Scarred

Chapter 57

Henning falls asleep around three o’clock in the morning, slumped over the kitchen table, but he wakes again three and a half hours later. The first thing he does is make himself a cup of coffee. Then he sits down with the printout of the map of Copenhagen.

If the fat lines he saw on Trine’s laptop match the lines he has just drawn on the printout, it would mean that Trine’s run on the evening of 9 October started in Nørre Søgade, a long, wide street that runs parallel with Peblinge Lake.

Henning opens his own laptop, retrieves the map and zooms in on the area. More details appear. Bridges, parks, buildings. What was Trine doing there? he wonders again. Apart from going for an evening run?

Kristiansand isn’t that far from Copenhagen. Flying from Kjevik Airport would probably take forty-five minutes, possibly less. She could have been at the party conference until the afternoon and then left.

But surely someone would have seen her?

Of course they would. Unless she took steps to avoid being seen. But why would she do that? Because no one must know. It’s the only explanation Henning can come up with.

Right. What is so important about Nørre Søgade or its surroundings?

Henning does a quick Internet search and finds only one hotel in the same street. Kong Arthur, four stars. She probably stayed there. He finds a nearby spa. Hardly the reason she would leave Norway. The Catholic Apostolic church. No. Belldent Dental Lab? Unlikely.

Then he sees it.

StorkKlinik.

The fertility clinic. The place you go if you have tried and failed to get pregnant. Henning knows that Trine wanted children. He remembers seeing a feature about her in Se og Hør magazine in his mother’s flat once where Trine gave childlessness a face. He knows that more and more Norwegian women travel to Denmark for fertility treatment. It’s usually not something people broadcast to the world. Trine could have gone to Denmark in secret to remain anonymous. And the procedure could have taken place the day after the conference. Perhaps she went for a run when she arrived the night before to release some of her tension.

Even so, something doesn’t ring true. How likely is it that someone had found out what Trine was doing in Denmark and then – almost a year later – thrown her to the wolves? Why the delay? Didn’t they know until now? And what’s so terrible about travelling to Denmark to try to get pregnant?

Henning doesn’t think it adds up. Nor can her trip to Denmark have been particularly successful because Trine is still childless. Though that in itself is not unusual. Fertility clinics don’t offer guaranteed success.

Henning tries to work out who would stand to gain the most if Trine were to leave politics. It’s a long list. It could be a rival in the Labour Party, someone in her department or someone who quite simply doesn’t like her. But someone is pulling the strings here, Henning thinks. Someone who has it in for his sister.

But who?

Chapter 58

Once Bjarne had repeated his conversation with Emilie Blomvik to the team, his theory of just one killer was elevated from ‘possible’ to ‘highly likely’. Even Pia Nøkleby had to admit that the similarities could no longer be ignored and the investigation was reorganised on that basis. The job of identifying Erna Pedersen’s former pupils was prioritised and their names cross-referenced with anyone the police had been in contact with in the investigations of both murders. In addition, covert protection was arranged for Pedersen’s son and family, and the family of Emilie Blomvik – especially for two-and-a-half-year-old Sebastian.

Bjarne Brogeland, however, has no intention of sharing this information with Emilie Blomvik when he goes down to meet her. It’s already ten o’clock in the morning and he gets her a visitor’s sticker, which she puts on her dark blue jacket before he escorts her through security and up to his office on the fifth floor.

‘How are you?’ he asks when they have sat down.

It takes a while before Blomvik answers.

‘I didn’t sleep much last night, to be honest.’

She smiles feebly. Her cheeks are drained of colour.

‘So perhaps you did some thinking instead?’ Bjarne asks to encourage her.

‘I did little else,’ she says and brushes aside a strand of hair that has fallen down in front of her eyes. ‘But my mind is completely blank. I haven’t got a clue who could have done this.’

‘There’s no ex-boyfriend who might have cause to be mad at Johanne because of something she said or did a long time ago?’

Blomvik turns down the corners of her mouth.

‘Well, Johanne has had hundreds of boyfriends. I mean, not literally, but it’s possible that some of them were more interested in her than she was in them. But I find it hard to believe someone might be upset with her now. As I told you yesterday, it’s been a long time since Johanne saw anyone.’

Bjarne nods and moves a little closer to the table. The ensuing silence prompts Blomvik to put her hand into her shoulder bag.

‘This is all I could find,’ she says, placing a photograph in front of Bjarne. ‘It’s from Year Six at Jessheim School.’

Bjarne takes the photograph and studies it. A much younger version of Erna Pedersen is standing at the back to the left, several heads taller than any of her pupils.

‘Johanne is sitting there,’ Blomvik says, pointing to a small girl with big dimples and long plaits on a chair at the front. ‘And I’m next to her.’

Bjarne looks up and senses her embarrassment.

‘It was a very long time ago,’ she says by way of explanation.

Bjarne continues to study the faces. He sees no similarities to anyone he has met in the last few days.

‘If you’re anything like me, you’ll be able to remember the names of most of the people in this picture,’ he says, sliding it back to her. ‘Please would you write down as many names as you recall?’

Bjarne finds a sheet of paper and a pen for her.

‘I’ll try,’ Blomvik says.

‘Please start at the front row from the left.’

She nods and starts writing. She can only remember the first names of some pupils, but most of those sitting in the front get their full name, including their middle name.

Then she looks up.

‘Yesterday you asked me if someone might have reason to be angry with my son,’ she says. ‘With Sebastian.’

Bjarne nods.

‘Why did you want to know that?’

Bjarne hesitates for a second before he takes out a crime scene photograph from a file and shows it to her.

‘This photo was taken in Johanne’s living room yesterday afternoon,’ he says. ‘As you can see, the picture of your son has been destroyed. Or at least the glass has been smashed.’

Blomvik studies the photograph.

‘And you’re quite sure that it didn’t just happen in… in the heat of the moment?’

‘Absolutely,’ Bjarne replies.

Blomvik scratches her head with the pen.

‘It all seems very strange,’ she says. ‘I fail to see why someone would get so angry with a little boy. And how Johanne could have anything to do with it, it – it—’

Blomvik shakes her head.

Bjarne says nothing; he gives her time to think things through. But she doesn’t come up with anything. Soon her attention returns to the school photo and a few minutes later she puts down the pen.

‘Right,’ she says. ‘I think those are all the names I can remember.’

‘That’s great.’

Bjarne takes the sheet back. Studies the names and the faces. Row one – no names he recognises. Middle row – no hits there, either. In the back row—

No.

He swears under his breath. Surely he is due a break now. Then he thinks back to his own childhood and the girls he had crushes on when he was growing up. To begin with the girls were his age, but eventually they started to be younger. One year, two years. In sixth form he was head over heels in love with Henning Juul’s sister. And as for the girls, they wouldn’t even consider going out with you unless you were a little older than they were. Or at least many wouldn’t. And Erna Pedersen taught a lot of pupils.

We need to go through the years she taught when the pupils were one, two and three years older than Emilie Blomvik and Johanne Klingenberg, Bjarne realises. If nothing else, it might limit our search.

‘Okay,’ he says, gets up and extends his hand to Emilie Blomvik. ‘Thank you so much. You’ve been a great help.’

Chapter 59

Trine’s legs are killing her after yesterday’s coastal walk. Her head feels leaden too. She hasn’t managed to eat very much in the last few days. Nor has she had enough to drink. Not water, anyway.

Though she still doesn’t know what to do, she feels better for having spent time out here. It has been good to have only the sea, the wind and the rocks for company. Feeling small again. She realises she would like to return to the cabin as soon as possible, but knows she will have a hard time persuading Pål Fredrik to join her. She will have to bribe him with at least fifty kilometres of main road cycling every day; though whether she will still have him after recent events remains to be seen. Perhaps that is why she feels so drained of energy. So terrified.

Trine locks the cabin, returns the key to the nail under the bench and says a quiet ‘goodbye for now’ in her head. Then she walks up the mound and rings Katarina Hatlem, who answers after just a few rings.

‘Hi, it’s me,’ Trine says. ‘I’m coming home.’

The voice of her Director of Communications sounds instantly relieved, but Trine adds that she won’t be returning to her office today. She probably won’t come in until tomorrow.

‘Okay.’

‘But you can tell anyone who might be wondering that I intend to make a statement soon. I have to. I just don’t know when.’

‘That’s great, Trine. But what are you going to say?’

Trine stops, turns to look at the sea, at Tvistein Lighthouse and the endless blue.

‘Well, that’s the thing. Whatever will do the least damage.’

At the morning meeting, Heidi Kjus is in a foul mood because Henning isn’t up to speed on the Bislett murder and even more annoyed because 123news are still having to quote NTB. Henning has been told to cover the Bislett murder as well, but he has little interest in it as he finally appears to be making headway in the mystery surrounding Trine.

He thinks about the fax that was sent to every newspaper in the country a couple of days ago. The death blow to his sister’s career. Surely it must be possible to trace where that fax was sent from?

Trine’s enemy probably wouldn’t be stupid enough to send it from their own office. They might have got someone else to do it, of course, but that would be risky. If you want to keep a secret, tell no one.

Henning’s gaze is drawn towards the desk where Kåre Hjeltland is clapping his hands for joy.

‘Sign of life from Juul-Osmundsen!’ he shouts.

Hjeltland turns to one of his staff.

‘Great,’ he continues. ‘Issue a short version. Two lines maximum and put it on the front page.’

The news desk assistant nods.

‘Tuva, what other cases are we waiting to publish?’

Henning cranes his neck; he can just see the head of the girl who looks down at the screen in front of her. Henning blocks out her voice while he shakes his head. Business as usual, he thinks. Nothing ever changes.

And if it hadn’t been the equivalent of banging his head against a brick wall, Henning would have contacted the VG journalists himself and asked them straight out who had sold them this pathetic pile of tosh that they have been happy to splash across several front pages without a second thought. But no journalist ever reveals their sources and certainly not to another journalist. And no newspaper would ever admit that they had allowed themselves to be used to bring down a government Minister.

Instead Henning retrieves the notorious fax from the huge pile of documents and newspapers on his desk. At the top of the printout he sees a fax number. It takes only minutes to discover that it belongs to an Internet café in Eiksmarka Shopping Centre. He decides to give them a call.

‘Hello,’ he says and introduces himself. ‘I’m wondering about something: do people have to show ID when they want to use one of your machines?’

‘People have to give their name and mobile number, which we register in our database, yes. If the FBI, for example, were to discover that someone had sent a threatening email to the US President from one of my machines, then I’m obliged to tell them the name of the person who used it.’

‘So if I were from the FBI, you’d be able to tell me who came to your café Monday evening sometime after ten o’clock to send a fax?’

‘Not exactly; the fax machine is available to anyone who comes here. But it’s probably going to be a short list. There weren’t that many people here that night.’

‘Great,’ Henning says. ‘Thank you so much.’

Chapter 60

Fredrik Stang races into Bjarne’s office without knocking.

‘We’ve got a hit!’ he exclaims. ‘We’ve gone through some of Erna Pedersen’s registers from Jessheim School. We’ve got a hit!’ he says again.

‘Who is it?’

‘Markus Gjerløw,’ Stang says with jubilation written all over his face.

Markus Gjerløw, Bjarne mutters to himself. The man he spoke to only yesterday. He was one of the volunteers who visited Grünerhjemmet.

‘He was two years above Emilie Blomvik and Johanne Klingenberg,’ Stang continues.

It has to be him.

‘Okay. Fantastic, Fredrik. Good job.’

Bjarne rings Emilie Blomvik immediately.

‘Markus Gjerløw,’ he says, pronouncing the name with exaggerated clarity when she answers. ‘Do you know who he is?’

Blomvik doesn’t reply immediately. Background noise from Oslo intrudes on the line.

‘Markus? Yes, of course I know him.’

‘Were Markus and Johanne ever friends?’

Bjarne sticks a finger in his ear in order to hear better.

‘They were an item at school, I think. I went out with Markus as well, but only for a short time in sixth form.’

Bjarne can barely sit still.

‘Emilie, this is very important. Can you remember why Markus and Johanne broke up?’

‘Yes,’ she says and laughs. ‘They were thirteen or fourteen years old. At that age it’s a miracle if anyone stays together for more than three weeks.’

‘So it wasn’t very serious, is that what you’re saying?’

‘That’s exactly what I’m saying, yes.’

‘And what about your relationship with him?’

Another short pause.

‘I don’t suppose I could have been more than seventeen or eighteen years old. Far too young for a serious relationship. And anyway, he was off to do national service, and so—’

Bjarne nods slowly while he digests the information.

‘Do you know what his relationship with Erna Pedersen was like?’

‘No, he was a few years older than me. But why do you want to know about that? Is he the man you’re—’

‘We don’t know yet,’ Bjarne interrupts her.

But his gut feeling tells him that Markus Gjerløw is his man.

A child, Henning ponders. How strange that such a blessing can cause so much destruction. His life is ruined by the death of a child. Trine’s life might be falling apart because of a child she never had. And he thinks about how his family slipped through his fingers without him doing anything about it. But could he really have prevented it? Was he even interested in stopping it happening?

He doesn’t think so. Not after he met Nora, not after Jonas. When he had his own family and became preoccupied with them. He didn’t think much about Trine or their shared past, he just accepted that it was a closed book for them both. He never made any attempt to patch up his family. Yes, he makes sure that their mother has cigarettes and alcohol, and that her flat is reasonably clean, but that’s the limit of his involvement. And now, as he sits here alone, knowing full well that Trine lives her life independently of him, independently of him and their mother, it’s tempting to think that the breakdown of the Juul family is his fault. He was the man of the house after his father died, he should have done something. Taken steps to uncover the problems and then fix them. Instead, he just let it fall apart.

And perhaps it’s too late now. Trine made it perfectly clear that she didn’t want his help. There was so much remoteness in her eyes in the cabin, so much hostility. It was hard to admit it, but it felt good to see her again even though she threw him out. Away from the newspaper interviews and the TV debates where she always comes across as so confident and self-assured. She had been her old self. Just as temperamental and just as bossy as when she was little.

Henning hasn’t yet returned the rental car, something he is pleased about as he parks outside Eiksmarka Shopping Centre with the front of the car practically inside a florist called Blåklokken. The centre is deserted this early in the day, as is the Internet café. There is not a single customer around when Henning enters and introduces himself to a balding, dark-skinned man with a moustache who is chewing vigorously on something.

‘I’d like to speak to anyone who worked here Monday evening,’ Henning says.

The man carries on chewing.

‘Do you know who was working here that night?’

‘Possibly. Why do you want to talk to them?’

‘Because I’m trying to find out who sent a fax from that machine,’ Henning says, pointing left where the room’s only fax machine is located. ‘It’s important to a person who… who’s important to me. I’d be really grateful if you could help me.’

The man carries on chewing while he gives Henning a sideways glance. Then he looks across the room. There is no one at the computers. Outside the entrance a man with a walking stick shuffles past.

‘How much?’

Henning hesitates for a second before he takes out a 500 kroner note from his back pocket. The man takes the money. Studies it. Then he wanders off to the back room and stays there for a long time. Henning is starting to feel awkward when another man comes out. Same skin colour. Same short hair and a moustache.

He nods quickly to Henning, something Henning interprets as a green light so he asks if the man whose badge states his name is ‘Sheraz’ could check on his computer to find out who visited the café Monday evening. Sheraz looks languidly at him and shakes his head.

‘It’s against the law,’ he says.

‘Is that right?’

Henning never really thought that it would be that easy. Over to Plan B.

Henning opens his shoulder bag and takes out a pile of paper he printed out before he left the office. He has lost count of how many pictures he printed out from the home pages of the Justice Department and various political parties, but it was a lot.

‘I’m going to show you some pictures,’ he says, ‘and I want you to say stop if you recognise the person who came here Monday night. Is that all right?’

Sheraz waits a little, then he nods without enthusiasm.

‘Okay, let’s begin.’

Henning puts down the shoulder bag. He pushes the first printout across the counter. They go through a number of politicians – government as well as opposition – political advisers and past and present members of the Justice Department. All he gets by way of response from Sheraz is a shake of the head. Henning flicks through the printouts while Sheraz keeps on shaking his head, more and more reluctant and increasingly hostile in his demeanour.

Suddenly he says: ‘Stop.’

Henning stops.

‘Go back.’

Henning removes the top sheet. Sheraz plants his index finger right in the middle of the sheet, but says nothing.

‘And you’re sure?’ Henning asks.

Sheraz nods.

‘Okay,’ Henning says, taking back the pile of paper and stuffing it into his shoulder bag. Well worth 500 kroner, he thinks to himself, and quickly leaves the café.

Chapter 61

The atmosphere in the incident room is like the area behind the starting gate right before a skiing race. Everyone is eager to push off as quickly as possible. But it’s essential to do things in the right order.

‘Okay,’ Arild Gjerstad says, ‘this is what we know about Markus Gjerløw so far: he’s thirty-seven years old, he lives in Grorud and he’s unemployed. No wife or girlfriend, nor does he have any children. His parents live in Jessheim. Gjerløw’s mobile is switched on right now and we know that it’s in the vicinity of a mast close to his home address. So it’s likely that he’s at home. The armed response unit has been alerted and the whole building must be hermetically sealed before we go in.’

Several people nod.

‘Okay,’ Gjerstad says. ‘We’re going in. We’ve been given permission to enter by force.’

The patrol cars drive without flashing lights so as not to alert Gjerløw that they are on their way. Bjarne peeks furtively at Sandland and sees that she, too, lives for moments like these. For the action. Taking that six-month vacancy with Vestfold Police would feel like a step backwards, at least to begin with. More paperwork. More time spent at his desk.

Is that really what he wants?

The drive to Grorud takes them less than fifteen minutes. At this speed the raindrops smack against the windscreen. They park on the pavement only one street away from the large tower block where Gjerløw lives and jog to the entrance. Some officers shelter from the rain under the covered area outside.

A uniformed officer from the armed response unit opens the front door and enters followed by several officers. Two men position themselves outside the lift, while another four take the stairs. Bjarne and Sandland follow. Soon they have reached the seventh floor. Behind him Sandland is panting heavily.

One of the uniformed officers knocks on Gjerløw’s door. The sound fills the stairwell with short, sharp bangs. There is no reply. He knocks again, harder this time. Calls out Gjerløw’s name. Still no response.

Several officers from the armed response unit have now joined them. One of them has brought a battering ram. The others stand aside. He hits the door with full force and the door gives way at his second attempt. The officers burst into the flat, holding up their weapons and shouting words no one is meant to understand, but are intended to shock.

The reports come in quickly.

‘Clear!’

‘Clear!’

Then there is silence.

It takes a few minutes before an officer comes out and takes off his helmet. He looks gravely at Brogeland and Sandland.

‘I’m fairly certain that the man inside is Markus Gjerløw,’ the officer says, jerking a thumb over his left shoulder. ‘And I’m absolutely certain that he’s dead as a doornail.’

Markus Gjerløw is leaning back in the Stressless armchair with his arms flopping to each side; his glazed eyes stare vacantly into space. An almost empty bottle containing a clear liquid is standing on the table beside him. And on the floor under the same table they see it – a small, transparent bag with capsules.

Bjarne knows morphine capsules when he sees them.

What he first took to be a living room turns out also to be the bedroom. The duvet lies bunched up on the bed. Clothes have been flung over a chair and piled up on the floor. Bjarne’s gaze glides across the empty walls, a desk with newspapers, books, papers and randomly scattered food packaging. On the floor, mostly along the skirting board, various cables have been trailed, white as well as black, leading to a home cinema unit in the corner. A vast TV screen is mounted on the wall with satellite speakers on either side. Two laptops are turned on. Facebook on one, a shooter game on the other.

‘He can’t have been dead long,’ Sandland says as she scrolls down his Facebook profile. ‘He updated his status—’

She checks her watch.

‘Two hours and fifteen minutes ago.’

Bjarne takes a step closer to her.

‘What did he write?’

‘“Sorry”.’

Bjarne stops.

‘He has had comments from some of his friends asking what he means, wondering what has happened, but he hasn’t replied.’

‘So he felt remorse,’ Bjarne concludes.

‘Yes. We’ve got the guy,’ Sandland says, looking relieved. ‘It’s over.’

The crime scene officers soon take charge of the room, but Bjarne doesn’t want to leave before he has had some more answers. It takes a long time before Ann-Mari Sara comes out to him. She is carrying an evidence bag, which she hands to him.

‘This was lying at the top in one of his drawers,’ Sara says.

Bjarne takes the bag. There is an envelope inside it.

‘Check the logo,’ Sara says.

Bjarne turns over the bag, recognises the logo, a green ‘G’ surrounded by flowers in the top left-hand corner.

‘Grünerhjemmet,’ he says.

‘As you can see the letter is addressed to Tom Sverre Pedersen in Vindern. Erna Pedersen’s son.’

‘So Gjerløw stole his mail,’ Bjarne declares. ‘That was how he found out where Erna Pedersen went to live after she left Jessheim.’

Sara nods.

But why smash the picture of the family? What sparked his rage? Bjarne wonders.

‘Did you find anything else in there?’

‘Pictures,’ Sara says. ‘Numerous pictures on his laptop of Johanne Klingenberg and of Erna Pedersen’s room at the care home. But while the pictures of Klingenberg were sharp and almost professional, the photographs at the care home were taken with a mobile phone.’

Bjarne heaves a sigh and tries to get the pieces to fit together. Markus Gjerløw had unfinished business of some kind with Erna Pedersen and Johanne Klingenberg. He finds them, kills them – and then commits suicide? So killing them didn’t help? Did he not recover the balance in his life once he had got his revenge? And what part did Emilie Blomvik’s little son play in all this?

The only thing that appears clear is that Markus Gjerløw will take no more lives. Exactly what turned him into a killer will have to be discovered in due course.

Chapter 62

Heidi Kjus marches towards Henning as he is about to help himself to a cup of freshly brewed coffee to take back to his desk. Her speed does not bode well.

‘Where have you been?’ she barks and stops right in front of him.

‘I had to return the hire car,’ he says.

‘I thought you were working on the Bislett murder?’

‘I am.’

‘They’ve got him,’ she announces.

‘Got who?’

‘The man who killed Johanne Klingenberg. He has been found dead. Suicide, I believe.’

Henning blows carefully into the cup and walks past her on his way back to his desk.

‘Great, so the case has been solved then.’

Heidi doesn’t say anything immediately, but she follows him.

‘I had hoped that we could write our own story,’ she says. ‘All we have so far are five lines from NTB. You know I hate using agency material.’

‘Mm,’ Henning says. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Okay, fine. And it wouldn’t hurt if you went out and took some pictures, either.’

Henning sits down, runs his hands over his face and is struck by a sudden realisation. He is actually missing Iver Gundersen. Iver could have shared the workload with him or at least he would have had a sparring partner. Too much is happening at once.

But he has to prioritise and right now helping Trine is more important, even though he hasn’t decided what to do with his discovery. It’s not proof as such, but it should give Trine the ammunition she needs to fight back. The question now is how to communicate it to her and if she will even listen to him.

Even so, Henning makes a quick call to the duty crime editor and gets a summary of what happened at Grorud. He pads out the NTB story and inserts his own byline even though it goes against the grain when he is so far behind the other reporters. He also rings Bjarne Brogeland, but his call goes straight through to voicemail.

Right, I’ve done everything I can on that story, he says to himself. At least for now.

Now what do I do about Trine?

Perhaps I could give the information to a colleague, he thinks. Is there anyone here who could make use of the damning evidence I’ve found?

He shakes his head. The story is too important for him to delegate it. And if it’s to have any impact at all he needs irrefutable, physical proof, legally acquired. Trine is Justice Secretary, after all. Secondly, he must make sure that she is informed, preferably without revealing his own involvement. Trine made it clear that she didn’t want his help, a point she emphasised with a hard stare.

How does he do that?

He can’t go to the police, either. They need reasonable grounds to subpoena the records from Eiksmarka Internet café.

And one big obstacle remains, the biggest of them all: Trine must be willing to face her accusers. There has been no sign of it so far and Henning has no idea why. And as long as he doesn’t understand that, it’s impossible to know if what he has found out will help her.

You’ll just have to risk it, he says to himself. Trine deserves to know who is trying to ruin her career. Then it’s up to her what she does with the information.

Chapter 63

Trine takes a deep breath and keeps her eyes firmly on her front door. She knows that the moment she leaves the car, it will be impossible to hear anything other than a cacophony of noise. Questions will be fired at her, it will be claustrophobic. But she will just have to get through it.

She braces herself and shuts everything out. While a blitz of flashlights turns the front door blinding white, she keeps telling herself that she will be inside her own home in a moment.

Pål Fredrik is waiting for her in the doorway. He ushers her in and closes the door behind them. But the sound of the media scrum continues to penetrate both the keyhole and the air-conditioning ducts.

She looks at him. He looks back at her.

‘Hello,’ she says at last, quietly.

But Pål Fredrik says nothing. He just comes closer and stands right in front of her. Then he pulls her towards him. And Trine disappears into his arms. Rests her head against his chest. Hears his heartbeat. Her big, strong man. She could try pushing him away, but she knows that he wouldn’t budge an inch.

They stand like this for a long time without saying anything. Finally, she takes a step back from him.

‘How are you?’ he asks and helps her take off her jacket.

‘How are you?’ she counters.

He smiles feebly.

‘I’ve been better.’

‘Me too.’

They exchange quick and guarded smiles.

Trine enters the living room first; she stops when she sees the soft lighting. The dining table is set for two. A bottle of red wine is open and breathing.

‘I’ve had a go at cooking,’ he says.

Trine blows air through her nostrils and smiles tenderly.

‘You know what a great cook I am,’ he quips.

Trine can’t help laughing.

‘It’ll be ready in ten minutes, I think. Or it will be if Nigella knew what she was doing when she wrote this book.’

Trine had forgotten how good it feels to laugh, how good it is to be home. How much she loves this handsome man, how much she longs to give him everything he wants, right now, because he is so kind to her. Because he doesn’t press her for answers, but is willing to wait until she is ready.

They eat slowly while they talk about work. That is to say, Pål Fredrik talks and Trine listens. She takes a few bites of the marinated chicken, sips the chambré wine. But though she tries, she can’t manage to eat very much. Eating doesn’t feel right. Nor does drinking or talking. To think about what she has done and look him in the eye at the same time is torture.

You can’t tell him, she thinks to herself. You just can’t.

After dinner they sit down on the sofa with some more wine. Listen to music. Chet Baker. Trine has never liked jazz all that much, but the sensitive trumpet-playing goes well with the soft lighting. They don’t turn on the TV. They don’t ask each other anything. Their teeth turn dark blue, but when Pål Fredrik returns with another bottle of red wine, there is a harder and more determined quality to his footsteps.

‘I have a plan,’ he announces and sits down. ‘I’m going to get you very drunk.’

He isn’t smiling or laughing. The light in his eyes bores into hers.

‘But it’s not so that you’ll blurt out the truth. I’m actually not that interested in what the papers say. I believe you when you say that you didn’t do the things they’re accusing you of.’

He pauses before he goes on.

‘But we’ve been married quite a long time now, Trine. And though I might know you better than anyone, I don’t think I can say that I know you all that well.’

Trine bows her head.

‘We live our lives in the public eye. I signed up for it, I’ve enjoyed it. But not any more. Not after this. You owe me much more explanation than what’s written in the papers, Trine.’

He pauses again.

‘I’ll only say this to you once.’

He waits until she looks up at him.

‘I love you. I’ll probably always love you. But if you want me to stay, then you have to give me all of you. I want all of you. It’s about time that you tell me who you really are, Trine. Who Trine Juul is. Who Trine Juul was before she met me.’

He tries to penetrate her gaze, but she shuts him out.

‘You can start by telling me about your family,’ he says firmly. ‘Tell me about your parents. Tell me about Henning. What happened to you? Why are you no longer in touch?’

Trine lifts her head and looks at him anxiously.

‘Henning?’ she says. ‘Have you been talking to him?’

Pål Fredrik is about to reply, but he stops. And Trine sees that she is right.

‘He came to me, Trine. He also sent me a text message last night to tell me that he’d found you and that you were still alive.’

Trine stands and starts walking over to the living-room window. She turns her back to him. Pål Fredrik doesn’t follow her. Trine stops at the piano.

‘He was only trying to help you,’ Pål Fredrik says and gets up. ‘And now you’re doing it again.’

He comes over to her.

‘Every time I ask you about Henning and your family, you shut me out. I asked Henning why, but he says he has no idea why the two of you fell out. So what’s really going on here?’

She spins around to face him.

‘Is that what he said? That he doesn’t know?’

‘Yes.’

Again, she walks away from him, but Pål Fredrik follows her. Neither of them says anything for a long time. He positions himself in front of her, takes her by the shoulders and tries to look into her eyes. She can’t manage to look back at him so she wriggles free and goes over to her wine glass and swallows a big gulp. She puts down the glass hard.

Pål Fredrik continues to follow her. He says nothing. He just looks at her.

Trine thinks about all the things she doesn’t want to think about. Events she has been trying to forget. What she saw that night. The subject of some of her nightmares.

It takes a long time before she can look at him.

‘I’ve never told anyone,’ she begins. ‘And you must take this with you to your grave. Will you promise me that?’

Pål Fredrik nods quickly.

Trine sighs and drinks another mouthful of wine. She massages her temples. Then she sits down. The room is silent. Chet Baker stopped playing long ago.

She lowers her gaze. She knows she won’t be able to look at him while she talks. So she picks a spot on the coffee table in front of her. And she says: ‘I’ve told you about my dad?’

Pål Fredrik nods.

‘He died when I was fifteen years old.’

She can barely hear her own voice. She pauses again.

‘You want to know why we don’t talk to each other in my family?’ she says and looks at Pål Fredrik. ‘Why I can’t bear to have anything to do with Henning?’

Pål Fredrik nods again.

‘I need to tell you a couple of things about my dad.’

Chapter 64

Henning stays at the office until late that afternoon. He spends most of his time in the small telephone cubicle where he can talk undisturbed.

He finally realised who to call. And when he has finished, he has a good feeling about it. Things have been set in motion. He has done everything he can do. The rest is up to Trine.

There are still people left in the office, but most have gone home. Henning sits down in his chair, unlocks his mobile and sees to his immense frustration that no one has called him back yet. Neither Ole Christian Sund nor Erna Pedersen’s old neighbours.

But there’s nothing new about that. A journalist casts his line hoping to get a bite. Usually he ends up with nothing.

Henning is about to try Bjarne Brogeland again when a number further down his call list catches his attention. It’s the number for Andreas Kjær. The man who was on duty on the night Henning’s flat burned down. There was something curt about the way he spoke to me, wasn’t there? Henning asks himself. Kjær couldn’t wait to get rid of me especially once I mentioned Tore Pulli’s name.

And again Henning thinks about priorities. What is more important – the suicide in Grorud or the fire in his own flat?

He puts down the telephone, goes online and discovers that the Kjær family lives in Tåsen Allé. He leaves the office and finds the nearest bus stop.

Forty minutes later Henning is standing on the drive outside a large, red house. The roof tiles might once have been orange, now they are dark brown. The ridge tiles are sagging.

Henning walks past a trailer with a pile of shingle and up some stone steps staying close to the black painted railings, and presses the doorbell. He takes a step back, waits and checks the time on his mobile. 5.30 p.m. No one answers. He rings the bell a couple of times and waits again. He hears no footsteps coming from inside the house.

Henning swears under his breath, then he steps back down on the crunchy gravel in front of the house. He takes a brief moment to decide before he walks out on to the dewy grass, continues past the garage and around to the rear of the house. He stops next to a tall hedge. The smell of freshly mown grass reminds Henning of his childhood garden back in Kløfta, big with lots of pine cones, a peat bog and tall trees.

A boy of twelve or thirteen and wearing the obligatory earphones is raking up the freshly cut grass. Henning holds up his hand, puts on his I’m-not-a-pervert face, but isn’t convinced if the boy is able to see past his scars.

‘Hi,’ Henning mouths.

The boy removes the earphones and grips the rake harder.

‘I wanted a word with your dad. Is he in?’

The boy doesn’t say anything.

‘My name is Henning Juul. I’m a reporter for an Internet newspaper.’

The boy loosens his grip slightly.

‘My dad’s not here,’ he says in a surly voice.

‘Do you know where he is?’

‘At work, I guess. I don’t know.’

Henning nods, irritated with himself for not calling ahead.

‘So you don’t know when he’ll be home?’

‘No.’

‘No, I guess not,’ Henning says while his gaze sweeps across the large garden, the small strawberry patch, the redcurrant bushes, the hedges that provide privacy from the neighbours. He is about to leave when his eyes are drawn to something white sticking out of the ground under one of the cherry trees nearby.

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

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

‘It’s our dog.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘Yes. I saw blood on her.’

‘Ylva,’ her brother warns her.

‘But I did.’

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

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

‘Shut up, Ylva.’

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

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

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

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

Chapter 65

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

He just can’t get it to add up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Hi,’ she says. ‘Are you busy?’

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

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

‘You know Henning Juul, don’t you?’

Bjarne nods.

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

‘Didn’t you ask him?’

‘Yes, but—’

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

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

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

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

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

‘So you were hoping that I might—’

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

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

Bjarne nods slowly.

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

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

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

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

Bjarne watches as Nøkleby struggles to phrase her suggestion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bjarne beams; he feels effervescent. Pia Nøkleby hardly ever praises anyone. And though she probably only said it to flatter him, it still worked.

She smiles once more before she leaves the room. Bjarne sits down again and exhales noisily. As if he didn’t have enough on his mind already.

Chapter 66

Henning doesn’t feel the soft, rocking movements of the bus as it makes its way back to the centre of Oslo. Nor is he aware of the darkness that is descending on the city. Stripes of dark blue change into purple before finally mutating into grey and black.

Did the Kjær family’s dog have an accident? Or did someone kill it?

You have to be one unlucky dog to die from such a relatively minor injury. And why wasn’t the rest of its body damaged?

The dog was killed, Henning concludes, and it was left on the veranda steps in the Kjærs’ garden so that everyone – especially the children – would see it. And that, Henning thinks, is brutal. It’s twisted. And it’s impossible not to interpret it as a direct threat to the family. Kjær must be in some kind of trouble. A policeman can have many enemies.

Henning forgot to ask the children when their dog died, but he will have to do that later. He gets off the bus at Alexander Kiellands Plass, but rather than go home, he goes to Dælenenga Sports Park and gazes at the football pitch. He sits there until it’s completely dark in the west. And though he can’t see any clouds, it feels as if the air is pregnant with raindrops only waiting to be released.

Once he gets home, he sits down with his laptop and tries to contact 6tiermes7, but again he is unsuccessful. He heats a ready-meal in the microwave and eats it in silence. Sated, he paces up and down the living-room floor while he thinks. As always when he passes the piano, he thinks he ought to try playing a little, but he doesn’t know how to make himself do it.

He stops in front of the IKEA bookcase, which is packed with CDs. Bands and artists lined up and organised alphabetically. Henning can remember the tunes, of course, but not how they sound here, in his new flat. He can’t remember playing a single CD since he moved in just over six months ago when a flat with a balcony facing his old flat became available to rent.

He selects the soundtrack to The Thin Red Line and feeds the disc into a dusty CD player. He presses ‘play’ and sets the volume to 3; he doesn’t want it to start too violently. The soundtrack begins as low, soft vibrations in the floor; the sound rises out into the room and soon a repetitive keyboard chord is keeping him company. Slowly Hans Zimmer’s violins take over.

It feels so strange to stand there, in his new flat, listening to music again. It’s as if the room changes and becomes alive. And he can’t understand why he hasn’t listened to music until now.

He sits down on the sofa, quietly taking in the first track. Then he lies down and closes his eyes, but not to sleep. Track two begins, a lovely, unhurried and lyrical piece of music. And as he hears the score again, he is convinced that The Thin Red Line is the best war movie he has ever seen.

Track three is his favourite. In the movie US forces race to the top of the ridge on the small Japanese island they are trying to take control of. The scene starts low-key, almost subdued, then the soundtrack grows louder. At the end – when the soldiers are shooting and killing and running around in a kind of blood lust – only the music remains. Not a gunshot, a death cry or the sound of a single explosion is heard. Only the music.

Only the magic.

The moment is ruined when the doorbell rings. Henning turns down the volume, plods over to the intercom by the front door and asks who it is. A familiar voice answers from the pavement: ‘Hi, it’s Nora.’

Henning doesn’t reply immediately, but his breathing becomes more laboured.

‘Can I come up?’

Henning hesitates before he says yes, of course she can. He can hear her footsteps against the tarmac in the archway. The sound gives him butterflies in his stomach.

Nora rings the bell at the bottom of the stairs to his flat. Henning lets her in. Half a minute later she reaches the second floor. Henning waits for her in the doorway. Nora is out of breath after the stairs and stops right in front of him.

‘Hi,’ she says again.

They stand there looking at each other for a few seconds until Henning opens the door fully and invites her in. At that very moment he is struck by the urge to tidy up until he realises that the place is actually quite neat already. His shoes are lined up against the wall. His jackets are on pegs. He has also cleared away his plate and glass, and washed up everything he used for dinner.

Nora enters.

From the living room Zimmer’s bewitching notes float towards them. It feels like he is visiting someone else and yet at the same time it doesn’t. It feels strange. It feels very strange indeed to have Nora back in his flat again.

She kicks off her shoes and hangs up her jacket, then she follows him into the kitchen. Henning doesn’t sit down; he just stands there looking at her. Clammy and tense. Warm and disturbing. There is something in Nora’s eyes that Henning doesn’t like. At the same time he likes it all too much.

‘How are you?’ he asks.

‘Well,’ she says, still breathless. ‘All right. I think.’

The pitch of her voice rises as she speaks.

‘Lots to do,’ she adds. ‘Especially now.’

‘There’s always lots to do,’ Henning says.

‘Yes,’ she laughs.

Silence. Oppressive and awkward.

‘Can I offer you something to drink?’ Henning asks.

Nora’s face looks pensive.

‘Yes, why not?’

‘What do you fancy?’

Henning goes over to the fridge, opens it and looks inside. Cans of Coke. A carton of milk that is definitely well past its sell-by date. Three bottles of Tuborg. A bottle of white wine he won in a Friday lottery he didn’t even know he was taking part in.

‘I’ll have a glass of white wine, please, if you’re having one,’ she says.

Henning can’t remember the last time he drank wine. But he takes out the bottle, finds a corkscrew and removes the cork, not without some difficulty.

‘Is not exactly Chablis, but—’

Henning smiles apologetically, remembering Nora’s favourite wine, which they would often share a bottle or two of on Friday evenings when they had eaten their tacos and Jonas was asleep.

‘I’m sure it’ll be fine,’ she says.

Henning finds two glasses, pours and gestures towards the living room where they sit down on separate sofas. Their glasses find the table at the same time. Then everything falls quiet again. Henning looks at her, waiting for her to begin.

‘So,’ she says. ‘How are you?’

Before Henning has time to answer, she says: ‘And I don’t mean what are you up to, because I think I probably know that. But how are you, Henning? Really?’

Henning is tempted to ask why she wants to know, but he can’t make himself.

‘Well, I guess I… function,’ he replies. ‘I’m busy at the moment with Trine and with… with—’

‘Tore Pulli?’

Henning looks up at her.

‘Yes,’ he replies. ‘Or rather, there’s not much going on with him, or at least not right now, but—’

Henning realises he is on the verge of telling her about Indicia and murdered dogs, and manages to stop himself. It’s too soon.

‘I understand,’ is all she says and sips her wine; she smacks her lips and makes a contented, wordless sound. Henning lets his glass stay where it is, untouched. He is pleased that the music is keeping them company, but even with Zimmer’s violins, there is something claustrophobic and weird about sitting so close to Nora again. She takes another sip from her wine glass, leans back in the sofa and crosses one leg over the other. Then she changes her mind and leans forward again.

‘Sorry,’ Henning says. ‘It’s a rotten sofa.’

‘Oh,’ Nora says and smiles awkwardly.

Once again there is silence between them. Henning watches her.

‘Was there anything in particular you wanted to… talk to me about, Nora?’

She looks up at him suddenly as if he had caught her red-handed.

‘No, I was just—’

Nora casts down her gaze again. Henning waits. She takes another mouthful of wine.

‘Last week or whenever it was,’ she begins. ‘When you were lying in that grave, I—’

She looks up hoping the rosette in the ceiling will come to her rescue. ‘I thought you were dead,’ she says at last without meeting his eyes. ‘I thought that – that I would have to bury you too.’

She is still not looking at him.

‘And—’

Then she sighs and shakes her head.

‘Why do you live here, Henning?’

Her question takes him by surprise.

‘What made you choose this place?’

Nora throws up her hands, taking in the room.

‘I mean, from your bedroom you have a view of – if that is your bedroom in there,’ she says, pointing to a white painted door. ‘You can look right out at…’

Nora doesn’t complete the sentence.

‘You even have a balcony exactly like the one we had in the old flat.’

Nora doesn’t continue; she simply looks at him. It’s Henning’s turn to stare at the floor.

‘Well, I—’

‘Why do you do this terrible thing to yourself?’ she asks. ‘To torment yourself? Is it a form of punishment because—’

Henning holds up his hand.

‘Don’t say it,’ he begs her. ‘Please don’t say his name.’

Nora’s eyes start to moisten. As do his.

‘Please don’t say his name,’ he repeats in a voice close to breaking. The moment expands, there is a pause between two tracks and for a few seconds the flat is very quiet. Henning can hear his own heavy breathing. He sees the pulse beat in Nora’s neck, her necklace against her thin, white jumper. He doesn’t remember seeing that necklace before.

Then another song begins and it’s as if they are both roused from their nightmare. Nora doesn’t say anything else, but knocks back her wine with an uncharacteristic urgency.

‘I’ve got to go,’ she says and gets up. Henning follows her back to the kitchen, out into the hallway where she puts on her shoes and her jacket. Then she straightens up and looks at him. Really looks at him.

And then she comes towards him and she doesn’t stop before she is standing very close to him. He puts his arms around her and she clings to him as if she doesn’t ever want to let go. Henning can’t remember the last time he held Nora like this. He places his hand tenderly on her neck and strokes her hair. He closes his eyes. Her soft, lovely hair. Just like he remembers it. The scent of her. Also just like he remembers it.

And when she pushes herself away from him a little later, her feet refuse to follow. So she stays where she is, close to him. They are separated by only a few centimetres. He can feel her breath on his face, a cloud of alcohol that lingers around his nose. Henning doesn’t know whether he pulls Nora close to him or Nora glides imperceptibly towards him, but again he feels himself trembling at her magnetic power, which has never lost its hold over him. And he realises with all his being that he has never loved anyone the way he loves Nora.

And that’s why he pulls away.

He sees it in her eyes; how she, too, feels that what they are doing is wrong. They look at each other for many, long moments.

Then she turns around and leaves.