by Karen Swan
What was it Anders had said? He wasn’t a troll but a stalker. That changed everything. Even just the imagery was different – taking the weak, hunched figure hiding behind a screen and switching it for a shadow across the street, a knock at her door, a breath on her neck . . .
A breath on her neck? A breath . . .
Her heart constricted tightly, forgetting to beat. Her body shuddered in disgust, just at the very thought. Or was it a memory? . . . It triggered a visceral response in her that she couldn’t explain, but it was a fear that felt present. Right here. Right now.
She looked around at the revellers, some of them lighting up cigarettes, others still swigging from beer bottles or talking on their phones, most of them looking over and watching this. Her.
She couldn’t stay here.
‘Fine. I’ll see you tomorrow then.’ She slid into the back seat, shutting the door on them both, their ridiculousness seemingly amplified now that their voices were drowned out, both of them stumbling and swaying about. ‘How much to Gerainger?’ she asked the driver, her stare remaining pinned to the men outside.
‘At this time of night?’ the driver asked in disbelief. ‘No, it is too far. The ferries are closed. It will take twice as long.’
‘Then I’ll pay you treble,’ she said without hesitation, watching as Zac began to stagger his way towards her. She realized with a start that she didn’t want him to come with her; the distance she had put between them suddenly made her want more.
‘Treble?’ the driver echoed. That appeared to change things. ‘Then it’ll be six thousand kroner.’
Bo calculated – that was, what, £600 or thereabouts? It was more than a flight home to England but flight from here was all she wanted right now. ‘Fine. But go now,’ she urged as Zac lurched over, within touching distance of the handle. ‘Quickly.’
The driver pulled away and she saw how Zac spun as he leapt back, tumbling to the ground in a wretched heap. Lenny meandered over, trying to pick him up and falling over too. Anja and Anna ran over and tried to help but it was like the blind guiding the blind, all of them as incapacitated as each other.
Bo watched until they were out of sight, the four of them spotlit by the street lamps. But that wasn’t what caught her eye in the darkness. It was the dozens of red lights flashing like tiny indicators in the shadows, strangers recording them, preparing to post these scenes of carnage and humiliation. This footage would tarnish their brand’s illusion of perfection, she knew, revealing the underbelly of their aspirational lives as something a little bit tawdry and pathetic. People would see, finally, that she and Zac weren’t anything special after all; they weren’t different. For years, the camera had shown half-truths about them, glimpses of moments people wanted to believe were entire and whole, and they, the Wanderlusters, had simply caught that wave and ridden it. They had surfed across oceans, exploiting every opportunity that had come their way until finally, here, they had hit rocks below the surface that left them all thrashing in the water. Bo knew she ought to be devastated. She knew this could be the end.
But all she actually felt was relief.
She sat in the back of the taxi, the sleeping mountains walling either side of the road as she was driven through the night. She looked out into the fathomless darkness. With no light pollution, it was impossible to tell where the earth ended and the sky began; but then, she didn’t think she could trace the outlines of anything real any more. She couldn’t trust anything or anyone. In the quiet, on her own, she could finally think and she closed her eyes as the disbelief continued to spread over her like a stain, for it wasn’t her fight on the street with Zac that was making her shake but that silence with Anders. Shock had her in its grip, the facts running at her before she pushed them away, unable to believe it, refusing to, and yet . . .
How could he have done it? Killed a man? On some levels, it somehow made perfect sense and yet she had seen his face as the revelation had ricocheted around the bar, as the weight of stares had amassed upon him, judgement passed in every set of eyes. Including hers.
She got out her phone and googled his name. Like her own, it was all that was needed. Far above the listing for the wholesome pursuits of cycling, hiking and kayaking in Geraingerfjord Guided Tours, were the less savoury headlines, so many of them: ‘Double murder in Grunerlokka’; ‘Brutal murder in hipster centre’; ‘Star-cross’d lovers . . .’ It almost defied belief that they could pertain to him. Was this why he’d been so reserved with them all? Had he been waiting for one of them to check him out, knowing that when they did, his past would override everything? He would be exposed and then condemned?
Bo clicked on one of the links, feeling her breath snag as an image came up of Anders with his girlfriend, the girl she had seen at his house – in the photograph, in the portrait hidden in the shed . . . They were on a ferry, the wind blowing her hair around so that all that could really be seen was her beautiful wide laughing mouth and sparkling eyes, Anders grinning and so proud beside her. From the captions, Bo saw her name was Inger Pedersen, twenty-six.
Twenty-six when she died.
No. It made no sense, the words like rubber bullets bouncing off her. That stunning, luscious, vital woman – how could she be dead? And how could he have done it? How could his obvious love for her have turned into murderous rage? Bo read on, feeling sick, not wanting to know but not remotely able to stop.
. . . Police are continuing to interrogate the main suspect in the case, Anders Jemtegard, a twenty-seven-year-old former pilot, found covered in blood at the scene. Originally from Gerainger, he was living with Miss Pedersen at the time of her death. Neighbours describe them as a lively, happy couple, always out and very popular.
. . . It is alleged the second victim, Jans Bakken, had been visiting Miss Pedersen when Jemtegard returned home unexpectedly early. It remains unclear whether Bakken and Pedersen were in a romantic relationship.
Police recovered two large kitchen knives at the scene and forensics specialists are continuing their investigations at the Grunerlokka address. Jemtegard remains in custody, under constant guard, believed to be at suicide risk . . .
Bo looked away, feeling drained, overwhelmed. How? How had he done this? How had he been this person? She remembered the day he’d made her coffee in the cabin – their easy conversation; how he’d saved her at the waterfall, his kindness in bringing her back to his own home, his concern this very afternoon . . .
She clicked on another headline.
Grunerlokka killer pleads not guilty . . . Anders Jemtegard, the twenty-seven-year-old pilot from Oslo, has pleaded not guilty to the double murder of his girlfriend Inger Pedersen and Jans Bakken who were found with multiple stab wounds on the night of 17 August 2013. Jemtegard’s defence team have put forward a plea of manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility . . .
Jealousy.
‘. . . I know what beauty can do to a man. They need to possess it. It makes them crazy. Turns them inside out.’ Signy had said that; she had been referring to her beloved grandson, turned mad with jealousy over the woman he’d loved.
This newspaper had used a different photograph of the couple. It looked to have been taken at a university ball, the two of them full-cheeked and fresh-skinned, Inger in a peach dress, Anders in black tie. They had made a striking couple and Bo knew that had she seen an image of the two of them on Instagram, she’d have followed them in a shot. They weren’t showy in their poses or outfits, yet they had a look of such togetherness, their bodies always angled in to one another even as they smiled or spoke to others . . . ‘Forever’ hung above them like a star, picking them out as special. Rare.
She clicked on a video link bringing up footage of a female news reporter standing outside a contemporary-looking building. She was wearing a camel coat and black scarf, trying not to shiver as sleet flashed past the camera screen like speeding bullets. ‘. . . The trial continued at Oslo District Court today, where in dramatic scenes, the defendant Anders Je
mtegard had to be removed from the dock when the prosecution tried to present photographic evidence showing the mortal wounds inflicted on the victims. Becoming visibly agitated and verbally abusive, Jemtegard was warned he was in contempt of court. The magistrate was forced to call a recess and Jemtegard was led back to the cells. Proceedings will resume tomorrow. Jemtegard is charged with double murder and faces the statutory maximum of twenty-one years’ imprisonment if found guilty . . .’
The footage cut to images of Anders being led out of the court and into the back of a police van. His hands were cuffed in front of him and he was wearing a suit. He looked gaunt, haunted, his eyes pinned to the ground as flashbulbs and jeers exploded around him, everyone watching, judging . . .
She clicked on another link, unable to stop looking. She had to know it all – who he was, what he had done.
Jemtegard guilty!
Anders Jemtegard, the twenty-seven-year-old defendant in the Grunerlokka murders, was today found guilty on both charges and sentenced to nineteen years’ imprisonment. Jemtegard’s defence counsel had argued not guilty to the murder of Ingers Pedersen but guilty to manslaughter due to diminished responsibility of Jans Bakken. The magistrate sentencing Jemtegard, said the level of violence involved made it one of the most disturbing cases he had dealt with and Jemtegard’s pleas had only added to the distress already suffered by the victims’ families.
Nineteen years. It was almost the maximum upper limit allowed to the judge. It was one of the most disturbing cases he had heard . . . So then why was Anders free? He had told her he had come back here last year – she had assumed to look after Signy, but knowing all this now, how could he have returned to Oslo? His was one of the most notorious faces in Norway. In a country with a population of just over five million – half the number of people watching her – there was nowhere to hide. So he had gone to ground, come home to a town with just 240 residents and set up a company dealing specifically with tourists, people who would know nothing of his past – to them, he was just the guy leading the hike or driving the boat, his hood up, his beard wild. He could spend his days up a mountain or on the water, far away from all those people who knew and judged and condemned.
But what had changed? Why was he out?
She entered a different search – ‘Anders Jemtegard freed’ – seeing the links scroll down in perpetuity.
‘Grunerlokka murderer appeals’; ‘Killer Jemtegard appears before Courts of Appeal’; ‘Grunerlokka killer freed!’ –
She clicked on it, feeling her heartbeat spike at the sight of Anders standing outside a building flanked by a team of suits, his eyes blazing as he stared directly into the cameras – defiant. Furious. Vindicated. Broken.
Anders Jemtegard, the thirty-one-year-old former pilot convicted of double murder, today saw his sentence sensationally overturned as new evidence was submitted to the courts. At the original trial four years ago, Jemtegard pleaded not guilty to the murder of his girlfriend Inger Pedersen and guilty to manslaughter on grounds of diminished responsibility of Jans Bakken. His defence team had unsuccessfully argued that Jemtegard killed Bakken after returning home and finding the other man covered in blood and standing over Miss Pedersen’s body on the floor in the apartment they shared. The prosecution had successfully argued the case against him based on forensic evidence taken from the injuries Pedersen sustained. However, in a dramatic twist, fresh material has been submitted to the courts proving Miss Pedersen had been stalked by Bakken in the weeks preceding the attack and that she was in fact attacked and killed by him. In light of the fresh developments, Jemtegard’s guilty verdict was quashed in the case of Pedersen and the murder charge against him for Bakken commuted to involuntary manslaughter and suspended in light of time already served. Jemtegard’s legal counsel said afterwards that his client was relieved the truth had been revealed at last and asked for privacy in the coming months that he might rebuild his life. It is understood the prosecution will not be appealing against the ruling and there are already calls for an enquiry into what is being called a ‘gross miscarriage of justice’ . . .
Dear God. Bo leant her head back against the headrest, her heart pounding erratically, trying to take it all in. So then he had served four years in prison for killing the man who had killed the woman he loved? She couldn’t even begin to imagine what he had endured, what he had seen . . .
She closed her eyes as the car continued to cut through the night, tears streaming silently and unseen.
The solitary light glowed like a lone star as the taxi wound its way down the Eagle Pass, taking the chicanes slowly, for the rain in Alesund was falling as thick snow here, fat flakes spinning past the window and banking along the road. The rest of the village was in darkness but for that one light. His.
It was almost three o’clock but he was home. He was up.
She forgot all about the magnificent fjord carpeted before her as she kept her gaze upon it, as though worried she might lose sight of it – or worse, that it might switch off.
Four minutes later, the taxi driver wearily thanking her as she handed over the cash, she stood at the top of the narrow lane by the converted boatsheds, staring down at the single square of light pooling on the ground. She walked, listening to the profound silence that closed in once the sound of the car faded away. The unseen and invisible had presence here – the sea breeze that skinned the water, the face-aching cold that swept down from the arctic tundra, the past. It swelled and filled the air in the darkness in a way that would never be possible in the light or the warmth. There was something epic and majestic about its sense of desolation and she wondered whether this was what it sounded like in space – not the absence of sound but the pulsing presence of silence.
The snow creaked with every footstep and, too soon, she found herself outside the pretty white cottage, looking down the side path to the front door. She didn’t even know why she had come. She had no words ready, no plan. Yes, the kayaks were moored by the jetty but it wasn’t like she could paddle the fjord and hike that path at this time of night. Nor could she knock on anyone’s door – even Annika and Harald’s kindly patience would be tested by a middle-of-the-night social visit. In truth, she hadn’t thought about what she would do when she arrived. She had simply known to follow her every instinct to leave Alesund and get back here.
And now she was, watching his shadow move in the twilight.
She knocked, bracing herself, trying to prepare what she should say. But what could she say, when he had seen in her eyes how quick she had been to judge and condemn, like the rest of them?
There was no reply and she knocked again, clutching the yellow jacket tighter, her gaze on her feet as she moved them about, trying to keep warm. After another minute of waiting, she looked up, scanning the upstairs windows. Had he seen her standing out here and refused to answer? Was that it? She dropped her head onto the door, her palms pressed flat against the wood as though not sure whether to knock, pound, beat it down.
But then she felt it, the weight of a stare upon her, and she turned. He was standing at the end of the path by the corner of the terrace, just watching her, a drink in his hand. He looked brooding, hostile and dangerous and she felt a frisson of fear because – justified though he had been – he had still killed a man, plunged a knife into another human body, over and over again.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked, his voice low but unfriendly.
‘I came . . . I came to see how you are.’ She walked towards him but stopped short, seeing the rage in his eyes.
‘Yeah, right.’ He turned away and disappeared from sight around the corner.
‘Anders, wait—’ She followed after him. He was already at the back door, the fjord at the end of the terrace lapping the stones, as though listening in like a curious aunt.
‘Go away, Bo.’
‘Please. I know what happened to you. To her.’
His eyes flashed. ‘She had a name.’
‘I know,’ she said quickly.
‘Inger. Inger Pedersen. She was twenty-six and you . . . you loved her. Completely. You were going to marry her.’
‘You don’t know that.’ The rebuttal was like the crack of a whip.
‘Yes I do. I saw the photographs. It was all there to see, how you felt about each other. And I know you would never have hurt her. That you’ve suffered twice over.’
His head dropped then, a spasm of pain contorting his face and she automatically reached out, needing to comfort him. But he sprang back, not trusting her, not trusting anyone to help.
Her hand dropped.
‘Just go.’ His voice was raw, his eyes red-rimmed and appearing bluer than ever.
‘But I want to help.’
‘How?’ he sneered, knocking the rest of his drink back. ‘How can you help me?’
‘The way you’ve helped me. By being a friend.’
He stormed over to her then, moving like a tornado – dizzying her, overwhelming her. ‘We are not friends.’
‘But—’
‘This is not friendship,’ he said, standing so close to her she felt she might fall back, his eyes boring into her. ‘I don’t need a friend.’ She could feel his anger coming off him like heat and she sensed a shift, as though a pane of glass had shattered between them, bringing him into clearer focus. His control was slipping. He was loosened. Vulnerable. Just a man.
‘So what, then? What do you need?’
He stared down at her then and she saw the answer perfectly spelled out in his eyes. And not for the first time. It had been flickering between them right from the start, from the first moment they’d met, but never quite brightly enough to grab or understand. It had been the acknowledgement she had been pushing for the night of the party, though she hadn’t known it then. But she did now. Now she understood with sudden clarity that she hadn’t left Alesund because of Ulla’s footage, or Him, or Zac and Lenny’s behaviour; she had left simply because he had; she had followed him here, her car chasing his through the night because even after what she’d been told he was, she hadn’t felt it. She knew him. Just like he knew her. Some people are like puzzle pieces – they just fit.