by Thomas Enger
Yes, Emma said to herself. Maybe it was.
‘I have to go now,’ she said, thanking him again for his help.
For a brief moment, after the call ended, she closed her eyes and shook her head. My God. Stupid, crazy behaviour. Copenhagen and Kasper could actually be really enjoyable. At least until the question of where she should sleep arose.
The steady rumble of traffic from Kongsveien made her brush those thoughts away.
‘OK,’ she told herself, taking a deep breath. Then she dialled the number for the police.
6
The phone vibrated in Blix’s pocket, and he fished it out. The display showed a number he had saved as ‘TV-Eckhoff’. Eckhoff worked at the production company behind Worthy Winner and had been involved in developing the programme concept. During filming, he acted as a link between the participants and their families.
‘Blix here,’ he answered.
‘It’s Even Eckhoff,’ the man at the other end said. ‘Enter Entertainment.’
Blix pushed his chair out from his desk and turned away slightly. It was not often he felt uncomfortable talking to people, but there was something about Eckhoff’s whole manner. His voice. As if he were absolutely determined to try to sell Blix something he didn’t want.
‘It’s about the live broadcast tonight,’ Eckhoff continued.
Blix pictured Iselin on the sofa with the programme presenter, and how the camera sometimes zoomed in on Merete and her new boyfriend. The two of them had been there for every live show. The production company was keen for the participants’ family and friends to be present; they wanted to capture their reactions and emotions, but also have them there to console the competitors when they were voted off.
‘I’ve spoken to Iselin,’ Eckhoff continued. ‘She’d really appreciate seeing you in the audience.’
‘Has she said that?’ Blix asked.
‘Well, she said it was OK for me to ask you,’ Eckhoff replied.
Blix felt touched. Of course, he was ready to take the hand Iselin was holding out to him, but he really didn’t want to sit next to Merete and Jan-Egil.
‘I’ll see,’ he said.
‘We have to reserve seats in the auditorium, so it would be helpful if you could let me know as soon as possible.’
‘OK,’ Blix said. ‘But I have to go now.’
He ended the call, pulled his chair up to his desk again and glanced at Kovic before busying himself with something on the computer.
A moment later, Gard Fosse appeared with a scrap of paper torn from a notebook in his hand and made a beeline across the office for Kovic and Blix. Blix could see how important he felt, and it irritated him.
‘I want you to take a look at a missing person case,’ Fosse said.
‘Can’t Crime Prevention take care of that?’ Blix asked.
‘They’ve asked us to look into it,’ Fosse explained. ‘They’re working flat out on other things.’
‘What about uniformed patrols?’
‘The current response time for them is ninety minutes.’
He waved the paper in the air. ‘A journalist phoned it in. The person who’s gone missing is none other than Sonja Nordstrøm.’ He paused. ‘It won’t look good if we sit on it.’
Kovic stood up and took the scrap of paper. ‘Stupendous Sonja,’ she remarked, looking enthusiastic.
‘A journalist?’ Blix protested. ‘Shouldn’t we receive a report from a family member before we rush out?’
‘Nordstrøm has failed to turn up for both radio and TV interviews today, without notice,’ Fosse said. ‘The journalist is at her home now. She says the house is unlocked and she can’t make contact with anyone inside. Off you go – check it out, and take it from there.’
Kovic had already slipped on her jacket. Fosse smiled ingratiatingly at her before wheeling around and moving on to the next delegated task of the day. Blix slowly rose to his feet – with a heavy sigh.
7
The police had told her to wait. At first Emma sat on the steps, but she felt ill at ease with her back to the empty house, so she moved to the wrought-iron bench beside the entrance.
She took her laptop from her bag and checked the online newspapers. They all carried something on the Nordstrøm autobiography.
‘Took Drugs’, was the title of the headline story in VG. It referred to Nordstrøm’s worst rival throughout her career, Cecilie Krogsæther. The article was illustrated with a photo of her at the top of the podium at the Berlin Marathon, one year when Nordstrøm had not taken part. Nordstrøm’s claims were elaborated upon in the article below: she had seen Krogsæther use hypodermic needles several times, and also cited her competitor’s Czech doctor, who had apparently insinuated that Krogsæther didn’t have clean blood in her veins.
Dagbladet’s story was similar, but they had contacted Krogsæther’s lawyer, who insisted that the allegations were absurd, and threatened consequences.
Cutting a little from both articles, Emma did a rewrite and edit. It was rare for her to take such shortcuts, but she knew Anita Grønvold was waiting for her to publish something.
It took her only a few minutes. At the end of the piece she added a promise that she would share with her readers more sensational snippets from Nordstrøm’s autobiography as the day wore on. She pressed the publish button, then began to jot down the most important points in the sexual abuse accusations, at the same time reminding herself that she needed to talk to someone from the athletics world about who these might be levelled at, since the name of the coach was not given. The alleged assault had happened when Nordstrøm was only fifteen years old.
After that, Emma clicked onto her publisher’s home page, where there was a video designed to attract readers. Following a series of cobbled-together images from Nordstrøm’s career, accompanied by Vangelis’ Chariots of Fire, a deep, histrionic male voice began to speak:
‘At the age of four, Sonja Nordstrøm’s father asked her a question: Do you want to be the best in the world? Yes, Sonja replied. Then you must listen to me, her father said. Yes, Sonja answered. Fourteen years later, Sonja Nordstrøm won her very first World Championship medal. A further twelve of these would follow, but success did not come without a price. In this outspoken autobiography, she tells of victory and loss, of friends and foes, and not least of difficult relationships with everyone who came close to her.’
New film clips followed – of Nordstrøm at the top of various podiums, celebrating, waving, but always with some reservation apparent in her face, as if she couldn’t let herself really jump for joy.
None of the online newspapers had yet mentioned Nordstrøm’s disappearance.
Emma cast a glance at the house before opening her desktop publishing program again and starting to draft a new article. The headline was a single word: ‘Missing’.
8
The wrought-iron gate facing the street was open and banging back and forth in the wind. Blix swung on to the pavement and parked alongside the fence.
Kovic checked the notes she had received from Fosse. ‘The journalist’s name is Emma Ramm,’ she told him. ‘She works at news.no.’
Blix’s diaphragm contracted sharply. ‘What did you say?’ he asked in a cracked voice.
Kovic repeated the journalist’s name and workplace.
Blix swallowed. Hard, several times over.
‘Is something wrong?’ Kovic asked.
Blix couldn’t reply, and even found it difficult to meet Kovic’s quizzical gaze.
‘Hm?’ was all he managed.
‘I was just wondering if anything was up. You went pale all of a sudden.’
Blix was still unable to speak, instead gesturing that they should get out of the car.
He took some time to lever himself out of his seat. He had become hot, and once he’d finally emerged from the car, it was a relief to have the wind blowing in his face. He had to take a sidelong step to steady himself, grabbing the figurine on top of the gate, closing
his hand around it so tightly that his knuckles blanched. At last he fixed his eyes on the girl seated on a bench outside the front entrance.
Blix felt his heart hammering inside his chest, and his armpits were sweating.
‘Why don’t you take the lead on this one?’ he mumbled to Kovic, letting her go through the gate first.
Emma Ramm stood up and greeted Kovic, who then moved aside and introduced Blix.
He held out his hand, hoping Emma wouldn’t notice how clammy it was.
‘When did you get here?’ Kovic asked.
‘Forty minutes ago,’ Emma answered. ‘The door’s unlocked, but she’s not at home.’
Blix gazed at her. Her blonde, shoulder-length hair was arranged nicely. Her blue eyes were alert, her nose narrow and her cheekbones pronounced. She had very even, white teeth.
‘Have you been inside?’ asked Kovic.
‘I looked in, yes,’ Emma explained. ‘There’s a shattered mirror in the hallway.’
Kovic and Blix exchanged glances.
‘So you can’t be sure that she’s not still here? Not one hundred per cent?’ Kovic queried.
Emma’s answer was slightly shamefaced: ‘Not one hundred per cent, no.’
Blix cleared his throat. ‘We’ll go in.’
‘Wait here,’ Kovic said to Emma as she followed him.
Blix threw back his shoulders and tried to focus his thoughts on the job. Once inside the tiled hallway, he called out: ‘Hello … this is the police.’
Kovic pointed at the toppled coat stand and the broken mirror on the floor.
‘Room by room,’ Blix said.
They began to search the house. At every doorway they passed through, he was prepared to find Nordstrøm. In the bathroom with slit arteries; hanging by a rope from the chandelier in the living room; with an empty pill bottle by her side in the bed. But she was not there. Not on the ground floor nor the upper storey, and not in the basement either. Her car was still parked in the garage.
Blix went to check the tool shed while Kovic spoke to Emma Ramm in more detail. He made a circuit of the garden too, then took out his phone. He knew he should call Fosse, but couldn’t bear to speak to him right now. Instead he keyed in Tine Abelvik’s number and explained where he was and what they had seen.
‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this one,’ he said. ‘Can you ask Ann-Mari Sara to come out here to take care of the technical side of things?’ And before Abelvik managed to answer: ‘And I’d like you and Wibe to start work internally. Trace Nordstrøm’s phone, contact family members, do a survey of her circle of friends – the usual.’
‘I’ll see what I can manage,’ Abelvik promised.
Blix rounded off the conversation and walked back to the front of the house.
‘She wants an official comment,’ Kovic said, nodding at Emma, who stood writing something on a notepad a few steps away.
She turned and approached them. ‘For the article I’m writing,’ Emma said waving the pad.
Blix stared at her. His thoughts crisscrossed, pressing forwards from the back of his head. It was difficult to grasp a single one. Instead he tried to push them away and concentrate on what was happening in the here and now.
‘What’s your assessment of the missing person case?’ Emma asked.
‘It’s a bit early to say anything.’ He cleared his throat and added: ‘But we’re making some preliminary inquiries.’
‘What kind of inquiries?’
‘Routine procedures,’ he replied, unwilling to get embroiled in details.
‘Investigations, then.’
Blix nodded.
‘What was your name again?’ she asked. ‘Sorry, you told me earlier, but I didn’t take it in properly.’
Blix hesitated. ‘Alexander Blix,’ he finally said.
Emma made a note of it. Nothing suggested that she recognised his name.
‘With a k or an x?’ she asked.
‘With an x,’ he said. ‘Both names: Alexander and Blix.’
‘I can quote you on that, then – that you’ve initiated an investigation?’ she asked.
Blix met her gaze and noticed that it was full of life and dedication. Nothing more. Nothing to indicate that she knew who he was.
‘Here,’ he said, taking out his own notebook. He scribbled down his phone number and handed it to her. ‘You can call me or … make contact if you think of anything else.’
She thanked him, turned around and walked away. Blix stood watching her leave. When she was gone, he closed his eyes for a few seconds and focused on breathing. His cheeks were flushed and he felt sweat between his shoulder blades.
‘What do we do now?’ Kovic asked.
‘Stay here until the technicians arrive,’ he replied, without turning to face her. ‘In the meantime we can make a few house-to-house inquiries in the neighbourhood. Ask if anyone has seen anything.’
9
Emma had almost reached the end of Forever Number One. After visiting Sonja Nordstrøm’s home she had headed straight for her regular haunt – Kalle’s Choice– a tiny little café on the corner of Sofies plass and Frydenlundgata. Many of the stories she had published had been written at the table in the far corner of the upper floor.
What struck her as she read was how Nordstrøm almost actively sought to destroy her own reputation. She scattered allegations here, there and everywhere, many of them crass and defamatory, which would certainly have personal consequences for her. Emma hoped Nordstrøm had proof of all the allegations she was making, and that the publishing house had performed a thorough legal risk assessment. If not, it could all end in court action.
Several media outlets had now got wind of Nordstrøm’s disappearing act. Some of them had used Emma’s quote from Alexander Blix, fortunately referring to her as the original source. The story was growing arms and legs, almost minute by minute: Emma spotted it on social media too. A lot of people were worried about what had happened to Nordstrøm, the national icon.
The question was: what now?
Emma leafed back to the beginning of the book. It had been written in collaboration with the sports journalist Stian Josefson – a man Emma knew had taken a severance package from Aftenposten a couple of years earlier, when even they had to slim down their workforce.
She decided to call him, glad that no one was sitting at the nearest tables.
The voice that answered sounded morose.
‘I’m going to switch off my phone soon,’ Josefson said. ‘No, I haven’t the foggiest where she is, and I’ve absolutely no comment to make about what’s in the book. Got it?’
Emma realised he was about to hang up. ‘I like the book,’ she said swiftly. ‘It’s well written. I assume it was you rather than Nordstrøm who actually wrote it?’
Silence fell, momentarily.
‘Well, yes. Thanks.’
Emma fiddled with the phone and switched on the recorder function.
‘It must have been an interesting job?’ she said, trying to pour as much sugar as possible into her voice. Her experience of celebrity journalism had taught her that flattery could make even the most buttoned-up person relax.
When Josefson did not reply immediately, she said: ‘Can I ask you how you got the assignment? Was it the publishing house that contacted you, or did you already know Sonja Nordstrøm so well that you…?’
‘It was my suggestion, in fact,’ he said. ‘My idea.’
‘So you went to the publishing company and…’
‘No, I worked on Sonja for months before she finally agreed. It was actually…’ He suddenly seemed discouraged. ‘What was it you wanted?’
‘It almost sounds as if you regret it now?’ Emma asked.
She heard him falter.
‘A little,’ he admitted. ‘Mainly because of all the fuss. I hadn’t expected that…’ He paused again.
‘That what?’
‘Nothing,’ he said in the end.
‘Have you heard from So
nja today?’ Emma asked after a few seconds.
‘No.’
‘You’ve no idea where she might be?’
‘Not a scooby.’
‘When did you speak to her last?’
‘Last night.’
‘How did she seem to you?’
‘She was exactly the same as always. Apart from…’
He stopped again.
‘Apart from what?’
‘No, nothing.’
Emma heard noises in the background. Voices, a tumult. Josefson was outdoors.
‘Did you discuss PR strategy in advance of the book launch?’
Josefson snorted. ‘Do you think I had anything to do with that?’
He clearly intended to answer his own question, so she didn’t reply.
‘I was just a tool for her, like all the other people she used,’ he went on. ‘And for the publisher. They don’t give a shit about my opinion.’
Emma doodled on her notepad hoping he would go on.
But he didn’t.
‘So you’ve absolutely no idea where she could be, then?’
‘No. And it’s no odds to me. I’ve done what I had to do. Now I don’t have time to talk to you anymore.’
And he ended the call.
Emma sat staring at the phone for a few moments before putting it down. Stian Josefson was angry, she thought. Offended. It wasn’t unusual for a co-writer with a role such as his to be overlooked once a book reached public attention.
Josefson’s story was now her fourth instalment about Nordstrøm, though everything to do with the book was starting to pale into insignificance. What both she and her readers wanted answers to was the mystery surrounding her disappearance.
She took out the piece of paper with Alexander Blix’s phone number on it and sat fiddling with it as she pondered whether it was too early to make contact. But he had given her carte blanche to do so, hadn’t he?
She decided to send him a text message to start with, to avoid seeming too desperate or tiresome. She could call him later.