Death Deserved

by Thomas Enger

  The lights turned on around him and the audience applauded. Schanke took a deep breath, relieved that it was over.

  ‘How was it?’ Tollersrud asked when the applause had died down.

  Schanke took off the cables and looked at the presenter. ‘Bloody mortifying.’

  Tollersrud gave no reply and simply nodded his head. ‘When we come back again after the adverts, it’ll be Iselin’s turn. Stay in your seats, we’ll be back soon.’

  A large red light disappeared from a lamp behind the stage and Blix told one of the staff that he needed a quick word with Tollersrud.

  ‘That’s impossible now,’ the man said. ‘We’re in the middle of a broadcast.’

  ‘It’s a commercial break right now,’ Blix said. ‘It’s vital I speak to him before he goes on air again.’

  The man seemed about to protest again, but instead agreed to show Blix the way. Soon they were on stage. At first Blix was blinded by all the lights. Then he managed to screw up his eyes and catch sight of the presenter, exchanging a few words with Iselin. The man from the production team approached and interrupted him. For a brief second Blix’s eyes met Iselin’s. They were wide with astonishment, as if wondering what was going on.

  Tollersrud came up to him. ‘What is it?’ he asked with an edge of annoyance in his tone. ‘Why do you have to speak to me right now?’

  ‘It’ll only take a minute,’ Blix said. ‘But it’s important. Have you been in contact with anyone today you’ve not met before?’

  ‘Yes, that happens nearly every day,’ Tollersrud replied. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘We’re looking for a man who may have tried to get in touch with you,’ Blix said. ‘Has anyone unfamiliar approached you today? Given you anything, or touched you in some way?’

  Tollersrud didn’t seem to understand the question.

  ‘No,’ he said after giving this some thought. ‘No one.’

  ‘You haven’t eaten anything that tasted off? Drunk anything that had a strange taste?’

  Tollersrud drew back, looking towards a table with drinks, biscuits and fruit just beyond the stage area.

  ‘No. Good God, no – what is all this nonsense?’

  Petter Due-Eriksen appeared behind him. ‘What’s going on?’ the producer demanded.

  Tollersrud, with a biscuit in his hand, pointed at Blix.

  ‘You’ll have to talk about this later,’ Due-Eriksen said, nudging Tollersrud in the direction of the stage.

  ‘One minute!’ someone shouted from the studio floor.

  Blix and Kovic made themselves scarce.

  ‘There’s actually a good chance nothing will happen here tonight,’ Kovic said when they were alone. ‘That the perpetrator has seen us and decided to wait.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking that too,’ Blix said. ‘Tollersrud will have to be given protection afterwards, once the transmission is over. He’ll have to be followed closely. All the way home.’

  82

  Emma followed the rest of the broadcast word for word, and tried to note all the questions the contestants were given and what they answered. She imagined dramatising the evening’s events for people who hadn’t watched the show; she had her laptop on her knee as Tollersrud grilled the contestants one by one.

  Iselin had emerged best from the questions so far. She was caught in one lie – that she’d never stolen anything – and abashed, had rushed to confess that yes indeed, she had once taken an illicit sample from the sweetie counter at the Rema 1000 supermarket not so long ago. Before Tollersrud had time to stop her, since only yes or no answers were permissible, the audience around Emma had smiled and nodded; many of them had apparently done exactly the same thing themselves, so the damage was clearly limited. Iselin had also been asked relationship questions, and she’d emerged unscathed from them, unlike Toralf Schanke – as she’d admitted they were in a relationship.

  Jonas Sakshaug’s turn came next. The chef was not asked any questions about girlfriends, but was caught out in a lie almost at once. When asked if he had ever added an ingredient in a meal to be nasty to the customer, Sakshaug paused for thought. Then Tollersrud elaborated with examples of snot, coffee grains, blood, and cat- or dog-food. Sakshaug answered no. The lie-detector test showed that he had.

  The chef squirmed in his seat.

  ‘Is it true you have a contract with a publisher to issue a cookery book?’

  Once again Sakshaug paused. Emma knew there had been a lot of discussion of this cookery book on the show. He’d also encouraged viewers to share their best recipes on his Facebook page, promising that the best and most tempting dish would be included in his book. He answered with a hesitant yes.

  The lie-detector man gave him a thumbs-down.

  Emma looked at the people around her. Several jaws dropped. There and then she realised how this was going to proceed. It was one thing to be caught in a falsehood about pilfering, but another thing entirely to lie about a book contract.

  Emma wrote down the rest of the questions and answers, but Sakshaug was now totally deflated. He was slumped in his chair. When the round of questions was over, he shuffled back to the sofa and the other two contestants. The subsequent voting in the next quarter of an hour further demonstrated what they all knew. Toralf and Iselin, the young couple, were through to the final.

  Before Tollersrud sent the viewers to another commercial break, he said: ‘The contestants have not been made aware, in advance, of any of the challenges they have undergone. And as our producer has said repeatedly in the media in recent weeks, the final game will include something absolutely special. Something never before attempted on live TV. To find out what that is, you’ll have to turn on your TV again at 9.40 p.m. Until then – bye, and thanks for watching Worthy Winner!’

  Emma made use of the intermission to finish writing her article and publish it on the web. She hoped for an opportunity to interview Sakshaug after the show had ended, even though he’d disappeared backstage, completely crushed. It crossed Emma’s mind that he might well tell her what a bitter blow it was to be eliminated on the basis of a lie, when the others had lied too. All the same, he would probably gain a real book contract after all.

  When the broadcast resumed, the presenter rounded up the young finalists to sit side by side on two chairs.

  ‘Well, then,’ he began, ‘so we’re left with the two of you. Love’s young dream.’

  Iselin smiled, embarrassed again.

  ‘What do you both think about everything you’ve been through in the past few weeks? Did you think you’d make it through to the final?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Iselin said. ‘I thought I’d be one of the very first to be voted out.’

  ‘Do you know what I think?’ Tollersrud asked. ‘I think the viewers at home have been enthralled by your relationship. So, I don’t mean you’re not worthy winners – after all you’re both here, and you’ve passed the tests brilliantly – but there’s just something about love and beginnings, isn’t there? Something beautiful happening right in front of our eyes. I don’t think I’m the only one who’s been curious about whether something’s been going on between you. Actually,’ he said, winking at them both, ‘it’s been pretty obvious to everyone who’s been following the show.’

  Toralf and Iselin exchanged glances and smiled.

  ‘Isn’t it good to be able to come right out with it at last?’

  ‘Yes,’ they both agreed in chorus.

  Then Tollersrud grew more serious.

  ‘But, my dear contestants, we haven’t yet reached our goal. The final remains. And that…’

  He paused for effect.

  ‘That starts here right now.’

  Toralf and Iselin gave each other a fleeting look.

  ‘In the course of the last ten weeks, we’ve tried to discover which of the contestants is exactly that, a worthy winner. We’ve done this by giving them various challenges, both moral and ethical, and then it’s been up to you at home to decide which of the contestants
have behaved best. It’s also been a barometer of what most people attach importance to. Together, we’ve arrived at a kind of common understanding of what characterises a good person, and these two tremendous, lovely finalists of ours are undeniably excellent examples. I think we, and you, have done a wonderful job. Don’t you agree?’

  Tollersrud received the applause he requested. The audience clapped and cheered.

  ‘So then, of course, we come to the big question: how do we decide between them?’

  Tollersrud stared intently into the camera lens before turning to face Toralf and Iselin.

  ‘That, my dear contestants, is something you’re going to have to find out for yourselves.’

  The contestants exchanged looks again. Neither of them understood any of this. Tollersrud gave a lopsided grin.

  ‘You heard right. Toralf Schanke and Iselin Skaar, you’re going straight back into the House, and in the course of the next twenty-four hours you’ll have to reach an agreement about which of you is the more worthy winner.’

  Neither of the contestants could utter a word.

  ‘And you’re probably wondering how on earth you’re going to manage to do this? Well, that’s one of the things you’re going to have to work out. By talking to each other. Really getting to know each other. By digging down into each other’s past. By discussing your dreams for the future. But unlike earlier in the show’ – Tollersrud gave a sly smile – ‘this isn’t a process you viewers will be allowed to witness … not until tomorrow, when we meet again for our live broadcast. Then we’ll go through everything the finalists have discussed. For those of you who follow us on the net, we’re also going to switch off the mics in the house, to avoid all the excitement being over and done with for those of you who switch on your TVs again tomorrow night at eight o’clock. It will still be possible to watch the contestants via our webcams, but it won’t be possible to hear what they’re talking about. This, dear contestants and audience, is the ultimate test for our contestants. The lovebirds.’

  Everyone in the auditorium and on stage was digesting what was proposed.

  Tollersrud now addressed the contestants. ‘You aren’t allowed to come to any conclusion before the clock has ticked down to zero. Nor are you permitted to agree to share the prize money when you meet again outside, once one of you has been awarded it. It has to be a genuine decision, and it must come from the heart, from you both. And if you don’t succeed in arriving at a decision…’ once again he waited for a moment; ‘…then neither of you will be declared the winner. Have you understood your task?’

  Both Iselin and Toralf seemed lost for words, but in the end they nodded.

  Emma thought it would be fascinating to see how the finalists resolved this dilemma. Not least because they’d also fallen in love in the midst of all this.

  83

  Blix pursued Tore Berg Tollersrud around the studio, waiting for an opportunity to speak to him in private in order to explain the potential threat. But when he managed to, it didn’t seem as if the presenter took it very seriously.

  ‘I expect you to keep a good eye on me,’ he barked as he hurried to have his make-up removed.

  After Blix had instructed Wibe to arrange continual twenty-four-hour surveillance for Tollersrud, he flopped down into a sofa in reception.

  ‘Shall we go home?’ Kovic asked.

  ‘In a minute,’ Blix said.

  His thoughts alternated between the case he was working on and Iselin – who’d now reached the final. He’d only just managed to take in what was to happen in the next twenty-four hours.

  It was one thing to distinguish a murderer from a care worker, for example. Most people would choose the same person if asked to point out which one had the better values or qualities. But how would Iselin and Toralf arrive at some sort of truth about what was worth most – one person’s ethics, or the other’s? Strictly speaking, it was an impossible task, because if one person gave in and relinquished the victory to the other, then that in itself would demonstrate the magnanimity that would make the loser the moral victor.

  His thoughts turned to Teisen. He’d often mulled over whether he’d done the right thing when he’d shot and killed Emma’s father. And had Gard Fosse actually taken the correct course of action, by following protocol and waiting for reinforcements? Which of them was the better person in that situation?

  Even Eckhoff from the production team arrived with a folder tucked under his arm. ‘Do you need me for anything else?’

  Blix looked around. ‘How many people will stay here overnight?’ he asked.

  ‘We’ve a minimum staff level of four,’ Eckhoff explained.

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘Plus a security guard.’

  Blix got to his feet. He nodded to Eckhoff as a sign that they were finished.

  ‘I’ll drive you home,’ Blix said, speaking to Kovic. ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘I’ll just take a taxi,’ she said. ‘Or you’ll never get home yourself.’

  Blix realised he was grateful for the suggestion. ‘OK. See you tomorrow.’

  Kovic walked out into the night. Blix was left standing with Eckhoff. He felt there was something else he ought to do or reassure himself about, but he could not for the life of him think what that might be.

  ‘So what do you make of the final?’ Eckhoff asked. ‘Do you think your daughter will win?’

  Blix shrugged.

  ‘Well, it’ll be all over tomorrow, at any rate,’ Eckhoff said. ‘That’ll actually be something of a relief. It’s been a long journey.’

  Blix hated it when people used that word in such a context, but he nodded all the same. ‘How are things with you?’ he asked. ‘Do you need a lift home?’

  ‘No thanks,’ Eckhoff replied. ‘My car’s in the garage.’

  They parted and Blix headed for his car. Before he got in, he cast a backward glance at the TV headquarters. He’d been wrong, and was pleased about that. Nothing had taken place. The question, however, was where and when it was going to happen instead.

  *

  Emma felt weary. The combination of little sleep and a lot of work in the past week was beginning to tax her energy. Once she’d managed to contact Jonas Sakshaug and persuade him to tell her how disappointed and apologetic he was, she looked forward to going home and getting into bed.

  She said goodbye to a Se og Hør journalist she knew and scooted round to the rear of the TV building where she’d parked her bike. She hoisted the bag containing her laptop and mobile up on to her shoulder and wrapped her scarf more tightly around her neck. The breath from her mouth formed a frosty mist in the air.

  She had parked beside a double gate for vehicles. Several other bikes had been propped up there when Emma had dropped off hers, but now it was the only one left. A lamp above an entrance door close by was the only illumination in the area. She was surrounded by darkness.

  She was taking out her keys when she stopped and wheeled around. A voice had called out to her, but she couldn’t see where the sound had come from. All she could hear was shoes walking on the tarmac.

  Then the person stepped partially out of the gloom.

  ‘Emma.’

  It wasn’t spoken as a question. More like a declaration. The voice was muffled, indistinct, because of the scarf draped around the lower part of the face. The person also wore a hood that covered the head.

  Instinctively she took a few steps back. She glanced around rapidly, looking for some way to escape, but she realised she was alone. There was nowhere to go. The exit gates were shut and the entrance door closed.

  The man took a step closer. Emma’s hand made its way down into her bag, where she’d stashed her alarm. But before she had even managed to pull it out, he pounced on her. There was a blue flash from an object in his hand.

  Her body shook uncontrollably. Her muscles seemed to loosen and she couldn’t make them tight again. She made every effort to struggle, trying to force out a scream. But she couldn’t prod
uce a single sound.

  84

  Emma opened her eyes a little, blinking in an effort to see more clearly. Grey walls, harsh light from the ceiling. The outline of a figure stepped in front of her.

  ‘So there’s still some life in you.’

  A woman’s voice.

  Emma touched her head in panic – an instinctive response – then tried to haul herself up. The ground was hard and cold. Her body protested.

  Swallowing hard, she blinked again as if to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating. That it really was Sonja Nordstrøm sitting opposite.

  She looked more exhausted than the video footage had shown. Her hair was dirty and unkempt, her cheeks hollow.

  ‘Who are you?’ Nordstrøm asked, her voice weak and rasping.

  Emma cleared her throat and gave her name and occupation. Her eyes wandered around the room while she explained that she knew who Nordstrøm was and that they’d once met in an interview situation.

  She recognised the room from the video broadcast. It had no windows, and only a solitary light bulb hung from the ceiling. A rank smell of faeces surrounded them. So there was no toilet in here, just a bucket placed as far away from Nordstrøm as possible.

  They sat sizing each other up for a few seconds. As if they both had questions they wanted answered, but didn’t know where to begin.

  ‘How long have I been here?’ Emma finally asked.

  ‘A few hours,’ Nordstrøm told her, automatically looking down at her arm, even though there was no wristwatch there.

  ‘Do you know where we are?’

  Nordstrøm shook her head. ‘But we’re not in the city, I do know that,’ she said. ‘It’s completely silent. I think we must be on an old farm or something.’

  Emma looked around again, but couldn’t see her bag. ‘What about you?’ she asked. ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘I’ve stopped counting the days.’

  Silence enveloped them again.

  ‘Is there…?’ Nordstrøm looked away for a moment. ‘Is anyone asking for me out there?’ she asked in the end. ‘Are they searching for me?’