Inborn

by Thomas Enger

  ‘I didn’t.’

  I saw them exchanging looks. ‘We never thought you did,’ Kaiss said, but it didn’t feel like he meant it. ‘Would we be here if we did?’

  I didn’t know what to say to that.

  For a moment or two we just sat there listening to Kaiss strumming the guitar, lost in our own thoughts.

  ‘The only positive thing about this is that the girls want to be hugged all the time,’ Fredrik said.

  It made me laugh. Fredrik was desperate for a girlfriend.

  ‘So go on, then,’ I said. ‘What are the rumours? What are people saying? What are the police saying?’

  ‘Well,’ Oskar started, taking his time, ‘the police aren’t saying much. They want to talk to everyone who was at the show last night.’

  ‘That’s going to take forever,’ Fredrik said.

  ‘But what about the rumours – what’s everyone else saying?’ I asked.

  ‘They…’ Oskar exchanged looks with the others again. ‘People … don’t know.’ I could tell that he was lying. That he only wanted to spare me.

  ‘Lots of people have liked your post,’ he said, looking at his phone. I could tell that he was on Facebook. And then he frowned for a moment, and looked at me quickly.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  Oskar didn’t seem to know what to say. So he just handed me his phone. I looked at the screen and saw my own post about Mari and Johannes. Eighty-eight likes and thirteen comments. A lot of hearts and R.I.P.s. I scrolled to the bottom, and my heart almost stopped. Just a few minutes ago a guy called Børre Halvorsen had written:

  You’re lying. I saw you.

  17

  NOW

  ‘What did you think when you read that?’

  The prosecutor has her arms behind her back as she walks slowly up and down in front of me.

  ‘Well, I was shocked,’ I say. ‘Couldn’t really understand why he would write something like that. Or believe it.’

  ‘Did you know Børre Halvorsen well?’

  ‘Not really. I knew he was one of the taggers in town – the kids who do graffiti. But no, I didn’t know him. I’d never spoken to him. I suppose he might have known me, though. Because of the football, maybe. I’d been in the local newspaper quite a lot.’

  Ms Håkonsens purses her lips. ‘And at that point you still didn’t remember that you had been out the previous night, walking your dog?’

  I shake my head and say no. A quiet murmur spreads across the room. The lawyer doesn’t look at me while asking her next question.

  ‘How did your friends react to Børre’s comment?’

  I search for Oskar’s eyes in the audience. He doesn’t want to meet mine.

  18

  THEN

  I looked at the screen, my jaw dropping. I couldn’t get a word out. I just sat there and stared.

  ‘What the actual fuck?’ I finally muttered.

  Fredrik and Kaiss got out their phones to check the feed themselves.

  ‘It’s not true,’ I told them, in a much quieter voice than I had intended. None of my friends answered. ‘It’s not true,’ I repeated, louder this time. ‘He can’t have seen me. I was here, in my room, all evening. Tobias was at home, he knows, he can…’

  No, I said to myself. He couldn’t.

  I handed Oskar his phone. No one said anything, they just nodded, slowly. Seventeen people had already liked Børre Halvorsen’s comment.

  They believed him.

  They fucking believed him.

  ‘Want us to find the idiot?’ Oskar asked. ‘Find out what the hell he’s talking about?’

  I wanted to find Børre myself and beat the shit out of him, telling lies like that, but I knew that would be stupid, so I said: ‘Yeah. Maybe.’ Then: ‘Yes. That would be great, actually.’

  Oskar leapt up from the bed. ‘Alright,’ he said, looking at Fredrik and Kaiss. ‘Let’s go, then.’

  Kaiss put down the guitar. I got up, hoping for a hug or a fist bump as they left my room.

  ‘Talk later,’ Oskar said. He was already in the staircase. Fredrik put his hands in his pockets and just nodded as he walked past me.

  ‘Talk later,’ Kaiss said too, and hurried after the others.

  ‘Yeah,’ I replied, my voice all quiet and slow. I remained where I was while my friends walked up the stairs without saying another word. I heard the front door open and then shut a moment later. The silence in the house made me realise that I’d never felt more alone.

  19

  Yngve placed his finger on the doorbell, but waited a few seconds before pressing it. This was the worst part of his job – talking to people who’d just lost a loved one. He’d done it many times, but nothing ever really prepared you for it. This time, with a child involved, it was worse than ever.

  The tiny woman who opened the door seemed to jump at the sight of him. She said ‘hi’ in a voice that was a little too loud – as if she was happy to see him. She introduced herself as Kari-Mette Bjerkaas, Mari’s aunt, Cecilie Lindgren’s sister. She had a small mouth with thin lips. And she was so lean, she reminded Yngve of a long-distance runner.

  ‘Come on in,’ she said with a low voice, as if she didn’t want to wake someone.

  Yngve entered and untidied his shoes. ‘How are they doing?’ he asked, even though he knew the question was silly.

  ‘Cecilie won’t come out of Mari’s room,’ Bjerkaas said. ‘She hardly speaks. Frode is out on the veranda.’

  She led Yngve into the living room.

  ‘Can you please ask your sister whether she could speak to me for a few minutes? It would be really helpful.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  Bjerkaas offered him a thin smile, before quietly ascending the stairs. Yngve took a look around while he was waiting. He noticed some photos of Mari on the wall – one in which she was wearing a swimsuit with a medal hanging from her neck. There were trophies on the mantel. A drawing of a house and a sun. It said Mari, 8 years in the bottom right-hand corner. Her confirmation photo was also there, right next to a picture of the family on a hillside somewhere, with fjords and clouds in the background. Another photo showed Mari when she couldn’t have been more than a few months old, but Yngve could easily recognise her features. She was lying on her stomach, head slightly tilted from the floor. Hairless. Smiling. Beautiful.

  At that moment, Yngve was glad he and Åse had never managed to have kids. If they had, he wouldn’t be the only one grieving like he was right now. He would have needed to consider, to take care of someone else, too. It was more than enough to look after himself.

  Not that they hadn’t tried for children. Åse just couldn’t get pregnant. At one point they discussed IVF treatment, and even adoption, but in the end they just decided that it wasn’t meant to be. A silly thing to say, maybe, but it was like they somehow were going to war with nature. Maybe there was a reason why they shouldn’t have children.

  A draught from an open door made Yngve turn to the veranda. He could see the back of a man sitting out there. He wandered outside and found Frode Lindgren sitting on the stairs that led down to the lawn. His face was ash grey, and his eyes were red and swollen. His feet extended out from the stairs and onto the grass. His feet were getting wet, but he didn’t seem to care. When he saw Yngve he stood up and began to remove his drenched socks.

  ‘Have you found the bastard who did this?’ he asked, standing on one foot and without looking at Yngve.

  ‘Not yet,’ Yngve said. ‘But we’re working as fast as we can. Which is why I’m here. It’s imperative that I speak to you. Both of you. Think you can do that?’

  Frode lifted his shoulders before lowering them again. He opened his mouth wide, as if to bring the muscles in his face back to life.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said eventually. ‘Let’s try that. Whatever you need.’

  He motioned for Yngve to go back inside.

  As Frode closed the veranda door behind them, Cecilie came slowly down the stairs. She was holdin
g on to the bannister, her sister beside her, trying to keep her steady. Yngve offered them all his condolences, but none of them replied.

  Cecilie sat down on the sofa. Her sister removed a cup and a glass from the coffee table, and left the room. Yngve produced a notepad and a pen.

  ‘I’ll try to do this as quickly as I can,’ he said. The three of them were sitting opposite each other, in a triangle, the table between them. ‘We’re trying to get an idea of Mari’s movements the last days before…’ He didn’t finish the sentence. ‘Who she talked to, where she was, whether or not something in particular was bothering her…’

  Frode looked at his wife. She was staring at something in front of her. Her eyelids moved slowly, as if even the slightest movement required effort.

  As neither of them spoke Yngve pressed on: ‘I assume she was at school?’

  ‘I think so,’ Frode said. ‘I haven’t been around the last couple of days.’

  ‘You haven’t?’

  ‘No, I’ve been…’

  Frode didn’t finish the sentence. He looked at his wife, who continued to stare distantly in front of her.

  ‘Do you know if Mari had argued with anyone? Friends? School mates?’

  Frode was now rolling his wet socks into a ball. ‘Not that we know of,’ he said. ‘Mari was…’ He looked away for a beat. ‘She had a lot of friends,’ he continued. ‘Everybody liked Mari. At least, that was my impression.’

  ‘What about you, Cecilie?’ Yngve asked.

  Tears were streaming down her face, but she didn’t make a sound. She was moving her head slowly from side to side.

  ‘She was seeing Even Tollefsen until recently?’ Yngve asked.

  Somewhere in the house a phone rang, but the noise stopped almost immediately. A heavy silence followed.

  ‘Yes, she … was,’ Frode replied.

  ‘Do you know what happened between them?’

  Frode squeezed his socks so hard his knuckles turned white. He looked at his wife briefly, then shook his head.

  ‘Did either of you go to the school performance last night?’

  ‘I … did,’ Frode said.

  ‘You went alone?’

  ‘Yes, Cecilie didn’t…’ Again he didn’t finish.

  Yngve waited a moment before continuing. ‘Did you speak to your daughter while you were there?’

  ‘Only briefly. She was very busy.’

  Yngve used the pause that followed to make a few notes, mostly to fill time. Then looked up again. ‘We couldn’t find Mari’s mobile phone,’ he said in a soft voice. ‘Neither in her bag, nor anywhere else at school. Do you have any idea where it might be?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Frode said.’

  ‘It’s broken.’ Cecilie’s voice was quiet and slow.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just know that it’s broken.’

  ‘So where is it?’

  ‘Repair shop, probably.’

  ‘Do you know which one?’

  She shrugged.

  Yngve nodded and made a note.

  ‘We couldn’t find her keys, either,’ he continued. ‘Do you know if they’re here?’

  ‘I can check,’ Frode said and got up. He seemed happy to have something to do.

  Yngve tried to make eye contact with Cecilie while her husband was out of the room, but it was almost as if she was in a trance.

  ‘They’re not in the basket in the hall,’ Frode said as he returned and sat down. ‘That’s where she leaves them.’

  ‘Alright. Is there anything about the keys that would make it easier for us to identify them?’

  ‘The keychain has a blue-and-white string on it,’ Frode offered. ‘I think it has three keys.’

  Yngve made a note of that as well. Then waited a beat before asking: ‘She had started to work for the school newspaper, is that right?’ Once more he looked from one parent to the other.

  ‘Yes,’ Frode said and lowered his head again.

  Yngve waited for Cecilie to speak, but she didn’t.

  ‘According to my colleague your daughter came by the precinct the other day, asking questions about a car accident. Do you know anything about that?’

  Cecilie started to sob. Frode squeezed the socks again.

  Yngve knew he had to press them. ‘Do you know anything about that?’ He turned towards Cecilie this time, as if addressing her directly.

  Slowly she lifted her gaze, then whispered a dry no. She then turned towards her husband, whose cheek muscles were pulsing – on and off, on and off.

  ‘No, we don’t know anything about that,’ he said quickly.

  Again Yngve took his time writing.

  ‘We also found Ole Hoff ’s business card among Mari’s things,’ he said. ‘Did she talk to you about needing to speak to him about something?’

  Frode stood up and took a few steps away from them. Cecilie followed his movements with tear-filled eyes. Frode had his back towards them, one hand on his hip, the other in front of his eyes.

  Yngve waited.

  And waited.

  ‘I … gave it to her,’ Frode Lindgren finally said. ‘Ole’s business card.’

  He turned to face Yngve. Fresh tears had formed shiny stripes on his cheeks. He wiped them away with the sleeve of his shirt and snorted at the same time. ‘The other day, she asked me about that … car accident.’

  ‘Which car accident?’

  Frode looked at Cecilie. All of a sudden his eyes seemed angry.

  ‘The accident in which Jimmy Tollefsen was killed,’ he said.

  ‘Even’s father,’ Yngve said, for confirmation.

  ‘Yes,’ Frode said. ‘I didn’t know much about it, so I suggested she should go and ask Ole. He was already working at the Fredheim Chronicle back then.’ Frode’s voice had picked up some pace and intensity.

  ‘So … you did know that Mari was working on that particular story.’ Yngve said it as something between a remark and a question.

  Seconds passed before Frode said: ‘Yes, I…’ Then he shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. This is all a bit too much for us right now. I hope you can appreciate that.’

  ‘Of course,’ Yngve said.

  He waited a few seconds, then nodded and got up slowly.

  ‘I want you to call me if you can think of anything that might be important to the investigation. Anything at all. I’m available around the clock. I’m usually awake, too, so it’s really no bother if you call.’ He handed Frode his business card. ‘Thanks for agreeing to talk to me.’

  Cecilie neither replied nor moved as Yngve headed for the hall and put on his shoes. Frode walked him out.

  ‘Is it alright if I send a team over to take a look at Mari’s room?’ Yngve asked. ‘They might find something important.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Frode said. ‘That’s perfectly alright.’

  Yngve offered his hand. Frode took it with a firm grip.

  ‘Take care of each other now,’ Yngve said. ‘You and Cecilie.’

  Frode opened his mouth as if to say something, but he stopped himself and looked away.

  ‘Just … catch that son-of-a-bitch,’ he said. ‘You hear me, Mork? Just get that bastard.’

  ‘We’ll do everything we can,’ Yngve said. ‘You have my word on that.’

  20

  Yngve drove straight back to the handball court, which was located in a separate building a few hundred yards away from the school’s main entrance. It was raining so hard as he arrived, it was almost impossible to see through the car windows.

  Yngve parked right in front of the entrance to the court. He ran up the stairs to avoid the rain, but he was still wet through in seconds, and not for the first time today.

  Inside he met up with Vibeke Hanstveit.

  ‘We’ve conducted thirty-four interviews so far,’ the police attorney said.

  ‘Good,’ Yngve said as he took off his police jacket and hung it up to dry. ‘Anything interesting yet?’

  ‘I don’
t know. I’ve only just collected them.’

  A student – a girl with long, straight hair – came out of one of the changing rooms, a woman beside her. Yngve assumed it was her mother. Both looked at him nervously.

  He fetched himself a cup of coffee, then sat down to look through the pile of interview transcripts. He flicked through them, looking for mentions of when the students had left the school premises the previous night, who they were with, and if they noticed anything out of the ordinary – anything the police could or should be aware of. About midway through the pile he stopped and looked at a quote from an interviewee named Frida Higraff.

  Even Tollefsen says that he wasn’t there, but I’ve heard that he was. If I were you, I would talk to him about this.

  Beside, in the margin, the detective who had conducted the interview had written:

  Check Facebook, and check BØRRE HALVORSEN.

  Yngve was about to do just that when Therese Kyrkjebø entered the room. She stamped hard a few times, to shake the water from her shoes. Her hair was wet, too, as were her clothes, which strained across her growing bump.

  ‘How did it go at Johannes Eklund’s parents?’ Yngve asked.

  ‘As expected,’ Therese answered with a sigh. ‘They are in shock, obviously. Heartbroken. Johannes hadn’t argued with anyone they could think of. He was a happy kid. Popular.’

  Therese also got herself some coffee. ‘How did it go at Mari’s?’

  Yngve told them how quiet Cecilie and Frode had become when he asked them about Even Tollefsen and the car accident.

  ‘Which car accident?’ Hanstveit asked, and Yngve filled them in.

  ‘Mari came by the office the other day and asked if she could see the police report,’ Therese said. ‘She was writing a piece about it.’ She blew on the contents of her cup. ‘We don’t usually hand out stuff like that, so I just said no, she couldn’t.’ She took a sip and made a face as if it was still too hot. ‘But it’s a bit more interesting now, of course. As Mari was seeing Jimmy Tollefsen’s son up until a few days before her murder.’