Scarred: A Novel

by Thomas Enger

  Henning has driven past it many times, but he has never driven through it. Once he does, it’s exactly as he imagined it would be. Crisscrossing streets, detached houses in a grid, tarmac roads, and pavements. Not so many new buildings; most of the houses seem to have been built in the seventies and eighties.

  After entering the address he got from Atle Abelsen, Henning follows the instructions provided by the GPS. Atle was also able to give him a plot number as well as a detailed description of the house Erna Pedersen used to live in—a terraced bungalow with two bedrooms.

  As Henning pulls up he can see that the house is well maintained. It is timber-framed, clad with wooden panels, and painted mustard yellow. A flat roof. A tarmac drive. There is a garden with a well-kept lawn, hedges, flower beds, an apple tree, and a terrace.

  The property has clearly been renovated.

  Henning parks outside and rings the bell. No one is in. It’s to be expected; he imagines the owners are probably at work. Henning takes out a business card, writes on the back that he would like to speak to them, and pushes the card under the front door before it strikes him that the new owners might not have known Erna Pedersen.

  So he decides to call Tom Sverre Pedersen.

  “You again?” says the doctor.

  “Yes, me again,” Henning replies. “Listen, I’m in Jessheim now and I’ve just had a thought. I know that you said that your mother was unpopular, but do you know how she got on with her neighbors?”

  Pedersen doesn’t reply immediately.

  “I know that some neighbors will chat over the fence for hours, especially in the summer. I was wondering if your mother liked or knew some of her neighbors better than others.”

  “Then it would have to be Borgny,” Pedersen says. “But I don’t know if she still lives there.”

  “What’s her full name?”

  “Borgny Ramstad. I know they belonged to the same knitting club a lifetime ago. Give her my best if you manage to track her down.”

  “Okay. Thanks for the tip.”

  Henning ends the call and walks up to a row of letterboxes nearby. He reads the name Ramstad on one of the boxes with a clumsy number 25 written below. Henning looks around, finds a house wall with the same number, and rings the bell. Again, no one answers, so he slips yet another business card under the door.

  Henning is on his way back to the car when a text message from the paper’s breaking news service arrives. Henning clicks on the link.

  “According to VG, there has been no word from Justice Secretary Trine Juul-Osmundsen since yesterday afternoon. The prime minister is concerned.”

  He reads on and learns that Trine didn’t come home last night. Nor did she turn up at her office at the usual time this morning. No one in the department has been able to contact her. All media requests are being passed through Katarina Hatlem, Trine’s director of communications, but she is playing everything down. She repeats yesterday’s statement that Trine doesn’t wish to comment on anonymous allegations and that she has gone into hiding due to the enormous media pressure. “Surely most people can understand this if they just take a moment to think about it.” But Hatlem refuses to say if she knows where Trine is.

  Nor have any witnesses seen his sister. No one has spotted her at a gas station, in a shop, or in the lobby of a hotel. Though the Security Service says that they are aware of Trine’s movements, many people don’t believe them. The questions don’t change. Where is she? What is she doing?

  Henning might not have been so worried if he hadn’t learned yesterday that Trine had been on sick leave suffering from depression. A story that triggers this level of media witch hunt can affect even the most resilient. There isn’t a bodyguard in the whole world who can prevent Trine from doing something drastic if she makes up her mind.

  And that changes everything.

  Henning thinks about his brother-in-law, Pål Fredrik Osmundsen. He might know something. According to the article, no one, including VG, has been able to get hold of him in the last twenty-four hours.

  Henning gets into the car; he has forgotten all about Erna Pedersen. Before he drives back to Oslo, he finds Osmundsen’s mobile number on the website of Predo Asset Management and sends him a text message:

  Hi. I know everyone wants to talk to you right now, but I’m probably the only journalist who wants to help Trine. Can we talk? Preferably face-to-face. Henning Juul (Trine’s brother)

  Henning drives to Oslo as fast as he dares. When his mobile buzzes, he snatches it up. It’s a text message from Pål Fredrik Osmundsen:

  Can you meet me in Stargate in half an hour?

  Chapter 43

  Johanne Klingenberg tends to do a weekly food shop. She was due to go shopping yesterday, but when she realized that the leftovers from the ready-made lasagne she had on Sunday could be reheated in the microwave, there was nothing she really needed to get. Now she is wishing she had done her big shop as planned because then her arms wouldn’t have been hurting as much as they are right now. The bags weigh a ton.

  You shouldn’t have given Emilie those dumbbells for Christmas, she mutters under her breath. You should have kept them for yourself.

  But when she finally approaches the building where she lives, the fear creeps up on her. The fear that someone might have broken in again, that someone might be lying in wait for her in the stairwell or in her flat. She has grown more anxious recently. Before she goes to bed at night, she checks every cupboard and every room. She even looks under the bed before she climbs under the duvet and listens out for strange noises that never come. Eventually, far too late, she slips into a restless sleep.

  Perhaps she should have mentioned the break-in to Emilie, but she didn’t want to worry her, didn’t want their lunch to be all about that. They hadn’t seen each other for such a long time and they had so much other news to share, even though she had secretly been a little cross with Emilie. Emilie has always had her pick of men. And now when she has finally settled down with a good-looking guy, she can still find fault with him.

  Look at me, Johanne felt like saying. I haven’t had a steady boyfriend for years. I would be on cloud nine if I had someone to love. If only someone would be prepared to look past the exterior and give me a chance.

  She knows she is overweight and that she talks too loudly, especially when she is drunk. But she has lots of love to give. Lots! Emilie has always been blessed with men ready to give her anything she wants.

  There is no justice in the world.

  Johanne feels the sweat press on her brow. And, of course, the shopping bags manage to get caught on bicycles and wheelchairs as she makes her way up the narrow stairwell.

  It takes time, but eventually she reaches the second floor. Panting heavily, she lets herself in, dragging the heavy bags behind her. A fire has started under her jacket that spreads to the rest of her body. She feels the need for a shower, but right now she only has the energy to collapse in a chair in the kitchen.

  She sits down while her heart tries to resume its normal rhythm. She looks around for Baltazar, the little rascal, but he is not in his basket. Nor does she get a meow in response when she calls out his name.

  It takes a few minutes before Johanne is able to get up and go into the living room. She calls out his name again, but there is no reply this time, either. Is he hiding under the sofa again? Johanne gets down on all fours, sees a lot of stuff that ought not to be under the sofa, but no cat. She gets back on her feet and heaves a deep sigh.

  Then she senses movement right behind her.

  Johanne spins around and her eyes widen.

  “What are you doing here?”

  If she hadn’t recognized him right away, she would have screamed. But there is something about his eyes. They are empty and cold. And they don’t shift from her until he says, “Cute kid.”

  He nods toward the wall. Then he takes
a step closer. Johanne moves back, but her retreat is blocked by the coffee table.

  Then she realizes it. He is the man who broke into her flat two weeks ago, who has been following her and waiting for her outside the lecture hall.

  She looks at him, at his eyes. And she realizes she has never been more scared in her life.

  * * *

  He takes a step closer. Somewhere deep inside his ears he can hear the steady beating of his heart, strong and fast. He tries to see clearly, but everything blurs. It’s as if he is watching her through a veil; he swallows and blinks, he tries to breathe as calmly as he can, but the room doesn’t change. The details don’t come into view.

  Wait, he says to himself. Be patient.

  He clenches his fists, but he can’t feel a thing. There is no pain. The pills are working. And that’s wonderful.

  He blinks a second time. Suddenly he can focus.

  “You owe me an apology,” he says.

  Her eyebrows shoot up.

  “Me? What for?”

  Then his sight grows fuzzy again; he doesn’t feel his hand punch the picture on the wall, all he can hear is the shattering of glass. Johanne raises her hands up to her face to protect herself. When she takes them away, he lashes out again; he is not sure what he hits, but he hopes it’s her head this time. Whatever it is, it makes her fall backward across the glass coffee table; she lands on the sofa and bangs the back of her head against the wooden armrest. Then she goes quiet.

  Not yet, he tells himself, wait for the veil to fall. Wait until you can see. When his eyes can focus again, he sees that although the years have changed her, it’s still there. Her contempt for him. She still despises him, the boy who saved her life that cold night in 1994.

  It had been a Friday like any other Friday in Jessheim. Emilie and Johanne had been to Gartneriet Bar and as usual were high on life. They staggered along the sidewalk, arms linked. On their way home they had stopped at the takeout by the Esso gas station, right by the junction, for something to eat. And as usual Emilie was surrounded by boys.

  He was there with some friends and they watched as the girls’ behavior, giggling and eating drunkenly, changed completely when Johanne choked on some food and couldn’t breathe. Emilie freaked out and screamed at the top of her voice for someone to please help Johanne. In the light from the takeout he could see everyone freeze to the spot while Emilie’s shrill voice hurt his ears. A strange calm came over him. What he really wanted to do was stay where he was and watch Johanne’s light go out. But what about Emilie? Sweet, lovely Emilie, who was running around wailing and shouting.

  So he went over to Johanne, who was clutching her throat. Her lips were starting to turn purple. He had to make an effort to snap out of his trance and remember the first-aid course they had been taught at school; the soft, revolting plastic doll he had pressed his lips against and that had tasted grotesquely sterile, and he thought about the other procedures they had learned, the bit about the Heimlich maneuver, and he couldn’t quite remember how to do it, but he positioned himself behind her and half lifted and half squeezed her, and suddenly Johanne was able to breathe again. She stood there, spitting and coughing, hawking and crying.

  Emilie threw herself around his neck and stayed there. She stayed there for a while. And, he supposed, that was what Johanne had never been able to accept. That someone could get between her and her best friend for more than a few weeks.

  Seriously, Emilie, it’ll never last. You’re not going to marry him, are you?

  And he knows now that she won’t ever apologize to him. She is another one of those who won’t. So he bends down and waits until signs of life return behind her eyelids. The moment she regains consciousness she tries to escape, but she is trapped. Frantically she looks around; she kicks and screams, so he squeezes her neck. A little harder while he tells himself to stay calm. Remember, you want to watch. You want to watch, he repeats to himself while he straddles her midriff. Her legs hit his back and thrash in the air, her arms flail wildly, and she claws at his jumper and gloves. But when he tightens his grip around her neck and feels her sinking into the sofa like a balloon slowly deflating, that’s when he sees it.

  He sees it.

  And it’s the most incredible sight ever.

  Chapter 44

  Two journalists are hanging around outside the entrance to 123news when Henning parks the rental car and gets out. He doesn’t recognize them and tries to ignore them by looking up at the autumn clouds, but one of the reporters blocks his path when he walks past them.

  “Hey,” says the journalist, a small, fat man with very little hair and thin, round Harry Potter glasses. “Do you have anything to say about what your sister has done?”

  Henning stops and smiles. “Forget it, I’m not going to throw you a bone.”

  The journalists glance at each other.

  “No, no comment,” Henning says and pushes his way past them.

  “But—”

  The journalists’ voices rise behind Henning as he walks out through the gates, but he shrugs them off. Instead he walks as quickly as he can in the direction of Grønland toward Stargate. The pub isn’t far away, but he makes a few detours to be sure that he isn’t being followed.

  Henning sees that the run-down watering hole has just opened when he arrives and it strikes him that this choice of meeting place was really quite clever. The press has laid siege to both Pål Fredrik’s office and his private home, but no one would ever suspect him of frequenting a dump like this.

  Henning orders a cup of coffee and takes a seat in the farthest corner of the room. The dark interior suits him fine; it makes it easy to hide, to disappear in a fog of stale alcohol and sweat against which soap and water stand no chance. A man with stubble and faded clothes comes out from the men’s room with his trousers still hanging halfway down his knees. On the loudspeakers Johnny Cash reminds the customers that pain is good.

  Pål Fredrik Osmundsen arrives fifteen minutes after Henning. His gray suit is elegant and, in view of his red eyes and the bags under them, he could have come straight from a late-night drinking session at the more upmarket Aker Brygge. Henning barely recognizes him from the photos in the newspapers.

  Pål Fredrik Osmundsen is a business economist who graduated from BI Norwegian Business School. He has worked for Tvenge Brothers Investment, been a consultant and a private investor, but he is now in charge of an asset management fund specializing in European property. Henning doesn’t know how many millions Osmundsen is worth, but it’s a lot. He has also gained a reputation for himself as a bit of a modern-day explorer. The magazine Vi Menn featured him a couple of years ago when Osmundsen gave them access to some of his private photographs from when he climbed K2 and Kilimanjaro and crossed Greenland on skis. He has taken part in the Trondheim-Oslo bike ride many times as well as other popular endurance events such as the Birken.

  Henning waves to the athletic man who weaves his way through chairs and tables.

  “Over here,” Henning calls out.

  Osmundsen takes Henning’s outstretched hand and presses it firmly. They sit down. A silence ensues. Quick glances sweep across the table.

  “Funny way to meet you, Brother-in-law,” Osmundsen says at last.

  Henning smiles briefly.

  “Are you here as a journalist or as her brother?”

  Henning doesn’t reply immediately.

  “I’m automatically disqualified from writing about Trine because I’m her brother.”

  “So why are you here?”

  “Because I—”

  Henning thinks about it.

  “Because there’s something about the story that troubles me, only I don’t know what it is. Perhaps it’s this alleged victim, who . . .” Henning searches for the right word.

  “I just don’t buy it,” he says finally.

  A waiter comes over
and takes Osmundsen’s order, a cup of coffee and a glass of water.

  “But if you can’t investigate the story,” Osmundsen begins, “how will you be able to help Trine?”

  Henning hesitates.

  “I don’t know,” he says and flashes a cautious smile. “I haven’t even started thinking about it.”

  Osmundsen nods calmly. An ambulance with howling sirens drives past outside; the sound fills the room before fading away like a dying lament.

  “She’s going to kill me if she finds out that the two of us have been talking,” Osmundsen then says.

  Henning tilts his head.

  “Why?”

  “Well, you’re not exactly the best of friends.”

  Henning lowers his gaze, stares into a past that rises from the table like a multicolored fog. And in the midst of it—a sad and lonely truth.

  “No, we’re not,” he admits. “I don’t really know why, but—”

  “Is it true?”

  Henning nods.

  Images of Trine that have started to surface recently come back to him like uninvited guests. He hears her voice, small and fragile. He sees her gaze, dull and distant. And he wishes he knew, that he understood when and why they grew apart.

  “Has she ever talked about it to you?” he asks.

  Osmundsen shakes his head.

  “I’ve asked her several times, but every time she just gives me a hard stare and that’s the end of that conversation.”

  Henning nods slowly.

  Osmundsen takes out his mobile and puts it on the table with the screen facing up.

  “In case Trine calls,” Osmundsen says by way of explanation.

  “Have you heard from her?”

  “She sent me a text message yesterday saying she wasn’t coming home. She wouldn’t tell me where she was because she needed to be alone, she said.”

  “So she hasn’t gone missing as some papers are speculating?”

  Osmundsen hesitates. “That rather depends how you look at it.”