It’s five to one in the morning.’

‘Then let’s make it quick. Demented old woman found killed. What happened?’

‘Your version is fine.’

‘Mm. But she wasn’t shot or someone would have heard it. And it would’ve been messy. So, for the same reason, I don’t think she was stabbed, either, because then you would already have arrested the killer.’

‘Who says we haven’t?’

‘You do. I can tell from your voice. You’re exhausted. You sound defeated. You wouldn’t if the case had been solved.’

Brogeland sighs.

‘I can’t give you much, Henning. Tactical considerations, you know.’

‘Mm. What if I were to tell you that I spoke to a staff member tonight, a man with long, blond hair who looked like he’d seen the grim reaper—’

‘Did he talk to you?’ Brogeland interrupts him.

Henning makes no reply.

‘I hope he didn’t say anything?’

Henning doesn’t reply immediately.

‘He said he had to hurry home to his son.’

‘Damn,’ Brogeland hisses softly down the phone. Seconds pass. Henning knows better than to ruin a moment like this with more questions.

Finally Brogeland heaves a sigh. And when he pulls over at a bus stop and starts talking, Henning fills a whole A4 sheet with a story that, back in the old days when he was a cynical and less sensitive reporter, he would have summarised in three words:

GRANNY BRUTALLY SLAIN.

She chose the ring tone because it reminded her of a fabulous party with a deluge of presents. Even so the sound of her mobile is never a welcome intrusion.

Trine Juul-Osmundsen, Secretary of State for Justice, flings out her arm towards the bedside table and tries to silence her phone before the noise wakes up Pål Fredrik, who often complains that she always gets up at the crack of dawn. She is too tired to open her eyes while she fumbles for the rectangular instrument of torture. Finally she gets hold of it and slides her thumb across the screen. Peace at last.

Trine sinks back on her pillow. How many hours of sleep did she manage this time?

Far too few.

She had woken up in the middle of the night, soaked in sweat. In her dream she had found herself in a big, open space surrounded by a large crowd. She knew she couldn’t move her hands or her arms, but she still tried to free herself, calmly at first then with rising panic. She turned her head to one side and gasped as she looked up at the grey sky. Something metallic was gleaming above her and she could see that it was sharp. Cheers broke out just as she saw the rope being cut and the huge blade come crashing down towards her. She knew it was the last thing she would ever see; the feeling was so strong, so vivid that she thought she must have died and was still clasping her neck when the terror of her nightmare woke her up and she had to remind herself to breathe.

Trine turns over to look at Pål Fredrik who is snoring away with his mouth half open. Sometimes he will ask what her night terrors were about and every time she gives a vague answer or tries to make light of them before she asks him a question in return in the hope it will distract him. And every time he replies: ‘I dreamt about you, darling. I only ever dream about you.’ And then he smiles, that remarkably charming smile of his that she couldn’t help falling in love with one evening God knows how many years ago when they met in Lillehammer at a conference about economic crime.

She resists the urge to sneak a couple of minutes in his embrace before the day claims her. This tall, slim, muscular man who when he is awake is a bundle of energy, never happier than when he is on a bike or climbing a mountain. Now he is far away in a carefree slumber.

Trine smiles tenderly; she has always envied her husband his ability to sleep. She can’t remember when she was last able just to close her eyes and drift off. She lies awake at night, though she tries not to think about that day’s events, the people and the stories she encountered, tomorrow’s challenges and how she will meet them. Her brain refuses to go into hibernation mode. There is rarely or never room for personal reflection even though Pål Fredrik is good at giving her something to smile about during the night before he turns over on his side and goes to sleep.

Another reason Trine dreads sleep is that her nightmares seem to have a recurrent theme. Things she doesn’t want to dream about. Things she doesn’t want to remember.

She can see that it’s light outside, but it’s not as bright as it was yesterday. Autumn is upon them and the mere thought of it makes it harder to leave the bed. But she forces herself to sit up, stretches out her arms and opens up her lungs, exhaling slowly in a yawn. Naked, she shuffles out into the passage, into the bathroom and steps under the shower where she ponders what lies in store for her this week.

She is off to Sandvika Police Station later today where the police’s IT support and purchasing services department is presenting a technical solution for electronic monitoring of people who have been served with non-contact orders. This will be followed by lunch at the Prime Minister’s office and a Cabinet meeting. Tomorrow she is making a visit to Bruvoll Prison and later she will open a new children’s home in Oslo. She’s also going on a trip to Kongsvinger in eastern Norway to discuss initiatives to strengthen border control. And she has a feeling she is due to speak about police preparedness in this Wednesday’s question time in Parliament.

It’s going to be a busy week.

When she has dried herself, applied body lotion and not too heavy make-up, she returns to the bedroom to select today’s skirt, blouse and jacket. On her way to the kitchen she picks up her mobile, wakes the screen up purely out of habit, but stops in her tracks when she sees that she has already received a call from a VG journalist. Before 6.30 in the morning.

The same man had tried to call her last night, but she never answers calls or requests from the fourth estate on Sundays. Or before she has had her first cup of coffee.

So she goes to the kitchen, turns on the coffee machine and adds ground coffee and water. She waits until the light stops flashing and presses a button with a picture of a miniature cup. Soon she is inhaling the aroma of an espresso, something that usually wakes her up.

Then her mobile rings again.

Trine puts down her cup. This time it’s a reporter from Dagbladet . She sighs and ignores the call. When will they learn that all requests must go through her press office? Trine decides to get a new mobile number – again. Far too many people in the media know it even though she changes it regularly. Someone in her department is clearly keen to curry favour with the press. As if the press has ever done anything to help her.

Trine has gone over to the fridge to get some orange juice and cream cheese when her mobile starts ringing again. Nettavisen this time.

She stops and stares at the display. Three calls this early.

Something must have happened.

Trine is about to go to her study to check the Internet newspapers when her mobile lights up again and beeps. A text message. A moment later another one arrives. And another one. Trine is in the process of opening the first message when the ringing of the doorbell makes her jump.

A visitor at this hour?

Trine pulls her jacket tightly around her, goes into the living room and peeks out from behind the white curtains. There is a reporter outside with a pen and notepad in his hands. A photographer stands right behind him with the camera ready at head height.