by Thomas Enger
“I’m not going to dignify this tabloid bullshit by commenting on it,” she says, jabbing her finger on the file again.
“But you’re going to have to,” Katarina Hatlem argues. “The media won’t stop clamoring until they get something and you won’t be able to go anywhere or do anything without this becoming the story.”
“I’ll talk to the prime minister’s office and get them to drop you from question time on Wednesday,” Ullevik says.
“That’s probably wise,” Hatlem says and nods. “I also think we should issue a press release as soon as possible—”
“No.” Trine interrupts her and clenches her fists so hard her knuckles go white.
“No to what?”
“We’re not going to issue a press release. If I have to refute these allegations, then they’ve already won. I’m being accused of something I haven’t done, and I can’t respond without knowing the source. Nor has the matter been reported to the police.”
“Not yet.”
“What are you saying?” says Trine, glowering at her political adviser.
“I’m just saying that could happen before we know it. There’ll certainly be a public demand for it.”
Trine snorts.
“This is bullshit,” she shouts. “I’ve no idea where it’s coming from. But I can promise you, I’m going to find out.”
Harald Ullevik clears his throat.
“Let’s take this one step at a time,” he says calmly. “This incident is supposed to have taken place at last year’s party conference in Kristiansand. Everyone who has ever attended a party conference knows that things go on there, all sorts of things.”
“Are you saying that—”
“No, no, Trine, I’m not saying anything, but I know what people will think. That’s why I’m asking you, what do you remember from that day?”
Trine exhales hard through her mouth while she thinks back. She has been to so many party conferences that they all blur together.
“Not very much. But I know what I didn’t do.”
Silence falls around the table. Her permanent secretary sips her coffee while she glances furtively at Henriksen across the table. She has doubts, Trine thinks. That woman doesn’t believe me.
“Okay, I have a suggestion,” Katarina Hatlem says. “Even though this story is very much about you, we won’t involve you at this stage. We’ll deal with each press request in turn and repeat the same message: that you refuse to respond to anonymous allegations, you’re not going to waste your time on this, and blah blah blah. If that doesn’t take the sting out of what’s coming toward you, we’ll select one or two journalists we know are sympathetic toward us and give them a little more.”
“There is nothing more,” Trine insists. “I didn’t do it.”
“No, no, but we can say something about your work in recent years specifically to crack down on sexual assaults and domestic violence. We can probably produce some statistics to prove our commitment to these particular issues.”
Trine nods, so far so good.
“If the allegations remain vague, I don’t think it’ll do us any harm to take the moral high ground,” Hatlem continues.
“VG refers to a ‘young, male politician,’ ” Truls Ove Henriksen says. “Could the alleged victim have been someone from the party’s youth branch?”
Trine shrugs her shoulders.
“I assume most people would think so, yes. But I’ve no idea how VG got its story. I’ve been married to Pål Fredrik for four years and I’ve never been unfaithful to him. I haven’t even been tempted.”
Henriksen makes no reply. His shiny head is now sprinkled with beads of sweat.
“But at some point you may have to provide an explanation,” Ullevik says.
“We won’t say anything about that now,” Hatlem maintains. “We don’t want to create expectations that Trine will make a statement.”
“No, no, of course not,” Ullevik says. “I’m just saying that you need to review your movements that day very carefully. Who did you sit next to during dinner? Who did you speak to? When did you go to bed? Can anyone give you an alibi—things like that. The more details you can provide about what you actually did on the ninth of October last year, the better. And if you do say something, you must be absolutely sure that it’s true. If you make even one little mistake, the press will question everything else you’ve said and done.”
Trine makes no reply, she just closes her eyes and disappears into a world of her own. Then she opens her eyes. “What did you just say?”
“Hm?”
“Did you say October ninth?”
“Yes?”
And she suddenly feels hot. Terribly hot. That’s not possible, she thinks. It’s just not possible that anyone would ever find out about that.
“What is it?” Katarina Hatlem says. “You’ve gone white.”
Trine continues to stare into space while her jaw drops. This is a trap, she thinks to herself.
I’ve been set up.
Chapter 11
Henning takes a quick shower, eats some baked beans straight out of a tin, and makes his way to Grønland, where the 123news offices are based. It’s a gray morning; yet another day when the city tries its hardest to seem even less attractive than it does in the winter.
While he walks he thinks about his sister and the media witch hunt she will be subjected to in the coming days. Working on any other news item is almost pointless. The front pages of every newspaper will be plastered with stories about Trine for the foreseeable future.
Even so.
The police are giving a press conference at 10 a.m., an event Henning under normal circumstances would have ignored, except that Assistant Commissioner Pia Nøkleby is likely to be leading it. Henning has a bone to pick with her.
The sight that greets him as he steps on to the gray carpets in the 123news offices reminds him of an anthill. People are scurrying back and forth, they are practically running. Henning can see it in their eyes, expressions verging on panic. Stressed fingers flying across the keyboards. It’s the same, it’s the usual. And he knows why, of course.
National news editor Heidi Kjus spots him in the commotion and walks up to him, addressing him in a bossy, metallic voice that always makes him think of dog training. Heidi is wearing a short, dark blue skirt with a matching jacket. If she hadn’t been a journalist, if she hadn’t been middle management, she would have looked at home in a solicitor’s office.
Henning had hoped that she would comment on the story he filed last night, but she simply stops and looks around. The pumping vein on her neck is working hard. Her cheekbones are—if possible—even more pronounced than usual.
“I’ve been wondering about something,” she begins.
Henning waits for her to continue.
“As you probably know, the—”
Heidi looks across the room as if the atmosphere will justify what she is about to suggest. Henning has a pretty good idea of what is coming next.
“No one can get hold of your sister,” Heidi then says.
She fixes him with a look again. In the past the expression in her eyes has been icy, but not today. Now they are dark brown, verging on black. They match her personality.
“Have you spoken to her today?” she asks him.
He snorts and bursts out laughing.
“Heidi, I haven’t spoken to Trine for years.”
“No, but—”
“And even if I had been in contact with her, I couldn’t ring her now, you know that. I can’t work on a story that involves Trine.”
“No, but I thought that maybe you could—”
Again her gaze disappears out into the room.
“You thought that I might try to get a comment from her all the same,” he says and checks her face for a reaction. And it comes. Her gaze
is sharp, a little offended at first, then it changes to aggressive.
He shakes his head.
“Even if I did have Trine’s number, which I don’t, then I highly doubt that she would pick up if I called. Trine and I haven’t seen each other for a long time. She didn’t even attend Jonas’s funeral. Nor was I invited to her wedding.”
Henning sits down and switches on his computer.
“Yes, but at least you could have tried,” Heidi says, showing no signs of leaving. “That’s the problem with you, Henning. You won’t even try. You can never do as you’re told, you always have to argue. Is it too much to ask that you show a bit of team spirit just once in a while?”
Henning looks up at her again.
“Team spirit?”
He spits out the words as if they had a bad taste.
“If your sister has screwed up, then it’s our duty to report it, Henning, you know that.”
“Yes, I know. But there’s a difference between—”
Henning stops, checks himself.
“It’s a waste of time, Heidi. I don’t like wasting my time.”
“No, I know,” she snarls. “Just imagine if you actually had to work with other people.”
“I work with Iver.”
“Yes, but Iver isn’t here. And he’s not coming back for a while.”
Henning makes no reply, he can’t think of anything to say. Neither can Heidi. So she storms off in a huff.
Chapter 12
I need a moment to myself,” Trine says in a low voice.
She is aware of the looks being exchanged in the meeting room, but right now she is focusing mainly on not throwing up.
“Please,” she says. “I need a few minutes alone.”
Chairs are quietly pushed back. It takes half a minute, then only Katarina Hatlem remains. She stops with her hand on the door handle.
“Is everything okay?” she asks.
Trine turns around, but doesn’t look at her friend; she just nods quickly while her eyes well up. Everything is not okay. When the room is silent, she sits down again. Buries her face in her hands. Sniffs and shakes her head.
October 9.
With hindsight it’s not difficult to list the reasons why she could and should have acted differently. But she remains convinced that she did the right thing. And she would do it again, should the same situation arise. She would just have been more careful about covering her tracks. Because that must be what happened. Someone must have seen her and talked. It’s the only logical explanation.
Why on earth did she ever say yes to this job?
When the prime minister called, her first thought was about the opportunities opening up to her. A chance to achieve more, more power, bigger budgets. But also more publicity, more disapproving voices, more criticism. There will always be someone who wants more, who thinks your priorities are wrong, that your strategy is a mistake, that you’re not up to the job. Even so, she said yes; she didn’t consider the offer for more than a few seconds before she jumped at the chance. Prime Minister William Jespersen wanted her to work for him. William Jespersen.
She knew it was a thankless task, but that was part of its appeal. Norway hadn’t had all that many strong justice secretaries in the postwar period. The chance to put her name on the map, writing herself into history as an effective justice secretary, was too tempting. She wanted to be a respected minister whose visions were implemented. She imagined that life as justice secretary would be about prevention, response, investigation, and rehabilitation.
And now—it’s all gone.
Her dreams, her ambitions, her visions. All gone. This is what they’ll remember her for. Not for any of her achievements.
The prime minister had warned her what to expect. He said that everyone’s eyes would be on her because she wasn’t an obvious choice. She hadn’t even been in the reserve, he said, and hey presto, suddenly she is playing in the first eleven. Trine didn’t understand what he meant, nor did she ask; after all, it was the prime minister who was talking to her. Later she realized it was a soccer metaphor.
Jespersen also warned her that there was bound to be gossip “because you’re a beautiful woman,” and he wanted to know if she had the guts to handle it. She had responded by giggling like a little girl.
What she wouldn’t give to be a little girl again. She feels so vulnerable, so unprotected against the media scrutiny that has already begun and so scared of what else might surface in the next few days. The consequences it can have. For everyone.
But will they really manage to dig that deep?
Trine wakes up the screen in front of her. Her mailbox comes up. Countless emails appear, the unread ones marked in bold. Her gaze stops at an email that was sent less than ten minutes ago. She doesn’t recognize the sender; it’s the text in the subject field that attracts her attention.
October 9
She clicks on it against her better judgment. And the message makes her clasp her hand over her mouth.
I know what happened on October 9 last year. Or should I say—the next day?
Consider this a warning. Resign or the truth will come out.
Chapter 13
The radio is on, but Bjarne Brogeland isn’t listening. His eyes scan the city that glides past him. There is a muffled sound of tires against wet tarmac.
They finished the morning briefing only fifteen minutes ago. Today’s tasks were explained and allocated under Arild Gjerstad’s skillful management. Now a large number of officers, led by Emil Hagen, are on their way to Grünerhjemmet to continue interviewing everyone who was there yesterday. At the police station, Fredrik Stang is doing background checks on all the staff members at the care home, focusing on those who worked on Erna Pedersen’s ward. Crime scene officers are supporting the investigation by taking fingerprints and looking for matches on record.
Bjarne was tasked with visiting Ulrik Elvevold Sund, the boy who discovered Erna Pedersen’s body; a job he was happy to accept since Ella Sandland, the station’s femme fatale, was coming with him. Bjarne has been smitten with her for a long time, but none of his flirtatious remarks or come-ons has ever provoked as much as a shrug. That, however, Bjarne thinks, only makes working with her all the more charged.
He gazes at her, at her discreet makeup, the elasticity of her cheeks, her chin, her lips, slightly dry right now, but normally moist and soft. Her eyelashes arch up over her eyelids. Sandland is like the sun. It’s always warm wherever she is.
“So,” he says, exhaling hard. “What do you make of all this?”
Sandland, who sits straight upright and looks out of the window with an alert expression, turns to him.
“I don’t know what to think. Who would do something like that? I mean—even thinking of pushing knitting needles through the eyes of an old lady in the first place? How sick is that?”
As always, her west Norwegian accent tugs at his heartstrings. She shakes her head; her short, blond hair doesn’t even move.
“Someone must have really hated her,” she concludes.
“Do you think it’s symbolic that he used the Bible to whack the knitting needles through her eyes?”
“I don’t know,” Sandland replies. “Was she a Christian?”
“Or perhaps it was about her eyes,” Bjarne speculates. “Perhaps she’d seen something. It’s a very symbolic action, targeting her eyes.”
Sandland makes no reply, she just nods to herself.
Bjarne switches on the GPS and takes a right, finds where he is going, and parks facing the direction of traffic in Jens Bjelkesgate, right outside the entrance to an apartment block with the number 43. The wall is yellow with white-painted windowsills. The door to entrance B is blue.
Bjarne has phoned ahead to say that they are on their way, that Martine Elvevold should prepare both herself and her son for a chat. When Sandl
and rings the bell, they are admitted immediately, and are met on the ground floor by a woman with a gaunt face who greets them with “Hi.” Her face is pale and drawn as if she hasn’t slept well. Her brown hair lies messily on her shoulders.
“Come in,” she says when they have shaken hands. They enter a living room filled with film sounds. Bjarne recognizes it immediately as one of the Shrek movies. Ulrik, a boy with blond, longish hair—just like his father—sits slumped on the floor in front of the TV.
“Can I get you some coffee or something?” Martine offers.
“No, thank you,” the officers reply in unison.
“How is he?” Bjarne says.
Martine Elvevold hesitates for a few seconds before she answers.
“It’s difficult to say,” she begins. “I’ve kept him at home from school today, but he seems a little—how can I put it—detached. There are moments when he’s his old self, but every now and then he’ll stare vacantly into space. Ulrik has always been a rather fidgety boy. Always a little on the anxious side.”
Bjarne nods.
“Has he said anything about—about what happened?”
Elvevold shakes her head.
“I haven’t pressed him, either. I decided it might be good to give him time.”
“Unfortunately, time isn’t a luxury that we can allow ourselves,” Bjarne says. “Do you mind if I have a word with him?”
“No,” Elvevold says, but her eyes immediately assume a worried expression. “Only—go easy on him.”
Bjarne smiles empathetically. “Of course.”
He signals to Sandland that he will take this chat on his own.
“I think I would like that cup of coffee after all,” she says.
Martine Elvevold smiles and leads the way to the kitchen. Bjarne waits until he and Ulrik are alone. He sits down on the floor, not too close to him, but a little to the side.