Burned

Chapter 55

Bjarne Brogeland never used to have a problem with dead bodies, but these days he can barely look at them. Especially not teenagers or children. I suppose it’s because I’m a father myself now, he thinks. Every time he arrives at a crime scene or goes to a home where a child has died, or been killed, he always thinks about his daughter, beautiful, lovely Alisha, about what his life would be like without her.

Yngve and Ingvild Foldvik must be devastated.

Brogeland enters the family’s flat. The atmosphere inside is one of professional detachment. The mask the police put on in order to do their job, the subdued voices, the quick glances, conveying the words none of them can bear to utter. No one moves quickly. There is no banter, no smart remarks like in detective series on television.

Brogeland goes into the bedroom. Ella Sandland is bent over the body. He called her on the way because she lives nearby. She turns to him.

‘Suicide, most probably,’ she says quietly. Brogeland looks around; he can’t bear to look at Stefan.

‘Traces of alcohol in the glass, possibly vodka.’

Brogeland goes over to the bedside table and sniffs the glass. He doesn’t nod or shake his head.

‘Suicide note?’

‘Haven’t seen one yet. So there probably isn’t one.’

‘He might have died from natural causes.’

Sandland nods, reluctantly. Brogeland turns around, taking in the whole room. He notices the script which Henning Juul told him about. Scene 9, just like the devious bastard said on the telephone. A poster for the film Seven hangs above Stefan’s bed. An empty CD sleeve for the Danish band Mew lies open on his desk. Brogeland guesses that the CD itself is in the sound system on a stool next to the bed. Speakers have been mounted high up on either side of the wall, behind the desk. A battered skateboard is leaning against the wall behind a chair.

‘Have we managed to get hold of his parents yet?’ he asks.

‘Yes. They’re on their way home.’

‘Where were they?’

‘Don’t know. Fredrik is dealing with that.’

Brogeland nods.

‘Poor people, I feel so sorry for them,’ Sandland begins.

‘Yes, so do I.’

‘However, a couple of things strike me as odd,’ Sandland whispers. She comes closer.

‘What?’

‘Look at him.’

Brogeland looks. He sees nothing but a dead teenager, a dead boy.

‘What is it?’

‘He’s naked.’

‘Naked?’

‘Yes.’

Sandland goes back to the bed and gently lifts up the blanket and duvet. Brogeland looks at Stefan, as naked as the day he was born.

‘I’ve never heard of anyone who took their clothes off before killing themselves.’

‘No, you’re right, that’s extremely rare.’

‘And he’s lying in a strange position.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Look at him. He’s pressed up against the wall.’

‘Surely that’s not unusual? Do you sleep in the middle of your bed?’

‘No, but it looks like he has tried crawling into the wall.’

‘My daughter sleeps like that. Most children, most grownups, in fact, like curling up to something. It’s not necessarily significant. Besides, it might just have been his death throes.’

Sandland studies Stefan’s dead body for a few more seconds, but she doesn’t say anything. They walk around each other, absorbing more details from the room.

‘We need to find out if he had a history of depression,’ Brogeland continues, ‘if he was seeing a psychologist or a psychiatrist. At first glance, I think it looks like suicide, but he might have had an aneurysm or a congenital heart defect. Nevertheless, we’ll treat it as a suspicious death for the time being. Please would you get a court order? We need to seal the crime scene and get some technicians in here.’

Sandland nods, rips off the plastic gloves and takes out her mobile.