Scarred

Chapter 35

The press release had been sent by fax late last night and it caused frantic activity in every newspaper office, both before and after their deadlines. The first paper versions hitting the streets of Norway didn’t have time to include the news that a young Labour politician had made contact with every editor in the country, but that was about to change.

Fresh editions with new front pages went to press; a few newspapers also increased the number of pages to give both the press release and various follow-up articles sufficient space as it had now become obvious that it was going to be the story of the week. In the press release the unnamed young man announced that it would be his final word on the matter. He doesn’t want a sexual assault by one of the country’s best-known politicians to be brought up every time he himself features in the media as he has major political ambitions of his own. Nevertheless, in his statement he challenges the Secretary of State for Justice and he also gives a brief summary of the incident.

It started with a glance. At first, the man felt honoured that a Minister – and a woman he has always liked – and yes, in that way, too – would be interested in him. During that evening one glance turned into many. And when he spilled a little red wine on his white shirt and went up to his hotel room to change, he suddenly found Trine standing right behind him. She asked if he wouldn’t rather change in her room instead, and the rest, he wrote, people could work out for themselves.

Afterwards, when she had practically shoved him out of the door, he had felt used. And when he contacted the Minister a couple of weeks later to get her to admit that she had crossed a line, he was coldly dismissed with ‘Plenty of men would count themselves lucky to have been in your shoes.’

VG has twelve pages about Trine, Dagbladet has nine. Aftenposten devotes practically its entire front page and four pages inside the newspaper to the alleged assault and there are reactions and commentaries about them in addition to a series of pictures of Trine. The sexiest and most seductive photographs have been dug out and reproduced. Newspapers carry editorials that demand that Juul-Osmundsen either resign as soon as possible or come up with an explanation, ‘and a good one at that’. No one can understand why she hasn’t yet resigned and they mock her for apparently running away from the Ministry of Justice yesterday to escape the media.

Several newspapers have visited Hotel Caledonien, they have discovered which room was registered in Trine’s name on the night in question, and they have – as usual – photographed the door. ‘It happened behind this door,’ reads the caption. The media have contacted every single member of the Labour Party’s youth branch who was present that night to ask if they know the identity of the victim. No one does. But the media keep speculating. They have also spoken to other party members who were there, but no one remembers seeing Trine during the dinner. A revelation that causes several media commentators to conclude that ‘she probably had other things on her mind’.

When Henning gets to the offices of 123news, he realises that Trine won’t be able to ride out this storm. Too much negative publicity about her has appeared in the wake of the initial story. She is accused of having doctored a working environment survey in the Justice Department because it made her look bad. Sacked a member of staff, apparently for no reason. Failed to produce receipts for her travelling expenses. Accepted gifts without declaring them or paying tax on them. During an official trip to India, her Indian counterpart presented her with a rug, which she brought back and put in one of the guest bedrooms in her house in Ullern. Last Christmas she was given a 3.5-litre bottle of whisky by the Parliament’s Press Association, which she failed to declare.

The press has also resurrected a story from two years ago when she travelled to the US and flew business class, even though economy class tickets were available on the same flight. Travelling too often and too expensively never enhances a politician’s popularity. And what about that cookery course she was given by the famous Norwegian chef and food writer, Arne Brimi?

The house, which Trine and her husband bought for 17.8 million kroner last year, becomes a story in itself. Several papers have included photo montages and added catty captions to the effect that Labour politicians don’t usually live in mansions. A quote from an unnamed Labour Party politician helps to pour petrol on the flames: ‘How many of us can afford to live like this? And I’ve heard she has a cleaner as well.’ And a chalet in the Hafjell ski resort with four, possibly even five bedrooms? Shame on you. Nor does it help Trine’s case that her husband drives a Porsche Cayenne, a hugely polluting car. And since when is it appropriate for a Minister to wear such short skirts or be allowed to borrow jewellery for free for three months at a time from one of Oslo’s most prestigious jewellers?

Opposition politicians also make sure to stick the knife in with a ‘what she promised but failed to deliver’ list. Anything she has done in the last three years that can be interpreted even remotely as a failure is dumped in a box labelled ‘character assassination’. And more is to come. The fact that she doesn’t get on very well with the head of Norway’s police force gives especially the Conservative section of the opposition yet another reason to demand that the Minister be replaced at the earliest opportunity. If the opposition hadn’t already lost confidence in her over the Hotel Caledonien scandal, then they certainly will now. In an opinion poll on the front page of 123news, 97 per cent of readers demand that Trine resign immediately, 2 per cent disagree, while 1 per cent ‘don’t know’. These figures are practically identical in every other publication that Henning checked before he went to work.

Instead of sitting down at his computer, he walks over to the national news desk where he finds the fax that was sent to them along with every other newspaper late last night and locates Kåre Hjeltland. The news editor’s gaze is focused on a PC screen a few workstations away. His hair stands straight up as usual and he looks as if he slept at the office and hasn’t had time to shower before new stories appeared and demanded his undivided attention.

‘Do you have two minutes, Kåre?’ Henning says and stops in front of him. Hjeltland registers Henning’s arrival, nods, bashes the keyboard hard for thirty seconds before he gets up so abruptly that his chair rolls several metres backwards.

‘What is it?’ he asks.

Henning waits until Hjeltland’s eyes stop flitting.

‘You know it’s a stitch-up, don’t you?’

Hjeltland folds his arms across his chest and looks at him for a few seconds.

‘The whole case against Trine bears all the hallmarks,’ Henning continues. ‘Ever since yesterday morning VG has been drip-feeding stories to its readers, stories it couldn’t possibly have written in just one day. It must have known about this for a while and planned it carefully.’

Hjeltland gives Henning a baffled look.

‘Yes, and so what?’

‘So what? Don’t you think it’s just a little bit suspicious?’

‘No, not at all. We would have done exactly the same if a big story like this had landed in our lap.’

‘It doesn’t worry you that the story was deliberately leaked to Norway’s biggest newspaper, and that Trine wasn’t even offered the opportunity to respond to the allegations before the first articles went to print?’

Hjeltland is about to say something, but Henning has no intention of letting him get a word in yet.

‘And don’t tell me that VG didn’t try because that’s bullshit. It’s had every opportunity to confront Trine before it started this smear campaign against her, precisely because it’s known about it for a long time. It’s obvious what VG wants. And the rest of the media will blindly follow its lead while doing everything they can to come up with their own take on the story.’

‘But—’

‘I haven’t seen a single article that tries to defend Trine or examines the story from her point of view. No, that’s not true, I saw a two-liner saying one of her Junior Ministers is one hundred per cent behind his boss. No one has yet managed to establish what exactly happened in that hotel room.’

‘But she’s refusing to say anything,’ Hjeltland protests. ‘What do you want us to do, Henning? Not cover the story?’

‘No, but it has got completely out of hand. Trine might well be guilty of the things she’s accused of, but that’s exactly why it would have been refreshing to see a newspaper or a TV channel take a step backwards and assess the story from a balanced point of view. Or at least acknowledge that there could be more to it.’

‘Did you read the press release he issued last night?’

Henning shows him the two fax sheets he is holding in his hands.

‘Your sister is a powerful woman, Henning. She exploited her position to pressure a young man into having sex with her.’

‘She might well have done, but all the media care about now is that Trine resigns and that she apologises. It doesn’t matter what she says or what she did because no one is going to believe her. Especially not now when the press has dug up all kinds of dirt on her.’

Hjeltland scratches his head. Then he looks at Henning with editorial disapproval.

‘I understand how you must be feeling, Henning, since it’s your sister who’s being hounded, but—’

‘It’s got nothing to do with Trine being my sister,’ Henning says with an unexpected touch of anger in his voice. ‘It’s about how history repeats itself whenever a public figure is alleged to have done something wrong. We go for the jugular straightaway, and I can see it in people’s faces – also here in our office – when yet another story is revealed that supports the impression that has already been created. It’s a mixture of indignation and glee, and it’s not just here, Kåre, I’ve seen it in every editorial office I’ve ever worked in. It makes me sick.’

Henning is aware that the blood is rushing to his head. Around them other staff members have noticed his outburst, but they keep their distance. Henning doesn’t care about them; instead he makes a second attempt to get his point across and tries hard not to sound emotional or angry.

‘Besides, Trine has been on sick leave. Not all that long ago. Doesn’t anyone think that perhaps this is more than she can cope with?’

Even though he keeps his voice low, his words are explosive and he can see the effect on Hjeltland’s face. The muscles tighten like wire.

‘So what do you think we ought to do, Henning?’

‘Investigate the allegations,’ he says. ‘Rather than just repeat them.’

Hjeltland emits a sigh from the depths of his chest.

‘You know very well we don’t have the resources, Henning. And our circulation figures, they’ve gone completely through—’

‘And you wouldn’t want to ruin that, would you? You’d rather bank on the story being true?’

‘No, but right now we have to produce a story based on the information currently available to us.’

Henning can feel a fuse burning behind his eyes, but he knows continuing this discussion is pointless. So he shakes his head and says: ‘I’m going out. I can’t stand being here.’

‘Where are you going?’ Hjeltland calls after him.

‘Jessheim.’

Chapter 36

The sound of footsteps wakes up Trine Juul-Osmundsen. At first she is startled and wonders where she is before she remembers it could be one of her bodyguards who might have gone outside for some fresh air. But she doesn’t recognise the noise. It’s a small, hard stomping not made by shoes.

She sits up on the sofa bed in the living room and instantly feels the pounding in her head. Even getting to a sitting position is enough to make her nauseous. She groans and touches her temples. She screws up her eyes and sees the empty bottle of St Hallvard’s in front of her. Her stomach churns at the sight. Nevertheless she gets up and opens the curtains. A grey hare hops away. It was sitting on the hilltop, Tissetoppen, as they used to call the little mound on the side of the cabin that overlooks the sea where Henning used to go for a pee in the evening before they climbed into the bunk beds in the narrow bedroom.

The light outside is sharp and hurts her head. Her mouth is filled with dry cotton wool and the taste of cigarettes lingers on her tongue. Her laptop is open on the dining table. Last night, in between shots of liqueur, she tried to reconstruct her movements on 9 October. She remembered how she sneaked out of Hotel Caledonien and got into a car that was waiting at the goods entrance, a car that took her straight to Kjevik Airport. How she arrived at a different hotel an hour and a half later. The run she went for that same evening to rid herself of some of the anxiety that was coursing around her body at the thought of what she was going to do the next day. Trine even looked up her running profile on a street map, just to assure herself that her memory was correct.

She also tried to find a name and face among all her enemies, but she couldn’t think of a single one. Or, that is to say, the more she drank, the more potential candidates sprang to mind, but not one of them struck her as more plausible than the others. None of them is capable of gambling with such high stakes. It made her wonder if perhaps several colleagues have ganged up on her.

Trine groans and opens the door to let in the sea air. She walks outside in the clothes she fell asleep in. She is tempted to stick two fingers down her throat, so she won’t have to spend the rest of the day recovering from her hangover. On Tissetoppen she has to take a step to the side when a gust of wind almost knocks her over while she looks for the hare. It would appear to be hiding.

Sometimes, when they opened the cabin early in the spring, the hares would come unusually close to them. They hadn’t yet remembered to be wary of people after a long, lonely winter. Once she was sunning herself, wrapped up warm in a rug, when a hare hopped straight past her. It stopped only a few metres away. And it stood there, for a long time, just staring at her. While Trine stared back.

Now all she can see is the sea. An endless horizon, heaven and water united far, far in the distance without a clear dividing line, where one merges into the other. The spray rises behind the rocks of Svartskjær and Måkeskjær. Eider ducks dive under the surface of the water.

Trine goes back inside the cabin to get her mobile phone and brings it out with her to Tissetoppen where mobile coverage is usually better. There are no new text messages from Katarina Hatlem. Her core staff probably haven’t held their morning meeting yet, Trine thinks, while she wonders how long her friend with the curly red hair will manage to hold out. Trine is well aware that the press office is snapping at Katarina’s heels, even though Katarina wouldn’t admit to it when they spoke last night. And they are not the only ones. Trine dare not even think about what people must be saying about her in her department, across the whole Labour Party and in the Prime Minister’s office.

A large ship appears behind the rocks and slides past Rakke towards the foamy crests that are waiting for it. Trine turns towards the wind. The fast, blue colossus slices neatly through the white horses without rocking while her own little boat is listing and taking in water.

Further down the uneven hillside the hare peeks out from behind a bush. It stands still for a few seconds and sniffs before it runs off to hide from its enemies. And she thinks how easy it would be just to disappear out here among the rocks, the crags and the knolls, something she has been fantasising about in the last twenty-four hours. She could go for a walk along the coastal path and then just…

Trine closes her eyes and imagines it. And realises that she isn’t scared of the pain or of the darkness. The door is open. All she has to do is go in.

Chapter 37

The investigation team return to their activities straight after the morning briefing. The information about the missing school photo is a welcome development in the case and much of their work now revolves around it. They contact the three schools where Erna Pedersen taught. Ultimately that could mean hundreds of photographs, thousands of pupils, but at least it’s a place to start. They have also requested pupil registers starting from 1972 and up to 1993 when she retired.

Other officers are busy searching the care home for a stone troll with a dent. There is a remote possibility that the troll might still have fingerprints or contain other forensic evidence that justifies expending resources on it. Meanwhile, they continue interviewing everyone who was at the care home at the time when Erna Pedersen was killed. Bjarne is responsible for interviewing the five people from the Volunteer Service.

Bjarne can’t imagine that he could ever do what they do and visit people who are lonely but complete strangers. Accompany them to the doctor or the hairdresser. He wouldn’t know what to say to them. What little time he has outside of work is spent on family and exercise. Quite simply, there isn’t room for anything else.

He reads the first name on the list, Markus Gjerløw, and runs it through the criminal records register. No hits. So he rings Gjerløw’s number and waits for a reply. The ring tone is interrupted by a bright voice saying ‘hello’.

Bjarne introduces himself and explains the reason for his call.

‘Yes, I wondered when you would get to me,’ Gjerløw responds with a voice laden with haughty contempt. Bjarne suppresses a sudden rage and coughs into the palm of his hand instead.

‘I’m trying to find out what happened at the care home on Sunday afternoon. Do you remember when the volunteers arrived and when they left?’

‘I don’t know when the others arrived, but I got there between three and three thirty, I think. And I guess I was there until around five o’clock. I didn’t check what time it was when we left.’

Bjarne makes a note of the times.

‘You said when we left. Did you all leave the care home at the same time?’

‘Yes, I think so. I wouldn’t know if anyone stayed behind as we didn’t share the lift down. It isn’t big enough for all five of us.’

Bjarne nods and gets a flashback to Sandland and him in the narrow space, a little too close for her comfort zone, too far apart for his. The silence that follows gives way to an impatience that prompts him to ask: ‘Have you been to these singalongs before?’

‘Yes, certainly.’

‘Did anything last Sunday strike you as a little unusual?’

Gjerløw falls silent.

‘Well, I’m not really—’

‘Did anyone behave differently, a patient, a staff member or… or anyone else?’

‘Not that I recall.’

Bjarne lifts his pen from the paper while he thinks.

‘How well do you know the other volunteers?’

Gjerløw sighs again.

‘I only know Remi. I don’t know what it’s like with the rest, if they know each other.’

Bjarne nods to himself and looks down at his notepad. Depressingly few notes.

‘What made you volunteer in the first place?’ he asks.

Gjerløw doesn’t reply immediately.

‘Helping others is a good thing to do,’ he says eventually. ‘Making a positive difference to someone’s day. You ought to try it sometime.’

The words smart like an unexpected slap to the face. Bjarne is lost for an answer.

‘Was there anything else?’ Gjerløw asks. ‘I’m about to go out.’

‘No,’ Bjarne says. ‘Thanks for your help.’

Bjarne spends the next hour calling the other four names on the list from the Volunteer Service, but none of them can add a single new detail. All of them confirm that they left the care home around the same time as they normally do.

Bjarne shakes his head while he tries to sum up the case for himself. First Erna Pedersen is strangled in her own room, then her eyes are pierced with her own knitting needles; the killer proceeds to smash a picture of her son’s family, which was on the wall, and takes with him a school photo from the crime scene without anyone seeing or hearing anything.

The only thing he can think of that could have distracted an entire floor in a care home is the Volunteer Service’s singalong that afternoon. Someone could have stolen away from the entertainment, gone to Erna Pedersen’s room, killed her and then returned to the singalong. It need not have taken more than a couple of minutes and no one would have noticed. Pedersen wouldn’t have been capable of making very much noise and her room was quite a distance from the TV lounge where the singalong was taking place. And it’s fairly easy to hide a framed school photo. All you need is a bag or jacket with big pockets.

But what was the point of mutilating her eyes? And what about the missing picture? Was Pedersen meant to look at it before she was killed?

His train of thought is interrupted by Ella Sandland knocking on his door and popping her head round.

‘I’ve just had a call from Forensics,’ she says, sounding agitated. ‘They’ve found a fingerprint on the knitting needles that doesn’t belong to Erna Pedersen.’

Bjarne looks up at her.

‘Okay? So who does it belong to?’

Chapter 38

A layer of grey clouds hangs across Jessheim and refuses to let in the sun, but Emilie Blomvik doesn’t even notice it when she drops off Sebastian at nursery, just in time for him to join in the trip to the Raknehaugen burial mound. Inside his Lightning McQueen bag are two packed lunches, a clear blue plastic bottle of tap water and a green apple. She sends him inside with whispered instructions to have lots of fun today because that’s exactly what she intends.

As expected the morning started slowly after she came home late from work last night and found Mattis asleep on the sofa under a blanket. On the table stood a bottle of red wine that he had clearly consumed single-handedly because his dry cracked lips were stained blue. Next to the bottle was a note saying ‘Wake me when you get home…’ followed by three x’s – as if the first hint could be misunderstood.

But she didn’t have the energy. A long night shift at the airport had worn her out. The luggage belt had broken down – again – which meant it took longer to check in passengers, whose bad mood increased in line with Emilie’s. When she finally got home, well past midnight, she had only one thought in her head and that was to go to bed. So that was what she did. She fell asleep the moment her head hit the pillow.

Mattis was woken up by his mobile, which on weekdays makes an infernal noise at quarter to six in the morning. She heard him get in the shower, but when he returned to the bedroom to get dressed, she pretended to be asleep. She didn’t really know why she did that. He came over to her just before he left, but by then she had buried her head under the duvet and curled up in a ball.

As usual Sebastian woke up around seven o’clock and Emilie plonked him in front of the television for an hour, expertly ignoring all the voices in her head that called out: you’re a bad mother, you’re a bad mother, and went back to bed. She set the alarm for eight o’clock and woke up with a panicky feeling of being late for something. Fortunately she found Sebastian right where she had left him with his Lightning McQueen car in his hands and the remote control right beside him.

Television.

The world’s best invention, surpassed only by a baby’s dummy and the dishwasher.

But the mood of the day changed completely when she remembered that she was going to Oslo to have lunch with Johanne.

Emilie thinks about her friend’s gentle face as she leaves the nursery and walks out into a day that is waiting just for her. She is so looking forward to seeing Johanne again, hearing the latest news in her life since they last saw each other, what she did last summer, if she has met a new man, what’s going on with her.

Emilie drives towards the motorway while she wonders about Mattis. If anyone can make sense of the thoughts and feelings that have started to appear about the man she thought she loved, then it has to be Johanne. She has always given her such good advice.

He blinks and carefully opens his eyes.

It is a new day. It means he only has two days left.

The realisation makes him feel dizzy. The pills he took last night always have that effect on him. They slow him down. But the thought of what he is going to do today makes him leap out of bed and go over to the computer. Has she told the whole world where she is? And what she is doing?

Of course she has.

He goes to the bathroom and washes his face. Puts on his clothes and gets ready. Takes some pills with him, different ones that make him stronger. Then he goes outside. Out into a day, the number of which is decreasing.

But it makes no difference. All he can think about is how it will feel. If he’ll be there this time, all of him. When the light goes out.

Chapter 39

Henning made a point of asking if the rental firm had a yellow car, but had to settle for a small white vehicle that hasn’t even clocked up 3,000 kilometres. Now it has clocked up another forty and his first stop is Jessheim School – one of Erna Pedersen’s former employers.

It’s more than sixteen years since she stopped working there and Henning realises there is a limit to what he can hope to achieve in just one morning. Even so he parks the car and enters the school’s playground, an area that has changed considerably since Henning was last in Jessheim. He played a football match here when he was in Year Five. It was a big deal at the time for a class from Kløfta to come all the way to Jessheim to play. It was rivalry at its best – and at its worst. On the lumpy pitch behind the school they played two halves of twenty minutes each and won 5–2. Henning scored three of the goals. He can still remember being lifted up on the teacher’s shoulders after the match.

If Tom Sverre Pedersen was right and the school walls used to be covered in graffiti about his mother, there is no trace of it now. The paint on the walls look fresh and the school has been extended since Henning took part in the legendary football match back in the eighties.

He walks around to the rear of the school. Everything looks much better than he remembers it. Back in his day the place was unloved and filthy. Today there are green areas. A new volleyball sand court. The football pitch that Henning used play on now looks like something a reasonably well-off football club would use for training purposes. It feels a little odd to be retracing his footsteps now that the past has been erased and replaced with something better. But he tries to visualise them, the pupils who detested Erna Pedersen, what they did, what they thought. The graffiti on the walls would probably have been removed as soon as it was discovered and the culprits probably wouldn’t have been hard to find. But would the kid who hated her most have done something quite so obvious?

Maybe. Maybe not. People differ. But if Henning had wanted to hate, he would have picked a spot where he could nurse his hatred. A specific place that no one could destroy, erase or restore.

Henning looks around. None of the pupils is outside. The sun shines on the school’s windows, but he can see activity behind them. There are some trees at the end of the playground close to the fence separating it from the grey high-rise buildings on the other side. Trees of various heights. Trees you can climb.

Henning studies them as he walks over to them. The branches stretch up high and spread to the sides, some of them have become tangled up in each other. He reckons there are ten or twelve trees clustered together.

He looks around for the thickest branch, tests it and starts to climb. He can find no carvings in the tree trunk after the first or the second metre, so he climbs back down again and tries the next tree. Same result. An elderly woman with a Zimmer frame walks past on the pavement outside the fence. Henning smiles to her before he scales yet another tree; he manages to climb quite high; he swings one leg over the biggest, fattest branch, leans into the tree trunk and looks around.

No.

Nothing.

And yet somehow he feels closer to the killer, or at least he can imagine having a place like this, a place where you can sit and think and feel and hate. The school photo that was removed from Erna Pedersen’s wall and the word ‘fractions’ that she uttered in horror the day before she was killed both suggest that someone truly loathed her. And that her death is linked to her job as a teacher.

Henning climbs back down again and goes inside the school just as the bell goes for break; a small boy helps him find the head teacher’s office. The head teacher isn’t there today, a helpful secretary tells Henning, but perhaps she can help?

‘Yes, perhaps,’ Henning says and smiles to the friendly woman with the long, black hair. ‘Tell me, how does it work – do you keep old yearbooks here?’

‘Yes, indeed we do,’ she smiles. ‘But we don’t have very many of them. We didn’t start producing yearbooks until the mid-noughties, I think.’

‘So if I were to ask you to find me a school photo that includes Erna Pedersen then you wouldn’t have it?’

The secretary’s smile freezes.

‘Oh,’ she says. ‘So that’s why you’re asking.’

Henning realises that news of the murder of Erna Pedersen has obviously reached her former employer. He introduces himself and explains the reason for his visit.

‘I’m trying to find someone who knew her when she worked here. Do you have any teachers who were hired before Pedersen retired in 1993?’

The secretary thinks about it.

‘We have quite a young team here, so I don’t think so. But if you’re looking for a photo of her, you’re better off trying one of her former pupils. If you can find one, that is.’

Another smile.

‘Yes, that’s just it,’ Henning says. ‘Anyway, thanks for your help.’

Chapter 40

The uneven tarmac rumbles under the car. Bjarne looks across to the passenger seat where Ella Sandland is gazing out through the window.

‘I’ve been thinking about the care workers at Grünerhjemmet,’ he says. ‘Nielsen, Sund and Thorbjørnsen.’

‘What about them?’

Bjarne holds up one finger.

‘We know that Daniel Nielsen lied about what he had been doing when we visited him in his flat yesterday. He hadn’t been working out at Svein’s Gym as he claimed. We know that he stopped by the care home last Sunday to drop something off and that the time of his visit fits with the time of the killing. And none of the staff knew the victim better than him.’

Bjarne holds up a second finger.

‘We know that Ole Christian Sund was at work when Erna Pedersen was killed and that he was most likely the man who drove Daniel Nielsen up to Holmenkollen yesterday for reasons we’ve yet to establish. So they’re more than just colleagues. They could be protecting each other.’

‘Don’t forget that Sund’s son was present at the care home that evening,’ Sandland objects. ‘Surely you don’t think that Sund took part in a brutal murder while his son was just around the corner?’

‘Hush, I’m on a roll here. And then we have Pernille Thorbjørnsen,’ Bjarne says, holding up a third finger. But the train of thought that was so clear in his head has been derailed.

‘What about her?’

‘I don’t know,’ Bjarne says. ‘But it was her car they used to drive up to Holmenkollen yesterday. Sund and Nielsen, I mean.’

‘But that’s not exactly a crime.’

‘No, but I’ve had another thought. What kind of temptation might staff in a care home be exposed to?’

Sandland shrugs.

‘Not money, certainly.’

‘How about medication?’ Bjarne suggests.

Sandland looks unconvinced.

‘The manager of Grünerhjemmet did say yesterday that quite a lot of medication has gone missing.’

‘I don’t think that’s particularly unusual, Bjarne.’

‘No, you may be right, but prescription medication has a certain street value no matter what part of Oslo you live in. And Daniel Nielsen, you remember, has already admitted needing cash.’

At the entrance to Birkelunden Park the car rattles as it crosses the tramlines. Three trams are queuing at a tram stop. There is an endless flow of passengers getting on and off.

‘But what does that have to do with Erna Pedersen?’ Sandland asks while Bjarne manoeuvres in between two cars at the pedestrian crossing. ‘Could she have seen them pilfer medication and threaten to expose them?’

Bjarne doesn’t reply immediately.

‘I don’t know,’ he says, pressing the accelerator. ‘But let’s see if we can find out. There has to be a reason why Pernille Thorbjørnsen’s fingerprints are on Erna Pedersen’s knitting needles.’

Chapter 41

The dots signposting the route aren’t quite as blue as she remembers them. Nor does she have a clear recollection of the coastal path, only that they used to walk it and that it was a great walk. Cocoa and gooey brown cheese sandwiches. Perhaps a bar of milk chocolate – on special occasions. Plastic bottles filled with yellow squash.

While she put some food in a rucksack she found in the cabin, she told her bodyguards to prepare themselves for a bit of a walk today. But when she announced where she was planning to go, they insisted on positioning themselves in front and behind her, so they could check the path first and warn her should anyone appear. If she really didn’t want anyone to know where she was, then that was what they had to do, they said. Besides, there was a security risk that couldn’t be ignored and which she obviously understood and accepted, but she still insisted that they keep their distance.

They have been walking for one and a half hours in spitting rain when Trine’s mobile rings. She takes it out from her anorak and stops on a knoll that reminds her of a bald head.

‘Hi, Katarina,’ she says. ‘I was wondering when you’d call.’

‘Yes, there has – there has been quite a lot to do this morning. Have you seen today’s headlines?’

‘No.’

‘It’s—’

Trine’s Director of Communications sighs heavily before she tells her about the press release that was issued last night.

‘You’re joking,’ Trine says.

‘I wish. The Permanent Secretary came up to me this morning and asked me what the hell you think you’re doing. “She’s holding us hostage,” those were her exact words.’

Trine closes her eyes. That incompetent, sour-faced bitch.

‘I don’t know for how long we can keep putting out the same statement, Trine. The press office is very frustrated. I think that Ullevik can weather the worst of the political pressure, but—’

‘What about the Prime Minister’s office? Have they said anything?’

‘Their Director of Communications called me this morning wanting to know what our strategy was. I said I would have to ring him back. That was some time ago now.’

Trine opens her eyes again and stares across the surface of the water where ripples are starting to form.

‘By the way, where are you?’ Katarina asks.

‘I’ve gone out for a walk. I’m trying to clear my head.’

‘That sounds like a good idea. And I don’t want to pressure you, Trine, because I know how hard it is for you. But have you given any further thought as to what you’re going to do?’

Trine sighs and takes a step nearer the edge of the knoll. There is a drop of several metres down to a pile of stones that leads on further to some rocks which are getting a thorough and constant wash from the waves. She feels the wind take hold of strands of her hair, which have torn themselves loose from under her red baseball cap.

‘No,’ she says.

Trine turns away from the wind, which makes the mobile howl. But it’s not true. She has thought about what to do. She’s going to do the only sensible thing she can. There is no other way out.

Chapter 42

Brinken is a residential development the size of a small village. It lies to the left of the main road when you approach Jessheim from the south.

Henning has driven past it many times, but he has never driven through it. Once he does, it’s exactly as he imagined it would be. Criss-crossing streets, detached houses in a grid, tarmac roads and pavements. Not so many new builds, most of the houses seem to have been built in the seventies and eighties.

After entering the address he got from Atle Abelsen, Henning follows the instructions provided by the sat nav. Atle was also able to give him a plot number as well as a detailed description of the house Erna Pedersen used to live in – a terraced bungalow with two bedrooms.

As Henning pulls up he can see that the house is well maintained. It is timber-framed, clad with wooden panels and painted mustard yellow. A flat roof. A tarmac drive. There is a garden with a well-kept lawn, hedges, flowerbeds, an apple tree and a terrace.

The property has clearly been renovated.

Henning parks outside and rings the bell. No one is in. It’s to be expected; he imagines the owners are probably at work. Henning takes out a business card, writes on the back that he would like to speak to them and pushes the card under the front door before it strikes him that the new owners might not have known Erna Pedersen.

So he decides to call Tom Sverre Pedersen.

‘You again?’ says the doctor.

‘Yes, me again,’ Henning replies. ‘Listen, I’m in Jessheim now and I’ve just had a thought. I know that you said that your mother was unpopular, but do you know how she got on with her neighbours?’

Pedersen doesn’t reply immediately.

‘I know that some neighbours will chat over the fence for hours, especially in the summer. I was wondering if your mother liked or knew some of her neighbours better than others.’

‘Then it would have to be Borgny,’ Pedersen says. ‘But I don’t know if she still lives there.’

‘What’s her full name?’

‘Borgny Ramstad. I know they belonged to the same knitting club a lifetime ago. Give her my best if you manage to track her down.’

‘Okay. Thanks for the tip.’

Henning ends the call and walks up to a row of letterboxes nearby. He reads the name ‘RAMSTAD’ on one of the boxes with a clumsy number ‘25’ written below. Henning looks around, finds a house wall with the same number and rings the bell. Again, no one answers so he slips yet another business card under the door.

Henning is on his way back to the car when a text message from the paper’s breaking news service arrives. Henning clicks on the link.

According to VG, there has been no word from Justice Secretary Trine Juul-Osmundsen since yesterday afternoon. The Prime Minister is concerned.

He reads on and learns that Trine didn’t come home last night. Nor did she turn up at her office at the usual time this morning. No one in the department has been able to contact her. All media requests are being passed through Katarina Hatlem, Trine’s Director of Communications, but she is playing everything down. She repeats yesterday’s statement that Trine doesn’t wish to comment on anonymous allegations and she has gone into hiding due to the enormous media pressure. ‘Surely most people can understand this if they just take a moment to think about it.’ But Hatlem refuses to say if she knows where Trine is.

Nor have any witnesses seen his sister. No one has spotted her at a petrol station, in a shop or in the lobby of a hotel. Though the Security Service say that they are aware of Trine’s movements, many people don’t believe them. The questions don’t change. Where is she? What is she doing?

Henning might not have been so worried if he hadn’t learned yesterday that Trine had been on sick leave suffering from depression. A story that triggers this level of media witch hunt can affect even the most resilient. There isn’t a bodyguard in the whole world who can prevent Trine from doing something drastic if she makes up her mind.

And that changes everything.

Henning thinks about his brother-in-law, Pål Fredrik Osmundsen. He might know something. According to the article no one, including VG, has been able to get hold of him in the last twenty-four hours.

Henning gets into the car; he has forgotten all about Erna Pedersen. Before he drives back to Oslo, he finds Osmundsen’s mobile number on the website of Predo Asset Management and sends him a text message:

Hi. I know everyone wants to talk to you right now, but I’m probably the only journalist who wants to help Trine. Can we talk? Preferably face to face. Henning Juul (Trine’s brother)

Henning drives to Oslo as fast as he dares. When his mobile buzzes, he snatches it up. It’s a text message from Pål Fredrik Osmundsen:

Can you meet me in Stargate in half an hour?

Chapter 43

Johanne Klingenberg tends to do a weekly food shop. She was due to go shopping yesterday, but when she realised that the leftovers from the ready-made lasagne she had on Sunday could be reheated in the microwave, there was nothing she really needed to get. Now she is wishing she had done her big shop as planned because then her arms wouldn’t have been hurting as much as they are right now. The carrier bags weigh a ton.

You shouldn’t have given Emilie those dumbbells for Christmas, she mutters under her breath. You should have kept them for yourself.

But when she finally approaches the building where she lives, the fear creeps up on her. The fear that someone might have broken in again, that someone might be lying in wait for her in the stairwell or in her flat. She has grown more anxious recently. Before she goes to bed at night, she checks every cupboard and every room. She even looks under the bed before she climbs under the duvet and listens out for strange noises that never come. Eventually, far too late, she slips into a restless sleep.

Perhaps she should have mentioned the break-in to Emilie, but she didn’t want to worry her, didn’t want their lunch to be all about that. They hadn’t seen each other for such a long time and they had so much other news to share even though she had secretly been a little cross with Emilie. Emilie has always had her pick of men. And now when she has finally settled down with a good-looking guy, she can still find fault with him.

Look at me, Johanne felt like saying. I haven’t had a steady boyfriend for years. I would be on cloud nine if I had someone to love. If only someone would be prepared to look past the exterior and give me a chance.

She knows she is overweight and that she talks too loudly, especially when she is drunk. But she has lots of love to give. Lots! Emilie has always been blessed with men ready to give her anything she wants.

There is no justice in the world.

Johanne feels the sweat press on her brow. And, of course, the carrier bags manage to get caught on bicycles and pushchairs as she makes her way up the narrow stairwell.

It takes time, but eventually she reaches the second floor. Panting heavily she lets herself in, dragging the heavy bags behind her. A fire has started under her jacket that spreads to the rest of her body. She feels the need for a shower, but right now she only has the energy to collapse in a chair in the kitchen.

She sits down while her heart tries to resume its normal rhythm. She looks around for Baltazar, the little rascal, but he is not in his basket. Nor does she get a meow in response when she calls out his name.

It takes a few minutes before Johanne is able to get up and go into the living room. She calls out his name again, but there is no reply this time, either. Is he hiding under the sofa again? Johanne gets down on all fours, sees a lot of stuff that ought not to be under the sofa, but no cat. She gets back on her feet and heaves a deep sigh.

Then she senses movement right behind her.

Johanne spins around and her eyes widen.

‘What are you doing here?’

If she hadn’t recognised him straightaway, she would have screamed. But there is something about his eyes. They are empty and cold. And they don’t shift from her until he says: ‘Cute kid.’

He nods towards the wall. Then he takes a step closer. Johanne moves back, but her retreat is blocked by the coffee table.

Then she realises it. He is the man who broke into her flat two weeks ago, who has been following her and waiting for her outside the lecture hall.

She looks at him, at his eyes. And she realises she has never been more scared in her life.

He takes a step closer. Somewhere deep inside his ears he can hear the steady beating of his heart, strong and fast. He tries to see clearly, but everything blurs. It’s as if he is watching her through a veil; he swallows and blinks, he tries to breathe as calmly as he can, but the room doesn’t change. The details don’t come into view.

Wait, he says to himself. Be patient.

He clenches his fists, but he can’t feel a thing. There is no pain. The pills are working. And that’s wonderful.

He blinks a second time. Suddenly he can focus.

‘You owe me an apology,’ he says.

Her eyebrows shoot up.

‘Me? What for?’

Then his sight grows fuzzy again; he doesn’t feel his hand punch the picture on the wall, all he can hear is the shattering of glass. Johanne raises her hands up to her face to protect herself. When she takes them away, he lashes out again; he is not sure what he hits, but he hopes it’s her head this time. Whatever it is, it makes her fall backwards across the glass coffee table; she lands on the sofa and bangs the back of her head against the wooden armrest. Then she goes quiet.

Not yet, he tells himself, wait for the veil to fall. Wait until you can see. When his eyes can focus again, he sees that although the years have changed her, it’s still there. Her contempt for him. She still despises him, the boy who saved her life that cold night in 1994.

It had been a Friday like any other Friday in Jessheim. Emilie and Johanne had been to Gartneriet Bar and as usual were high on life. They staggered along the pavement, arms linked. On their way home they had stopped at the takeaway by the Esso petrol station, right by the junction, for something to eat. And as usual Emilie was surrounded by boys.

He was there with some friends and they watched as the girls’ behaviour, giggling and eating drunkenly, changed completely when Johanne choked on some food and couldn’t breathe. Emilie freaked out and screamed at the top of her voice for someone to please help Johanne. In the light from the takeaway he could see everyone freeze to the spot while Emilie’s shrill voice hurt his ears. A strange calm came over him. What he really wanted to do was stay where he was and watch Johanne’s light go out. But what about Emilie. Sweet, lovely Emilie, who was running around wailing and shouting.

So he went over to Johanne who was clutching her throat. Her lips were starting to turn purple. He had to make an effort to snap out of his trance and remember the first-aid course they had been taught at school; the soft, revolting plastic doll he had pressed his lips against and that had tasted grotesquely sterile, and he thought about the other procedures they had learned, the bit about the Heimlich manoeuvre and he couldn’t quite remember how to do it, but he positioned himself behind her and half lifted and half squeezed her, and suddenly Johanne was able to breathe again. She stood there, spitting and coughing, hawking and crying.

Emilie threw herself around his neck and stayed there. She stayed there for a while. And, he supposed, that was what Johanne had never been able to accept. That someone could get between her and her best friend for more than a few weeks.

Seriously, Emilie, it’ll never last. You’re not going to marry him, are you?

And he knows now that she won’t ever apologise to him. She is another one of those who won’t. So he bends down and waits until signs of life return behind her eyelids. The moment she regains consciousness she tries to escape, but she is trapped. Frantically she looks around; she kicks and screams so he squeezes her neck. A little harder while he tells himself to stay calm. Remember, you want to watch. You want to watch, he repeats to himself while he straddles her midriff. Her legs hit his back and thrash in the air, her arms flail wildly and she claws at his jumper and gloves. But when he tightens his grip around her neck and feels her sinking into the sofa like a balloon slowly deflating, that’s when he sees it.

He sees it.

And it’s the most incredible sight ever.

Chapter 44

Two journalists are hanging around outside the entrance to 123news when Henning parks the hire car and gets out. He doesn’t recognise them and tries to ignore them by looking up at the autumn clouds, but one of the reporters blocks his path when he walks past them.

‘Hey,’ says the journalist, a small, fat man with very little hair and thin, round Harry Potter glasses. ‘Do you have anything to say about what your sister has done?’

Henning stops and smiles.

‘Forget it, I’m not going to throw you a bone.’

The journalists glance at each other.

‘No, no comment,’ Henning says and pushes his way past them.

‘But—’

The journalists’ voices rise behind Henning as he walks out through the gates, but he shrugs them off. Instead he walks as quickly as he can in the direction of Grønland towards Stargate. The pub isn’t far away, but he makes a few detours to be sure that he isn’t being followed.

Henning sees that the rundown watering hole has just opened when he arrives and it strikes him that this choice of meeting place was really quite clever. The press has laid siege to both Pål Fredrik’s office and his private home, but no one would ever suspect him of frequenting a dump like this.

Henning orders a cup of coffee and takes a seat in the furthest corner of the room. The dark interior suits him fine; it makes it easy to hide, to disappear in a fog of stale alcohol and sweat against which soap and water stand no chance. A man with stubble and faded clothes comes out from the gents with his trousers still hanging halfway down his knees. On the loudspeakers Johnny Cash reminds the customers that pain is good.

Pål Fredrik Osmundsen arrives fifteen minutes after Henning. His grey suit is elegant and, in view of his red eyes and the bags under them, he could have come straight from a late-night drinking session at the more upmarket Aker Brygge. Henning barely recognises him from the photos in the newspapers.

Pål Fredrik Osmundsen is a business economist who graduated from BI Norwegian Business School. He has worked for Tvenge Brothers Investment, been a consultant and a private investor, but he is now in charge of an asset management fund specialising in European property. Henning doesn’t know how many millions Osmundsen is worth, but it’s a lot. He has also gained a reputation for himself as a bit of a modern-day explorer. The magazine Vi Menn featured him a couple of years ago when Osmundsen gave them access to some of his private photographs from when he climbed K2, Kilimanjaro and crossed Greenland on skis. He has taken part in the Trondheim to Oslo bike ride many times as well as other popular endurance events such as Birken.

Henning waves to the athletic man who weaves his way through chairs and tables.

‘Over here,’ Henning calls out.

Osmundsen takes Henning’s outstretched hand and presses it firmly. They sit down. A silence ensues. Quick glances sweep across the table.

‘Funny way to meet you, brother-in-law,’ Osmundsen says at last.

Henning smiles briefly.

‘Are you here as a journalist or as her brother?’

Henning doesn’t reply immediately.

‘I’m automatically disqualified from writing about Trine because I’m her brother.’

‘So why are you here?’

‘Because I—’

Henning thinks about it.

‘Because there’s something about the story that troubles me, only I don’t know what it is. Perhaps it’s this alleged victim, who…’

Henning searches for the right word.

‘I just don’t buy it,’ he says finally.

A waiter comes over and takes Osmundsen’s order, a cup of coffee and a glass of water.

‘But if you can’t investigate the story,’ Osmundsen begins, ‘how will you be able to help Trine?’

Henning hesitates.

‘I don’t know,’ he says and flashes a cautious smile. ‘I haven’t even started thinking about it.’

Osmundsen nods calmly. An ambulance with howling sirens drives past outside; the sound fills the room before fading away like a dying lament.

‘She’s going to kill me if she finds out that the two of us have been talking,’ Osmundsen then says.

Henning tilts his head.

‘Why?’

‘Well, you’re not exactly the best of friends.’

Henning lowers his gaze, stares into a past that rises from the table like a multi-coloured fog. And in the midst of it – a sad and lonely truth.

‘No, we’re not,’ he admits. ‘I don’t really know why, but—’

‘Is it true?’

Henning nods.

Images of Trine that have started to surface recently come back to him like uninvited guests. He hears her voice, small and fragile. He sees her gaze, dull and distant. And he wishes he knew, that he understood when and why they grew apart.

‘Has she ever talked about it to you?’ he asks.

Osmundsen shakes his head.

‘I’ve asked her several times, but every time she just gives me a hard stare and that’s the end of that conversation.’

Henning nods slowly.

Osmundsen takes out his mobile and puts it on the table with the screen facing up.

‘In case Trine calls,’ Osmundsen says by way of explanation.

‘Have you heard from her?’

‘She sent me a text message yesterday saying she wasn’t coming home. She wouldn’t tell me where she was because she needed to be alone, she said.’

‘So she hasn’t gone missing as some papers are speculating?’

Osmundsen hesitates.

‘That rather depends how you look at it.’

Osmundsen lowers his gaze again. A dark shadow falls across his coarse, weather-beaten face. Even though he is tall and big, he looks small as he sits there. As if the strength in his upper body, the strength that kept him upright, has gone.

‘It’s happened before,’ he says eventually. ‘Her disappearing, I mean. It happened one Sunday a few years ago, I think it was, and I didn’t find her until late in the evening, far away in Nordmarka Woods. She sat under a tree and was completely out of it. She came to when I touched her, but she couldn’t remember anything of what had happened.’

‘What did her bodyguards say?’

‘Trine didn’t have bodyguards in those days.’

‘But—’

The words stop in Henning’s mouth.

‘There’s a name for it,’ Osmundsen continues. ‘For what happened. Dissociative fugue,’ he pronounces it clearly. ‘A person will leave their home or their job, apparently with a sense of purpose, but afterwards they remember nothing.’

The waiter brings Osmundsen’s coffee cup in one hand and a pot in the other. Henning covers his cup with his palm.

‘So what causes it?’ he asks when the waiter has left.

Osmundsen puts his head on one side.

‘No one really seems to know, but it’s usually trauma of some kind that the body is trying to protect itself against. Trine denies that she has ever experienced something that could trigger a reaction like that, so I guess we’ve agreed that it must have been due to work pressure. I could tell from looking at her in the days and weeks leading up to it. She was exhausted. And something was weighing her down.’

‘And still she carried on as Justice Secretary?’

‘Yes, anything else would have been unthinkable.’

‘And the media never got wind of it?’

‘No, they called it depression. The media write whatever you want them to write. Or they do some of the time.’

Henning tries to digest the information he has just been given.

‘Do you think that’s what has happened now?’

Osmundsen raises the coffee cup to his lips, takes a sip and puts it down with a clatter. Then he throws up his hands.

‘Trine has always been a tough girl. I would have thought this kind of challenge would only have made her stronger. But who knows. And I don’t like the fact that I can’t get hold of her.’

‘She has probably just switched off her mobile.’

Osmundsen nods helplessly and lowers his gaze again. Another silence descends on the table.

‘So what do you make of all this?’ Henning says. ‘Did Trine do what they say she did?’

Again Osmundsen flings out his hands.

‘She told me yesterday morning that the story isn’t true. That the accusations against her are false.’

‘But if that’s the case,’ Henning says, ‘why doesn’t she defend herself? Why has she run away?’

‘I don’t know,’ Osmundsen replies and lowers his gaze again. ‘It’s not like her. I’ve no idea what’s going on.’

The next moment the mobile on the table between them starts to vibrate. Henning sees hope and fear rise in Osmundsen, who quickly picks it up. Only to put it down and let it ring out.

‘Journalists?’ Henning asks.

Osmundsen nods.

‘I think I must have got two hundred calls in the last twenty-four hours. They just refuse to give up.’

Henning feels the need to say something, but the words won’t come out.

‘Do you have any idea where Trine might be?’ he asks instead. ‘Is there somewhere the two of you go when you want to be alone?’

Osmundsen thinks about it again, but Henning can see that he has given up. Shortly afterwards Osmundsen makes his excuses, explains that he has to get back to work where he is taking part in an important video conference. Henning shakes his hand and says that he’ll pay, obviously. And the tall man disappears outside, out into a miasma of uncertainty.

Henning doesn’t know why, but the sight of Pål Fredrik reminds him of his own father. In a rare TV profile he found about Trine last night, she talked about how hard her father’s death had been for her, how it shaped her as a person. And he wonders how Pål Fredrik will cope if Trine doesn’t recover.

This line of thinking leads him straight to his mother. He wonders if the caretaker in the block where she lives has managed to do him that favour he asked him.

Henning decides to find out.

Chapter 45

Pernille Thorbjørnsen and Ole Christian Sund are sitting down when Bjarne Brogeland and Ella Sandland enter the staff room. Their chairs are close together and they are leaning in towards each other, but both jump back when the officers greet them.

‘Hello,’ Sund says with a stiff smile. He looks across to Thorbjørnsen who immediately lowers her gaze and folds her hands in her lap. They don’t stay there for long; she fiddles with her hair, tries to sit upright and glances quickly at the officers who have yet to ask them any questions.

Bjarne bides his time because he has a hunch about the two care workers, prompted by the first conversation he had with Thorbjørnsen after Erna Pedersen had been found dead. It started when she told him that Sund had called her after the murder.

Now it might just have been a conversation about a traumatic incident at the place where they both work. But given the looks they exchange and the closeness of the chairs, Bjarne suspects that their relationship is more intimate. Not only do they share a staff room, they also share a bed.

The room is so small that the police officers remain standing.

‘Who would have thought we’d find you both here at the same time,’ Bjarne says and looks at Thorbjørnsen. Her defences were intact the first time he met her. Now he can practically see the cracks. Her face has lost some of its colour.

‘Have you finished arguing?’ Bjarne says.

Thorbjørnsen’s gaze shoots up at him, then shifts to Sund who starts picking at a callus.

‘There’s nothing wrong with having a quarrel, all couples do from time to time. I’m more interested in why you argued here, in Ward 4, on the afternoon Erna Pedersen was killed.’

Bjarne sees the beginning of the protest form in Sund’s face.

‘And why we found your fingerprints on Erna Pedersen’s knitting needles,’ Sandland interjects and points at Thorbjørnsen.

‘Mine?’ she frowns.

Sandland nods.

‘There’s nothing suspicious about that. I used to help her cast on and finish her mittens and socks. She couldn’t do it herself, poor thing, her hands weren’t what they used to be.’

Bjarne looks at his colleague. It’s a plausible explanation, he thinks, and looks at the flame red colour in Thorbjørnsen’s cheeks.

‘What was your car doing up in Holmenkollen on Monday afternoon with you behind the wheel,’ Bjarne points at Sund, ‘and Daniel Nielsen in the passenger seat?’

Thorbjørnsen’s lips part.

‘Holmenkollen?’ she exclaims and looks at her boyfriend. ‘You told me you were going to Storo?’

Sund tries to look her in the eye, but can’t stand up to his girlfriend’s sudden, intense scrutiny.

‘I thought you were meeting a mate to see if he could fit my car with a new silencer?’

Sund makes no reply, he simply bows his head.

‘Heaven help us,’ she snorts and shakes her head.

Bjarne gives them a little more time. Thorbjørnsen, who had briefly assumed a more upright posture, collapses again with fresh anger in her eyes.

‘Perhaps one of you can tell us what’s going on?’ Sandland suggests.

Thorbjørnsen’s face gets even redder. Finally Sund starts talking.

‘Please leave Pernille out of this. She’s got nothing to do with it.’

‘And what is “this”?’ Sandland asks.

Sund sighs.

‘You’re right,’ he says, looking at Bjarne. ‘We did have an argument at work on Sunday. Daniel came by to drop off Pernille’s car because she needed it to drive herself home and he asked if he could borrow it again the next day for another job up in Holmenkollen.’

‘Another job?’

‘Well, you see—’

Again Sund looks away. When he doesn’t start speaking immediately, Thorbjørnsen continues the story for him.

‘I was really upset about it,’ she says and lifts her head. ‘Upset that they kept using my car for their scheme. I wanted out, pure and simple; I refused to be their accomplice any longer.’

‘Accomplice to what?’ Sandland asks, sounding tired.

Sund braces himself.

‘I’m a care worker,’ he starts tentatively in a low voice and looks up at Sandland, now with a little more defiance in his gaze. ‘All I’ve ever done is help people in need.’

Bjarne looks at him in disbelief.

‘You’re telling me you help people by selling them drugs that you steal from your employer?’

Sund glowers at him.

‘Drugs? What are you talking about?’

Sund puts on his most indignant face.

‘Just what exactly are you accusing us of?’

Bjarne doesn’t reply.

‘We visit people in their own homes and give them the care they don’t feel they get enough of from social services.’

Bjarne doesn’t realise that his jaw has dropped. This particular development has taken him completely by surprise.

‘Have you any idea how many people are let down by the health service in Norway today, Brogeland? Here in Oslo alone? How many people have watched relatives, people who helped build this country, be treated like rubbish? Like—’

Sund can’t even find the words.

‘I’m sure it’s bad,’ Bjarne says. ‘But are you telling me that you care for elderly people in their own homes?’

Sund nods.

‘And you get paid cash?’

Sund looks away.

‘That’s against the law,’ Sandland says.

‘Don’t I know it,’ Sund says, sounding cross.

‘And you’ve never stolen medication from the care home?’

‘Our clients have plenty of medication; they can get whatever they need for free on prescription. I don’t know why so much medication goes missing from Grünerhjemmet, but it’s something that happens in every care home. But care isn’t just about giving someone pills, Brogeland. Care is so much more.’

‘Mm,’ Bjarne says again. ‘So this was a business you were running on the side?’

Sund nods.

‘How long have you been doing this? When did you start?’

Sund looks up at him again. The outrage he had worked up appears to have deserted him. His head hangs heavy.

‘My father had a stroke when he was only fifty-seven years old. He relied completely on full-time care for the rest of his life. I looked after him right up until his death a couple of years ago. My mother had died when I was little. Many of those who knew us also knew how I had cared for my father and they asked me if I might consider doing the same for their relatives. Not all the time, of course, but whenever I could. They would pay me. In the meantime, I had managed to get a job in the care sector and I was all too aware of the problems and the dissatisfaction people felt. So I said yes.’

‘And it took off?’

Sund nods.

‘Daniel and I met through work and had become friends. I knew that he needed money so I asked him if he might be interested in a second job. Yes, we don’t declare it and yes it’s illegal, but neither of us has a guilty conscience. Not for one second. People live better lives because of what we do.’

‘As do you.’

Sund snorts.

‘I can pay my rent, yes. Just about. Something you would think was owed to a highly skilled man like me. But I guess you have to follow procedure,’ he says, now sounding grumpy. ‘Lock me up. And when you get home tonight, look in the mirror and ask yourself if Oslo is a better place because you did. If we can all now sleep safely in our beds?’

Bjarne says nothing; he sees no point in embarking on a discussion with Sund. So he thinks about Erna Pedersen again. His initial theory was that she must have seen something, but she hadn’t. Ole Christian Sund has nothing to do with her death. Nor would it appear do Daniel Nielsen and Pernille Thorbjørnsen.

So who does?

Sandland’s mobile starts to ring in her jacket pocket. She takes it out and signals to Bjarne that she will take the call outside. Bjarne is left alone with the care workers who don’t say anything, nor do they look at each other.

Sandland reappears shortly, but she stays in the doorway and summons him outside with her right index finger. Bjarne does as she asks. Sandland leans towards his ear and whispers: ‘We’ve got to go. There’s been another murder.’

Chapter 46

Two cars are parked quite a distance from each other outside the apartment block in Helgesensgate. Henning knows that reporters have been trying to call his mother and that they have rung her doorbell.

He also knows that gaining access to a block of flats is easy, as is knocking on every available door until you find the person you are looking for. But when Henning lets himself in and walks up the stairs, he can see that the caretaker, Karl Ove Marcussen, has done his bit to make the job more difficult for the vultures. He has unscrewed the name plate saying ‘Christine Juul’ and hopefully disconnected her doorbell and telephone as well. In addition he unplugged the aerial to make sure she can’t watch television. Henning’s mother is one of the few people left who still swears by landlines.

He lets himself into her flat, but doesn’t call out her name until he has closed the door behind him. As always he is met by the stench of cigarettes, but the smell isn’t as pungent as usual.

He walks in without first taking off his shoes, but pulls up short when he spots his mother in the kitchen. Or rather, slumped on the kitchen table, her cheek pressing against the surface. Next to her are an empty bottle and a shot glass.

She’s dead, Henning thinks, and a mixture of grief and relief washes over him. The first emotion surprises him. The second fills him with shame. But then one of her fingers twitches and she moves her head. It looks as if she is trying to lift it, but she fails.

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.

Chapter 47

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.

Chapter 48

He doesn’t come here often. But now that Henning has unlocked the door to the attic room and looked inside, he wishes he hadn’t come at all. There are so many memories stored up there, in everything he sees. Boxes of clothing, toys, shoes that would have been too small for Jonas today. An old scooter, a pair of skates. He can’t bear to let them go. It’s as if Jonas will be even further away from him if he were to throw out his things. Just thinking about it feels like a violation.

Even so he enters the attic room and finds the box he is looking for; he carries it down to his flat and wipes off the dust before he opens the lid. He stares at the piles of photos and photo albums. He deliberately avoids looking at pictures of Jonas. What he is interested in right now are photographs of Trine and him, the identical collages their mother made for them the Christmas when they were ten and twelve years old respectively.

The idea came to him when he saw an old photograph of Jonas, Nora and himself on the mantelpiece in his mother’s flat. It made him realise there is so much about Trine he has forgotten. He blows hard into the box and the dust whirls back in his face. He instinctively recoils before he starts rifling through the photographs. It doesn’t take long before he finds the album he is looking for.

He opens it so that the light and the air can reach it. The first page is blank. Then – a photo of Trine and him as babies, eighteen months apart. They are lying on the same blanket, with the same open gaze aimed at the camera. Henning can see how much they looked like each other as babies.

He turns the page and sees more baby pictures of them together on the floor. Henning’s back is ramrod straight and his hand reaches out to Trine, who is lying on her back with her legs in the air. They play. They smile. There are pictures of them in their cots, pictures of them lying under a duvet on the sofa with dull eyes and feverish foreheads. Pictures of them growing bigger. Pictures from birthday parties, Christmases, from the pebble beach near their cabin in Stavern of them trying to skim stones. Two ‘1’ candles on a birthday cake the year Trine turned eleven. Trine puffing up her cheeks ready to blow out the candles.

I wonder what I did, Henning thinks to himself. What did I do that made Mum hate me and worship Trine?

Henning looks at the photo album again, the pebble beach, the rocks, the ships in the Skagerrak. He can’t remember when he last visited the cabin, but it must be many years ago. He remembers how the small community and the holiday resort seemed to die every year in mid-August. Their sun-loving cabin neighbours would disappear before the schools started again. When Henning’s family came back in September to shut down the cabin for the winter, their neighbours would already have left. The sea could carry on gambolling without an audience. And it occurs to him that if Trine has gone somewhere to be alone right now, then that has to be the place.

It has started to rain again when Bjarne comes back outside, a cold shower with big, heavy drops. But neither the wet nor the cool autumn air has any effect on him. An uneasy gut feeling has brought on a fever that is spreading to the rest of his body.

Two crime scenes in the space of just a few days presenting with very similar evidence. Is that a coincidence? he asks himself, and answers his own question immediately. Photographs can easily get broken in the heat of a struggle. Murder by strangulation is not uncommon. And only Erna Pedersen was mutilated after her death.

But even so.

Shortly afterwards Bjarne sees Emil Hagen outside the entrance to the apartment block. Because of the heavy rain they get into one of the patrol cars, but don’t start the engine. The raindrops batter the windscreen. Big curtains of water are blown across the bodywork.

‘I checked with the emergency services,’ Bjarne says. ‘There were no calls to them from the victim’s mobile.’

Hagen runs a hand over his wet face and wipes it on his trousers.

‘I’ve spoken to those neighbours who were at home,’ he says. ‘Nobody heard anything.’

Bjarne tries looking out through the windscreen. It’s starting to mist up. Outside two police officers walk past, chatting to each other, but their words can’t be heard inside the car.

‘But there was one interesting thing,’ Hagen says. ‘The victim reported a break-in two weeks ago.’

Bjarne turns his head to his colleague whose jaw looks even more tightly clenched than usual.

‘Nothing was taken, but she said – if I’ve understood this correctly – that someone had been bleeding in her flat.’

‘Bleeding?’

‘Yes. She found a blood stain right next to the cat basket, I believe. And someone had smashed a photo on the wall.’

Bjarne looks at him.

‘Two weeks ago?’

‘Yes.’

‘The same picture hanging there now or a different one?’

‘I’m not sure, but I think it was the same one. It’s possible she hadn’t replaced the frame. Or the glass yet.’

‘And left broken glass on the floor?’

Bjarne shakes his head.

‘I highly doubt that.’

Hagen doesn’t reply. A smell of wet leather rises from his jacket.

How bizarre, Bjarne thinks. Someone broke a picture in the victim’s home two weeks ago and the same thing happens again today?

This is definitely not a coincidence. And it bears witness to a deep-seated rage.

‘Who handled the investigation?’ Bjarne asks.

Hagen looks at him.

‘It was low priority. Nothing was stolen. And nobody got hurt.’

‘Except, possibly, the man who broke in.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘But what about the blood? Can that help us?’

‘I don’t know,’ Hagen says. ‘I guess it’s at the back of the queue at the lab, like everything else.’

Bjarne shakes his head and sighs.

‘What kind of blood was it?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Are we talking drops, blood spurts – what was it?’

‘A smear. Like if you have a cut, but you don’t know it and then you accidentally touch—’

‘I know what a smear is, Emil.’

The investigators sit in pensive silence for a few seconds while the rain lashes the windscreen. Bjarne puts his hand on the door handle.

‘Well,’ he says, ‘I guess we’ll have to do what we always do.’

‘I guess so.’

Chapter 49

Henning loves autumn. In the summer only the copper beeches and the bright yellow rapeseed fields stand out from all the lush shades of green. But in the autumn nearly every tree and bush changes colour. It’s as if the year has matured. And yes, the colour palette warns of darker times, and yes, there is something sad about the dying plants and withering leaves. But even so Henning has always welcomed it.

Nora could never understand why halfway through Edvard Grieg’s Piano Concerto in A minor, Henning would sit there with tears in his eyes and yet expect her to believe that the saltwater was a sign that he was enjoying himself.

Now autumn rushes past outside the car window. The fields lie shorn and dormant, like a memorial to bright, warm summer evenings.

Henning remembers that the drive to Stavern used to take two and a half hours, but that was going from Kløfta. It was also in a different car, in another age. They would pack the small, blue VW Beetle to the rafters and, had they been spotted today, the police would have pulled them over for careless driving. Just being back on the same road – or almost the same road because motorways have been built since – reminds Henning how he used to be squashed on the backseat, barely able to reach out to undo the small latch that opened a window to get rid of the cigarette smoke in the car.

His mobile rings when he is almost halfway there. It is the 123news national news editor. He is tempted to ignore the call, but capitulates in the end.

‘Hello, Heidi.’

‘Where are you?’

As usual, his boss skips the small talk.

‘I’m in the car.’

‘A woman has been found murdered in a flat in Bislett. I want you to go there straightaway.’

‘Sorry, but that’s going to be difficult. I’m on my way to—’

Henning stops himself; he doesn’t want to reveal his destination.

‘On your way to where?’

‘I’ve almost got to Tønsberg.’

‘What on earth are you doing in Tønsberg?’

‘There’s just something I need to check.’

Heidi sighs heavily into the telephone.

‘So when do you think you’ll be back?’

‘Don’t know. Later tonight, hopefully.’

Another sigh.

‘Okay.’

She hangs up without saying goodbye.

For the next hour Henning concentrates on the road. All he has to do is remember to turn off at the crazy golf course at Anvikstranda Camping, which they were allowed to visit once every summer, and he’ll be there. It’s a trip down memory lane.

He remembers too small hands trying to grip too big golf clubs. He remembers the bumpy road, which hasn’t grown less bumpy over the years, how they practically had to drive off-road to make way for any cars coming towards them. But he doesn’t need those memories now.

Past the grove a large grassy area opens out. This is where they used to play football in the summer. Where they tried to fly kites. Where they would practise cartwheels, throw Frisbees and forget to eat because they were having so much fun. And on the horizon lies the sea, big, blue and beautiful.

Henning drives past the rubbish bins and continues until the road stops at the end of Donavall Camping with rows of trailers with picket fences, decking and locked plastic crates containing garden furniture. Everything is exactly as he remembers it.

The parking space allocated to their cabin appears a short distance ahead of him. But there is no car in sight. Trine isn’t there. No one is.

So he was wrong after all.

A little further along the gravel track he spots tyre tracks. Fresh. As if a car, or two, drove halfway into the space before turning around again.

Whenever Henning’s family went to the cabin, they would park as near the footpath as they could to unload the car. Then there would be the strenuous hike through the forest laden down with rucksacks, bags and food shopping. Trine and Henning were always made to carry something, even when they were little, and they would walk through the trees whose viper-like roots snaked down towards the footpath where they were. And every time there was a noise in the thicket, they would jump a mile, spooked as only children can be.

But it was also an incredibly beautiful landscape where the trees grew close, vines wound their way around them and white anemones, almost luminous in the spring, covered the forest floor like a duvet. And the view when they reached the top of the hill, when the sea opened out before them, and they could see ships draw white trails in their wake on the mirrored, blue surface of the Skagerrak.

He remembers everything now.

And seeing that he has driven all this way, he decides he might as well go down to the shore. Henning loves the sea. He has always loved throwing stones at the rocks to see if he could hit them. He loved snorkelling, looking for flounders on the seabed, the way the seaweed and bull rushes wafted around him in slow motion when he went swimming.

Henning parks the car and walks down the footpath where everything has changed, while at the same time nothing has. He still looks out for vipers, just in case. And the feeling when he reaches the top of the hill and the sea spreads out in front of him hasn’t changed, either. It’s as if something in him lets go. He stops and looks across the water; the distant sky has acquired a pink evening glow, which in a few places is reflected in the almost motionless surface of the sea.

He remembers how they used to play on the pebble beach, him and Trine, how they would pick bog whortleberries and crowberries that looked like blueberries and which Trine insisted on calling blueberries for years. Trine would always boss him around, like the know-it-all she was. This is how he remembers her, even though she is eighteen months younger than him, her constantly wagging finger and a tone of voice that would frighten most people into doing what she told them. This extended to when the family played cards. She learned new games and strategies very quickly. Their mother, however, never played to win; she always let her children beat her. And Trine hated that.

Henning inhales the sea air deep into his lungs before he starts walking down towards the row of blue cabins. He remembers the mound where he used to go to pee because the cabin only had an outside toilet and no power on earth could make him step inside the tiny cubicle that was riddled with flies, spiders and cobwebs. And he remembers the seagulls they fed with prawn shells and fish waste. Cormorants, oystercatchers and swans that always caused a stir whenever they flapped past. The eider ducks.

Tvistein Lighthouse stands just as staunchly on the horizon as it always did. On clear summer evenings they could see all the way out to the island of Jomfruland. If he tries really hard, he is sure that he can conjure up the smell of his father’s cigar smoke, the smell of holiday. And nowhere in the world do the stars twinkle more brightly.

Henning comes to a standstill when he sees that the door to the cabin is open. At first he thinks there must have been a break-in; he has read countless newspaper articles over the years about cabins closed down for the winter that have had uninvited, light-fingered guests, but his initial concern soon gives way to profound relief when he notices a plate and a glass in the sink outside.

So he was right after all.

Trine hasn’t scattered breadcrumbs for the wagtails with which they always used to share their breakfast, but the washing-up bowl is still there. Square and made from faded red plastic. And he sees the old gulley in the hillside that their father dug to divert rainwater away from their cabin. Their mother always took great care to weed around it. He can’t imagine that anyone has done any weeding here for years.

Their plot is relatively inaccessible from the surrounding footpaths so people rarely walked straight past their front door – even in the summer. It meant that they hardly ever had to lock the cabin, a tradition Henning notes to his satisfaction that Trine has upheld.

He enters the cabin tentatively.

‘Trine?’

It feels strange to say her name out loud and there is no response. The cabin is silent. But he sees a laptop on the table. Clothing thrown over the dark blue sofa. The curtains are still the same blue and white ones, in case anyone should forget that they are by the seaside. He looks across the juniper bushes that cover the hillside in front of the cabin; the thicket below. The irregularities in the terrain. And he remembers the cream buns they used to eat, radio plays on Saturdays, the television that never worked.

He remembers everything.

He leaves the cabin and walks up to the small mound and it feels as if the whole world is spread out in front of him. All he has to do is reach out his hand to touch it. And the wind, he hadn’t noticed it until now. Or the smell from Firsbukta, either – a smell he hated when he was little – of seaweed and rubbish that the sea has washed up and which has been rotting in the sun.

He wonders if that’s what makes him take a step back to stop himself from falling over. How can all this have been buried inside him, all these lovely memories that are now coming back to him? He closes his eyes and lets them in. He stands like this for a long time.

Then he walks back inside the cabin and sits down at the table where Trine’s laptop is open. He bumps into a table leg, and as he does so he causes the screen to wake up. A detailed city map appears. Blue, yellow, white and beige colours dotted across the page. A slightly thicker line runs through the streets along some water. He is about to read the street names when a shadow flits across the window. His gaze darts to the door frame where his sister is staring at him with frightened eyes.

‘Henning? What the hell are you doing here?’

Chapter 50

Trine is wearing muddy walking boots and a green, white and red anorak. A baseball cap covers her hair.

All he can do is stare at her. She has their mother’s features around her mouth and her eyes; nothing about her has changed except that she has aged a little. She is Trine, his sister. To whom he hasn’t spoken for God knows how many years.

‘Hi,’ he says at last.

Two men, whom Henning presumes to be Trine’s bodyguards, appear either side of her. He can see that they are about to rush inside, but Trine stops them with a gesture and mutters – with her face turned away from him – that it’s only her brother.

Then she turns to him again. And he doesn’t know how to interpret the look in her eyes. Whether it’s anger, fear or something else. But there is definitely something. Hostility, possibly.

‘Have you come here to gloat?’ she asks.

‘Gloat? No. I’m here to—’

Henning stops and thinks about it.

‘I came because I was worried about you.’

Trine starts to laugh.

‘A lot of people are worried about you, Trine. No one has been able to contact you for thirty-six hours.’

‘So you decided to come here? To find out if this was where I was hiding?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s just like you,’ she mutters to herself. Henning is about to ask her what she means by that remark, but Trine interrupts him.

‘So what’s the deal now? Were you hoping to interview me?’

‘The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind.’

‘So why—’

Trine swallows the rest of the sentence. Henning looks at her for a long time before he says: ‘I’ve come to see if I can help you.’

‘I don’t need your help,’ she pouts.

Henning continues to look at her, at her fingers which fidget, at fingernails which haven’t been left alone for one minute. If he knows anything about her at all, she has been biting them right down to the quick. When she was little she used to get told off about it all the time.

She still refuses to look at him. If he hadn’t known better, he would almost have believed that she was scared of him.

‘I didn’t see your car in the car park,’ he says. It’s both a question and a statement.

‘No, you don’t think I’m that stupid, do you? I parked elsewhere. And I didn’t come in my own car, either.’

Trine turns her head slightly and, for a brief moment, Henning makes eye contact with her, enough to see his mother in them. The same anger. The same contempt. As if she finds it loathsome even to be in the same room as him.

‘Neither did I. But then again I don’t have a car of my own,’ he says, trying to laugh. Trine is not even close to being mollified.

‘Have you been out for a walk?’

Trine glances at her watch, then she shifts her gaze towards the sea.

‘Did you find the blue dots?’

Henning smiles at the memory, how they used to compete to be the first to spot the blue dots placed along the coastal path for guidance. At that time they cared little about nature, the point of the game was winning. And Trine always wanted to win. Always.

‘How far did you walk?’ he asks. Trine turns to him again.

‘To Stavern,’ she says in a low voice.

‘Stavern?’ Henning exclaims. ‘You walked all the way there? And back again?’

She nods, but only just.

‘That must be miles.’

Trine automatically checks her watch.

‘12.21 kilometres,’ she says. ‘Each way.’

‘So you’ve walked—’

Her impatience gets the better of her and she sighs.

‘What do you want, Henning?’

He looks at her. Some of her hair, wet and dark, has come loose under her baseball cap. The wind takes hold of it and blows it in front of her eyes.

‘Please can we just talk, Trine?’

‘No.’

The reply is firm.

‘I don’t want to talk to you.’

Henning searches her eyes for an explanation, but finds only hostility. Again, she looks out at the sea before she steps inside the cabin. And that’s when she notices that her laptop is on.

‘Have you been snooping on my computer?’

‘No, I—’

Trine marches up to the table and slams shut the laptop.

‘Get out,’ she demands.

Henning is about to protest, but he sees that it will serve no purpose.

‘Get out,’ she orders him again.

Henning gets up and holds up his palms. He starts to walk, but stops and turns around; he looks at her windswept, ruddy cheeks. He tries to think of something to say, but the right words refuse to come.

‘Please, just let the world know that you’re still alive,’ he says. ‘People are worried about you.’

‘Yeah, right.’

‘No, I mean it, Trine.’

Trine laughs again.

‘Yes, I guess you all feel really bad now.’

Henning still can’t think of anything to say.

‘You’ve seen for yourself that I’m alive,’ she says, pointing to the door. ‘Now you can go home.’

‘But—’

‘Please, Henning. Just go.’

Suddenly he can see the hurt in her eyes; it’s only for a second or two, but it’s long enough for him to notice. Trine walks back to the doorway and stands facing the sea with her back to him. Henning watches her for a few seconds before he does as she asks. He walks around the cabin and past his father’s overgrown gulley. Once he gets to the top of the mound he stops and turns around again. He looks across the roof of the cabin and out at the sea, now just as black as the approaching night. He hears seagulls screech, sees a ship in the distance, tiny against the endless background. And he thinks that the big, open sea contains as many questions as answers.

Chapter 51

Trine watches Henning disappear up the mound. She waits. Listens out until everything is quiet again. Then she waits even longer until she is absolutely sure that he has gone.

Henning.

She knew that he had returned to work, of course. She has even read some of his articles, the most recent one only last week, about Tore Pulli and how he was killed. She always gets a lump in her throat when she reads his stories and sees the small byline picture of him with the scars. But this time she can’t just click a button to make it go away.

Now that she has seen him again, in person, she is unable to block out the images that pop up in her head even though she is awake and should be able to suppress them. It’s the middle of the night and she is woken up by noises coming from nearby. A low sound repeating like a rhythm. Something squeaks. Mild scraping from a chair. Followed by more squeaking.

Trine gets out of bed and goes to the door; she sees a soft light spill out from Henning’s room. The noises grow louder and she hears breathing that quickens. She tiptoes closer to Henning’s room. And the sight that meets her when she peeks inside—

Trine closes her eyes.

She could never look at her father or Henning afterwards. She had hoped that it might get easier in time, but it was just as difficult today as it always was.

Trine tries to shake off the images and the memories. Now she regrets that she didn’t ask Henning to keep his mouth shut about having found her and get him to promise not to reveal the location where she has been hiding for the last thirty-six hours. But something tells her that Henning won’t say anything. He understands.

Trine sits down; she takes a sip from her water bottle and feels the soreness in her legs and the blisters on her heel. Even the soles of her feet hurt. She’s in need of a shower. She would have gone for a swim in the sea, except that the water temperature is probably only thirteen or fourteen degrees in September. What she ought to have done was jump in the sea and drown herself. But she couldn’t step off the cliff when the thought occurred to her on the coastal path. She just couldn’t make herself do it.

Perhaps she didn’t want it enough. Or perhaps she was still clinging to the hope that a brilliant solution would present itself during her long walk.

Trine takes out her mobile and reads the last text message she got from Katarina Hatlem almost an hour ago, a message Trine has yet to reply to.

You can’t hide any longer, Trine. Clear message from the PM’s office: ‘She needs to come out and kill this story or she has to resign.’ Can you think of any other solution?

Again Trine weighs up her options. She can either confront the allegations, reveal where she was and what she was doing that night and then wait for the public outcry that will exile her from politics for good. Or she can roll over, play dead and resign quietly out of fear of losing the best and finest person in her life.

You’ll lose him anyway, she thinks, if you don’t tell him. Both options are equally impossible.

Once again she rages at herself because she wasn’t brave enough to end her problems at the bottom of the sea or at the foot of a cliff while she still had the chance. You’re a coward, she reproaches herself.

But running away is also the act of a coward, fleeing your problems as she is doing now. It’s not her style, it never was. Yes, it has been necessary to bury certain things from the past, but that was different. Piling earth on top of something that stinks to make the smell go away. And so far the press hasn’t managed to uncover what is rotting underneath.

But what guarantee does she have that her accusers would tell the truth once they get what they want?

None.

Trine shakes her head. No matter what she does, it’ll be wrong.

Chapter 52

The incident room on the fifth floor of Oslo Police Station is busy as always with uniformed and plainclothes officers whose attention is directed at the end of the boardroom table where Arild Gjerstad raises a coffee cup to his mouth. The table is covered with files, coffee cups and half-full water bottles. On the smart board on the wall the name JOHANNE KLINGENBERG appears in capital letters. Preliminary forensic evidence is listed in bullet points under her name.

Gjerstad puts down his cup and walks up to the smart board.

‘The killer is likely to be known to the victim,’ he says. ‘Do we have a list of everyone she knew?’

Gjerstad looks across the assembly. Fredrik Stang, who has dark hair in a crew cut and a face whose expression is always grave and tense, speaks up.

‘If the calendar on her laptop was up-to-date, she had lunch with someone called Emilie earlier today at twelve noon. The victim had a public profile on Facebook and according to her friends list she has only one friend called Emilie. Emilie Blomvik.’

‘We need to talk to her,’ Gjerstad says. ‘Today.’

‘I can do that,’ Bjarne volunteers.

‘Good,’ Gjerstad replies.

Stang runs his hand down his tanned, muscular arm before he continues.

‘The victim was a mature student at Oslo University’s College of Applied Sciences; she was quite active on the online dating scene with profiles on both match.com and sukker.no as well as various other sites. We’ll check out anyone she has been or is in contact with to see if some of the relationships were more serious than others. But I’m not sure that’s the lead we should be prioritising since the victim was found fully clothed. There were no signs of sexual assault.’

‘Even so,’ Gjerstad says, ‘check it out.’

Stang nods.

‘Talking about friends, she had over 1,800 Facebook friends. In the last two days alone she made more status updates than I have in a whole year.’

‘That might explain how the killer knew that she wouldn’t be at home two weeks ago,’ Bjarne says. ‘And when he would be able to break into her flat.’

‘In that case the killer has to be one of her Facebook friends,’ Sandland concludes. ‘That narrows down the list of suspects.’

Stang nods and puts down his notepad. Silence descends on the table. Bjarne picks up the pen in front of him and clicks it on and off in a quick rhythm.

‘I have a theory I’d like to try out on you,’ he says when he has given it some thought. ‘Last Sunday eighty-three-year-old Erna Pedersen was murdered. She was strangled before being mutilated with her own knitting needles. Her killer smashed a photo on her wall and took another picture with him. A picture that hadn’t been there for very long. None of the people we’ve interviewed at the care home can explain how it came to be on the wall in the first place. In which case it’s possible that the killer put it there himself. This would mean that he had been to the care home before and that he knew the victim.’

Bjarne pauses briefly to make sure that everyone can follow him.

‘And today Johanne Klingenberg was found dead in her flat. She, too, was strangled and again someone had smashed a picture on her wall – the same picture, incidentally, that was smashed two weeks ago when someone broke into her flat. I think it’s likely that she was strangled by the same person who broke into her flat.’

‘Are you saying that the killings are connected?’ Gjerstad asks.

Bjarne pauses briefly.

‘I think there’s evidence to suggest it, yes. Not only were both victims strangled, but it seems as if the killer in both cases has a particular obsession with photographs. They mean something to him and they trigger a rage in him. And this particular obsession is something I’ve seen much too much of in murder inquiries in recent years.’

‘It’s just a random coincidence,’ Pia Nøkleby objects. ‘The pictures, I mean. Anything could happen in the heat of a struggle.’

Bjarne is about to continue putting forward his theory, but Ella Sandland looks up from her documents and beats him to it.

‘There’s actually another coincidence,’ she says. ‘Both victims are originally from Jessheim.’

Silence descends on the water bottles and the coffee cups. Bjarne lets his gaze wander from investigator to investigator and sees that his theory has stirred their interest.

‘That doesn’t necessarily mean anything,’ Nøkleby insists. ‘I’m sure many people from Jessheim move to Oslo. We’re only talking about a distance of – what is it – fifty kilometres?’

‘Forty,’ Bjarne says. ‘But three coincidences mean we have to examine if the two cases are connected.’

Bjarne sees Hagen and Sandland nod in agreement.

‘And there’s one more point that I think is worth noting,’ he continues. ‘In both murders the killer appears to have planned his approach in advance.’

‘What makes you say that?’ Emil Hagen says.

‘Why break into someone’s home when they’re not there – if you don’t intend to steal anything or harm them?’

Bjarne looks around. There is no reply.

‘Because you’re doing research,’ he says. ‘You’re doing the groundwork. The killer must have been to Erna Pedersen’s room at least once before he killed her – if we surmise that he put up the missing picture. When it comes to Johanne Klingenberg, then, I think that the killer checked out her flat, looked at what opportunities there were for him and what difficulties might arise, and came back when he had finalised his plan.’

‘He could have been stalking her?’ Sandland suggests.

Bjarne fixes his gaze on her.

‘Why would he then have smashed a picture of a toddler on her wall? Twice?’

‘Because he thought the child was hers?’

Bjarne shakes his head.

‘If he had been stalking her, he would have known that she had no children. And then we would probably also have found evidence of a sexual assault at the crime scene.’

‘Not necessarily,’ Sandland says.

‘No, but it’s likely.’

Sandland lowers her gaze.

‘However, there are a couple of things that militate against my theory,’ Bjarne continues.

‘Such as?’ Nøkleby asks.

‘While the murder of Johanne Klingenberg appears to have been premeditated, I’m not sure that the murder of Erna Pedersen was. It’s seriously risky to kill someone in a care home where any number of people might see you. But he did it when the whole floor, with one or two exceptions, was busy with this visit from the Volunteer Service – a visit Erna Pedersen would normally have enjoyed and taken part in, but which she wasn’t well enough to attend last Sunday. That means he took advantage of the situation that arose there and then. And I’m not sure that his plan was to kill her. The murder seems rushed and messy, if you know what I mean. And remember: Erna Pedersen had one foot in the grave already. She would have died soon anyway.’

‘So why did he kill her?’ Gjerstad says.

Bjarne expels the air from his lungs hard.

‘I don’t know. But the killer appears to have been angry with her. Killing her wasn’t enough. He also had to whack knitting needles into her eyes. But Erna Pedersen had dementia and dementia sufferers have poor short-term memory. Things from the past, however, are crystal clear.’

Bjarne looks across to Sandland who nods.

‘Is it possible that the killer tried to make her remember something from the past? The missing school photo could suggest that. And since he ended up killing her, it’s tempting to think that she hurt him a long time ago.’

‘So we’re talking about an ex-pupil of hers?’ Fredrik Stang says. ‘Since the missing picture was a school photo, I mean?’

‘It could be anyone, really. A pupil, a colleague, an angry family member or an enraged neighbour who cared about the person or persons Pedersen had harmed.

Bjarne’s mouth is dry from talking so he sips some water. He studies the faces in the room for signs that his arguments have swayed anyone. He has no sense of whether he has been successful.

‘But there are aspects of the killer’s MO that match in both cases,’ he continues. ‘And if we treat the murder of Erna Pedersen as a clumsy first attempt, then the killing of Johanne Klingenberg suggests that this time the killer had much more control over his actions. It might mean that murdering Erna Pedersen was what got him started.’

‘So you’re saying we could be dealing with a serial killer?’ Nøkleby asks. She sounds sceptical.

Bjarne looks at her for a few seconds before he replies. His voice sounds a little more feeble than he intended: ‘Possibly.’

He scans the room for support and receives a nod from Gjerstad. Nøkleby follows shortly.

Bjarne is pleased with his reasoning, but two questions immediately present themselves. Why did the killer damage the picture of Erna Pedersen’s son and the little boy whose picture Johanne Klingenberg had on her wall? And if they really are dealing with a serial killer who has now finished warming up – might their friends and relatives be his next victims?

Chapter 53

Once he killed a bird with his bare hands. The feeling of life ebbing away between his fingers made his heart beat faster, but it never came close to a thrill. Neither did suffocating the neighbour’s cat, which had strayed into their house and refused to leave.

He was home alone that day, sick under the duvet and watching videos on the sofa; there was no way he would tolerate the presence of a cat, which would stink up the whole house with its pee. So he tossed the duvet over it and trapped it. And even though he had a temperature, he experienced the intoxicating sensation of being master of life and death.

But in neither of those instances had he seen the actual death, observed the precise moment when the spark is extinguished and time stops. He thought he might see it with the fish he caught down on Vippetangen where all the East Europeans go to fish, when he held the slippery creatures, alive and wriggling, before slowly twisting their necks. He saw the blood and felt their frantic death throes between his fingers, but there was never any change in the eyes of the fish. He never saw them die.

He didn’t have time to see it in the eyes of that old bat, either. She was dead before the veil lifted and he could see clearly again.

But now he has seen it. And now he understands.

This is what it’s all about. This is what he has been looking for.

And he can’t stop thinking about the light that faded from her eyes when she looked at him, pleading. It was as if the light travelled into him and started radiating from his own eyes and illuminated the path that lay in front of him. The path he had been wandering recently suddenly felt clearer and wider. He felt a sense of purpose. Something inside him slotted into place.

For that reason he is going home.

For the last time.

When he was a boy, he liked travelling by train. He also liked watching them. Before taking their bicycles across the level crossing they always had to look right and left and then right again. Or perhaps it was the other way around. The coolest and scariest thing he knew was standing on the platform on Nordby Station, as close to the tracks as possible, waiting for the trains to whizz by. And when they did, it was so loud, so powerful and with so much air passing right in front of him that he almost lost his balance.

He looks out at the small village of his childhood, which is no longer small. Everything has changed. The houses, the people, cars; he feels at home, but at the same time not. Everything is bigger, everything is different. He is different.

Some passengers get off, others get on. The doors close and the train moves on. He doesn’t feel like leaving the train at the next station; he would prefer to stay where he is and watch the world go by, watch autumn settle over the rooftops and colour the sky. But he can’t do that, either.

The train slows down again and he gets off at Nordby Station. Nor is this place anything like he remembers it. Gone is the old station building where they wrote rude graffiti, misspelt because they hadn’t quite mastered double consonants yet. The new building is bigger and made from glass. Even the platform has been replaced. Wooden boards have turned into concrete.

He walks past Østafor Care Home where she would probably have lived now, the old crone, in her retirement, had she stayed here. She could have sat on the veranda and watched the trains go past. Perhaps they would have made her forget about fractions.

A few minutes later he stands outside the door to his childhood home. It has been a while since he last visited. Before he goes inside, he takes a look at the garden and remembers the shovel, the snow that whirled around them that day, the cave that collapsed on top of Werner and squeezed the life out of him. It happened so quickly, but even now, so many years later, it still makes the hairs on his neck stand up.

He opens the front door and enters; he sees how she jerks upright in the green leather Stressless armchair where she sits embroidering, a hobby of hers, but it doesn’t take long before her confusion turns to delight. And, for a brief moment, he thinks that this is exactly how it ought to be. That’s how people should react. This is what it feels like to be part of a normal family.

He wonders what kind of father he would have made; if his child would also have stood close to the tracks to watch the trains whizz by. If his son might have conquered his stutter and made something of himself. There must be qualities you pass on, surely, or traits, in the same way you pass on hair and eye colour. Perhaps Sebastian would have broken free, been his own man, his father’s direct opposite, the person he tried so hard to become when he was little? First he wanted to be a pilot; no, a butcher actually, he longed to look into the stomachs of dead animals. But then he wanted to be a hunter and later a professional football player. And then he stopped wanting to be anything at all.

She comes to greet him, her arms wide open and she pulls him close. And he stands there, he doesn’t put his arms around her, he just recognises the smell of her, the familiar smell of something sweet mixed with the aroma from the kitchen. Lamb and cabbage, black pepper and potatoes; the smell of stew usually makes his mouth water, but today it just makes him feel nauseous.

‘How nice that you were able to come after all,’ she practically shouts and holds him out away from her.

And everything is all right until his father enters the room, his father who had always favoured Werner. He says nothing; he just stops in front of the mirror where the telephone used to be in the days before they got a cordless one. The floorboards always used to squeak so badly right there.

‘I thought you said he wasn’t coming?’ he says, addressing his wife.

‘I know, but – he changed his mind. Isn’t it wonderful?’

‘Couldn’t he have let us know?’

She tries to say something, but no words come out before he marches past them. No welcome hug. No outstretched hand.

Not this time, either.

‘I hope you’re hungry,’ she says as she goes into the kitchen, eager for him to follow. ‘See,’ she adds, pointing to the saucepan. He nods and looks at her.

Everything is as it always was and everything is different.

Soon they sit down to dinner, but he struggles to swallow the food. He thinks about how much has been said in this room and how little.

‘Could you pass the salt, please?’

He looks at his father. Gives him the salt shaker, but as he does, he knocks over his own half-empty water glass. The water splashes across the table cloth and drips down on the floor. His father’s knife and fork hit the plate on the other side of the table. His father sighs heavily.

‘Are you just going to sit there?’

He makes no reply. His mother, who is sitting next to him, tears off several sheets of kitchen towel and presses them against the table cloth.

More sighing. More snorting.

‘Are you just going to sit there like a brat? Aren’t you going to apologise?’

Slowly he turns his head and looks at him. He makes no reply.

‘Eh? Aren’t you going to say sorry?’

No, he thinks to himself. Not any more.

The next moment his father pushes his chair back. The chair legs scrape against the floor as his hastily scrunched-up napkin lands on the table.

A veil settles over his eyes. And, as he feels a strong hand clamp down on his own, he stops seeing clearly. He just does.

And he does.

And he does.

Chapter 54

Emilie has been to many funerals over the years, but the pain she felt at losing someone can’t compare to what she feels now. It’s completely different when someone is murdered. And what torments her the most is the thought of what must have been going through Johanne’s head when she realised that she was going to die.

Emilie has gone to bed and closed the door. She desperately needs to be alone. All she can think about is who could have taken the life of her best friend. A woman she could talk to about everything. She remembers all the wonderful things they used to do together. It’s impossible to understand that they will never do anything together again.

There is a knock on the door and Mattis opens without her having said ‘come in’.

‘It’s the police,’ he says, holding up Emilie’s mobile. ‘They want to talk to you.’

Emilie feels punched in the stomach at the mere thought of having to talk to someone now. She hoists herself upright. Mattis comes in, hands her the telephone with a cautious, friendly smile. Emilie wipes the tears from her face, her cheeks feel red hot; she takes the telephone and waits until Mattis has closed the door behind him. Then she says ‘hello’.

‘Hello, this is Bjarne Brogeland from Oslo Police.’

‘Hi,’ she says in a feeble voice.

‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ he says. ‘I understand that you were one of Johanne Klingenberg’s best friends.’

‘Yes,’ Emilie stutters. ‘I was. Thank you.’

‘I’m sorry for disturbing you, but I need to speak to you.’

‘I understand,’ she says, and straightens up a little more. He has a nice voice, she thinks. Warm and reassuring.

‘You and Johanne met at a café today, am I right?’

‘Yes. At Café Blabla on St Hanshaugen.’

‘How did she behave while you were together? Was she anxious about anything? Nervous?’

Emilie thinks about it.

‘No, she was just as she always was. Joking and laughing as usual.’

‘She didn’t give you the impression that she was scared of anything or anyone?’

‘No,’ Emilie almost laughs and wipes her nose. ‘She was in a good mood.’

She hears the policeman making notes.

‘Did she mention what she was going to do after you’d had lunch together?’

‘No, she was going home, I think. She might have had some shopping to do first.’

‘Nothing apart from that? Did she say anything about what she was doing with the rest of her day?’

‘No, we didn’t talk about that,’ Emilie replies.

‘Did you notice if anyone was watching you at the café?’

Emilie tries to search her memory, but not a single face comes up.

‘What time was it when you left?’

‘About one o’clock, I think.’

Emilie can hear that her voice is still weak so she clears her throat in an attempt to make it firmer.

‘How much do you know about your friend’s life?’

‘What do you mean?’ Emilie asks.

‘Would Johanne tell you everything?’

‘Yes, or at least I think so.’

‘Do you think she would have told you if she was in any kind of trouble?’

A stinging feeling starts in her stomach and spreads to the rest of her body. Even the thought that Johanne might have kept secrets from her, problems Emilie could have helped her solve, makes the tears well up again. She squeezes her eyes shut and feels the teardrops run in parallel down her flushed cheeks before dripping from her chin.

‘Yes, I’m sure of it,’ she stammers.

‘What about men, then? Boyfriends.’

Emilie coughs again.

‘Yes, we did used to talk about men.’

The policeman stirs and the chair he is sitting on squeaks.

‘Was she seeing anyone at the moment?’

‘No. She hasn’t had a boyfriend for ages, but I know that she would go on dates from time to time. But it never got serious.’

‘So she never mentioned anyone who was obsessed with her – or vice versa?’

Emilie shakes her head before she remembers that the officer can’t see her.

‘I can’t think of anyone,’ she replies.

‘Okay,’ the officer says, pausing again. ‘How long has it been since you last visited her flat?’

Emilie tries to remember.

‘It has been a while. We usually meet for lunch once a month or thereabouts, but we don’t visit each other at home nearly as often as we used to. I live in Jessheim, I have a young child and I work full-time, and she’s busy with her life in Oslo. Well, that’s to say,’ Emilie says and grief takes over her voice again. ‘She’s not busy with anything any more.’

Her voice breaks and she starts to sob; she loses control of her facial movements. A wave of anger and anguish overcomes her and she clutches the duvet while unintelligible noises escape from her mouth. The officer says nothing while Emilie calms herself down.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says eventually.

‘It’s all right; just let me know when you’re ready to continue.’

‘I’m ready, it’s just so—’

Emilie doesn’t know how to complete the sentence.

‘I understand,’ the officer says and pauses briefly before he asks the next question.

‘In your friend’s living room there was a picture of a small boy on the wall. Do you know which picture I’m talking about?’

Emilie thinks about it.

‘That must be the picture of Sebastian,’ she says.

‘Sebastian?’

‘Sebastian is my son,’ Emilie continues. ‘Johanne is – or she was – one of Sebastian’s godparents. We gave her a picture of him last Christmas.’

She switches the phone to her other hand and wipes her face with the duvet.

‘My next question might sound very strange, Emilie, but I have to ask it. Do you know if anyone might have a reason to be angry with your son?’

Emilie looks up.

‘With Sebastian? Why do you want to know that?’

‘Please just answer the question.’

‘What does my son have to do with this?’

The officer doesn’t explain. A sudden rage takes over her voice.

‘No,’ Emilie snaps. ‘Sebastian is two and a half years old. He hasn’t lived long enough to upset anyone yet, apart from me and his father.’

‘I understand,’ the police officer says.

Her head feels as if it’s going to explode and she realises that she hasn’t eaten for a long time. But the very thought of putting something in her mouth makes her stomach churn.

‘Johanne and you are both from Jessheim, I understand. If I mention the name Erna Pedersen to you – what would you say?’

Emilie rubs her cheeks with her knuckle.

‘Erna Pedersen?’ she repeats, but gets no reply. ‘We had a teacher called that, I remember, but it’s quite a common name, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, you’re right,’ the police officer says quickly. ‘But I believe you’re thinking of the right Erna Pedersen. What do you remember about your old teacher?’

‘Far too much,’ Emilie says and laughs before she feels guilty for laughing in a situation like this. ‘No, she was… strict, I suppose you’d say. What about her?’

But the officer gives her no answer.

‘You were at school together, you and Johanne?’

‘Yes.’

‘When was this?’

‘The whole time, we grew up together.’

‘So when did Erna Pedersen teach you? Do you remember?’

Emilie thinks about it.

‘Towards the end of primary school, I think it was. The last two or three years, possibly.’

‘Did you have any school photos taken?’

Emilie tries to remember.

‘I’m not sure. I think we might have had one taken in Year Six.’

There is a moment of silence.

‘Do you still happen to have that photo, Emilie?’

She thinks about it.

‘Yes, I think so. Somewhere.’

‘Do you think you could find it?’

Emilie hesitates for a second.

‘I can try looking for it, of course, but—’

Then she realises why the officer wants to know.

‘Was it… was it Erna Pedersen, who was—’

Emilie clasps her hand over her mouth.

‘I read something in the newspaper about an Erna Pedersen who had been—’

She is unable to complete the sentence.

‘Yes, that was her,’ the policeman says. ‘And we wouldn’t be doing our job if we didn’t investigate the possibility that there might be a connection between the two deaths. That doesn’t necessarily mean that there is. But can you think of anyone you went to school with who had unfinished business with Johanne and Erna Pedersen?’

Emilie doesn’t reply at once. She is thinking, or trying to think, but too many questions are hurling themselves at her at the same time.

‘Teachers are never very popular,’ she says. ‘But I can’t imagine that—’

She stops again.

‘No,’ she says quietly. ‘I don’t know of any.’

‘If you do think of any, please call. You have my number?’

Emilie checks the display on her mobile.

‘Yes.’

‘Good. I think that’s it for now. Please try to find that school photo. It might be important.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Good. Thank you. And once again, I’m sorry for your loss.’

Emilie smiles a feeble smile.

‘Thank you,’ she replies.

Chapter 55

Henning hasn’t driven far before he pulls over in a lay-by. He is thinking about the map he saw on Trine’s laptop. The date in the top right-hand corner.

It did say ‘9 October’, didn’t it? The day when she, according to every newspaper in Norway, allegedly made the biggest blunder of her life. What kind of map was it? And why had she looked it up on her laptop?

Henning starts the car again and drives on. He stops at a Statoil petrol station in the centre of Stavern and helps himself to a handful of paper towels without buying anything. He finds a pen in the car’s glove compartment and clicks it ready while he tries to remember what he saw.

When he was at school, his friends used to tease him about his photographic memory. To some extent they were right, even though he always corrected them and said that it wasn’t about memory. He took a screen dump with his eyes and later he would note down what he had seen – a skill he has often found useful as a reporter.

Henning makes himself comfortable in the car, closes his eyes and summons up the image from the laptop, concentrating on its major features. First the parks and the lakes. Then he starts to draw. When he was little, he loved drawing city maps. It gave him a satisfying sense of order. Seeing the big picture. He sketches in any other streets that he remembers and the thick line that represented a kind of running profile – it looked like a malign virus under a microscope. When the sketch is done, he starts the car and drives on, pleased with the likeness he has managed to re-create.

When he gets home, he takes a long shower. While soap and shampoo settle in a foaming circle around the drain, he ponders his unfortunate tendency to irritate every woman he meets. In the past he could usually charm his way out of awkward situations, but there is very little left of that side of him. These days he is surrounded by women with problems, women who create problems, women who are the problem. Nora, Trine, Pia, Heidi.

Is that all his fault?

Now that he thinks about it, it’s not only the women. He has managed to fall out with everyone he knows; he couldn’t honestly say that he has a single friend left. Not a real one. No one came to visit him while he was in Sunnaas Rehabilitation Centre, though there might be a perfectly good reason for that. Before Jonas died, he might have gone for a drink or two with colleagues, but he never let anyone get close. He never felt the need to tell anyone about himself. Sometimes they would ask how things were with him and Nora, and every time he would say that they were fine, even though they weren’t.

Friendships and acquaintances are fleeting. You get close to people you see every day, and when your studies are over, when you move or get a new job, you say goodbye with every intention of keeping in touch. But new people take their place, time passes and it becomes harder to remain a central part of each other’s lives. It’s not because you don’t care any more. It’s just the way it goes.

The closest Henning has to a friend right now – and he is struggling to name even one – is Iver Gundersen. Even though Henning is loath to admit it.

Half naked, he walks into the living room. He stands there staring at all the photographs that are spread out on the floor. The thought of tidying up fills him with dismay and as he intends to work on the map he sketched in the car, he decides that clearing up will just have to wait. But then he spots a picture of Jonas, a big picture where his son is smiling. Henning bends down and picks it up.

It’s a lovely picture.

And though he tries as hard as he can, he can’t stop the pain from welling up inside him. Usually he can suppress it by trying to think of something else, looking at something else or forcing another image to appear in its place. But it’s not working now. Jonas is inside him, inside all of him, his eyes bore into him like a laser sight. His knees start to wobble.

I should have tried harder to cover myself up, he thinks. I should have thought about it for one more second, just one, then perhaps the flames would have burned me in a different place. It might have made all the difference. My eyes wouldn’t have glued themselves together and I would have been able to see properly before I got ready to jump off the railing and not slip just as I was about to escape. Everything could have been different. And Jonas would still have been alive.

Henning strangles a sob while he looks at the picture. You should be on the wall, he says to his son. You should have been on my wall all this time. But I can’t bear to have you there. I’m so sorry, my darling boy, but I just can’t bear it.

A rumble outside his window makes him take a step to one side. He looks for something familiar, something to fix his eyes on as the storm draws near. The sweat trickles down between his shoulder blades and he imagines tasting saltwater as he breaks through the surface of a shimmering, dark pink sea. Sinking like a sounding lead. He turns into a shadow and a dry noise is forced out of him. But the only part of him that gets wet is his eyes.

Chapter 56

His legs feel strangely jelly-like as he walks down the road, which he can barely see in the darkness. The headlights of an oncoming car sweep towards him and he steps on to the verge and bows his head as the car passes him. He doesn’t want anyone to know that he has been back home.

Home.

Where is his real home now? He is about to be evicted from his flat. And given what he has just done to his father, he can never go home to his mother again.

How strange, he thinks, that you can do something and not see it. It wasn’t until the display cabinet got knocked over that his sight returned and he realised what he had done.

Smoke is coming from a chimney on one of the houses he passes. The smell drifts down towards him, even though the smoke itself is rising. He is reminded of something he learned at school. After a forest fire everything regenerates. New plants and flowers will grow from under the ash as if the flames have pressed a reset button that makes everything default to the start position.

And, as he stands on the platform at Nordby Station, he wonders if anything will rise from his ashes when the time comes. If he has a reset button.

Fortunately there is no one around so he takes a step closer to the edge of the platform and looks at the thick, rough-hewn stones between the railway sleepers and the tracks. It is very quiet. He closes his eyes and recognises the buzz he used to get as a child though no trains are approaching. And he doesn’t know how long he has been standing there, how long it takes before the rail tracks start humming, charging him up and preparing him for what comes next. The alarm bells start to ring, the lights on the plate change from white to red, and the barriers hesitate for a second before they begin to lower. The ringing that was steady to begin with ends up out of time, just like when he was little and it takes maybe thirty seconds before the barriers at the level crossing have come down and the ringing stops.

But it doesn’t stop inside him; he can feel it in his head. And then a light appears; a glow deep inside the forest as if the trees are the walls of a tunnel that gradually comes alive. And standing here now, so many years later, it feels even better; he can see the rail tracks glisten in the darkness. They look like shiny, white ski tracks.

Then the eyes appear, fierce and beckoning, huge like the eyes of a troll. And the train doesn’t slow down, the tracks become even more alive, they hiss, they snarl, they make themselves look sinister and dangerous, and he takes another step forward, feels his foot touch the edge of the concrete. The train is coming and the driver sounds his horn, perhaps he has seen him. But it doesn’t stop him from sticking out his foot. He lets it dangle over the edge; the gleaming rail tracks are just one metre below him as is the light in the lovely, big eyes that will devour him.

Henning shakes off his distressing thoughts and finds the paper towel with the sketch he drew in the car. He copies out the map on an A4 sheet, paying more attention to the details this time and before long a clearer image emerges in front of him.

He has seen this map before.

He goes to the kitchen, opens his laptop and starts a search engine. Types in the name of the city and clicks on the first map that comes up. And as he sees the characteristic canals, bridges and parks, he realises that his memory was correct.

It’s a map of Copenhagen.

Henning thinks about Trine’s watch that told her how far she had walked along the coastal path. He has heard of fitness fanatics who log their exercise efforts, who wear pulse and distance counters and God knows what. The fat line that looked like a worm on her laptop was the route she had run and walked. In Copenhagen. At 20.17. The same evening she was supposed to be at a party conference in Kristiansand sexually assaulting a young man. The same evening no one remembers seeing her during dinner.

Bloody hell.

The young politician’s statement is false. And Henning starts to get an inkling of what is going on. The reason why the politician doesn’t want to be named, but chose to write an unconvincing account of a ‘sexual assault’ and sent it anonymously by fax.

It’s because it never happened.

It’s because that person doesn’t exist.

And since the media appear to have accepted that they will never be able to interview him, they have turned their attention to all the other stories being written about Trine instead. The sex scandal was the perfect detonator. The character assassination destroying her reputation was only the beginning.

This is the work of someone who is an expert in media manipulation, who knows which buttons to press to trigger an avalanche of negative publicity about a Minister who has made too many enemies along the way.

But there is one thing Henning can’t understand. Why doesn’t Trine speak up? And since she was studying her running profile on her laptop, she would appear to be aware of the evidence that would clear her name. So why doesn’t she defend herself? Why doesn’t she fight?

There must be more to this than meets the eye, Henning thinks. And the only thing that makes any sense to him is that Trine is protecting someone or something. Herself, possibly, from anything else that the media might uncover. That could also explain the nature of the attack. Her enemy knows that she knows. He knows her secret, knows that she can’t defend herself because then the truth of what she was really doing that day will come to light.

So the question is: who else knows? And what on earth was Trine doing in Denmark?