Inborn

by Thomas Enger

  Once again he punched the number for Børre’s mother, Filippa, into his phone. He had tried to call her several times earlier in the day, as Børre’s own phone seemed to be disconnected.

  She answered with a slow, sleepy voice. Finally. Yngve introduced himself and told her that he was trying to get hold of her son.

  ‘What’s he done this time?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ Yngve replied. ‘I just want to talk to him.’

  ‘Børre isn’t here,’ she said. ‘I have no idea where he is.’

  ‘When do you think he’ll be in?’

  ‘He doesn’t live here anymore’, she sighed. ‘Not regularly, at least. He comes by every now and then. When he wants money.’

  Yngve heard Filippa Halvorsen take a long drag on a cigarette.

  ‘So where does he live now, then?’

  ‘With his lousy excuse of a father. Or … with friends. I don’t know.’ There was a spiteful tone in her voice.

  ‘How old is your son?’ Yngve asked.

  ‘Fifteen. No, sorry, he just turned sixteen.’

  Yngve told Filippa Halvorsen to get Børre to call him back, if she saw him that evening. ‘Or I can just stop by his school tomorrow.’

  ‘Heh,’ she snorted. ‘Good luck with that.’

  Yngve was about to ask what she meant, but Filippa Halvorsen beat him to it. ‘They called me from his school last week and asked if I knew where he was. I didn’t have a clue, I thought he was with his father.’

  She didn’t seem upset, Yngve thought. Just … resigned. He repeated his request and hung up. Then went back to look at Børre’s comment on Even’s Facebook post. As he reread it, another message popped up, this time from a girl called Christina Theorin. She too had seen Even Tollefsen at the school on the night of the premiere. In the hall where the show took place.

  ‘God, Even,’ Yngve said out loud. ‘What the hell have you done?’

  He went back to the interview transcripts. He’d told the officers to ask the pupils when they had left the building, and who with. The closer to 11 p.m. they’d left, the more interesting their testimony would be.

  A lot of people had stayed behind, waiting for those who had actually participated in the show to change. Mari and Johannes had been spotted going into the music room, apparently where Mari was intending to conduct the post-show interview.

  This is moving too slowly, Yngve said to himself, as he thought about what they’d found so far. The forensic teams had focused mainly on the crime scenes, and yes, there were more than enough traces of blood to firmly establish the route the killer had taken after the murders. But they hadn’t found anything on the roof or on the other side of the school. No torn-off piece of fabric from a jacket or a pair of trousers. Nothing that, with any degree of certainty, they could say had been deposited the night before. The heavy rainfall had ruined any chance of finding fresh, decent evidence.

  Yngve’s computer pinged. Incoming e-mail. Yngve pushed himself towards it. The victims’ phone records. He had asked Weedon, one of the tech guys at the precinct, to retrieve Mari’s mobile phone from the repair shop downtown. It had been deposited on Saturday, two days before her murder. The screen, according to Weedon, was completely shattered, but he was going to try and retrieve the data. She must have broken it some time after she’d texted Even, Yngve reasoned.

  He opened the encrypted files from the phone company. He started to cross-check Johannes’ list against Mari’s, and discovered that no one had called both victims. It was easy, however, to see that Even had been eager to get in touch with his ex-girlfriend over the last few days of her life. Twenty-seven missed calls, from him to her. Yngve also noticed that Frode Lindgren, Mari’s dad, had tried to reach his daughter several times that Saturday, and quite a few times the next day as well. She hadn’t answered, which wasn’t strange, since her phone was broken. But why didn’t Frode know that? Cecilie, Mari’s mother, apparently did.

  Yngve identified the numbers of some of Mari’s friends as well. She seemed to be a popular girl.

  He went back to the pile of statements again. Martin Dietrichs, a boy in Mari’s class, had said that he had seen her talking to her dad in the show’s interval: It looked as if they were arguing.

  Yngve sat up and dialled the kid’s number straightaway. It took Martin Dietrichs a while to answer, but when he did, he immediately turned down the music playing in the background.

  ‘Oh hey,’ he said as Yngve introduced himself. He made a shushing sound to the others in the room.

  ‘I’m just following up on what you said in your interview earlier today,’ Yngve started. ‘About Mari’s argument with her father.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ Martin Dietrichs said. ‘That. It certainly looked like they were rowing.’

  ‘Can you describe what happened?’

  ‘Well, during the interval I saw him walk over to her. She was standing with her back to him, talking to someone, I don’t know who. When he came up to her, she turned away and waited for a second or two, then just walked straight past him. He tried to stop her, but … she just tore herself away from him, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘So … he grabbed hold of her?’

  ‘That’s what it looked like to me.’

  ‘Did you hear what they were talking about?’

  ‘No, I was too far away for that.’

  ‘Did you see where Mari went after that?’

  ‘No, there were too many people around.’

  ‘What about her dad – did you see where he went?’

  ‘He stayed where he was, I think. I really don’t remember. I wasn’t really interested in him, you know. I was standing in line to get a Coke from the kiosk.’

  Yngve made a few notes on his pad.

  ‘OK’, he said eventually. ‘Thank you for your time.’

  ‘No problem. Hope I’ve helped.’

  Yngve hung up. He thought about Frode Lindgren and what might have been going on in the Lindgren family before Mari was murdered. He contemplated calling Frode right away, but quickly decided against it. Not on a night like this. Parents argued with their children all the time. It didn’t have to have anything to do with the murders.

  Still, he couldn’t get their odd behaviour out of his mind. The coolness he could feel in the living room of the Lindgren house, the distance between husband and wife – the way they sat far away from each other. And why did they act so strangely when he’d asked them about Jimmy’s car accident?

  She was back again. Standing against the wall.

  ‘God,’ he said out loud.

  Just get a good night’s sleep, she said, and you’ll be fresh and ready in the morning. You’ll get the answers you’re looking for.

  A good night’s sleep.

  Åse had asked for his help with a good night’s sleep. The really long one.

  You must help me. You can. Please.

  ‘I couldn’t do it,’ he said to her. ‘You know that.’

  She didn’t. Still, she didn’t.

  ‘It was never a question of wanting to or not, it was a question of whether I could,’ he said louder. ‘Even if I knew how much pain you were in, I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.’

  Yngve blinked, and hoped that she’d be gone when he opened his eyes again, but she wasn’t. She just stood there looking at him. That’s why he put a hand in front of his eyes. So she wouldn’t see that he was crying.

  27

  NOW

  ‘Have you been drunk like that a lot of times before, Even?’

  Ms Håkonsen looks at me over her glasses.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I mean being sick.’

  ‘Not a lot, no. I usually stay away from alcohol.’

  ‘Because of your football?’

  ‘Yes. And…’

  I hesitate. I don’t want to tell the court that my mother’s drinking habits aren’t something I’m keen to fall into myself.

  ‘But it has happened?’

  �
��Excuse me; what has?’

  ‘You have been excessively drunk before?’

  ‘Yes, it has happened a couple of times.’

  ‘Ever get blackouts while heavily drunk?’

  I’m not sure how to respond to that. ‘I don’t think so,’ I finally say.

  ‘That’s not a very good answer, is it?’

  ‘I guess not.’

  ‘So what you’re basically saying is that you don’t know? You don’t remember?’

  I wriggle in my chair. ‘I may … I have forgotten some things when I’ve had too much to drink,’ I say. ‘That’s pretty common though, isn’t it?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ the prosecutor says. ‘What I do know, is that apparently it runs in the family. Your mother has experienced blackouts, too. She said so during her testimony yesterday. She had blackouts both on the day of the car accident that killed your father, but also on other occasions when she’d been drinking.’

  ‘I’m not my mother, though.’

  ‘Of course you’re not, but her blood runs through your veins, Even. You have her DNA. So it wouldn’t be unfair to claim that the two of you are somewhat alike, at least in that respect.’

  I pick at a fingernail. ‘Is that … Is that a question?’ I stammer.

  ‘No, it’s just an observation. Do you remember what happened after you were sick that evening?’

  I wait a beat before answering. ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘What’s the next thing you remember, then?’

  ‘I … remember Yngve Mork standing over me.’

  ‘Police Chief Inspector Mork was standing over you?’

  ‘Yes. In my room. Or … in my room in Imo’s house.’

  Ms Håkonsen is walking back and forth in front of me. ‘And precisely why was he standing over you?’

  I need to take a deep breath before continuing: ‘Because there had been another murder.’

  28

  THEN

  I was startled by a noise in the room. Then the flick of a switch made everything bright. I blinked ferociously for a second or two. Then I saw Yngve Mork bending above me.

  At first I had no idea where I was or what had happened. Then I realised: I was at Imo’s. Mork said my name so loudly that I jumped and sat bolt upright in my bed. My whole body protested, my head was thumping – it felt like it was in a vice – and I still had the taste of vomit in my mouth.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked, still trying to adjust my eyes to the light.

  ‘Where were you this evening?’ Mork asked. His question was curt – his voice, hard and authoritative. He reminded me of a teacher I’d had in primary school. I tried to pull myself together, but the room was still spinning.

  ‘I was here,’ I stammered. ‘Why do you want to know? What time is it?’

  Through the gap in the curtains I could see that it was still dark. But at this time of year that really didn’t mean much.

  ‘Is that true?’ Mork asked, and turned round to face Imo, who was standing in the doorway. ‘Is it true that he was here the whole evening?’

  ‘Yes,’ Imo said and nodded.

  ‘The whole time? He didn’t go out at all?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you absolutely certain? You know for sure that he didn’t go out after you’d gone to bed?’

  ‘Well, I was here, wasn’t I?’ Imo said. ‘I was working in the studio.’ I could tell from his voice that he was getting angry. ‘I sat up working for a while after Even had gone to bed. So yes, I do know. Plus, he wasn’t exactly in a state to move about very easily.’

  The policeman turned back to me. I must have looked like shit, because something in his expression changed. He seemed to be reassessing the situation.

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ I asked.

  Mork took a deep breath and looked at me. ‘Børre Halvorsen has been murdered.’

  29

  Yngve beat his hands against the steering wheel. His theory, which had seemed so valid just an hour before, was already crumbling.

  Even had a solid alibi. At least, it appeared that way.

  Yngve drove back to Fredheim, thinking about what to do next. It was almost two hours since the dead body of Børre Halvorsen had been discovered, and he’d lost valuable time searching for Even. First he’d been to the Tollefsens’ house on Granholtveien 4. Tobias had answered, telling Yngve that Even was spending the night at Imo’s. That trip alone had cost Yngve almost half an hour.

  He parked up on the pavement at the foot of the bridge over the railway tracks. He wondered how many times in his life he’d walked or driven across it. Thousands, for sure. Now though – and forever after – he would think of the poor kid who had been found lying face down on the stony ground by a homeless man who sometimes slept down there.

  Even though it was almost 2.30 a.m., people were gathered around the cordon the police had established when they had arrived at the scene. The steam pouring out of the crowd’s mouths glowed in the streetlights, making it look like the onlookers were trapped in a fog that had issued from a troll’s lair. It was as if they were extras on a dark, mysterious stage. Behind them, on the other side of the bridge, was Fredheim – quiet now, but it would soon be buzzing with angry, frightened voices.

  Yngve wondered how long it would take for the complaints to pour in. At the press conference the day before he had said that, in all probability, the high-school murders were an isolated event. Now his credibility would be put to the test. The media would start to wonder whether he was the right man for the job. So would the inhabitants of Fredheim. Vibeke Hanstveit, the police attorney, would probably not question his level of commitment or his ability to get the job done, but as the person formally in charge of the investigation she would certainly be under a lot of pressure as well.

  Better solve this thing quickly, he said to himself.

  While Yngve had been looking for Even, Therese Kyrkjebø had taken charge of the crime scene. He found her under the bridge with the crime-scene officers. She was standing a few feet from the body, her hand placed on her slightly rounded belly.

  ‘We have to ask for witnesses,’ he said as he approached. ‘Anyone who crossed the bridge some time after midnight. We have to check the trains as well; see if any were passing through after midnight. Get hold of potential conductors, passengers.’ He sighed heavily.

  ‘As if we don’t have enough on our hands already,’ Therese said. Her shoulders were raised almost to her ears. Her lips seemed blue against her pale face. The brutal death of yet another young person was hard to comprehend at the best of times, and in Therese’s condition, it seemed somehow compounded.

  ‘Are you cold?’ Yngve asked.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Just didn’t put enough layers on.’

  ‘Then you’re not fine.’

  ‘I’ll be alright,’ she insisted.

  Thankfully it had stopped raining. But there was still a biting chill in the air.

  He looked at the dead boy. A green cap with spots of blood on it was lying on the ground next to his head. His eyes were open, and he had several wounds on his face. His jacket was partly torn off – some of the seams were ripped open. Behind him, on the walls of the bridge, were spots of dried blood.

  ‘It looks as if his head was smashed against the wall,’ Therese said, pointing to red marks. ‘Repeatedly, until…’ She stopped herself and looked away, blanching.

  Around them cameras were flashing, and one of the crime-scene technicians appeared to be filming the scene.

  ‘If it’s the same person who beat Johannes Eklund to death,’ she continued, ‘then it certainly seems that some kind of incredible, uncontrollable rage comes over him. He just can’t stop until he’s…’

  ‘Or she,’ Yngve said.

  ‘You think so?’ Therese asked, her voice a notch more agitated. ‘You really think a woman or a girl could beat two teenage boys to death like this?’

  Åse had asked him the same question last night. ‘I don’t know,
’ he said – the same thing he’d told Åse. ‘If someone’s angry enough, I guess they can do just about anything. But really, I have no idea.’

  Therese didn’t say anything. Yngve now noticed the homeless man – he was sitting on a large stone just outside the cordoned-off area. He had a grey blanket wrapped around him and was holding on to a mug, his knuckles white.

  ‘Have you talked to him yet?’ Yngve asked, nodding in his direction.

  ‘Just briefly,’ she said. ‘I told him to sit tight and wait for you.’

  ‘Good.’

  The homeless man was Ulf, a character known to pretty much everyone in Fredheim. He walked about the town a lot, occasionally begging for pennies here or there. He was completely harmless, and despite being only in his thirties, he always looked like he was two months away from retirement. His tatty clothes seemed about to fall off him, and it didn’t look as though he’d had a proper meal or a wash in months, which probably wasn’t too far from the truth.

  ‘Hey, Ulf,’ Yngve said as he approached him. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. I’ll let you go soon enough. Just wanted to know when you got here?’

  Ulf blowed gently into the cup and took a sip. ‘I don’t know,’ he said in a weary voice. ‘It might have been close to one.’

  ‘And which direction did you come from?’

  Ulf pointed to the tracks that led under the bridge to the train station a few hundred yards further on. It was possible to walk along the tracks, but not more than six feet on any side, as there were shrubs and trees everywhere.