by Thomas Enger
“Not necessarily,” Sandland says.
“No, but it’s likely.”
Sandland lowers her gaze.
“However, there are a couple of things that militate against my theory,” Bjarne continues.
“Such as?” Nøkleby asks.
“While the murder of Johanne Klingenberg appears to have been premeditated, I’m not sure that the murder of Erna Pedersen was. It’s seriously risky to kill someone in a care home, where any number of people might see you. But he did it when the whole floor, with one or two exceptions, was busy with this visit from the volunteer service—a visit Erna Pedersen would normally have enjoyed and taken part in, but which she wasn’t well enough to attend last Sunday. That means he took advantage of the situation that arose there and then. And I’m not sure that his plan was to kill her. The murder seems rushed and messy, if you know what I mean. And remember, Erna Pedersen had one foot in the grave already. She would have died soon anyway.”
“So why did he kill her?” Gjerstad says.
Bjarne expels the air from his lungs hard. “I don’t know. But the killer appears to have been angry with her. Killing her wasn’t enough. He also had to whack knitting needles into her eyes. But Erna Pedersen had dementia and dementia sufferers have poor short-term memory. Things from the past, however, are crystal clear.”
Bjarne looks across to Sandland, who nods.
“Is it possible that the killer tried to make her remember something from the past? The missing school photo could suggest that. And since he ended up killing her, it’s tempting to think that she hurt him a long time ago.”
“So we’re talking about an ex-pupil of hers?” Fredrik Stang says. “Since the missing picture was a school photo, I mean?”
“It could be anyone, really. A pupil, a colleague, an angry family member, or an enraged neighbor who cared about the person or persons Pedersen had harmed.
Bjarne’s mouth is dry from talking so he sips some water. He studies the faces in the room for signs that his arguments have swayed anyone. He has no sense of whether he has been successful.
“But there are aspects of the killer’s MO that match in both cases,” he continues. “And if we treat the murder of Erna Pedersen as a clumsy first attempt, then the killing of Johanne Klingenberg suggests that this time the killer had much more control over his actions. It might mean that murdering Erna Pedersen was what got him started.”
“So you’re saying we could be dealing with a serial killer?” Nøkleby asks. She sounds skeptical.
Bjarne looks at her for a few seconds before he replies. His voice sounds a little more feeble than he intended. “Possibly.”
He scans the room for support and receives a nod from Gjerstad. Nøkleby follows shortly.
Bjarne is pleased with his reasoning, but two questions immediately present themselves. Why did the killer damage the picture of Erna Pedersen’s son and the little boy whose picture Johanne Klingenberg had on her wall? And if they really are dealing with a serial killer who has now finished warming up—might their friends and relatives be his next victims?
Chapter 53
Once he killed a bird with his bare hands. The feeling of life ebbing away between his fingers made his heart beat faster, but it never came close to a thrill. Neither did suffocating the neighbor’s cat, which had strayed into their house and refused to leave.
He was home alone that day, sick under the duvet and watching videos on the sofa; there was no way he would tolerate the presence of a cat, which would stink up the whole house with its pee. So he tossed the duvet over it and trapped it. And even though he had a temperature, he experienced the intoxicating sensation of being master of life and death.
But in neither of those instances had he seen the actual death, observed the precise moment when the spark is extinguished and time stops. He thought he might see it with the fish he caught down on Vippetangen,where all the East Europeans go to fish, when he held the slippery creatures, alive and wriggling, before slowly twisting their necks. He saw the blood and felt their frantic death throes between his fingers, but there was never any change in the eyes of the fish. He never saw them die.
He didn’t have time to see it in the eyes of that old bat, either. She was dead before the veil lifted and he could see clearly again.
But now he has seen it. And now he understands.
This is what it’s all about. This is what he has been looking for.
And he can’t stop thinking about the light that faded from her eyes when she looked at him, pleading. It was as if the light traveled into him and started radiating from his own eyes and illuminated the path that lay in front of him. The path he had been wandering recently suddenly felt clearer and wider. He felt a sense of purpose. Something inside him slotted into place.
For that reason he is going home.
For the last time.
When he was a boy, he liked traveling by train. He also liked watching them. Before taking their bicycles across the level crossing they always had to look right and left and then right again. Or perhaps it was the other way around. The coolest and scariest thing he knew was standing on the platform on Nordby Station, as close to the tracks as possible, waiting for the trains to whiz by. And when they did, it was so loud, so powerful, and with so much air passing right in front of him that he almost lost his balance.
He looks out at the small village of his childhood, which is no longer small. Everything has changed. The houses, the people, cars; he feels at home, but at the same time not. Everything is bigger, everything is different. He is different.
Some passengers get off, others get on. The doors close and the train moves on. He doesn’t feel like leaving the train at the next station; he would prefer to stay where he is and watch the world go by, watch autumn settle over the rooftops and color the sky. But he can’t do that, either.
The train slows down again and he gets off at Nordby Station. Nor is this place anything like he remembers it. Gone is the old station building where they wrote rude graffiti, misspelled because they hadn’t quite mastered double consonants yet. The new building is bigger and made from glass. Even the platform has been replaced. Wooden boards have turned into concrete.
He walks past Østafor Care Home, where she would probably have lived now, the old crone, in her retirement, had she stayed here. She could have sat on the veranda and watched the trains go past. Perhaps they would have made her forget about fractions.
A few minutes later he stands outside the door to his childhood home. It has been a while since he last visited. Before he goes inside, he takes a look at the garden and remembers the shovel, the snow that whirled around them that day, the cave that collapsed on top of Werner and squeezed the life out of him. It happened so quickly, but even now, so many years later, it still makes the hairs on his neck stand up.
He opens the front door and enters; he sees how she jerks upright in the green leather Stressless armchair where she sits embroidering, a hobby of hers, but it doesn’t take long before her confusion turns to delight. And, for a brief moment, he thinks that this is exactly how it ought to be. That’s how people should react. This is what it feels like to be part of a normal family.
He wonders what kind of father he would have made; if his child would also have stood close to the tracks to watch the trains whiz by. If his son might have conquered his stutter and made something of himself. There must be qualities you pass on, surely, or traits, in the same way you pass on hair and eye color. Perhaps Sebastian would have broken free, been his own man, his father’s direct opposite, the person he tried so hard to become when he was little? First he wanted to be a pilot; no, a butcher actually, he longed to look into the stomachs of dead animals. But then he wanted to be a hunter and later a professional soccer player. And then he stopped wanting to be anything at all.
She comes to greet him, her arms wide open, and she p
ulls him close. And he stands there, he doesn’t put his arms around her, he just recognizes the smell of her, the familiar smell of something sweet mixed with the aroma from the kitchen. Lamb and cabbage, black pepper and potatoes; the smell of stew usually makes his mouth water, but today it just makes him feel nauseous.
“How nice that you were able to come after all,” she practically shouts and holds him out away from her.
And everything is all right until his father enters the room, his father who had always favored Werner. He says nothing; he just stops in front of the mirror where the telephone used to be in the days before they got a cordless one. The floorboards always used to squeak so badly right there.
“I thought you said he wasn’t coming?” he says, addressing his wife.
“I know, but—he changed his mind. Isn’t it wonderful?”
“Couldn’t he have let us know?”
She tries to say something, but no words come out before he marches past them. No welcome hug. No outstretched hand.
Not this time, either.
“I hope you’re hungry,” she says as she goes into the kitchen, eager for him to follow. “See,” she adds, pointing to the saucepan. He nods and looks at her.
Everything is as it always was and everything is different.
Soon they sit down to dinner, but he struggles to swallow the food. He thinks about how much has been said in this room and how little.
“Could you pass the salt, please?”
He looks at his father. Gives him the salt shaker, but as he does, he knocks over his own half-empty water glass. The water splashes across the table cloth and drips down on the floor. His father’s knife and fork hit the plate on the other side of the table. His father sighs heavily.
“Are you just going to sit there?”
He makes no reply. His mother, who is sitting next to him, tears off several sheets of kitchen towel, and presses them against the table cloth.
More sighing. More snorting.
“Are you just going to sit there like a brat? Aren’t you going to apologize?”
Slowly he turns his head and looks at him. He makes no reply.
“Eh? Aren’t you going to say sorry?”
No, he thinks to himself. Not anymore.
The next moment his father pushes his chair back. The chair legs scrape against the floor as his hastily scrunched up napkin lands on the table.
A veil settles over his eyes. And, as he feels a strong hand clamp down on his own, he stops seeing clearly. He just does.
And he does.
And he does.
Chapter 54
Emilie has been to many funerals over the years, but the pain she felt at losing someone can’t compare to what she feels now. It’s completely different when someone is murdered. And what torments her the most is the thought of what must have been going through Johanne’s head when she realized that she was going to die.
Emilie has gone to bed and closed the door. She desperately needs to be alone. All she can think about is who could have taken the life of her best friend. A woman she could talk to about everything. She remembers all the wonderful things they used to do together. It’s impossible to understand that they will never do anything together again.
There is a knock on the door and Mattis opens without her having said “Come in.”
“It’s the police,” he says, holding up Emilie’s mobile. “They want to talk to you.”
Emilie feels punched in the stomach at the mere thought of having to talk to someone now. She hoists herself upright. Mattis comes in, hands her the telephone with a cautious, friendly smile. Emilie wipes the tears from her face, her cheeks feel red-hot; she takes the telephone and waits until Mattis has closed the door behind him. Then she says, “Hello.”
“Hello, this is Bjarne Brogeland from Oslo Police.”
“Hi,” she says in a feeble voice.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he says. “I understand that you were one of Johanne Klingenberg’s best friends.”
“Yes,” Emilie stutters. “I was. Thank you.”
“I’m sorry for disturbing you, but I need to speak to you.”
“I understand,” she says, and straightens up a little more. He has a nice voice, she thinks. Warm and reassuring.
“You and Johanne met at a café today, am I right?”
“Yes. At Café Blabla on St. Hanshaugen.”
“How did she behave while you were together? Was she anxious about anything? Nervous?”
Emilie thinks about it.
“No, she was just as she always was. Joking and laughing as usual.”
“She didn’t give you the impression that she was scared of anything or anyone?”
“No,” Emilie almost laughs, and wipes her nose. “She was in a good mood.”
She hears the policeman making notes.
“Did she mention what she was going to do after you’d had lunch together?”
“No, she was going home, I think. She might have had some shopping to do first.”
“Nothing apart from that? Did she say anything about what she was doing with the rest of her day?”
“No, we didn’t talk about that,” Emilie replies.
“Did you notice if anyone was watching you at the café?”
Emilie tries to search her memory, but not a single face comes up.
“What time was it when you left?”
“About one o’clock, I think.” Emilie can hear that her voice is still weak so she clears her throat in an attempt to make it firmer.
“How much do you know about your friend’s life?”
“What do you mean?” Emilie asks.
“Would Johanne tell you everything?”
“Yes, or at least I think so.”
“Do you think she would have told you if she was in any kind of trouble?”
A stinging feeling starts in her stomach and spreads to the rest of her body. Even the thought that Johanne might have kept secrets from her, problems Emilie could have helped her solve, makes the tears well up again. She squeezes her eyes shut and feels the teardrops run in parallel down her flushed cheeks before dripping from her chin.
“Yes, I’m sure of it,” she stammers.
“What about men, then? Boyfriends.”
Emilie coughs again.
“Yes, we did use to talk about men.”
The policeman stirs and the chair he is sitting on squeaks.
“Was she seeing anyone at the moment?”
“No. She hasn’t had a boyfriend for ages, but I know that she would go on dates from time to time. But it never got serious.”
“So she never mentioned anyone who was obsessed with her—or vice versa?”
Emilie shakes her head before she remembers that the officer can’t see her. “I can’t think of anyone,” she replies.
“Okay,” the officer says, pausing again. “How long has it been since you last visited her flat?”
Emilie tries to remember. “It has been a while. We usually meet for lunch once a month or thereabouts, but we don’t visit each other at home nearly as often as we used to. I live in Jessheim, I have a young child, and I work full-time, and she’s busy with her life in Oslo. Well, that’s to say . . .” Grief takes over her voice again. “She’s not busy with anything anymore.”
Her voice breaks and she starts to sob; she loses control of her facial movements. A wave of anger and anguish overcomes her and she clutches the duvet while unintelligible noises escape from her mouth. The officer says nothing while Emilie calms herself down.
“I’m sorry,” she says eventually.
“It’s all right; just let me know when you’re ready to continue.”
“I’m ready, it’s just so—” She doesn’t know how to complete the sentence.
�
�I understand,” the officer says and pauses briefly before he asks the next question.
“In your friend’s living room there was a picture of a small boy on the wall. Do you know which picture I’m talking about?”
Emilie thinks about it.
“That must be the picture of Sebastian,” she says.
“Sebastian?”
“Sebastian is my son,” Emilie continues. “Johanne is—or she was—one of Sebastian’s godparents. We gave her a picture of him last Christmas.”
She switches the phone to her other hand and wipes her face with the duvet.
“My next question might sound very strange, Emilie, but I have to ask it. Do you know if anyone might have a reason to be angry with your son?”
Emilie looks up.
“With Sebastian? Why do you want to know that?”
“Please just answer the question.”
“What does my son have to do with this?”
The officer doesn’t explain.
A sudden rage takes over her voice. “No,” Emilie snaps. “Sebastian is two and a half years old. He hasn’t lived long enough to upset anyone yet, apart from me and his father.”
“I understand,” the police officer says.
Her head feels as if it’s going to explode and she realizes that she hasn’t eaten for a long time. But the very thought of putting something in her mouth makes her stomach churn.
“Johanne and you are both from Jessheim, I understand. If I mention the name Erna Pedersen to you—what would you say?”
Emilie rubs her cheeks with her knuckle.
“Erna Pedersen?” she repeats, but gets no reply. “We had a teacher called that, I remember, but it’s quite a common name, isn’t it?”
“Yes, you’re right,” the police officer says quickly. “But I believe you’re thinking of the right Erna Pedersen. What do you remember about your old teacher?”
“Far too much,” Emilie says and laughs before she feels guilty for laughing in a situation like this. “No, she was . . . strict, I suppose you’d say. What about her?”