Death Deserved

by Thomas Enger

  While Emma did some stretches, the hosts of Good Morning, Norway welcomed viewers back to another twenty minutes of easily digested output. One of them – a man with a round face, glasses and curly hair – leaned forwards restlessly. He glanced at his colleague before adjusting his glasses and saying: ‘Well, viewers, this is what we should have been discussing for the next few minutes.’ He held up a book Emma recognised immediately: Forever Number One by Sonja Nordstrøm. ‘But the author, who should have been with us in the studio, seems to have been delayed.’

  Emma smiled. This was typical of Nordstrøm: she always did exactly what suited her. Not for nothing did Anita Grønvold, Emma’s boss at news.no, consistently call Nordstrøm a superbitch.

  ‘So we’ll have to wait a while before we hear more about the auto­biography that is already the talk of the town before it’s even been published – even though no one has any idea exactly which beans Nordstrøm has chosen to spill.’

  The other presenter now took over – a woman with long blonde hair, looking incredibly sharp and alert despite the early hour.

  ‘Yes, there’s been a great deal of secrecy surrounding this publica­tion,’ she said, her eyes searching for the right camera. ‘There’s no doubt that Sonja Nordstrøm has lived an exciting life. She’s won everything that’s possible to win in … when you … have done all the things she’s done.’

  Emma sniggered at the presenter’s obvious ignorance, and filled her glass again.

  ‘This is indeed a very special day for Sonja Nordstrøm,’ the other presenter interjected. ‘It’s her fiftieth birthday, and she’s decided to mark this milestone by publishing a book.’

  ‘We can only hope she turns up,’ the female presenter said with an exaggerated smile. ‘In the meantime, we can welcome into the studio Petter Due-Eriksen, producer of this channel’s hottest show – Worthy Winner.’

  A burly man in his fifties sat down on the sofa, a microphone at­tached to a shirt that was rather too tight.

  ‘Petter, we’re nearing the end of the show now, aren’t we? There are only four contestants left, and this evening they’ll be whittled down to three, is that right?’

  ‘Yes, now it really starts to get interesting.’

  Emma turned down the volume and took off her training jacket. She had written about this new reality-show concept nearly every day, and was sick of the whole thing. Ten contestants were locked inside a house together with cameras everywhere. There was really nothing new to say about it.

  She picked up her mobile and wondered whether to call Nord­strøm, but instantly gave up on the idea. The superbitch would never answer so early in the day. Anyway, Emma had an appointment with the woman’s publisher in an hour.

  Stripping off the rest of her clothes, she headed for the bathroom, carefully locking the door behind her, even though she lived on her own.

  3

  Soleane Publishing was located in Kristian Augusts gate, across from Café Amsterdam. There was no enormous, flamboyant sign above the entrance, just a small nameplate on the door that said the office opened at nine o’clock.

  Emma checked the time on her mobile and sent a text message to Amund Zimmer, the head of the publishing house, saying she was waiting outside as arranged. Two minutes later, the door opened and an overweight man in his sixties appeared, a copy of Forever Number One in one hand and a phone in the other.

  ‘Emma?’ he asked.

  She nodded.

  ‘Apologies,’ Zimmer said, waving his mobile as if it explained his tardiness.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Emma assured him. ‘I’m just glad to get my hands on a copy before it reaches the bookstores.’

  ‘Here,’ Zimmer said, handing her the book. ‘Write something nice about it.’

  ‘Do you know what she’s up to today?’ Emma asked, as he turned to go back inside. She pointed at the photo of Sonja Nordstrøm on the front of the book.

  While Zimmer did seem prepared for the question, at the same time it clearly made him uncomfortable – as if he’d hoped she would­n’t ask. He ran his hand through the wisps of blond hair on his head and made a face. His mobile buzzed, and he checked it quickly, before saying: ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘You’ve no idea why Sonja Nordstrøm didn’t show up on Good Morning, Norway today?’

  ‘No. I haven’t managed to get hold of her yet.’

  ‘Is it … normal for her not to turn up to appearances like that?’

  Zimmer hoisted his shoulders and immediately let them drop again. ‘Sonja Nordstrøm has always been something of a prima donna,’ he said, ‘but I can really only answer for what she’s been like when we’ve had meetings with her. We’ve found her to be one hundred per cent professional. So it’s a bit … odd that she didn’t appear for the broadcast earlier today. She’s not the type to over­sleep.’

  Zimmer’s phone started ringing again. He checked the screen, but once again decided to ignore it.

  ‘What else do you have planned for her today?’

  ‘Well…’ he began, ‘she should really be all over the place. TV in the morning, and then radio. There’s a press conference here sched­uled for noon’ – he used his thumb to indicate over his shoulder – ‘and we’ve got almost all the newspapers in the country signed up for that. And if I know the media, there’ll probably be more radio or TV in the afternoon and evening, even though they haven’t asked yet. We’ve requested she keep the whole day free, more or less, and she was OK with that; she was prepared to do it.’

  His mobile stopped vibrating.

  ‘She’ll probably turn up eventually,’ Emma said.

  ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ Zimmer said, with a fleeting smile. ‘No doubt she will.’

  His phone rang again.

  ‘I have to dash inside again. It…’ He raised his mobile in the air.

  ‘Thanks for the book,’ Emma said. ‘I’m looking forward to reading it.’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  Zimmer let himself in, answering the call at the same time.

  Emma stood deep in thought for several seconds. Then she located Sonja Nordstrøm’s number and phoned her.

  ‘Hello, you’ve reached Sonja Nordstrøm. I can’t take your call right n—’

  Emma hung up and spent a few moments pondering the situation: should she sit in her regular café and race through the book, or…?

  A tram came jangling past. Number eighteen. Emma knew it went up to Ekeberg, where Sonja Nordstrøm lived. She broke into a run and caught up with it at the courthouse.

  4

  The brittle plastic splintered as Blix crushed the end of his pen between his teeth. He leaned back in his chair and looked down towards the other end of the room, where Gard Fosse stood with the new investigator, introducing her to Tine Abelvik and Nicolai Wibe – like him, two of the department’s longest-serving detectives.

  Blix found it unfathomable that Fosse had managed to manoeuvre his way to the top of the Violent Crime Unit without having a single genuine investigative gene in his body. Or maybe, he thought, spit­ting out a sliver of plastic, that was exactly why.

  Sofia Kovic’s southern European origins were easy to spot. She had brown, mid-length hair and dark eyes, and her skin tone was several shades darker than anyone else’s in the department. Ten years ago she would have been unable to fulfil the minimum height requirement for entry to police college.

  Fosse pointed across at Blix. Kovic tossed her head as they ap­proached him, making her loose hair sit better. Blix put down his pen and picked some flakes of plastic from his tongue before getting to his feet to shake hands.

  They exchanged pleasantries and Sofia Kovic smiled, revealing white teeth. ‘I’ve heard about you,’ she said.

  Blix hadn’t expected anything else. For ages now what had hap­pened at Teisen nineteen years ago had been part of the police college syllabus. The episode had even been given a special name: The Teisen Tragedy.

  ‘Blix
is going to show you how we work in here,’ Fosse told her. ‘This will be your workstation.’

  Kovic looked around. Blix said good morning to Abelvik and Wibe, then drew some case papers over to his side of the desk and moved the pile of dirty plates to the top of the filing cabinet.

  Fosse exchanged a quick look with Blix. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he said, turning on his heel.

  With a stiff grin, Blix watched him exchange nods and pleasantries with people just arriving in the office.

  ‘So,’ he said, turning to Kovic, ‘what made you want to work here?’

  Kovic sat down. ‘I think I can excel here,’ she replied without hesi­tation. ‘Do what I’m good at.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘Collecting information, analysing cases, building appropriate hy­potheses, thinking creatively, turning accepted truths on their head and finding alternative solutions.’ Kovic paused. ‘Investigate, in other words.’

  Blix looked at her as he twirled his pen between his fingers. Her short speech sounded like something straight from a textbook. Something that would have impressed Fosse.

  ‘It would be good if you managed to solve some cases too.’ Blix put his pen back in his mouth.

  Kovic put down the slim, transparent folder she’d received from the ICT department and switched on her computer. Waiting for it to start up, she checked her mobile, but immediately set it aside again.

  ‘So what’s it like having Fosse as your boss?’ she asked.

  Forthright, Blix thought. He swallowed the answer that was burning the tip of his tongue, and said instead: ‘It’s OK, no prob­lems.’

  ‘OK?’

  ‘Yes,’ Blix nodded, but did not deign to elaborate.

  The truth was that he and Fosse had completely different ap­proaches to police work. The simplest way to describe it was theory and practice. He followed his gut instinct, Fosse the book.

  ‘He wants me to show you how we work here,’ Blix said, reaching out to the papers on his desk and picking up a random bundle of case folders. He deposited them on her desk with a thump. ‘This is how we work here,’ he said, with an apologetic smile. ‘One case at a time. Welcome to the madhouse.’

  5

  Emma got off at the stop near Jomfrubråten. She’d made good use of her tram ride, making a few phone calls to people she knew in the TV 2 building. She’d learned that a taxi had been ordered to collect Sonja Nordstrøm at 7.20 a.m. With a little determined digging, she’d even managed to find out the driver’s name and phone number. Daniel Kvam. She’d called him straight away, but had only reached his voicemail.

  For the last ten minutes of the tram journey, she’d thumbed through the first few chapters of Forever Number One, which had left her in no doubt that it would be explosive. Athletes, coaches and family members were told a few home truths, and Nordstrøm more or less accused one of her coaches of having sexually abused her.

  Her phone rang just as she crossed Kongsveien.

  ‘Hi, it’s Daniel Kvam. You just phoned me?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, and explained who she was. ‘Thanks for returning my call. It’s about a trip you had arranged for earlier today. You were to pick up Sonja Nordstrøm in Ekeberg at 7.20 a.m., is that right?’

  ‘That’s right enough,’ Kvam said. ‘But nothing came of it.’

  Emma frowned.

  ‘I waited outside her house for fifteen minutes, at least, but she never came out.’

  ‘Didn’t you phone her?’

  ‘Yes, but it went straight to voicemail. I got out and rang her door­bell, but she still didn’t appear, so in the end I drove off.’

  Emma said thanks and hung up.

  She was now standing outside Nordstrøm’s magnificent villa, a house situated close to Kongsveien. It had to be at least 400 square metres of real estate, she reckoned, with a massive garage, painted white, adjacent. Building materials wrapped in plastic and remnants of packaging from renovation work were piled up in front of one garage door. Brown, compacted cardboard boxes.

  The gate was open, which made Emma think Nordstrøm might have driven off somewhere earlier that day or the previous evening – that basically she’d done a bunk. A media circus such as Amund Zimmer had described would take the wind out of most people’s sails, even if you were totally used to it.

  Emma stepped on to the tarmac driveway leading down to the house. Stopping at the front door, she rang the doorbell and heard it chime inside.

  No answer.

  She tried one more time with the same result: no one came to open the door. Taking a few paces back, she peered at the windows on the upper storey, but there was no face peeking back at her from behind the curtains. She couldn’t hear anything either.

  She tried the doorbell once again. Still no sound from anyone inside. A flash of inspiration made her try the door handle, and she was taken aback to find the door unlocked. Emma let go of the handle but the door continued to glide slowly open. She took a step forwards. Poked her head ever so slightly into a spacious hallway with dark tiles on the floor.

  Something on the floor further inside caused her to knit her brows. A coat stand lying on its side. She saw some shards of glass as well, scattered in front of a frame that must once have held a full-length mirror.

  Emma stood still and called out: ‘Sonja Nordstrøm?’

  She listened, but there was no response.

  The sound of her shoes on the tiled floor in the outer hallway res­onated through the house.

  ‘Hello!’ she shouted again, noticing how shaky her voice had become. Her trepidation did not prevent her from venturing further inside, though, into a huge hall with floor tiles in a checkerboard pattern. She made sure not to trample on the fragments of glass from the full-length mirror.

  A high ceiling, with the lights switched on, and a glittering chan­delier. A staircase led to the upper storey.

  Emma continued to call out to Nordstrøm, but still received no answer.

  She looked into the kitchen, where everything was elegant – bright surfaces, cooker and fridge in brushed stainless steel. The dark tiles also covered the floor in here. A cupboard full of wine bottles. Fresh flowers on a colossal table. Two wine glasses on the worktop, just beside a copy of Forever Number One. Emma shouted Nord­strøm’s name again, but heard nothing.

  Or…

  Yes, she did hear something.

  She followed the sound out of the kitchen and into what appeared to be a living room. The TV was on, tuned into some sports channel or other. In the centre of the TV screen, a starting number was at­tached with a piece of tape. Number one.

  Emma stood looking at it for a few seconds. That’s odd, she thought, as she picked up the remote control to switch off the TV. Then, in a split second, felt how deathly still everything had become.

  ‘Nordstrøm?’

  Her voice hardly carried.

  She made one more attempt, louder this time. Still no answer.

  All of a sudden she did not want to be there. She had to get out. Fast.

  She moved quickly. Her foot slid on the loose carpet in the hallway, but she managed to stay on her feet. She had to fight the urge to look back to see if anyone was watching or chasing her.

  Once outside, she was able to breathe normally again. Closing the door behind her, she stood puzzling what to do next. A cat emerged from under a bush and disappeared around the corner of the house. Emma took out her phone and called Kasper.

  Kasper Bjerringbo was a Danish journalist she had met at a seminar on digital journalism in Gothenburg a few months earlier. He had worked on Ritzau’s crime reporting unit for years.

  ‘Well, wonders will never cease,’ Kasper said in a thick Danish accent.

  ‘Hi, Kasper,’ Emma said. ‘Are you tied up?’

  ‘Yes, at least I am now.’

  Emma smiled, and felt her cheeks grow warm.

  ‘Nice to hear from you,’ Kasper said. ‘It’s been a while.’

  ‘Yes, it has.
’

  ‘It … we had fun, didn’t we?’

  She pictured his black curls, his captivating smile. His very fit, naked body.

  ‘Yes we did,’ she said. Until early in the morning, when tiredness had overcome her and she felt the urge to sneak back to her own bed.

  ‘I need some help,’ she said. ‘Some advice.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Do you have any experience of … disappearances?’

  ‘Well, we have a pretty big case going in Denmark right now, in fact.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes, a footballer who’s been missing for just over a week – maybe you’ve read about him?’

  Emma hadn’t. She didn’t pay much attention to football.

  ‘Why were you wondering?’ Kasper added.

  Emma wasn’t sure how much detail she should give him, so, without mentioning Nordstrøm by name, she told him about the missed appointment at TV 2 and about the house being empty, with the front door open.

  ‘I think something might have happened to her,’ she concluded.

  Kasper was quiet for a few seconds. Emma pictured him sitting in his office, playing with his curls.

  ‘Then you really have no choice. You have to contact the police,’ he said. ‘And you have to tell them you’ve been inside. If you with­hold that kind of information, it might cause problems for you later.’

  Emma looked up at the house, hoping she would see Nordstrøm’s face in one of the windows. Kasper was right, of course.

  ‘The police will almost certainly take it seriously, especially if we’re talking about a famous person,’ Kasper added.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I knew I could count on you.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ he replied, then paused for a moment. ‘How are things with you otherwise?’ he asked.

  ‘Fine,’ Emma said.

  ‘You’re not thinking of coming to Copenhagen anytime soon?’ he added.

  Emma smiled. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘That’s a pity,’ Kasper said.