by Thomas Enger
And when she pushes herself away from him a little later, her feet refuse to follow. So she stays where she is, close to him. They are separated by only a few centimeters. He can feel her breath on his face, a cloud of alcohol that lingers around his nose. Henning doesn’t know whether he pulls Nora close to him or Nora glides imperceptibly toward him, but again he feels himself trembling at her magnetic power, which has never lost its hold over him. And he realizes with all his being that he has never loved anyone the way he loves Nora.
And that’s why he pulls away.
He sees it in her eyes; how she, too, feels that what they are doing is wrong. They look at each other for many long moments.
Then she turns around and leaves.
THURSDAY
Chapter 67
Trine can’t remember the last time she had such a good, dreamless sleep. After they had talked late into the night, she cuddled up to Pål Fredrik and didn’t wake up until her mobile started to buzz on the bedside table. She has heard people say how therapeutic it is to make a clean breast of things, to share the secrets that were eating them up, but she would never have believed that it could feel like this.
But though it helped, to tell Pål Fredrik about her father and what she saw that night, she didn’t tell him everything about herself. She didn’t even come close. And she doesn’t know if she will ever manage it.
Trine gets up at the same time as Pål Fredrik, though she doesn’t intend to go back to work yet. They eat breakfast together, read the newspaper, discuss the news—at least any news that isn’t about her. When Pål Fredrik goes to the office, Trine finds herself alone once again in a silence that festers around her. She feels the urge to exercise, to run away from it all, but she doesn’t; instead she reflects on how the media have wallowed in every revelation about her that has come out in the last few days.
She hasn’t read even half the stories that have been published, but the biggest headlines seem to have taken root in the public’s imagination. As an elected politician and a member of the government, she had known that her life would be subject to constant, close scrutiny. And she has yet to meet someone who has never made a single mistake. She accepted that she would always be under the microscope.
But she hasn’t deserved this.
She bloody well doesn’t deserve this.
With the benefit of hindsight, it’s easy to see that she should not have done what she did. Life would be so much simpler if we never had to deal with unintended consequences.
Talk about things being simple.
Trine realizes she hasn’t allowed herself to think simple thoughts in the last few days. When she tried to identify the person who could have known what she did in Denmark, her initial conclusion was that a friend might have mentioned it to someone and thus inadvertently started the rumor. But the simplest explanation hasn’t occurred to her until now. There is one person who knows everything, who helped her, got her out of Hotel Caledonien discreetly, arranged a car and a plane ticket, booked a hotel, and packed some clothes for her so she could travel incognito from Kjevik Airport. Who made the appointment that enabled Trine to deal with her little problem. It’s someone she has worked closely with during the three years she has been justice secretary. The person she trusted the most.
Trine picks up her mobile, which is lying next to her coffee cup, retrieves a number from her contact list, and calls it.
“Hi, Trine. How are you?”
“Good morning. I want to hold a press conference later today. Please would you set it up?”
A short pause follows.
“Yes, of course, but—”
“Great. Make it two o’clock, that gives me time to prepare. But first I’d like to have a little chat with you. Let’s say my office twelve o’clock?”
Another silence.
“Eh, okay . . .”
“Great. I’ll see you at twelve noon.”
Chapter 68
Henning looks at his watch. He is early.
He doesn’t mind. Whenever he visits the Olympen café, he prefers to sit by the window. In the past he would make up stories about people walking by outside, based on only a quick glance at their faces, their eyes, and their clothing. He regarded it as training in his quest to become a better judge of character, which in turn would make him a better journalist. And it was something to do when he was bored or waiting for someone, as he is now. It occurs to him that fear has stopped him undertaking many other activities he enjoys. Wine, friends, music. He has even stayed away from the sea. An amateur psychologist might say that he is scared of feeling anything ever again. Henning doesn’t know. He just knows that a lot is happening with him right now, though he finds himself unable to take it all in.
Henning’s mobile rings. Talk of the devil, Henning thinks when he sees that the caller is Iver Gundersen. Henning immediately experiences a rush of guilt because of what nearly happened with Nora last night. Perhaps that’s why Iver is calling? Did she say anything to him?
Reluctantly, Henning puts the phone to his ear. “Hello?” he says, sounding a little less confident than he had hoped.
“Hey, man,” Iver says in his usual cocky voice. Slowly the air escapes from Henning’s lungs.
“How are you?” his colleague continues. “Are you busy?”
“Fairly,” Henning replies. “I’m waiting for a source, but he hasn’t shown up yet.”
“Oh, so it’s a he.” Iver laughs conspiratorially.
“Mm. And now you obviously know who he is.”
“If you tell me where you are, then I can guess.”
“Yes, I’m not going to do that, obviously.”
Iver laughs again. Henning realizes that he is beginning to smile.
“How are you?” he asks Iver. “Are you coming back to work soon?”
“I hope so. I’m going for a checkup at Ullevål Hospital in a couple of days, and then we’ll see. I’m getting cabin fever from sitting around all day doing nothing.”
Henning remembers how he felt in the weeks and months before he decided to return to work. He spent most of his time at home, staring at the wall, watching a bit of TV. The world had ground to a halt. Then he started going for a walk every day. He would sit in Dælenenga Sports Park in the evening. Gradually he got used to being around people again, though he hardly ever spoke to anyone.
“Sorry for not stopping by last week at the hospital,” Henning says.
“Ah,” Iver snorts. “Screw that.”
“Only there was so much to do after the Pulli case. I didn’t have a single—”
“Forget about it, I said. Isn’t that what you’re always telling me?”
“What?”
“To forget about it?”
“Yes, I . . . I suppose I do.”
“Well, then, forget about it.”
Iver laughs again. Henning smiles and gazes out at the street, where a woman with three shopping bags trundles along the sidewalk.
“So how are you?” Iver says. “Anything happening in your life?”
“You can say that again.”
“So what’s going on? I mean apart from the stuff I can read in the paper myself.”
Henning would have liked to share some of his thoughts with Iver, but he hesitates before he replies. Perhaps because of Nora. Or perhaps he clams up like he did in the past when he sensed that someone was getting close to him.
Across the street he sees Bjarne Brogeland coming toward him.
“My source is here,” Henning says. “I’ve got to go.”
“But—”
“Sorry, Iver. I’ll tell you all about it later.”
“Do you promise?”
Henning doesn’t reply immediately. Then he says, “I promise.”
* * *
In time Olympen has become Bjarne and Henning’s regular meeting
place when they need to talk shop. Usually at Henning’s request, but this time it was at Bjarne’s initiative. Henning didn’t mind, not in the least; the morning had come and gone without him finding anything he could feed to his editor. Nor had he spotted any developments in the story about Trine, other than more negative publicity about her.
Henning gets up from the table and greets Bjarne with a firm handshake. They find a table farther toward the back and order coffee.
“You look tired,” Henning says as they sit down.
“Thanks, mate.” Bjarne grins and runs a hand across his face. “I didn’t sleep very well last night. There’s something about this case that—”
He fumbles for the words before he continues.
“We’re still in the dark, to tell you the truth,” he says. “And I thought that perhaps you could, that you—”
Bjarne looks around.
“Everyone knows you have a sharp eye for detail,” he says.
Henning smiles quickly while he studies the police officer with mild curiosity. Bjarne looks as nervous as a teenager on his first date.
“And your bosses have obviously given you their full support for this conversation?”
Bjarne shakes his head slowly. The aroma from their coffee cups wafts toward them.
“No, I didn’t think so,” Henning says. “So, tell me, what’s really going on here? Normally I have to play the jester to get a seat at the king’s table, and suddenly it’s the other way around? Don’t tell me you’re banging your head against a brick wall already? The guy killed himself less than twenty-four hours ago.”
Bjarne’s face hardens. “A fresh perspective is always useful,” he says.
Henning takes a sip of his coffee while he looks at his old school friend. Bjarne’s dark hair appears to have gone gray at the temples during their short conversation. His cheeks are clean-shaven as always, but his skin, usually golden from a summer tan, looks pale now.
“But you obviously can’t report any of what I’m about to tell you,” Bjarne continues.
“So you want me to help you, but you’re not going to give me anything in return?”
Bjarne’s brow furrows. “Let’s agree on the things you can report. Not all of it is sensitive.”
Henning looks at him for a while. “Okay,” he says eventually and shrugs. “Go on then. Tell me about the pieces that don’t fit.”
Bjarne heaves a sigh, then he glances around again before he leans forward and tells Henning about Gjerløw’s past connection with the victims. He tells him about the crime scenes, the broken pictures on the walls, the photos of the victims on Gjerløw’s laptop, his visits to Grünerhjemmet, the envelope they found in his flat addressed to Tom Sverre Pedersen. The Facebook apology.
“But nobody understands why Gjerløw did it,” Bjarne concludes in exasperation. “We haven’t found any evidence that links the adult Gjerløw to any of his victims, apart from the fact that he was friends with Johanne Klingenberg on Facebook, and that he volunteered at the care home where Erna Pedersen lived. I quite simply can’t discover a motive.”
Henning, too, has moved closer to the table. It comes as a surprise to him that the murders were carried out by the same killer. It also intrigues him in a way he hasn’t felt for a long time.
“And there are a couple of other oddities. One of Gjerløw’s two laptops was completely clean. The one with the photographs. There wasn’t a single fingerprint or a speck of dust on it. The other one, a more recent model, was covered in grime. Plus Gjerløw sent a text message to a friend shortly before he died, saying he was busy playing a computer game. ‘Hate the graphics, but love the sound.’ ”
Bjarne looks at Henning for a few seconds, then he lowers his gaze.
“I just don’t understand,” he says and shakes his head.
“What did Gjerløw do for a living?”
“He was unemployed. Or he was at the time of his death.”
“What kind of jobs did he used to do?”
“Casual jobs. He had worked in a nursery school, for example, mostly here in Oslo. He also did a bit of removal work, I believe. He has a truck driver’s licence and worked for Ringnes brewery for a couple of months, delivering beer.”
Henning rests his chin in his hand.
“And there’s something about that little boy that sends shivers down my spine,” Bjarne continues.
Henning tries to visualize the killer, sees him lose his temper in Erna Pedersen’s room and smash a picture of her son’s family. He sees him go berserk in Johanne Klingenberg’s flat and smash the photograph of her godson.
And he remembers the emotions that welled up in him last night when he looked at the lovely picture of Jonas. The guilty conscience that nearly choked him, how he would never, ever be able to bear having Jonas’s eyes look out at him from the wall. That could have been the reason why Gjerløw put up that school photo he was in on Erna Pedersen’s wall. Perhaps he wanted her to remember something. Perhaps he wanted her to feel guilty.
Henning shares his thoughts with Bjarne.
“It’s possible,” Bjarne admits. “But what would cause him to smash the other photo?”
“Maybe he wasn’t angry with the people in the pictures. Then he would have hurt them instead. And the little boy couldn’t possibly have upset anyone, that goes without saying.”
Again Henning thinks about the information Bjarne has given him.
“If you’re right in suggesting that Gjerløw had a particular relationship to the pictures, they might have represented something to him.”
“Such as what?”
“I’m not sure. Perhaps he was lonely? Didn’t you say that he hadn’t managed to have a family of his own?”
“Yes?”
“Then he might have been jealous. Otherwise why get mad at a picture of a happy family? He didn’t know them personally, did he?”
“No, or at least we don’t think so. But don’t forget, he smashed a photo of a little boy as well. Surely he can’t have been jealous of a toddler?”
Henning doesn’t reply immediately, but he is aware of a thought, an answer somewhere deep inside him that is just out of reach.
“What if the little boy symbolized the same thing as the happy family?” he says eventually.
“What do you mean?”
“Gjerløw had no children of his own. Perhaps he longed for one?”
“So it’s not necessarily the boy himself who is the problem,” Bjarne says. “It’s what he represents?”
Henning opens up his hands. “Why not?”
Bjarne sits in pensive silence for several seconds. Then his mobile rings. He picks it up. Henning studies his friend’s facial expression while he listens. His pupils start to expand. His mouth drops open.
“Okay,” he says. “I’ll be there right away.” He hangs up.
“What was that about?” Henning asks.
“It wasn’t his blood,” Bjarne says.
“Whose blood?”
“The blood Johanne Klingenberg found in her flat two weeks ago. It doesn’t belong to Markus Gjerløw. He’s a different blood type.”
Chapter 69
It’s about pulling yourself together. Finding a special room for grieving in your heart, but using the other rooms as well. Remembering that life must go on.
Emilie Blomvik spent the night in the freezing-cold guest bedroom in the basement. She even managed to sleep for several hours. And when she was woken up by footsteps running across the parquet flooring above, the sound of her son’s pitter-patter as if he is incapable of doing anything at normal speed, she made up her mind. Enough is enough. Yes, you can feel sad, but don’t let grief eat you up.
So she went back upstairs and told Mattis that he could go to work today. He had been kind enough to take a day off to look after Sebastian and her—even though he
had just been made partner. And she realized how good it felt to get back to normality. Make Sebastian’s packed lunch. Get him dressed. Sebastian, poor kid, knows nothing about what has happened; he knows nothing about death. But he knows his parents. And when one of them acts out of character, he can sense it. Of course he can.
Emilie finds him in his bedroom, subjecting Lightning McQueen to his usual brutal treatment. She smiles. Sebastian barely looks up when she says, “Hi.” There is a vroom. Then some screeching and crashing. Recently she has noticed that her son has started to close the door to his room. He wants to be alone. He opens it and he closes it. She hadn’t expected him to do that yet; after all, he is only two and a half years old.
“Right, I’m off,” Mattis shouts out to them from the hallway.
“Daddy is leaving now,” she says to Sebastian. “Let’s go and say bye-bye to him.”
Sebastian drops the car with a crash. Emilie is about to tell him not to treat his toys like that, but she stops herself. Today is not a day for rebukes. Today is all about the path of least resistance. Getting back on her feet.
They send Mattis off with hugs, kisses, and waving. When the door slams shut, she asks Sebastian if he has had his breakfast yet. She gets a vigorous head shake by way of response.
“Okay,” she says, “then we’d better get you something to eat. What would you like?”
“Cornflakes.”
“Cornflakes it is.”
Emilie is heading to the kitchen via the living room when an object on the wall next to the stuffed reindeer head makes her stop. It’s a picture. A picture she hasn’t seen before. Two footprints in the sand, one halfway across the other, on pink photocopier paper. When did Mattis put that up? she wonders. And since when does he care about interior design? What on earth is the meaning of the two footprints in the sand? Could it be a subtle kind of marriage proposal?