by Thomas Enger
Yngve told them how Frode Lindgren had initially said that he didn’t know what kind of story Mari was working on for the school newspaper, but later admitted that he did.
‘So he lied about it at first?’ Hanstveit said.
‘It would appear so,’ Yngve said.
‘Why lie about something like that?’ Therese wondered.
‘Why lie in general?’ Yngve asked back. ‘You do it to hide something. In an ongoing police investigation, in the case of their murdered daughter, I find that suspicious. Weird, in fact.’
There was a moment’s silence.
‘So … do you think the car accident has something to do with…?’ Hanstveit didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t have to.
‘I don’t see how it can,’ Yngve said at first. ‘I worked that case myself over a decade ago. I remember it well, too. There was nothing suspicious about it. Jimmy had a turn of some kind. Susanne, his wife, tried to take over the wheel, but it was too late. Crash, boom…’
Another student entered the building, accompanied by a man. Hanstveit approached them and showed them where to go.
‘But I guess it wouldn’t hurt to look at that report again,’ she said when she got back. ‘Just in case.’
‘By all means,’ Yngve said. ‘I don’t think we’ll find anything, though.’
They drank their coffee in silence for a little while. Yngve moved another piece of paper from the pile and started at the top of another interview.
‘Johannes’ parents wondered if we’d found his microphones,’ Therese said after a beat. ‘He always brought them in some kind of case. They were special, the microphones. Expensive.’
‘Their kid’s been murdered, and that’s what they ask you?’ Yngve said.
‘They asked me all kinds of things, but as far as the microphones go, I think they had some kind of sentimental value to them; don’t ask me how. They wanted them back, though, if we could find them.’’
Yngve tried to recall the crime scene. No, he hadn’t seen a case anywhere. He put down his coffee cup and prepared to leave.
‘Where are you going?’ Therese called after him.
‘To talk to the forensics team,’ he said.
‘Wait, I’ll come with you.’
Back inside the school Yngve and Therese managed to find Ann-Mari Sara from the Kripos team on the second floor, outside the music room. Yngve asked her if they had found a microphone case. Sara consulted a large form inside a see-through plastic folder.
‘Nope,’ she confirmed. ‘No case.’
Yngve turned to Therese. ‘I want you to find out exactly what that case looks like,’ he said. ‘Pictures, preferably from all angles, would be perfect. If Johannes Eklund was careful about his microphones, it’s likely that he had them with him when he was leaving the school premises last night. He obviously got into a fight with his killer,’ he said, ‘so the killer might have torn it from his hands.’
‘And since we haven’t found any cases here…’
‘…then that may well be our murder weapon.’
21
I spent the rest of the afternoon in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the murderer – who was still out there somewhere. I tried to wrap my head around what had happened, and why. My brain was working at full speed. It was impossible to shut it down. I kept seeing Mari in front of me. Alive and well. Sometimes my mind went crazy and imagined all kinds of ways she had been killed. I wondered what she had looked like when the police found her. The thoughts made me nauseous.
I pictured the scarf Mari always wore when it was cold – a big, fluffy red one. It was so huge it was like a blanket. I felt her hand in mine when we were at the cinema, her nails digging into my skin when she jumped at something scary in the movie. I remembered when she caught her finger in the door at home, and pretended it didn’t hurt. She swallowed the pain, but the tears in her shiny, beautiful, brown eyes gave her away just a few seconds later. And then I had hugged her.
It was dark outside my basement window when Imo called.
‘Hey champ,’ he shouted into his phone. He was in the car. ‘Get ready,’ he said. ‘I’ll be there to pick you up in three minutes.’
‘You’re going to pick me up?’
There was a slight pause. ‘Your mum didn’t tell you?’
‘Tell me what?’ I asked.
My uncle sighed heavily at the other end. ‘You’re spending the night at my place.’
‘I am?’
‘You are. You need to be with someone tonight, and your mother … well, you know what she’s like about death.’
I knew what he meant. When Gran died, my mother cried for days and days. I knew it wasn’t just because her mother had passed – she’d been ill for years, after all, and Mum had said on more than one occasion that she hoped she wouldn’t go on suffering for long. The reason Mum was so upset, I always thought, was because Gran’s death, the funeral afterwards and all the attention Mum got in the days that followed, made her think of Dad again.
And now, death was here again – and it had come a little too close for comfort. One of the victims was my ex-girlfriend. A girl my mother had met.
‘What about Tobias?’ I asked.
‘Oh, he had other plans,’ Imo said.
I could only imagine what kind. He would probably put a pizza or two in the oven and then sit up in his room all night playing CoD or FIFA or whatever.
‘Not sure I really want to do this today,’ I said.
‘No, maybe not, but you’re going to anyway,’ Imo said. ‘It’s not right for you to be alone tonight.’
I thought about it for a few moments.
‘Come on,’ my uncle said. ‘I promised your mum I’d look after you. Don’t be a spoilsport.’
I sighed and sat down on the bed, stroked my hair back.
‘OK,’ I said, ‘Give me five minutes.’
Imo was sitting in the car with the engine running when I came out of the house. The window on the passenger side was open.
‘Tell me you haven’t eaten,’ he shouted.
To be honest, I hadn’t given much thought to food at all over the past few days.
‘I haven’t,’ I said.
‘Well, you’ve got something to look forward to then,’ he said with a grin. ‘Tonight, I’ll cook you an Imo Special.’
An ‘Imo Special’ was nothing more than ready-made lasagne, garlic bread and a homemade salad, but it was a good meal. I’d had it plenty of times at his house.
I got into the car, which smelled fresh and clean for a change. Imo pulled me close. ‘How are you, champ?’ he said, while patting my shoulder. I sighed.
‘Not good.’
I pulled out my phone and showed him Børre Halvorsen’s Facebook comment. My uncle frowned as he read it.
‘It’s complete nonsense, of course,’ I said. ‘I was in my room all night.’
Imo said nothing for a short while. He looked like he was thinking. ‘Just ignore it then,’ he said at last, and put his hand on the gearstick. ‘As long as you stick to the truth, there’s no reason to worry.’
‘I’m not really worried either,’ I said, even though it felt like a lie. ‘I’m more pissed off that he wrote what he did, and that people are liking it or thinking there might be some truth to it.’
Imo put the car into gear. ‘Don’t bother about it,’ he said. ‘It’s probably a misunderstanding. It’ll sort itself out.’
I decided to believe him.
It was still raining. I couldn’t believe the amount of rain that continued to pour down on us. It was like God was angry or something. The streetlights made golden circles on the wet pavements. And even though it was windy, leaves were stuck to the ground.
There wasn’t much traffic, but every time we met a car, it felt like the drivers and the passengers were staring at us, me in particular. The few people that were out walking also seemed to stop and follow us with their eyes. I watched them, wondering how much they knew about what h
ad happened, if one of them was the murderer. I knew it was a stupid thought, but I couldn’t stop myself.
As we headed towards the centre of Fredheim, I turned to Imo and said: ‘Can we drive by the school?’
He looked at me. ‘You mean now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why do you want to go there, Even? I mean, now?’
I wasn’t really sure myself, I just felt like I needed to see the place again. It was still so unreal, what had happened. Maybe I just needed to see if the nightmare was real or not. Imo gave me a long look. Then nodded reluctantly.
‘Oh my God,’ I said as we drove up the slope leading to the school.
Cars with media logos on their bonnets and vans with satellite dishes on their roofs were parked just outside the school perimeter. I saw men and women who presumably had never set foot in our tiny little town before, but were here in numbers, as part of their job. I saw faces I’d only ever seen on TV. Camera crews, radio journalists with microphones in their hands. Others who were checking the light on their cameras or talking to someone on the phone. It dawned on me for the first time that this wasn’t something that only concerned us in Fredheim. It affected the whole of Norway.
The school building was still cordoned off. There were several police cars outside the entrance. I thought I saw people turning towards us, and I slid down in my seat. It was as though a wall of hate and suspicion had sprung up in front of me.
I looked over to the handball court, where we normally had PE. There were loads of people outside that entrance as well.
‘That’s where they’re interviewing people,’ Imo said. ‘The police, that is.’
It was too far away for me to recognise anyone.
‘Have they questioned you yet?’ I asked.
‘I haven’t been interviewed formally yet, no. I did speak to Mork this morning, though. Briefly.’
‘What did he ask you?’
My uncle took a deep breath. ‘He wanted to know when I left the school, what exit I’d used, if I’d seen anything. Just a few basic questions really, to begin with. First they just want to work out who they need to talk to some more.’
‘And you’re one of them?’
Imo shrugged and said: ‘I don’t think so, but … who knows?’
I moved in my seat so I could face him better. ‘Did you see anything?’ I asked. ‘Did you see Mari?’
‘I did,’ he said. ‘Straight after the show. She was going to interview Johannes.’
I stared at him, waiting for more. ‘I was busy talking to people,’ he continued. ‘You know what it’s like after a show. Everyone wants a word. I had some equipment to sort out as well, so I didn’t really pay attention to anything. Then I went home.’
‘How many people were still there when you left?’
He turned to me with a fleeting smile. ‘That’s what Mork asked me as well. Hard to say. I didn’t count. Fifteen, twenty people, maybe.’
‘Did you know them? Could you recognise them, do you think?
Imo sighed. ‘I was tired. I really didn’t think about anything apart from getting home.’
I could understand that. Imo had been working day and night in the run-up to the show.
‘Have you seen enough?’ he asked.
‘I think so,’ I replied.
‘OK,’ he said and put a firm hand on my thigh. ‘Let’s eat, then. I’m starving.’
22
NOW
‘So you felt the net was closing in around you?’ Ms Håkonsen asks with her back turned to me. She’s looking into the audience, as if enjoying the attention.
‘I did,’ I say. ‘Definitely.’
‘At that point, how did you feel about your mother?’ The prosecutor turns around to face me again. ‘I mean, she’d picked a fight with you over a reporter, for no apparent reason, at least as far as you knew, and she shied away from her duty as a mother on a night that clearly wasn’t easy for you, her son.’
It wasn’t really a question, but she clearly wants me to say something in reply.
‘Like I said before, I was used to Mum being weird and … non-mummish, if that’s even a word.’
Ms Håkonsen smiles. ‘I’m sure it’s admissible.’
I smile back. Then, like the flick of a switch, she’s dead serious again.
‘Did you know, at the time, that your mother had been to the school show that night?’
‘I hadn’t thought to ask if she had been, but I knew she had a ticket. I was supposed to play in the band, and Imo was the musical director – and I know she doesn’t like to waste money, so I presumed she was still going.’
‘Did you have any suspicions about your mother at that time?’
‘About Mum being involved in the murders somehow?’
‘Yes, that’s what I’m asking.’
‘No, I did not.’
Ms Håkonsen seems to think about that for a moment.
‘OK. Take us through your evening with Imo. It was a rather special night, wasn’t it?’
I breathe in sharply, then let the air out slowly through my nose.
‘It most certainly was.’
23
THEN
Imo’s house was about eight kilometres outside Fredheim, in the middle of nowhere. As well as being a musician, my uncle was a pig farmer. He had built a small music studio next to the pig shed. My friends and I were free to use it whenever we wanted.
He parked his big old green Mercedes outside the house, as close as possible to the front step. It was a lot darker here than in town. Trees of all kinds surrounded the farm. My uncle didn’t bother with any extra lighting, except for a small lamp on the wall outside the house. A strong gust of wind made the leaves and the branches move, like they were dancing. It smelled of forest and mud as well. The rain had eased off a bit. Now it was just an icy drizzle.
I helped my uncle carry the shopping bags inside and couldn’t help but notice that he’d been to the off-licence as well.
‘First,’ he said, putting the bags on the worktop, ‘we’ll fill our stomachs. Then…’ he took out a bottle with the picture of a cactus on the label ‘…we’ll get shitfaced.’
I raised my eyebrows.
‘Come on, don’t pretend you haven’t been hammered before. And if there was ever an evening when you need it, champ, it’s today. Tonight, I mean. Just don’t tell your mum. She might be as fragile as a leaf these days, but boy, when she’s angry, she’s dangerous.’
He smiled and winked at me. I took a step closer and looked at the bottle.
‘Tequila, Imo?’
‘Mhm?’
He moved quickly around the kitchen, opening the fridge, turning on the oven, pulling out drawers and getting out dishes and plates and pots and pans. ‘Have you got a problem with tequila?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I’ve never tried it before.’
I didn’t feel like drinking at all. The rage that I’d felt when Børre first posted his comment had drained away, but Mari was back in my thoughts again, and it was starting to really sink in that I would never ever see her again. I found it hard to think of anything but how it felt to hold her, how her head sometimes rested against my chest, how she liked to listen to my heart beating. It was suddenly difficult to breathe.
I tried to eat something, as I worried about how the evening might end if I didn’t. Imo was right, I had had a few beers before, but I certainly wasn’t a seasoned drinker. My friends sometimes teased me about it, saying I was always so serious about my football. Come on, loosen up a bit, they’d say.
When we’d finished eating, Imo poured some tequila into a small schnapps glass. ‘The normal thing would be to drink this with salt and lemon,’ he said. ‘But normal is boring, so I normally don’t bother.’
I looked at him. ‘So … you don’t like boring, which is why you’re doing something boring?’
He looked at me quizzically.
‘You said you normally don’t bother.’
He laughed at me and smiled. ‘I knew you had a decent head on you. Go on, take a small sip, just for starters.’
I did as I was told. Even though I swallowed only a teaspoonful, it burned all the way down my throat. I coughed. My uncle laughed again.
‘One more,’ he said. ‘You’ll get used to it after a while.’
I could not for the life of me understand why people voluntarily drank this. And even claimed to like it.
‘It’s good, isn’t it?’
I sent Imo a pointed look and took another sip. ‘If you love barbed wire,’ I said, having tried once more to swallow it. My head felt like it was on fire.
‘I’ll go put some music on,’ Imo said. ‘Let’s leave all the washing-up. I can do that in the morning. The mice will be happy.’
Soon music was pouring out of the enormous loudspeakers in Imo’s living room. As I sat on the sofa he put out a bowl of crisps, while humming to the music and doing a kind of dance. ‘It sounds like he’s playing seven guitars simultaneously,’ he said.
We were listening to Tommy Emmanuel, Imo’s favourite guitarist. He just couldn’t stop moving to the music. He refilled my glass and spilled a little. I reluctantly took another sip. The tequila still made my throat and chest burn, but not as much as before.
We sat there for a while, just listening to the music, drinking. Imo sent a text to someone.
‘Just checking that your brother is OK,’ he said.
I looked at the bottle. We’d finished maybe a quarter of it. I was starting to feel the effects.
‘So how come you never got married, Imo?’
He looked at me with a frown. ‘Why do you ask?’
I really didn’t know, and I said so. Maybe it was because it was impossible not to think of Mari all the time. Truth be told, before she died I had started to think of her as someone I would be with for a very long time. I knew it was silly – we hadn’t been dating that long, and we were still young – but I just hadn’t been able to stop myself.
‘Well,’ Imo started, then paused. ‘It’s never really been that important to me. And anyway,’ he said, patting his belly as he burped discreetly, ‘it would be a shame to keep all this Imo for just one person, don’t you think?’