by Thomas Enger
‘He did.’
‘And what did you reply?’
‘I said I knew him. That I liked him. He was a really good singer. We got on fine.’
‘You played together in the school band, is that correct?’
‘We did.’
‘But you didn’t play in the band on the night of the murders, did you?’
‘No I didn’t.’
‘Why was that?’
‘Mari had just broken up with me, and I was, well, depressed. I didn’t think I could do it.’
‘You didn’t think you could do it … you mean you didn’t think you could perform?’
‘Yes. That’s what I meant.’ My cheeks were getting warmer. ‘I didn’t think I could sit there on stage and play, and maybe see her in the audience. I knew she was going to be there.’
‘How did you know that?’
‘She told me. She was going to write a piece on the opening night for the school newspaper.’
‘She had agreed to conduct an interview with Johannes Eklund after the show, hadn’t she?’
‘Yes. He was the star of the show.’
‘Did that make you jealous?’
‘That she was going to talk to him? No, not at all.’ I try to sit up more straight. ‘She was just doing her job.’
Ms Håkonsen checks the papers in front of her for a second, then looks up at me again.
‘According to the police records, PCI Mork asked you about the grazes on your hand.’
Without thinking about it, I glance at my hand. They’re gone now, of course, the grazes.
‘Yes, he did,’ I reply.
‘You had hurt yourself?’
‘On my way home from school that morning.’
‘What happened?’
‘I ran too fast.’
‘You ran too fast?’ Again, she sounds like she doesn’t believe me.
‘Yes. It was like … my mind was racing, and my legs couldn’t keep up. And I just fell forwards.’
I try to gesture with my hands, showing how I had just toppled over, how I had tried to break my fall. I can tell the prosecutor finds the whole incident strange. Which it was.
‘It was a heavy fall,’ I explain. ‘On a hard road.’
‘So you started to bleed?’
‘Yes, but I didn’t care. I … I wanted the pain’.
‘You wanted the pain…’
‘I just wanted to feel something, you know? So it would hurt somewhere else besides … besides in here.’ I touch my chest.
She lets this sink in for a while. It’s weird being so open about my feelings in front of so many people.
‘So when Mork asked you how you had got those grazes, did you worry they might implicate you in the murders somehow?’
‘Yes, I was afraid he’d think that.’
‘And why were you afraid of that?’
‘I knew what it looked like. And I knew my explanation – running and falling over sounded really stupid, like I’d made it up. Like when adults say they’ve cut themselves shaving, when everyone can tell they’ve been in a fight. I mean, I’m used to running. I run all the time. I never just fall on my face like that. And it was, what, less than half a day after my ex-girlfriend had been murdered. I knew I already had to be a suspect. I knew it didn’t look good for me. But I didn’t want to make up some bullshit story about my wounds, either. Imo told me to tell the truth, so that’s what I did.’
‘Imo told you that?’
‘Yes.’
I think back to that day – Yngve asking me if there was anything I knew about Mari or Johannes that might help them solve the case. If Mari had been in an argument with anyone, for instance. I said no, because at the time I didn’t really know. Then and there I really didn’t know anything about the last days of Mari’s life.
‘Tell us some more about the school show,’ Ms Håkonsen says next. ‘You said you didn’t play in the band. Who took your place?’
‘Imo. My uncle. He was the musical director of the show anyway. I told him about Mari and that I didn’t want to play. At first he tried to persuade me to change my mind, but I guess he understood what kind of state I was in, and then he said it was fine, he would step in for me. He’d written most of the songs anyway.’
‘That’s handy,’ Ms Håkonsen says. ’That he could just do that.’
‘Well, yes,’ I reply.
She adjusts her round glasses. ‘According to your statement that day, you didn’t go out at all that evening.’
I think about my answer for a few seconds. ‘I … thought I hadn’t,’ I say carefully.
‘You thought you hadn’t gone out?’
‘No, I … Well, what I meant, is that, at the time, I couldn’t quite remember what I did the evening of the…’ I still find it hard to say out loud.
‘The murders,’ Ms Håkonsen finishes for me.
‘Yes. But later I remembered that I’d taken the dog out for a walk. I’d promised my mother I’d do it.’
‘So, again, you kind of blacked out that bit?’
‘I didn’t black out, no. I just didn’t remember until later.’
‘But you’ve blacked out before, haven’t you?’
‘I … what do you mean?’
‘You’ve had episodes before where you’ve been so angry that you haven’t remembered until later what you’ve done.’
I realise what she’s talking about. I just didn’t think she would bring it up in court.
‘Yes,’ I say quietly.
‘Speak up, please,’ the judge orders.
‘Sorry. Yes. I … I sometimes lose my temper – when I play football mostly,’ I say. ‘I’ve seen red during a match a couple of times, and sort of blacked out, yes.’
Ms Håkonsen looks at me for a few seconds. ‘So you admit to being angry on the night of the murders. You admit to blacking out from time to time when you’re angry. And you didn’t, at first, recall having left the house that night.’
I know how it all sounds, but I have no choice – I have to agree with her.
‘What time did you go out with the dog?’
‘It must have been around eleven.’
‘And what time did the school doors close that evening?’
I wait for a moment. Then I say, ‘They always close at eleven.’
10
THEN
Yngve Mork parked outside Fredheim High School, questions still bouncing back and forth in his head after the interview with Even. He really didn’t know what to think. Even was clearly having a difficult time processing what had happened. But might he have answered Yngve’s questions a little bit too well? And the grazes … well, the explanation he gave for those really made an odd story.
Yngve also thought about the short conversation he’d had with Imo before going to Granholtveien 4. Imo had confirmed his arrangement with Tic-Tac about the door on the other side of the school. He had been allowed to park his car in the janitor’s spot last night, but said that he’d left a lot sooner than he expected to – somewhere between 10.30 and 10.40. And he’d been true to his word: he hadn’t told anyone else about the door being open.
Yngve got out of the car. Immediately he was met by a herd of reporters.
‘Mork, what can you tell us about the killer?’
‘Have you got any solid leads you’re working on?’
‘Do you have any suspects yet?’
‘Will there be a press conference anytime soon?’
Yngve didn’t answer any of them. He simply pushed forwards into the school building.
Inside, he was glad to see that Johannes Eklund’s body had now been removed. Four crime-scene investigators were examining the staircase, taking pictures from every angle possible, recording every mark, every trace of blood, every scrap of evidence they came across.
Therese Kyrkjebø was standing a few feet away from the staircase, monitoring the work while sipping from a paper cup. Ginger tea, probably. She’d been suffering from morning sickness, and thi
s certainly wasn’t helping.
‘There’s coffee for you here, if you want it.’
‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘How are we doing?’
‘I haven’t asked yet,’ she said with a shrug. ‘I thought I’d wait for you.’
Yngve related what had happened in the interview with Even Tollefsen.
‘So he wasn’t here at all last night?’ she asked.
‘That’s what he said.’
‘Well, there goes that theory.’
‘Yeah,’ Yngve said. ‘Maybe. Who’s in charge of the forensics team?’
Therese pointed to a short woman at the bottom of the staircase. Yngve went over, Therese following behind, and introduced himself.
The woman stood up. ‘Ann-Mari Sara. I’m in charge of the forensics division at Kripos.’
‘Thanks so much for coming in on such short notice.’
‘It’s what we do.’
Sara was in her early fifties. The white full-body forensics suit made it impossible to tell what she really looked like. The only thing Yngve noticed about her was her high cheekbones, and that her eyes were rather close together.
‘Have you discovered anything I should know about?’ Yngve asked.
‘A few things,’ Sara said – her accent indicating she originally hailed from the far north. ‘The victim on the staircase was beaten several times, probably with something sharp and fairly heavy.’
‘No idea what kind of object?’
‘None,’ Sara replied. ‘At least, not yet.’
‘What about the other victim?’ Therese asked.
‘I haven’t examined her closely yet, but she was most likely strangled. Someone tried to revive her afterwards.’
Yngve raised his eyebrows. ‘Revive her?’
‘We’ll have to wait for the preliminary autopsy,’ Sara said, ‘but according to one of my colleagues, at least two of the victim’s ribs were broken in a way that’s consistent with someone trying to do CPR a bit violently.’
So the perpetrator regretted killing her, Yngve thought. While the opposite seemed to be the case with Johannes Eklund.
‘Is it possible to say who was killed first?’ he asked.
‘Probably the girl,’ Sara said. ‘Whoever did this’ – she pointed to the staircase – ‘probably got blood on themselves, and there’s nothing on the girl.’
That sounds about right, Yngve thought.
‘One more thing,’ Sara said. ‘The female victim had a business card in her pocket.’
‘Yeah?’
‘It’s for a reporter.’
Yngve looked at Therese.
‘His name is Ole Hoff,’ Sara said. ‘You guys might know him.’
We do, Yngve thought to himself. He had spoken to Ole during the weekend about a stabbing that had taken place in the town centre.
He didn’t have any more questions for Sara, so he thanked her for her time and watched her return to work. Then he turned to Therese.
‘See if you can get hold of Ole,’ he said. ‘He and Mari had obviously been in touch.’
‘I’ll get right on it.’
‘Talk to the janitor as well. See if the surveillance cameras on the outside were in use last night. Maybe we’ll get lucky.’
‘I’ll do that, too,’ said Therese.
Just as she walked away, Vibeke Hanstveit arrived.
‘I’ve sent the extra detectives to the handball court,’ she said.
‘Good.’
‘They’re waiting for you.’
‘Very good, I’m just going to…’
Åse was standing by the wall a couple of feet away from them.
You’re always just going to…
Her voice, whether it was kind or scolding, was like a faint stream of light that always managed to break through the darkness. He both wanted it and didn’t want it to linger.
‘Yngve?’
He blinked. Hanstveit was staring hard at him.
‘Yes?’ he asked, rubbing his face.
Hanstveit looked at him for a few moments. Then, ‘Are you sure you’re up for this?’
‘Up for what? How do you mean?’
‘It’s only been a couple of weeks since you buried your wife. Are you sure your head is in the right place?’
Yngve looked over at the wall again. She wasn’t there anymore. He blinked a couple of times, quickly, in the hope that she would reappear. She didn’t.
‘Everyone knows how hard this is for you,’ Hanstveit continued. ‘But we have to do everything right, and do it fast. Especially now, when all of Norway is watching.’
Someone had said to him, after Åse had died, that he needed to talk to people. To his friends, his colleagues. You’re not the only one having a rough time, they’d said. Others loved her, too. Staying silent is a symptom of grief and sorrow. Of darkness. Helplessness.
Yngve hadn’t spoken a word about his grief to anyone, not even Hanstveit. He had shared so many of his anxieties with her that once Åse was finally gone, he’d found himself numb, unable to verbalise his pain.
‘I’m fine,’ he said and thought of the two people who’d been killed the previous night. The two children. ‘Seriously,’ he added. ‘It’s good for me to work. Good for me to think about something else.’
Hanstveit looked at him for a few moments. Then she said, ‘Just promise me one thing: let me know if this is too much for you to handle right now. OK?’
This is too much for me to handle.
He blinked a few more times. Searched the walls, the ceilings, for her.
You’ve got to help me, Yngve. I can’t take this anymore.
He swallowed hard.
You have to help me die.
‘I’m fine,’ he said without looking at Hanstveit. ‘Really. I am.
11
NOW
‘So it seems that things weren’t looking good for you early on,’ Ms Håkonsen says. ‘Is that why you wrote what you did on Facebook, after Yngve Mork had left?’
She lifts her chin and looks directly at me. I think about how upset I was after Yngve Mork left. I remember going back to my room to have a lie down. I didn’t know what to do. The messages kept pouring in. Whenever I looked at my Instagram account, there were pictures of Mari and Johannes. Among the R.I.P.s, the I can’t believe they’re deads, and all the I miss you so much, there were comments about me.
—Where is Even?
—Has anyone spoken to Even yet?
—I would SERIOUSLY like to know how Even feels about this.
—What if it’s him?
—I KNOW it’s him.
—I’m so going to KILL HIM if it is!
And there I was, trying to come to terms with the fact that Johannes and Mari were dead. It didn’t feel real. I remember wondering if that was why I wasn’t bawling my eyes out.
I remember flipping through the pictures people were posting. Mari laughing. Mari looking at something on the horizon, but with half an eye on the camera. A typical school photograph. Mari as a baby. Mari with her arm around Ida Hammer.
The photos of Johannes were all very similar: on stage, microphone to his mouth, dry ice in the background, his index and little fingers doing the let’s rock sign. Hundreds of people had liked those photos as well.
It didn’t seem right to do nothing. To say nothing. I didn’t really want to share my memories or my thoughts with anyone, but I kept on hearing Yngve Mork’s questions in my head. And the feeling that the whole of Fredheim was assuming I was the one who’d committed the murders was overwhelming. That was why I decided to go to my Facebook page.
‘Could you share with the court what you wrote, please?’
Ms Håkonsen approaches me with a piece of paper. I take a look at it. There they are. My own words. Looking at them again, I can’t believe I actually wrote them. They feel like words written by someone desperately trying to convince people he’s innocent.
I’ve never enjoyed reading out loud. But this is on a whole other level. At l
east two hundred people are looking at me.
I clear my voice before starting.
‘Most of you know that Mari and I were going out until only a few days ago. And lots of you will probably be thinking that I was upset and angry when she dumped me. And I’ll be honest, I was. But I could never – NEVER – have hurt her. I loved Mari. And I respected and looked up to Johannes. The world is a poorer place without them, and I will never forget them.’
My mouth has become as dry as sand, so I take a quick sip of my water and put down the piece of paper.
‘What was the response to that post?’
‘It was good. A lot of people liked it.’
‘Did that make you feel better?’
‘A little.’
‘But you still weren’t done defending yourself.’
I squint my eyes, not sure what she means.
‘You agreed to do an interview with Ole Hoff from the local newspaper, on the very same day, didn’t you? Wasn’t that rather soon – after everything that had happened, after being interviewed by the police?’
She turns around slightly to look at the people around us, like they all agree that it was an odd thing to do.
‘He called me,’ I say. ‘Said he’d come to my house to have a chat. Like it was just, you know, casual. I think I said yes because I wanted to talk about Mari. To try and sort out my own thoughts about her. Explain myself, maybe. And I knew Ole. He’s my best friend’s dad. And my mum wasn’t home, so…’
‘Your best friend – that’s Oskar, correct?’
‘Correct.’
‘But Ole didn’t just want to talk to you about your relationship with Mari, did he?’
I run a hand through my hair. It was getting a bit damp. ‘No, he didn’t.’
12
THEN
Before Ole arrived, I took another shower and put on some clean clothes. It made me feel a little bit better, but all the strength in my body seemed to have left me. Just walking up the stairs from my bedroom exhausted me.
Ole had worked on the Fredheim Chronicle for twenty-two years. Five more than my entire existence. I liked Ole – he was always cheerful, at least when I was around. He was quite strict with Oskar, but I thought that maybe real parenting should be like that.