by Thomas Enger
Bjarne takes the photograph and studies it. A much younger version of Erna Pedersen is standing at the back to the left, several heads taller than any of her pupils.
“Johanne is sitting there,” Blomvik says, pointing to a small girl with big dimples and long braids on a chair at the front. “And I’m next to her.”
Bjarne looks up and senses her embarrassment.
“It was a very long time ago,” she says by way of explanation.
Bjarne continues to study the faces. He sees no similarities to anyone he has met in the last few days.
“If you’re anything like me, you’ll be able to remember the names of most of the people in this picture,” he says, sliding it back to her. “Would you please write down as many names as you recall?”
Bjarne finds a sheet of paper and a pen for her.
“I’ll try,” Blomvik says.
“Please start at the front row from the left.”
She nods and starts writing. She can remember only the first names of some pupils, but most of those sitting in the front get their full name, including their middle name.
Then she looks up.
“Yesterday you asked me if someone might have reason to be angry with my son,” she says. “With Sebastian.”
Bjarne nods.
“Why did you want to know that?”
Bjarne hesitates for a second before he takes out a crime scene photograph from a file and shows it to her.
“This photo was taken in Johanne’s living room yesterday afternoon,” he says. “As you can see, the picture of your son has been destroyed. Or at least the glass has been smashed.”
Blomvik studies the photograph.
“And you’re quite sure that it didn’t just happen in . . . in the heat of the moment?”
“Absolutely,” Bjarne replies.
Blomvik scratches her head with the pen.
“It all seems very strange,” she says. “I fail to see why someone would get so angry with a little boy. And how Johanne could have anything to do with it, it—it—” Blomvik shakes her head.
Bjarne says nothing; he gives her time to think things through. But she doesn’t come up with anything. Soon her attention returns to the school photo and a few minutes later she puts down the pen.
“Right,” she says. “I think those are all the names I can remember.”
“That’s great.”
Bjarne takes the sheet back. Studies the names and the faces. Row one—no names he recognizes. Middle row—no hits there, either. In the back row—
No.
He swears under his breath. Surely he is due a break now. Then he thinks back to his own childhood and the girls he had crushes on when he was growing up. To begin with the girls were his age, but eventually they started to be younger. One year, two years. In sixth year he was head over heels in love with Henning Juul’s sister. And as for the girls, they wouldn’t even consider going out with you unless you were a little older than they were. Or at least many wouldn’t. And Erna Pedersen taught a lot of pupils.
We need to go through the years she taught when the pupils were one, two, and three years older than Emilie Blomvik and Johanne Klingenberg, Bjarne realizes. If nothing else, it might limit our search.
“Okay,” he says, gets up, and extends his hand to Emilie Blomvik. “Thank you so much. You’ve been a great help.”
Chapter 59
Trine’s legs are killing her after yesterday’s coastal walk. Her head feels leaden too. She hasn’t managed to eat very much in the last few days. Nor has she had enough to drink. Not water, anyway.
Though she still doesn’t know what to do, she feels better for having spent time out here. It has been good to have only the sea, the wind, and the rocks for company. Feeling small again. She would like to return to the cabin as soon as possible, but knows she will have a hard time persuading Pål Fredrik to join her. She will have to bribe him with at least fifty kilometers of main-road cycling every day; though whether she will still have him after recent events remains to be seen. Perhaps that is why she feels so drained of energy. So terrified.
Trine locks the cabin, returns the key to the nail under the bench, and says a quiet “Goodbye for now” in her head. Then she walks up the mound and rings Katarina Hatlem, who answers after just a few rings.
“Hi, it’s me,” Trine says. “I’m coming home.”
The voice of her director of communications sounds instantly relieved, but Trine adds that she won’t be returning to her office today. She probably won’t come in until tomorrow.
“Okay.”
“But you can tell anyone who might be wondering that I intend to make a statement soon. I have to. I just don’t know when.”
“That’s great, Trine. But what are you going to say?”
Trine stops, turns to look at the sea, at Tvistein Lighthouse, and the endless blue.
“Well, that’s the thing. Whatever will do the least damage.”
* * *
At the morning meeting, Heidi Kjus is in a foul mood because Henning isn’t up to speed on the Bislett murder and even more annoyed because 123news is still having to quote NTB. Henning has been told to cover the Bislett murder as well, but he has little interest in it because he finally appears to be making headway in the mystery surrounding Trine.
He thinks about the fax that was sent to every newspaper in the country a couple of days ago. The deathblow to his sister’s career. Surely it must be possible to trace where that fax was sent from?
Trine’s enemy probably wouldn’t be stupid enough to send it from their own office. They might have got someone else to do it, of course, but that would be risky. If you want to keep a secret, tell no one.
Henning’s gaze is drawn toward the desk where Kåre Hjeltland is clapping his hands for joy.
“Sign of life from Juul-Osmundsen!” he shouts.
Hjeltland turns to one of his staff. “Great,” he continues. “Issue a short version. Two lines maximum and put it on the front page.”
The news desk assistant nods.
“Tuva, what other cases are we waiting to publish?”
Henning cranes his neck; he can just see the head of the girl who looks down at the screen in front of her. Henning blocks out her voice while he shakes his head. Business as usual, he thinks. Nothing ever changes.
And if it hadn’t been the equivalent of banging his head against a brick wall, Henning would have contacted the VG journalists himself and asked them straight out who had sold them this pathetic pile of trash that they have been happy to splash across several front pages without a second thought. But no journalist ever reveals their sources and certainly not to another journalist. And no newspaper would ever admit that they had allowed themselves to be used to bring down a government minister.
Instead Henning retrieves the notorious fax from the huge pile of documents and newspapers on his desk. At the top of the printout he sees a fax number. It takes only minutes to discover that it belongs to an Internet café in Eiksmarka Shopping Center. He decides to give them a call.
“Hello,” he says and introduces himself. “I’m wondering about something: do people have to show ID when they want to use one of your machines?”
“People have to give their name and mobile number, which we register in our database, yes. If the FBI, for example, were to discover that someone had sent a threatening email to the U.S. president from one of my machines, then I’m obliged to tell them the name of the person who used it.”
“So if I were from the FBI, you’d be able to tell me who came to your café Monday evening sometime after ten o’clock to send a fax?”
“Not exactly; the fax machine is available to anyone who comes here. But it’s probably going to be a short list. There weren’t that many people here that night.”
“Great,” Henning says. “Th
ank you so much.”
Chapter 60
Fredrik Stang races into Bjarne’s office without knocking.
“We’ve got a hit!” he exclaims. “We’ve gone through some of Erna Pedersen’s registers from Jessheim School. We’ve got a hit!” he says again.
“Who is it?”
“Markus Gjerløw,” Stang says with jubilation written all over his face.
Markus Gjerløw, Bjarne mutters to himself. The man he spoke to only yesterday. He was one of the volunteers who visited Grünerhjemmet.
“He was two years above Emilie Blomvik and Johanne Klingenberg,” Stang continues.
It has to be him.
“Okay. Fantastic, Fredrik. Good job.”
Bjarne rings Emilie Blomvik immediately.
“Markus Gjerløw,” he says, pronouncing the name with exaggerated clarity when she answers. “Do you know who he is?”
Blomvik doesn’t reply immediately. Background noise from Oslo intrudes on the line.
“Markus? Yes, of course I know him.”
“Were Markus and Johanne ever friends?”
Bjarne sticks a finger in his ear in order to hear better.
“They were an item at school, I think. I went out with Markus as well, but only for a short time in sixth year.”
Bjarne can barely sit still.
“Emilie, this is very important. Can you remember why Markus and Johanne broke up?”
“Yes,” she says and laughs. “They were thirteen or fourteen years old. At that age it’s a miracle if anyone stays together for more than three weeks.”
“So it wasn’t very serious, is that what you’re saying?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying, yes.”
“And what about your relationship with him?”
Another short pause.
“I don’t suppose I could have been more than seventeen or eighteen years old. Far too young for a serious relationship. And anyway, he was off to do national service, and so—”
Bjarne nods slowly while he digests the information.
“Do you know what his relationship with Erna Pedersen was like?”
“No, he was a few years older than me. But why do you want to know about that? Is he the man you’re—”
“We don’t know yet,” Bjarne interrupts her.
But his gut feeling tells him that Markus Gjerløw is his man.
* * *
A child, Henning ponders. How strange that such a blessing can cause so much destruction. His life is ruined by the death of a child. Trine’s life might be falling apart because of a child she never had. And he thinks about how his family slipped through his fingers without his doing anything about it. But could he really have prevented it? Was he even interested in stopping it happening?
He doesn’t think so. Not after he met Nora, not after Jonas. When he had his own family and became preoccupied with them. He didn’t think much about Trine or their shared past, he just accepted that it was a closed book for them both. He never made any attempt to patch up his family. Yes, he makes sure that their mother has cigarettes and alcohol, and that her flat is reasonably clean, but that’s the limit of his involvement. And now, as he sits here alone, knowing full well that Trine lives her life independently of him, independently of him and their mother, it’s tempting to think that the breakdown of the Juul family is his fault. He was the man of the house after his father died, he should have done something. Taken steps to uncover the problems and then fix them. Instead, he just let it fall apart.
And perhaps it’s too late now. Trine made it perfectly clear that she didn’t want his help. There was so much remoteness in her eyes in the cabin, so much hostility. It was hard to admit it, but it felt good to see her again, even though she threw him out. Away from the newspaper interviews and the TV debates where she always comes across as so confident and self-assured. She had been her old self. Just as temperamental and just as bossy as when she was little.
* * *
Henning hasn’t yet returned the rental car, something he is pleased about as he parks outside Eiksmarka Shopping Center with the front of the car practically inside a florist called Blåklokken. The center is deserted this early in the day, as is the Internet café. There is not a single customer around when Henning enters and introduces himself to a balding, dark-skinned man with a mustache who is chewing vigorously on something.
“I’d like to speak to anyone who worked here Monday evening,” Henning says.
The man carries on chewing.
“Do you know who was working here that night?”
“Possibly. Why do you want to talk to them?”
“Because I’m trying to find out who sent a fax from that machine,” Henning says, pointing left where the room’s only fax machine is located. “It’s important to a person who . . . who’s important to me. I’d be really grateful if you could help me.”
The man carries on chewing while he gives Henning a sideways glance. Then he looks across the room. There is no one at the computers. Outside the entrance a man with a walking stick shuffles past.
“How much?”
Henning hesitates for a second before he takes out a 500-kroner note from his back pocket. The man takes the money. Studies it. Then he wanders off to the back room and stays there for a long time. Henning is starting to feel awkward when another man comes out. Same skin color. Same short hair and a mustache.
He nods quickly to Henning, something Henning interprets as a green light, so he asks if the man whose badge states his name is Sheraz could check on his computer to find out who visited the café Monday evening. Sheraz looks languidly at him and shakes his head.
“It’s against the law,” he says.
“Is that right?”
Henning never really thought that it would be that easy. Over to Plan B.
Henning opens his shoulder bag and takes out a pile of paper he printed out before he left the office. He has lost count of how many pictures he printed out from the home pages of the Justice Department and various political parties, but it was a lot.
“I’m going to show you some pictures,” he says, “and I want you to say stop if you recognize the person who came here Monday night. Is that all right?”
Sheraz waits a little, then he nods without enthusiasm.
“Okay, let’s begin.”
Henning puts down the shoulder bag. He pushes the first printout across the counter. They go through a number of politicians—government as well as opposition—political advisers and past and present members of the Justice Department. All he gets by way of response from Sheraz is a shake of the head. Henning flicks through the printouts while Sheraz keeps on shaking his head, more and more reluctant and increasingly hostile in his demeanor.
Suddenly he says, “Stop.”
Henning stops.
“Go back.”
Henning removes the top sheet. Sheraz plants his index finger right in the middle of the sheet, but says nothing.
“And you’re sure?” Henning asks.
Sheraz nods.
“Okay,” Henning says, taking back the pile of paper and stuffing it into his shoulder bag. Well worth 500 kroner, he thinks to himself, and quickly leaves the café.
Chapter 61
The atmosphere in the incident room is like the area behind the starting gate right before a skiing race. Everyone is eager to push off as quickly as possible. But it’s essential to do things in the right order.
“Okay,” Arild Gjerstad says, “this is what we know about Markus Gjerløw so far: he’s thirty-seven years old, he lives in Grorud, and he’s unemployed. No wife or girlfriend, nor does he have any children. His parents live in Jessheim. Gjerløw’s mobile is switched on right now and we know that it’s in the vicinity of a mast close to his home address. So it’s likely that he’s at home. The armed respons
e unit has been alerted and the whole building must be hermetically sealed before we go in.”
Several people nod.
“Okay,” Gjerstad says. “We’re going in. We’ve been given permission to enter by force.”
* * *
The patrol cars drive without flashing lights so as not to alert Gjerløw that they are on their way. Bjarne peeks furtively at Sandland and sees that she, too, lives for moments like these. For the action. Taking that six-month vacancy with Vestfold Police would feel like a step backward, at least to begin with. More paperwork. More time spent at his desk.
Is that really what he wants?
The drive to Grorud takes them less than fifteen minutes. At this speed the raindrops smack against the windshield. They park on the pavement only one street away from the large tower block where Gjerløw lives and jog to the entrance. Some officers shelter from the rain under the covered area outside.
A uniformed officer from the armed response unit opens the front door and enters, followed by several officers. Two men position themselves outside the lift, while another four take the stairs. Bjarne and Sandland follow. Soon they have reached the seventh floor. Behind him Sandland is panting heavily.
One of the uniformed officers knocks on Gjerløw’s door. The sound fills the stairwell with short, sharp bangs. There is no reply. He knocks again, harder this time. Calls out Gjerløw’s name. Still no response.
Several officers from the armed response unit have now joined them. One of them has brought a battering ram. The others stand aside. He hits the door with full force and the door gives way at his second attempt. The officers burst into the flat, holding up their weapons and shouting words no one is meant to understand, but are intended to shock.
The reports come in quickly.
“Clear!”
“Clear!”
Then there is silence.
It takes a few minutes before an officer comes out and takes off his helmet. He looks gravely at Brogeland and Sandland.