Death Deserved

by Thomas Enger

  At last it was over.

  100

  Blix was ushered through the hospital corridors, and ended up in a waiting area for patients and relatives. He recognised Irene Ramm. She introduced him to her daughter, Martine, who smiled shyly, but took Blix’s hand when he held it out to her.

  A short distance away, a man with curly hair and glasses stood up. ‘Kasper Bjerringbo,’ he said. ‘I … I’m a friend of Emma’s.’

  Blix shook his hand too, before turning to a woman he recognised from the news. Anita Grønvold, Emma’s boss at news.no. She also got to her feet and shook his hand.

  ‘Have you been in to see her?’ he asked, glancing towards the nearest ward.

  ‘Not yet,’ Irene answered. ‘She’s sleeping. The doctor wanted us to wait until she woke.’

  They passed the time by watching the news bulletins on a big TV screen. Recent mobile videos of the explosion appeared, together with interviews with people who’d been in the audience – former contestants, and employees who’d worked on the last broadcast. Petter Due-Eriksen had to give a comment, and Gard Fosse issued a statement in which he emphasised the fact that the police had prevented a far more serious incident, thanks to their speedy and competent action.

  The perpetrator was now identified as Even Eckhoff, and snippets about his life were now being broadcast. A camera team was outside his mother’s house, but details of how Emma had shattered the windowpane to call for help had not yet hit the headlines.

  Just before midnight, a doctor allowed them to go in. Emma blinked sleepily, but watched them as they entered. A machine made a peeping sound. A monitor showed her pulse rate as fifty-eight. One by one they gathered around her bed.

  It was Martine who spoke first: ‘You don’t have any hair anymore.’

  Emma looked at her. Smiled lamely, before turning her gaze to Irene. Then Kasper.

  ‘I haven’t had any hair for years, sweetheart,’ she said to her niece. ‘But I’ve got a lovely bandage, don’t you think?’

  Emma lifted her hand and touched her head. Martine crawled up on to the bed.

  ‘The doctor told me what happened,’ Emma said, her eyes now on Blix. ‘That you shot him.’

  Taking a step forwards, Blix nodded.

  ‘He made me interview him,’ Emma said, turning to Anita now. ‘I didn’t manage to finish editing it.’ A twitch contorted her face.

  ‘You mustn’t think about work now,’ Irene told her. ‘You just have to relax and get better.’

  Emma gave her sister a fleeting smile.

  ‘But not for too long,’ Grønvold interjected, before winking at Emma and starting to cough.

  Martine put a hand on Emma’s head.

  ‘Careful,’ Irene said behind her.

  ‘I can’t feel anything, anyway,’ Emma said. ‘It’s fine.’

  Martine carefully caressed the shiny part of her skull that wasn’t covered by bandage.

  ‘It’s smooth,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Emma replied.

  ‘It looks a bit strange,’ Martine added.

  Emma shot a look at her sister again, before saying: ‘You get used to it. I think it looks pretty cool, in fact.’

  Kasper began to say something, but had to clear his throat first.

  ‘You do,’ he said. ‘You look…’ it seemed as if he didn’t know how to continue the sentence ‘…even better than before,’ he rounded off.

  Emma smiled. Her lips were dry.

  ‘But will your hair never grow again?’ Martine asked her.

  Emma slowly shook her head. ‘No it won’t, honey bunch. But it doesn’t matter. To be honest, it’s absolutely fine.’

  EPILOGUE

  In the weeks that followed, it was difficult for Blix to do his job. Everyone he phoned and met wanted to talk about what had happened. Every day he was contacted by journalists, ostensibly asking about another case he was working on, but actually wanting an interview about the countdown murders. These varied from profiles of him as an investigator and a person, and what his life had been like since the Teisen tragedy, to probing questions about the actual homicides, what his experience of them had been and the pursuit of the killer, day by day. Members of the force’s senior management wanted Blix to agree to these interviews, keen for the force to appear in the best possible light. ‘We have a unique opportunity here now,’ Gard Fosse had said. ‘You have a unique opportunity.’

  They had called from TV stations in Norway, Sweden and Denmark, wanting him to take part in the typical Friday evening chat shows. They were happy to conduct these interviews anywhere at all, and at any time that suited, if only they could get him in front of a microphone and camera.

  Blix had turned them all down. He’d had more than enough attention to last him a lifetime.

  Around Christmas, things began to calm down. Blix had signed up to work over the Christmas and New Year holidays and took on extra shifts so that others in the section could spend time with family and friends.

  ‘To tell the truth I’m perfectly happy to be working,’ Kovic said when Blix asked how she felt about working on New Year’s Eve. It usually fell to newcomers to take on the less popular shifts.

  ‘And I knew well in advance,’ she went on. ‘Anyway there’s always so much hassle at New Year’s Eve. So much unnecessary drama. All my newly single girlfriends start to whinge about the start of the New Year, then try to steal someone else’s guy when they’ve had a couple of glasses too many. I prefer to spend my evening with crooks!’

  ‘You’ve worked too long with me,’ Blix said. ‘Look out, or you’ll become an old sourpuss too.’

  Kovic smiled.

  New Year’s Eve was an occasion like no other on the streets of Oslo. Even though there were regulations about where setting off fireworks was permitted, there were always a few people who fired off rockets where they shouldn’t, and there were always more fights than usual. In the hours leading up to midnight, Blix and Kovic had to don their uniforms, to help ensure a visible police presence in the city.

  The streets were covered in slush, as the recent snowfall had been replaced by rain. They manoeuvred their way around the biggest puddles and stopped from time to time to watch the occasional rocket soar into the misty sky.

  When they reached the cathedral, Blix’s phone rang. It was ten minutes to midnight.

  His face brightened. ‘Hello, my best girl,’ he said – he had never stopped calling Iselin that.

  ‘Hi, Dad,’ she shouted – Blix could hear a din in the background. The sound of music, partying, people yelling and laughing. ‘I just wanted to wish you a Happy New Year now, before it gets impossible to phone anyone later. The phone network will break down completely, as usual, once the clocks strike twelve.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ Blix said – he had to swallow a couple of times. Iselin had called him increasingly often recently, just to find out how he was, or to have a little chat.

  ‘Where are you?’ he asked, even though he knew her plans for the evening.

  ‘With some friends in Grünerløkka.’

  He could tell by her voice that she’d been drinking, but her diction was still clear.

  ‘Is it all going with a swing?’ he asked.

  They’d talked a great deal about what had happened in the Worthy Winner house. Iselin had spent hours with a psychologist, sometimes together with Blix. Processing it all had been difficult because she’d become such a public face; everyone she met wanted to talk to her about what had occurred. Her being at a party was a good sign.

  ‘It’s going pretty well,’ she finally answered, but Blix could hear some reservation in her voice. Rockets exploded above him. Blix had to put a finger in his ear.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ she replied at first.

  Then: ‘It’s just … it’s not long now until people start counting down to midnight. I…’

  Blix could hear someone shout in the background.

  ‘I’m just
dreading it a little.’

  ‘I can understand that.’

  They turned into Karl Johans gate. At the end, in the distance, the yellow glow of the palace façade. ‘Do you want me to stay on the line while you all count down?’ he asked.

  ‘No, not at all,’ she said. ‘It’ll be fine.’ Then she added: ‘I think.’

  Blix’s heart was warmed by her words. He wondered whether they should make tracks for Birkelunden, where he expected Iselin’s friends would come out to see the colours in the sky, but there wasn’t time; he wouldn’t make it.

  ‘He’s gone,’ he said instead. ‘Eckhoff’s no longer around. He can’t hurt you any longer.’

  ‘I know that,’ she replied. ‘But what if there are other madmen about?’

  Blix understood her anxiety. ‘If you’re scared, stay inside,’ he said. ‘OK? Don’t venture out.’

  Iselin didn’t answer immediately.

  ‘But that’s a bit dreary, too. And then I’d be letting that idiot control me. I don’t want that to happen.’

  Blix gave a smile.

  They were approaching the outdoor ice rink at Spikersuppa. Crackles and bangs were exploding everywhere.

  ‘It’s getting a bit difficult to hear you now,’ Blix said. ‘I need to pay attention to what’s going on round about me too.’

  ‘OK. Happy New Year, Dad.’

  ‘Happy New Year, my best girl.’

  And they rang off.

  Blix looked across at Kovic. She was smiling, but she said nothing.

  They walked down to the City Hall at Rådhusplassen, where a teeming crowd of people had assembled. Many of them had their eyes glued to a raft out in the harbour basin, from which Oslo City Council set off rockets every year. The show began at midnight on the dot. Blix looked at his watch. It was one minute to.

  Around them were throngs of happy people, who were singing, hugging one another, smoking and drinking. Usually the police came down hard on drinking in the streets, but it was a hopeless battle on a night like this.

  Kovic and Blix stopped to observe the chaos around them.

  ‘New year, new opportunities,’ Kovic commented.

  ‘New cases as well,’ Blix replied.

  Nearby, someone turned on a megaphone and announced that there were thirty seconds to midnight. Everyone was encouraged to join in the countdown.

  Kovic and Blix looked at each other, both with their own private thoughts.

  The people joined in: ‘TEN, NINE, EIGHT, SEVEN, SIX, FIVE, FOUR, THREE, TWO, ONE…’

  Then came the explosion.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thomas: So Jørn, apparently we have to write some acknowledgements for our book.

  Jørn: Ack—?

  Thomas: Acknowledgements.

  Jørn: What is that?

  Thomas: It’s that thing at the end where we say our thanks.

  Jørn: Ah. Thanks for what, exactly?

  Thomas: Help, I suppose. Support. Guidance. Wisdom.

  Jørn: I see. I don’t really do that kind of thing. I’ve never done it with my books.

  Thomas: Me neither. Well. Not until I signed with Orenda Books, that is.

  (beat)

  (sighs)

  (beat)

  Jørn: I really don’t know what to say.

  Thomas: You don’t have anyone you want to thank?

  Jørn: I can thank YOU, perhaps.

  Thomas: Well, thanks, partner, that goes both ways, but I really don’t think that’s what they’re after.

  Jørn: Oh. Right.

  (beat)

  (sighs)

  (beat)

  Jørn: I can thank my dog.

  Thomas: Your dog?

  Jørn: Yes, I take my dog Theodor for a walk every morning. He helps me think. Come up with ideas.

  Thomas: I’m sure Theodor will appreciate your mentioning him.

  Jørn: Don’t you have a son named Theodor?

  Thomas: I do. I’ll be sure to mention him.

  Jørn: Did he help you out during the writing of this book?

  Thomas: Not really.

  Jørn: So why thank him, then?

  Thomas: Good question. I don’t know.

  (beat)

  (sighs)

  (beat)

  Thomas: I’m going to thank my family in general.

  Jørn: Why?

  Thomas: Why not?

  Jørn: I suppose they’re instrumental in allowing us to do what we do.

  Thomas: That’s what I thought as well. Plus, they’re nice people.

  Jørn: Mine, too.

  Thomas: Glad to hear it.

  (beat)

  (sighs)

  (beat)

  Jørn: You have a son called Theodor … that’s funny.

  Thomas: I really don’t think so.

  Jørn: How old are your kids now?

  Thomas: I have no idea.

  (beat)

  (sighs)

  (beat)

  Thomas: Shall we thank our publisher, maybe?

  Jørn: I’M our publisher.

  Thomas: I know that, Jørn. In Norway you are. Thanks, by the way.

  Jørn: You’re welcome.

  Thomas: This is for the UK and the world market.

  Jørn: Ah yes. Sorry.

  Thomas: We must say thanks to Karen and West.

  Jørn: West?

  Thomas: WEST CAMEL, our editor.

  Jørn: Oh. Right. Is that his real name?

  Thomas: I don’t think so, but he has edited our book, and he has given us a really hard time about it, too.

  Jørn: I remember. You want to thank him for that?

  Thomas: No, but he did a heck of a lot to make the book what it turned out to be. You and I couldn’t have done that, us being Norwegian and all.

  Jørn: I suppose you’re right.

  Thomas: Neither could our translator, Anne Bruce.

  Jørn: Because she’s Norwegian, too?

  Thomas: No, Jørn, she lives on a Scottish island.

  Jørn: Oh, wow.

  Thomas: I know.

  (beat)

  Jørn: So why couldn’t she…

  Thomas: She’s a translator, Jørn, not an editor.

  Jørn: Right.

  Thomas: And West did some polishing of her words.

  Jørn: Our words.

  Thomas: Yes, but she translated them.

  Jørn: Right. Thanks to Anne, then.

  Thomas: Yes. Thanks to Anne.

  (beat)

  (sighs)

  (beat)

  Thomas: We mustn’t forget Karen.

  Jørn: Right. Karen.

  (beat)

  Thomas: You know who Karen is, don’t you?

  Jørn: Duh. Karen is Karen. Karen Sullivan. Queen Orenda.

  Thomas: Yes. The mother of dragons.

  Jørn: Hm?

  Thomas: Don’t tell me you haven’t watched Game of Thrones?

  Jørn: I watch crime shows, Thomas. Bosch and Criminal Minds and, ahem, my own TV show.

  Thomas: Never mind, then.

  Jørn: It’s called Wisting.

  Thomas: I know, Jørn. You should thank him.

  Jørn: Funny. But Karen. Yes. Of course. We owe Karen a lot.

  Thomas: We do. Without Karen there would be no book.

  Jørn: Karen really is quite something.

  Thomas: She really is. She’s a power house. And a brilliant publisher.

  Jørn: You’ve known her for quite a while, haven’t you?

  Thomas: I have. I’m co-leader.

  Jørn: You’re…?

  Thomas: I’m … never mind. It’s a long story.

  Jørn: I don’t mind long stories.

  Thomas: I know you don’t, but this isn’t a story, Jørn, we’re acknowledging people. And dogs, apparently.

  Jørn: I love my dog.

  Thomas: I know you do.

  Jørn: And I love writing books.

  Thomas: You should thank yourself, then.

  Jørn: We can do that? />
  Thomas: Not really.

  Jørn: So why…? Never mind.

  (beat)

  (sighs)

  (beat)

  Thomas: So that’s it?

  (beat)

  (sighs)

  (beat)

  Jørn: I think so.

  Thomas: I can’t believe you wanted to thank your dog.

  Jørn: I can’t believe your son is called Theodor.

  Thomas: No one calls their dog Theodor.

  Jørn: Well, I do.

  Thomas: I know. Now the whole world will know, too.

  Jørn: I love my dog.

  Thomas: I know you do.

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  Jørn Lier Horst and Thomas Enger are both internationally bestselling Norwegian authors. Jørn Lier Horst first rose to literary fame with his No. 1 bestselling William Wisting series. A former investigator in the Norwegian police, Horst imbues all his works with an unparalleled realism and suspense.

  Thomas Enger is the journalist-turned-author behind the internationally acclaimed Henning Juul series. Enger’s trademark is his dark, gritty voice paired with key social messages and tight plotting. Besides writing fiction for both adults and young adults, Enger also works as a music composer.

  Death Deserved is Jørn Lier Horst and Thomas Enger’s first co-written thriller.

  Follow them on Twitter @LierHorst and @EngerThomas and their websites: jlhorst.com and thomasenger.com

  ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR

  Anne Bruce, who lives in Scotland, has a joint honours degree in Norwegian and English from Glasgow University. She has translated a number of books by Jørn Lier Horst, most recently The Cabin: both The Caveman and The Katharina Code won the prestigious Petrona Prize in the UK. She has also translated several novels by Anne Holt, the latest of which is A Grave for Two.

  Follow her on Twitter @annembruce.

  COPYRIGHT

  Orenda Books

  16 Carson Road

  West Dulwich

  London SE21 8HU

  www.orendabooks.co.uk

  First published in the United Kingdom by Orenda Books, 2020

  First published in Norwegian as Nullpunkt by Capitana Forlag, 2018

  Copyright © Jørn Lier Horst & Thomas Enger, 2018