by Thomas Enger
Everyone stopped talking and focused on Mr Brakstad.
‘Hello.’
The sound was muffled. Tic-Tac adjusted some knobs on the amplifier.
‘Could everyone find a seat and settle down please?’
The sound was better now. Sharper. Mr Brakstad looked over at Tic-Tac, nodded, and gave him the thumbs-up. Some people shushed others and soon everyone was quiet.
‘Thank you.’
There must have been at least two hundred people in the hall – pupils and journalists. Some parents were there, too, but I couldn’t see Mari’s. I met Oskar’s eyes briefly, before he looked away.
‘I would like to start this memorial with two minutes’ silence,’ Mr Brakstad said. ‘One for our dear pupil and friend, Mari Elisabeth Lindgren. And one for our dear pupil and friend, Johannes Eklund.’
I stared at the floor, at my feet. I’m pretty sure everyone else did the same. I tried to force myself not to think about what had happened, because I knew that if I let my mind wander, I would sob like a baby. I didn’t want to cry, not here. Not in front of everyone.
From time to time I looked at the clock on the wall. I don’t think two minutes have ever gone by so slowly. Around me people were crying, snorting. Coughing. Snorting again. When Mr Brakstad finally said thank you, it sounded like his voice was about to break. There was a heave of relief in the hall. It was almost as though no one had dared to breathe during the silence.
Mr Brakstad said something about how difficult this was, how hard it was to comprehend that an incident like this could happen in our little town.
‘It’s not easy to grasp the meaning of what’s going on when you’re in the midst of it,’ he said. ‘Humans, however, have a remarkable ability to get through even the worst of times, and move forward. However difficult that may seem right now, that’s what we have to do as well. As a society. As a school. As a friend. We have to look after one another now. Help each other. The holes that Mari and Johannes have left behind will be impossible to fill, and we are not going to try to do that. We’re not going to forget. We are not going to pretend that this never happened, because it did. We’re going to talk about them, and remember them, for as long as we can breathe.’
He then gave the floor to a psychotherapist who basically just repeated what Mr Brakstad had said about talking about our beloved, departed friends. Her voice was dull and soft, so I faded out a bit. Soon Mr Brakstad was back at the microphone.
‘I would like to finish this short memorial with a song that I know many of you like or maybe even love. I believe it’s quite fitting for an occasion like this. In so many ways.’
I was afraid that Mr Brakstad had gone online to find a song about loss and sorrow that was popular in the charts. I should have guessed, though, which song our janitor would put on the PA system.
It was the one Imo had written for the school show. The song Johannes had performed. The show-stopper, the ballad that allowed Johannes to demonstrate the full range of his voice; that made everyone think what talent he had, what potential. It was a song about Fredheim, about how much he loved the place where we lived, how happy he was whenever he came back, how much he’d missed it when he was gone. As soon as I heard the first notes – the chords I had played on my guitar, the ones we had practised as a band – I couldn’t help myself. I started to cry. And when I listened to the lyrics Imo had written, it was as if they were meant for Mari and Johannes instead.
35
Just like the day before, it was Cecilie Lindgren’s sister who answered the door when Yngve rang the bell.
‘Is Frode here?’ he asked.
‘Um, no,’ Kari-Mette Bjerkaas said.
‘Where is he?’
‘I don’t know.’
That made Yngve frown. ‘Did he spend the night here?
‘No, he didn’t.’
‘OK, so … your sister, is she around?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘I need to speak with her.’
Bjerkaas hesitated for a beat, before opening the door and letting him in.
‘Stay here, let me go upstairs and get her for you.’
Yngve waited in the hall for Mari’s mother to come down. When she finally did, Yngve thought she looked like a living corpse – thin, with dry lips, her hair undone. Cecilie Lindgren looked like she hadn’t slept a single second in a very long time.
‘Sorry to bother you again,’ Yngve started, and she stopped a few feet away from him. ‘I only have a few questions, if I may.’
Cecilie crossed her arms, waiting for him to start.
‘I’m trying to get hold of your husband,’ he said. ‘Do you know where he is?’
She wet her lips with her tongue. ‘No.’
‘You have no idea?’
It took a few seconds for her to respond. ‘I think he may be in Oslo with his brother.’
‘What’s he doing there? Now?’
‘I … don’t know.’
That’s a lie, Yngve thought. ‘Why isn’t he here, Cecilie? With you?’
She closed her eyes and kept them like that for a few seconds, before blinking rapidly. ‘Frode and I, we … we were perhaps on the verge of leaving each other before…’ She stopped herself. ‘I don’t know. This is all so…’
She couldn’t finish the sentence. Maybe she didn’t even have the answers, Yngve thought. It dawned upon him that the Lindgren family weren’t just dealing with one tragedy. They were dealing with two.
‘I need a few words with your husband,’ Yngve said, regretting that he had to ask. ‘He’s not answering my calls. Do you have a number for his brother in Oslo?’
Cecilie wiped her tears. ‘I’ll get it for you.’
She turned and shuffled into the next room. Soon she returned with a yellow post-it note. Yngve could clearly read the numbers and the name: Reidar Lindgren.
‘Like I said, I don’t know if Frode’s there, but … it’s a place to start, if nothing else.’
Yngve said thanks, then: ‘How long has he been gone?’
‘He left on Saturday.’
‘What time?’
She sighed heavily. ’I don’t know. Twelve-ish, maybe? Why – is it important?’
‘Guess not,’ he said. ‘Just wanted to know.’ He smiled briefly. He was about to leave, when he changed his mind and turned towards her once more. ‘Cecilie, do you know if…?’ He searched for the right words, realising they probably didn’t exist in a situation like this. ‘Frode talked to Mari in the interval between the first and second parts of the school show on Monday night. Or … it looked as if he tried to talk to her, but apparently, she didn’t want to. Do you know why?’
Cecilie’s eyes narrowed. ‘The problems in our family have nothing to do with what happened that night.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure,’ she said harshly. ‘Do you think my husband killed her? Is that what you’re saying? Is that why you want to talk to him? You think he killed her?’
‘No, it’s not…’
‘He loved her!’ she shouted. ‘He loved … me. Us. Our family. He could never have hurt Mari.’
‘I apologise, I didn’t mean to—’
‘Please leave,’ she said. Her voice was trembling. Fresh tears had formed in her eyes, too. ‘Don’t you people have a killer to catch?’ Her lower lip was shaking. ‘I’m sure it’s Even who did it. That’s what everyone thinks, and you’re standing here, saying that…’
She put a hand up in front of her mouth. Tears were streaming down her face.
‘I’m sorry,’ Yngve said, as softly as he could. ‘I didn’t mean to insinuate that…’
Cecilie stared at him with blood-shot eyes.
Yngve held his hands up in front of him. ‘It was … I’ll go,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll go now. Thank you for … thank you.’
You can’t really blame her, Åse said. She was sitting on the back seat, looking at him in the mirror. For some reason she was wearing her nig
htdress.
‘But I didn’t…’ he started. ‘I didn’t mean to suggest that Frode had killed her.’
Losing someone the way the Lindgrens had was completely different from what he’d gone through. He was able to prepare for his loss. Cecilie and Frode hadn’t received any warning. They had probably gone to work that morning, thinking about nothing and anything, only to have their world shattered in the blink of an eye, the flick of a switch. He muttered an apology again, hoping that Cecilie, in some way, would be able to hear him.
Yngve took a deep breath and dialled the number she had given him.
A man answered straightaway.
Yngve introduced himself. ‘I’m trying to reach your brother. Is he with you?’
‘I don’t know,’ Reidar Lindgren said. ‘Not right now, anyway. He’s been staying at my place for a few days, but I’m at work, so I don’t know if he’s there right now.’
‘A few days, you say. Since when, exactly?’
‘Um … Saturday? Yes. Saturday. I was going to a reunion party that night. Twenty-five years. Can you believe it?’
‘Are you far from your apartment?’
‘You mean as we speak?’
‘That’s what I mean, yes.’
‘A little.’
‘Would you mind going home to check?’ Yngve said. ‘I really need to talk to him. Could you have him call me? He’s got my number.’
‘Has something happened?’ Reidar Lindgren asked. ‘Something else, I mean?’ He sounded unsure.
‘Depends what you mean,’ Yngve said. ‘But I have some questions for him, and at this stage of the investigation, it’s imperative that I talk to the person who might have known Mari best.’
A loud bang in the background seemed to make Lindgren jump. ‘I’m at a construction site,’ he explained. ‘But I’ll hurry home. See if I can get hold of him for you.’
‘I appreciate it, thanks.’
Back at the office, Yngve met Therese Kyrkjebø by the water dispenser. She drank a cup, then filled it again. She placed a hand on her growing belly, as if to make sure everything was OK.
‘I’ve spoken to a friend of Børre Halvorsen’s,’ she said. ‘Victor Ramsfjell is his name. He didn’t hang out with Børre the night he was killed, but Victor says Børre told him he’d seen Even Tollefsen through one of the school windows on the night of the murders.’
‘Did he know which window?’
‘The one on the far right,’ Therese said. ‘The one you climbed through. According to Victor, Børre was sure that it was Even he’d seen.’
Yngve gave this some thought for a few seconds.
‘This case gets weirder by the minute,’ he said.
‘I know,’ Therese answered.
‘I better go and see if we’ve had any tips come through on the hotline. Any leads on the leather glove?’
‘None yet,’ Therese said. ‘Except that half the population owns one, apparently.’
36
After the memorial, it seemed as if lots of people needed some kind of distraction. On my way out, I heard online gaming sessions being organised. Others were going to one of the cafés in the town centre, just to chill. A few of them mentioned needing a smoke. I wasn’t sure of what.
I was on my way to my bike, which had been propped up against a lamppost, when a familiar voice behind me called my name. I turned and saw Oskar, Fredrik and Kaiss coming towards me.
I took a deep breath as they stopped in front of me. At first, none of them spoke. Kaiss tapped one of his feet on the ground. Oskar ran a hand through his hair, and looked everywhere but into my eyes. Fredrik fiddled with his fingers.
‘What’s up?’ Oskar said, after a while.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. I could hear the anger in my voice.
‘Right,’ he said. I wasn’t going to make it easy for him, so I just stood there, staring at him, waiting for him to go first.
‘So, I spoke to my dad,’ he started. ‘And he said you were pretty shitfaced last night.’
‘Lucky bastard,’ Kaiss muttered.
Oskar was still having trouble stringing his sentences together, but he went on: ‘So if you were pissed when Børre was killed, you … couldn’t have done it,’ he said quickly, without looking at me.
‘Is that your idea of an apology?’
‘I guess,’ Oskar said. ‘
‘We know you couldn’t kill anyone,’ Kaiss offered.
‘Do you?’ I asked. ‘How can you possibly know that? How can anyone possibly know what they’re capable of doing, if the wrong buttons are pushed?’
I had no idea why I just said that.
‘Are you saying—?’
‘I’m not saying anything,’ I interrupted. ‘I just know that everyone is jumping to conclusions in this town, and I’m stuck in the middle of the shitstorm. Do you have any idea what that feels like? Do you have any idea what it feels like to have your own best friends doubt you?’
None of them said anything.
‘It’s not a good feeling, I can tell you that much,’ I continued. I could feel my cheeks turning red.
‘We’re sorry anyhow,’ Fredrik said. ‘If you want us to go, we can go. We just … we wanted to help, in any way we can. If you need some help, that is, or if you…’
‘Fredrik,’ I said. ‘Stop talking.’
He looked at me with some uncertainty. I sighed heavily. ‘Just … OK. Thanks. I appreciate it.’
We just stood there for a few moments. The air was cold, but nice against my red-hot face.
‘I just can’t believe this shit,’ Kaiss said.
‘Me neither,’ Fredrik added. ‘Especially that Børre was killed right after we talked to him.’
I looked at them, one after the other. ‘How…?’ I wasn’t sure what my question was. ‘How did Børre react?’ I asked. ‘Could he have been lying?’
My friends exchanged quick glances.
‘It didn’t seem like he was,’ Kaiss said. ‘I mean, there really wasn’t any reason for him to, right?’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t get it,’ I said. ‘I just don’t. Not any of it.’
A group of girls walked past. Fredrik sent them an appraising look, but none of them looked back.
‘It must have been someone else, then,’ Oskar said. ‘There’s no other explanation.
I nodded, but couldn’t think of who that could be.
For some strange reason, I thought about something Imo had said about my mother. She might be a bit frail these days, your mother, but when she’s angry, she’s dangerous. She had been to the school show that night.
I hadn’t even thought to ask her about it. About when she left. What she saw. Who she talked to, if anyone. I just hadn’t thought it was important.
‘What is it?’ Oskar said. ‘You’re as pale as a ghost.’
‘Am I?’ I said. I could feel my heart racing.
Thinking about Mum had made me think about Dad, too. The car accident. Mari was looking into it. She’d talked to her father about it. She was going to do the same with Ole. And my mother had been in the car that day.
‘It’s nothing,’ I said. ‘I just haven’t been eating much lately. Did any of you see Ida in there?’
They all shook their heads.
Thinking about my mother made me want to get home and speak to her – see what she knew. But I had something more important to do first.
37
‘Alright, thanks for your call.’
Yngve hung up and rubbed his eyes. The man who’d just phoned the hotline had informed him that his next-door neighbour used to wear his leather gloves every day when he went out to pick up the morning newspaper, but today that hadn’t happened. ‘I don’t know if it’s any help or not, but … I thought I’d just mention it…’
Yngve was prepared for a lot of nonsense, but he’d hoped for some substance at least. One woman, probably in her late seventies, had even called in to suggest that the murders of Børre Halvorsen might have someth
ing to do with the high-school killings.
His mobile phone rang now. It was Reidar Lindgren.
‘Frode isn’t in my apartment,’ he said. ‘I don’t know where he is. He hasn’t left me a note or anything.’
‘So he has a key to your apartment?’
‘Yeah, I gave him one last night, before he went out.’
‘Do you know where he was going? Last night, I mean?’
‘No, but … I had the impression that he was going out-out. You know, for a night out. He asked if I could think of any cheap bars in the city. I don’t go out much, but I do know a few. Everything’s so damned expensive around here.’
It wasn’t uncommon to drown one’s sorrows in alcohol, Yngve thought to himself. After Åse died, he’d downed a few bottles as well, but he’d preferred to do it on his own. People dealt with death in different ways.
‘Why was he with you in the first place?’ Yngve asked.
The phone went quiet for a beat. ‘I don’t know what had happened,’ Reidar Lindgren said eventually. ‘But I think it had something to do with the family. With Cecilie. They’d had a falling-out of some kind. At least that’s what I thought.’
‘Had there been any problems in the marriage before?’
‘Not that I know of. Nothing major, anyway. This time, though … I’ve never seen him quite like this. So … angry. So distraught.’
‘Did you ask him why?’
‘Yes, but he didn’t want to talk about it. I respected that.’
‘OK,’ Yngve said. ‘Thanks for calling and helping out. If you see him, can you have him call me?’
‘Will do.’
‘Thanks.’
So Frode Lindgren was angry, Yngve thought. At his wife, first and foremost. But even if he was mad at Cecilie, Frode had still made the trip back to Fredheim two days after he’d left the family home, in order to go to the school theatre show. He did have a number of missed calls to his daughter as well, so maybe that was why. He wanted to talk to her. But she, for some reason, didn’t want to talk to him.
The preliminary autopsy report came in a little later. Mari had died of asphyxiation, and she had also suffered three fractured ribs, not two, as the chief of the forensic team had first suggested.