by Thomas Enger
The tenderness in her question surprised Emma. In her autobiography, Sonja Nordstrøm had appeared to be a results-oriented machine that had never bothered about other people, or worried whether other people bothered about her. Now Emma registered both loss and longing in her voice.
‘Is that what you’re wondering?’ Emma tried to smile.
‘I don’t mean most people,’ Nordstrøm said. ‘I’m thinking of … my family. Liselotte. My daughter.’
Emma had seen an interview with Nordstrøm’s daughter in one of the major newspapers. She hadn’t got the impression that the relationship between the two was especially warm or close.
Despite this, Emma said: ‘She’s very worried about you. Everyone is.’
It looked as if Nordstrøm took this to heart. Appreciated it.
Emma brooded over what time it was and whether anyone she knew had begun to feel concern about her. Blix, maybe. With a bit of luck he’d already initiated a search. However, this thought didn’t fill Emma with hope. The police had tried to trace Nordstrøm for a week now, and they hadn’t come anywhere near finding her.
‘I was just about to turn in for the night when the doorbell rang.’
Emma looked at Nordstrøm, who was shaking her head.
‘I thought it was Stian.’
‘Josefson?’ Emma asked. ‘The writer?’
‘He’d called in earlier that evening,’ Nordstrøm said. ‘He … I … We…’ Once again she stared out into space before continuing: ‘But before I could close the door, I was stunned by that … shock thing.’
Picturing it in her mind’s eye, Emma regretted her own hesitation when she saw the man approach her outside TV headquarters. If she’d been quicker, she could have set off her safety alarm.
‘Do you know anything about the man who attacked you?’ Emma asked. ‘Have you seen him since?’
‘He comes here with food now and again. And something to drink.’
She pointed at a hatch near the bottom of the door. Reminiscent of a cat flap.
‘Does he ever say anything?’
She shook her head.
‘So you don’t even know if he’s Norwegian?’
‘No.’
‘You’ve never been given any explanation for why you’re here, either?’
Emma was about to add ‘and why he hasn’t killed you yet’, but fortunately managed to bite her tongue. Nordstrøm simply shook her head again.
Emma shifted slightly, aware of how stiff and sore she felt. The floor was concrete, covered in old dust and dirt. And she realised that, despite the circumstances and the dire situation they both found themselves in, she was still working. She pondered whether to tell her about the countdown and all the other victims, but decided there was no reason to cause Nordstrøm more anxiety than necessary.
‘Have you tried to escape?’ she asked instead.
Nordstrøm sniffed. ‘I’ve tried everything. But the walls are made of concrete and that door there…’ She pointed at it. ‘At least ten centimetres thick. I’ve no idea what it’s made of, but the material is hard. Oak, maybe. And I don’t have anything I could use to knock or hammer with either. Anyway, he’s got cameras, so he must be watching all the time.’ She nodded at the ceiling.
Emma glanced up. There were two solid smoked-glass globes on the ceiling. She couldn’t see the actual cameras, but they were behind them, too high to reach. One of the globes was spattered with grime, either food or something else that Nordstrøm must have thrown up at it.
‘But now there are two of us,’ she said. ‘We’ll have to make the most of that.’
Emma could only admire the woman facing her. She hadn’t been here for more than a few minutes – in a conscious state at least – and already she was aware of how the walls closed in on her; the smell of faeces and damp; the cold rising from the floor and oozing in through the walls. It all made her desperate to escape.
Sonja Nordstrøm had lived here for a week now, and there was still no sign she had given up. Of course she’d always had her own way of mustering more strength than her opponents – had built a philosophy around it. It was a matter of embracing the pain. Loving it. Never showing your competitors that you’re feeling awful, but instead giving them the impression that you have an inexhaustible source of energy. It was her psychology just as much as her physique that had made her ‘forever number one’.
This thought gave Emma hope.
Nordstrøm paced to and fro, as if in a hurry to move from one wall to the other. Emma could see that she was brooding about something.
‘We have to catch him off guard somehow,’ Nordstrøm said, as much to herself as to Emma. ‘Take him by surprise. Find something we can use to injure him.’
All at once she stopped and scrutinised Emma’s face.
‘What is it?’
‘You’re wearing earrings. They might be sharp enough.’
Emma touched her ears, but the little studs wouldn’t be much use as weapons.
Nordstrøm continued to pace the room restlessly, scratching her head. Emma took off her shoes and felt the soles. Too thin. They wouldn’t cause much damage or inflict much pain.
Soon Nordstrøm sat down against the wall again, on the other side of Emma, with her hands around her knees.
‘I heard a bang not long ago,’ Nordstrøm said. ‘Before you came down here.’
‘A bang?’
‘A shot.’
‘From a pistol, do you mean?’
‘Yes, or … a rifle or … something. I don’t know much about guns. Sometimes there are other people here,’ she added. ‘I’ve heard voices. Footsteps.’
Nordstrøm lifted her eyes towards the ceiling. Emma wondered what this meant. Whether something might happen soon.
After a long, oppressive silence, Nordstrøm said: ‘I’ve never told my daughter I love her.’ She stared vacantly into the distance. ‘Not one single time.’ Her voice was slow and thoughtful. ‘I have a grandchild too, one I’ve hardly ever met. A boy.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Simon.’
Emma saw that Nordstrøm’s eyes were shining.
‘I don’t even know if he remembers what I look like. Whether they ever even mention me.’
She was about to add something else, but stopped herself.
‘How old is he?’ Emma asked, as gently as she could. It seemed as if Nordstrøm was keen to answer, but she contented herself with holding five fingers up in the air.
Emma had more she was desperate to ask about, but saw that Nordstrøm was blinking fiercely and rubbing her hands quickly over her face. Then she raised her eyes to the ceiling – she seemed to be trying to destroy the cameras with her steely glare.
Emma wanted to say something encouraging, something to give Nordstrøm hope that she’d be able to meet her grandchild again, something about there being endless opportunities in the future to tell her daughter that she loved her. But she dropped the idea, unsure if she even believed it herself.
85
Emma was losing her grip on time. She’d no idea whether thirty minutes or two hours had passed. However, it felt as if the walls were creeping ever closer.
All of a sudden she heard footsteps – they sounded as if they were on a nearby staircase. Keys jangling.
Emma struggled to think quickly. If they were to have any chance of catching the kidnapper unawares, they would have to do it fast and hard. But there was nowhere to hide. No doors or cupboards to stand behind. No objects or tools to use as weapons.
The footsteps drew nearer. Emma got ready: she’d pounce on him as soon as the door was open, she’d kick it in, towards him, and then go after his hands. His groin. Attempt to put him out of action.
The key was inserted in the lock. Turned slowly around. First once, then a second time.
‘No,’ said the voice on the other side of the door. ‘I can see what you’re doing, Emma.’
She swiftly raised her eyes to the ceiling cameras.
; ‘Step back,’ the man said. Had she heard his voice somewhere before?
‘Stand against the wall.’
The noises in the lock had stopped. Emma looked at Nordstrøm, who gave her a do-as-he-says nod. Emma backed off, slowly, until she came to a halt at the wall. Put her hands behind her back, reluctant to let their captor see them. Nordstrøm remained seated on the floor with her legs crossed. Hands folded. Her eyes fixed on the door.
Then the key was turned all the way round. A metallic clang struck the walls. The door slid towards them. And then he stood in the doorway, the man who’d sneaked up on Emma behind the TV building in Nydalen.
Was it Dahlmann? She wasn’t sure.
He had a hood over his head. A shadow seemed to fall across his face. He held a pistol in one hand.
As he stepped into the room he raised his gun. Pointing first at Emma, and then at Nordstrøm.
And then he pulled the trigger.
86
At the morning meeting Blix had to endure a reprimand from Gard Fosse, who felt that the operation at Enter Entertainment’s premises had been unnecessary and used a disproportionate amount of their scarce resources, without producing any results. When Blix argued that it was impossible to know in advance whether or not the killer would try to strike, Fosse insisted the operation had been based on weak evidence rather than robust information.
‘Police work isn’t a guessing game,’ he raged.
Blix and his fellow investigators knew they hadn’t had a choice, though. If anything had happened without them trying to prevent or hinder it, the criticism would have been even sharper.
‘The CEO of the production company has demanded an explanation,’ Fosse continued, tearing a sheet from his notepad. ‘I’ve promised him a meeting at nine o’clock. You can go.’
He placed the paper with the CEO’s contact details on the desk and pushed it towards Blix, who flung out his arms in protest – he already had more than enough to deal with.
‘It’s your mess,’ Fosse said, rising from his chair. ‘The final show is tonight, and you’ll have to try to tell them they’ve nothing to fear.’
Blix let his chin drop to his chest. He wanted to put up a fight, but was fed up wasting time and energy defending his actions.
‘Yesterday’s decision was correct,’ Kovic said once Fosse had left the room. ‘I can come with you.’
Blix was about to object, but then nodded and glanced at the clock. ‘I could do with some help. We’ll also have to go through yesterday’s footage while we’re there.’
They went down into the basement car park. Kovic settled behind the steering wheel and they set off.
Blix didn’t know whether to be pleased or not. Nothing had happened the previous night. The only explanation was that their presence had prevented an attack. Dahlmann hadn’t been there, he was sure of that. But Dahlmann wasn’t the man they were looking for. The real perpetrator could have been in the audience or in the general vicinity, which meant that in addition to the footage from the broadcast they would have to look through all the CCTV coverage.
In Nydalen, Kovic swung around the corner at the subway station. At the end of the road they could see the vast studio building and the production bus.
Blix checked the note he’d received from Fosse.
‘We’re to go in round the back this time,’ he said.
Kovic turned into the back entrance. A few cars were parked in reserved spaces, but there were ‘no parking’ signs in the rest of the area.
‘There,’ Blix said, indicating a gate for larger vehicles. Kovic squeezed the car through it and stopped, trying to ensure they blocked as little of the gate as possible. Blix produced the ‘Police Vehicle in Service’ sign and placed it on the front windscreen.
‘If you could just move that bike a tad for me, then I won’t be in anyone’s way,’ Kovic suggested, nodding at the side window.
Blix hopped out and skirted around the car. He took hold of the saddle and handlebars, but immediately stopped short. The bicycle was black with narrow tyres and goat-horn handlebars. The word WHITE was embossed in grey script on the carbon frame, and the wheel rims had pink speckles here and there.
Emma’s bike was exactly like this. It had been propped up in her hallway when he visited. Maybe she was here to do a write-up on the final?
The cycle was locked so Blix had to lift it aside. At the same time he noticed a bunch of keys on the ground, right beside the back wheel. They were attached to a blue-and-white braid, typical of something a child might make at nursery.
He put the bike down again and picked up the keys. Kovic rolled down the side window.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘It’s Emma Ramm’s bike,’ Blix told her. ‘Her keys are lying here too.’
‘She was here last night,’ Kovic said.
Blix took out his phone. ‘I haven’t heard anything more from her,’ he said, searching for Emma’s name in his call list. ‘She was definitely aware we were involved in an operation here. Strange that she didn’t follow it up.’
He tapped in her number and was immediately diverted to voicemail.
‘Hm,’ he said to himself, looking instead for the news.no number.
Anita Grønvold answered the phone on the third ring.
‘Emma’s not here,’ she said. ‘She doesn’t often come in, in fact. Have you tried the café, Kalle’s Choice?’
‘Not yet,’ Blix said, disconnecting the call before she asked any more questions.
He tried Emma one more time, but without success; the feeling that something had happened to her grew within him.
‘The personal safety alarm,’ he said, as much to himself as to Kovic. ‘We can check the location of the alarm, can’t we?’
He called Krohn and filled him in on the situation. Over the phone he heard fingers clattering over the keyboard.
‘Negative,’ Krohn said.
‘Negative?’ Blix reiterated, looking across at Kovic. ‘What do you mean?’
‘The alarm’s not turned on,’ Krohn clarified.
‘She’s switched it off completely, you mean?’
‘Yes,’ Krohn confirmed. ‘Or someone else has done that for her.’
87
Emma put her head in her hands and felt the panic wash over her. She tried to scream, but could barely gasp.
Sonja Nordstrøm collapsed on her side, a big, round hole in her chest. The blood spread out beneath her body as her wide-open eyes stared vacantly into space.
The man lowered his gun and fixed his eyes on Emma. She held out her shaking hands.
‘Please,’ she begged. ‘Don’t shoot.’ Her voice trembled as she struggled to absorb what had just happened.
She glanced at the man, but her vision seemed clouded by fear. She couldn’t make out his features. Was it Dahlmann? She couldn’t match the old pictures she’d seen with the man in front of her.
The rancid, metallic smell of blood mixed with the stink of excrement. She staggered, took a step to one side and pleaded, again, for him not to kill her too.
But instead of pointing the gun at her, he said: ‘Come with me.’
Emma gulped. The noise of the shot still whistled in her ears. The man gestured with the pistol that she should move.
Slowly she took a step towards him. ‘Please,’ she said.
The man did not answer.
In her mind’s eye she saw Irene, Martine, Grandma. Blix and Kasper also turned up in her thoughts, but Emma blinked and tried to force them away.
‘You first,’ the man said.
Emma concentrated on her breathing. She filled her lungs with air and tried to gather her strength, her courage.
‘Where…?’ she stuttered.
‘Up.’
He motioned again with the gun, impatient now.
‘But…’
The man shook out a wristwatch from inside the sleeve of his hoodie.
‘Come on,’ he said sharply, taking a step aside to let her
pass.
Emma was unsteady on her feet, but she managed to move out of the room and up the steep, squeaky staircase. As she held on to the bannister, she felt she was beginning to regain her composure. She weighed up whether to attempt something – to turn around, kick out, try to hit his head or the pistol she knew was aimed at her back, and then run, as fast as her legs would carry her. But there was too much that could go wrong. The man had his finger on the trigger, and even if she managed to land a blow, it was far from certain that he would lose his grip on the gun.
As she reached the top of the stairs, she saw that she was inside a barn. The daylight dazzled her eyes. The barn door was open. A cold gust blasted at her. The man indicated with the gun that she should go outside. She passed a large, dark-red stain on the concrete floor. It looked like blood or paint, and at once her thoughts turned to what Sonja Nordstrøm had said about a shot being fired.
The man had her walk towards a huge, white-painted house. As she moved across a farmyard, towards the house steps, she looked around. On all sides trees surrounded an expanse of grassy land. It would be useless to shout for help; there were no other houses or people nearby.
‘Go inside,’ he said.
Emma pushed the door open and entered a wide hallway. The heat from a black tiled stove hit her full force, but she could smell something other than wood burning in there; she didn’t know what. Something mouldy or rotten, perhaps.
The hallway led into a more spacious room at the far end. The man grabbed her arm and roughly manoeuvred her in through another door, into an old kitchen.
‘What do you want from me?’ she asked.
‘Sit down,’ he said, pointing at a bench on the wall below the window.
Another fit of trembling overwhelmed her, making her dizzy. She had to hold on to the kitchen table for a moment, before squeezing in behind it. The window was speckled with damp patches between the two layers of glass, and she felt a draught leaking in. Outside, the forest was almost touching the house walls.