Two journalists are hanging around outside the entrance to
123news
when Henning parks the hire car and gets out. He doesn’t recognise them and tries to ignore them by looking up at the autumn clouds, but one of the reporters blocks his path when he walks past them.
‘Hey,’ says the journalist, a small, fat man with very little hair and thin, round Harry Potter glasses. ‘Do you have anything to say about what your sister has done?’
Henning stops and smiles.
‘Forget it, I’m not going to throw you a bone.’
The journalists glance at each other.
‘No, no comment,’ Henning says and pushes his way past them.
‘But—’
The journalists’ voices rise behind Henning as he walks out through the gates, but he shrugs them off. Instead he walks as quickly as he can in the direction of Grønland towards Stargate. The pub isn’t far away, but he makes a few detours to be sure that he isn’t being followed.
Henning sees that the rundown watering hole has just opened when he arrives and it strikes him that this choice of meeting place was really quite clever. The press has laid siege to both Pål Fredrik’s office and his private home, but no one would ever suspect him of frequenting a dump like this.
Henning orders a cup of coffee and takes a seat in the furthest corner of the room. The dark interior suits him fine; it makes it easy to hide, to disappear in a fog of stale alcohol and sweat against which soap and water stand no chance. A man with stubble and faded clothes comes out from the gents with his trousers still hanging halfway down his knees. On the loudspeakers Johnny Cash reminds the customers that pain is good.
Pål Fredrik Osmundsen arrives fifteen minutes after Henning. His grey suit is elegant and, in view of his red eyes and the bags under them, he could have come straight from a late-night drinking session at the more upmarket Aker Brygge. Henning barely recognises him from the photos in the newspapers.
Pål Fredrik Osmundsen is a business economist who graduated from BI Norwegian Business School. He has worked for Tvenge Brothers Investment, been a consultant and a private investor, but he is now in charge of an asset management fund specialising in European property. Henning doesn’t know how many millions Osmundsen is worth, but it’s a lot. He has also gained a reputation for himself as a bit of a modern-day explorer. The magazine
Vi Menn
featured him a couple of years ago when Osmundsen gave them access to some of his private photographs from when he climbed K2, Kilimanjaro and crossed Greenland on skis. He has taken part in the Trondheim to Oslo bike ride many times as well as other popular endurance events such as Birken.
Henning waves to the athletic man who weaves his way through chairs and tables.
‘Over here,’ Henning calls out.
Osmundsen takes Henning’s outstretched hand and presses it firmly. They sit down. A silence ensues. Quick glances sweep across the table.
‘Funny way to meet you, brother-in-law,’ Osmundsen says at last.
Henning smiles briefly.
‘Are you here as a journalist or as her brother?’
Henning doesn’t reply immediately.
‘I’m automatically disqualified from writing about Trine because I’m her brother.’
‘So why are you here?’
‘Because I—’
Henning thinks about it.
‘Because there’s something about the story that troubles me, only I don’t know what it is. Perhaps it’s this alleged victim, who . . .’
Henning searches for the right word.
‘I just don’t buy it,’ he says finally.
A waiter comes over and takes Osmundsen’s order, a cup of coffee and a glass of water.
‘But if you can’t investigate the story,’ Osmundsen begins, ‘how will you be able to help Trine?’
Henning hesitates.
‘I don’t know,’ he says and flashes a cautious smile. ‘I haven’t even started thinking about it.’
Osmundsen nods calmly. An ambulance with howling sirens drives past outside; the sound fills the room before fading away like a dying lament.
‘She’s going to kill me if she finds out that the two of us have been talking,’ Osmundsen then says.
Henning tilts his head.
‘Why?’
‘Well, you’re not exactly the best of friends.’
Henning lowers his gaze, stares into a past that rises from the table like a multi-coloured fog. And in the midst of it – a sad and lonely truth.
‘No, we’re not,’ he admits. ‘I don’t really know why, but—’
‘Is it true?’
Henning nods.
Images of Trine that have started to surface recently come back to him like uninvited guests. He hears her voice, small and fragile. He sees her gaze, dull and distant. And he wishes he knew, that he understood when and why they grew apart.
‘Has she ever talked about it to you?’ he asks.
Osmundsen shakes his head.
‘I’ve asked her several times, but every time she just gives me a hard stare and that’s the end of that conversation.’
Henning nods slowly.
Osmundsen takes out his mobile and puts it on the table with the screen facing up.
‘In case Trine calls,’ Osmundsen says by way of explanation.
‘Have you heard from her?’
‘She sent me a text message yesterday saying she wasn’t coming home. She wouldn’t tell me where she was because she needed to be alone, she said.’
‘So she hasn’t gone missing as some papers are speculating?’
Osmundsen hesitates.
‘That rather depends how you look at it.’
Osmundsen lowers his gaze again. A dark shadow falls across his coarse, weather-beaten face. Even though he is tall and big, he looks small as he sits there. As if the strength in his upper body, the strength that kept him upright, has gone.
‘It’s happened before,’ he says eventually. ‘Her disappearing, I mean. It happened one Sunday a few years ago, I think it was, and I didn’t find her until late in the evening, far away in Nordmarka Woods. She sat under a tree and was completely out of it. She came to when I touched her, but she couldn’t remember anything of what had happened.’
‘What did her bodyguards say?’
‘Trine didn’t have bodyguards in those days.’
‘But—’
The words stop in Henning’s mouth.
‘There’s a name for it,’ Osmundsen continues. ‘For what happened. Dissociative fugue,’ he pronounces it clearly. ‘A person will leave their home or their job, apparently with a sense of purpose, but afterwards they remember nothing.’
The waiter brings Osmundsen’s coffee cup in one hand and a pot in the other. Henning covers his cup with his palm.
‘So what causes it?’ he asks when the waiter has left.
Osmundsen puts his head on one side.
‘No one really seems to know, but it’s usually trauma of some kind that the body is trying to protect itself against. Trine denies that she has ever experienced something that could trigger a reaction like that, so I guess we’ve agreed that it must have been due to work pressure. I could tell from looking at her in the days and weeks leading up to it. She was exhausted. And something was weighing her down.’
‘And still she carried on as Justice Secretary?’
‘Yes, anything else would have been unthinkable.’
‘And the media never got wind of it?’
‘No, they called it depression. The media write whatever you want them to write. Or they do some of the time.’
Henning tries to digest the information he has just been given.
‘Do you think that’s what has happened now?’
Osmundsen raises the coffee cup to his lips, takes a sip and puts it down with a clatter. Then he throws up his hands.
‘Trine has always been a tough girl. I would have thought this kind of challenge would only have made her stronger. But who knows. And I don’t like the fact that I can’t get hold of her.’
‘She has probably just switched off her mobile.’
Osmundsen nods helplessly and lowers his gaze again. Another silence descends on the table.
‘So what do you make of all this?’ Henning says. ‘Did Trine do what they say she did?’
Again Osmundsen flings out his hands.
‘She told me yesterday morning that the story isn’t true. That the accusations against her are false.’
‘But if that’s the case,’ Henning says, ‘why doesn’t she defend herself? Why has she run away?’
‘I don’t know,’ Osmundsen replies and lowers his gaze again. ‘It’s not like her. I’ve no idea what’s going on.’
The next moment the mobile on the table between them starts to vibrate. Henning sees hope and fear rise in Osmundsen, who quickly picks it up. Only to put it down and let it ring out.
‘Journalists?’ Henning asks.
Osmundsen nods.
‘I think I must have got two hundred calls in the last twenty-four hours. They just refuse to give up.’
Henning feels the need to say something, but the words won’t come out.
‘Do you have any idea where Trine might be?’ he asks instead. ‘Is there somewhere the two of you go when you want to be alone?’
Osmundsen thinks about it again, but Henning can see that he has given up. Shortly afterwards Osmundsen makes his excuses, explains that he has to get back to work where he is taking part in an important video conference. Henning shakes his hand and says that he’ll pay, obviously. And the tall man disappears outside, out into a miasma of uncertainty.
Henning doesn’t know why, but the sight of Pål Fredrik reminds him of his own father. In a rare TV profile he found about Trine last night, she talked about how hard her father’s death had been for her, how it shaped her as a person. And he wonders how Pål Fredrik will cope if Trine doesn’t recover.
This line of thinking leads him straight to his mother. He wonders if the caretaker in the block where she lives has managed to do him that favour he asked him.
Henning decides to find out.
Pernille Thorbjørnsen and Ole Christian Sund are sitting down when Bjarne Brogeland and Ella Sandland enter the staff room. Their chairs are close together and they are leaning in towards each other, but both jump back when the officers greet them.
‘Hello,’ Sund says with a stiff smile. He looks across to Thorbjørnsen who immediately lowers her gaze and folds her hands in her lap. They don’t stay there for long; she fiddles with her hair, tries to sit upright and glances quickly at the officers who have yet to ask them any questions.
Bjarne bides his time because he has a hunch about the two care workers, prompted by the first conversation he had with Thorbjørnsen after Erna Pedersen had been found dead. It started when she told him that Sund had called her
after
the murder.
Now it might just have been a conversation about a traumatic incident at the place where they both work. But given the looks they exchange and the closeness of the chairs, Bjarne suspects that their relationship is more intimate. Not only do they share a staff room, they also share a bed.
The room is so small that the police officers remain standing.
‘Who would have thought we’d find you both here at the same time,’ Bjarne says and looks at Thorbjørnsen. Her defences were intact the first time he met her. Now he can practically see the cracks. Her face has lost some of its colour.
‘Have you finished arguing?’ Bjarne says.
Thorbjørnsen’s gaze shoots up at him, then shifts to Sund who starts picking at a callus.
‘There’s nothing wrong with having a quarrel, all couples do from time to time. I’m more interested in why you argued here, in Ward 4, on the afternoon Erna Pedersen was killed.’
Bjarne sees the beginning of the protest form in Sund’s face.
‘And why we found your fingerprints on Erna Pedersen’s knitting needles,’ Sandland interjects and points at Thorbjørnsen.
‘Mine?’ she frowns.
Sandland nods.
‘There’s nothing suspicious about that. I used to help her cast on and finish her mittens and socks. She couldn’t do it herself, poor thing, her hands weren’t what they used to be.’
Bjarne looks at his colleague.
It’s a plausible explanation
, he thinks, and looks at the flame red colour in Thorbjørnsen’s cheeks.
‘What was your car doing up in Holmenkollen on Monday afternoon with you behind the wheel,’ Bjarne points at Sund, ‘and Daniel Nielsen in the passenger seat?’
Thorbjørnsen’s lips part.
‘Holmenkollen?’ she exclaims and looks at her boyfriend. ‘You told me you were going to Storo?’
Sund tries to look her in the eye, but can’t stand up to his girlfriend’s sudden, intense scrutiny.
‘I thought you were meeting a mate to see if he could fit my car with a new silencer?’
Sund makes no reply, he simply bows his head.
‘Heaven help us,’ she snorts and shakes her head.
Bjarne gives them a little more time. Thorbjørnsen, who had briefly assumed a more upright posture, collapses again with fresh anger in her eyes.
‘Perhaps one of you can tell us what’s going on?’ Sandland suggests.
Thorbjørnsen’s face gets even redder. Finally Sund starts talking.
‘Please leave Pernille out of this. She’s got nothing to do with it.’
‘And what is “this”?’ Sandland asks.
Sund sighs.
‘You’re right,’ he says, looking at Bjarne. ‘We did have an argument at work on Sunday. Daniel came by to drop off Pernille’s car because she needed it to drive herself home and he asked if he could borrow it again the next day for another job up in Holmenkollen.’
‘Another job?’
‘Well, you see—’
Again Sund looks away. When he doesn’t start speaking immediately, Thorbjørnsen continues the story for him.
‘I was really upset about it,’ she says and lifts her head. ‘Upset that they kept using my car for their scheme. I wanted out, pure and simple; I refused to be their accomplice any longer.’
‘Accomplice to what?’ Sandland asks, sounding tired.
Sund braces himself.
‘I’m a care worker,’ he starts tentatively in a low voice and looks up at Sandland, now with a little more defiance in his gaze. ‘All I’ve ever done is help people in need.’
Bjarne looks at him in disbelief.
‘You’re telling me you help people by selling them drugs that you steal from your employer?’
Sund glowers at him.
‘Drugs? What are you talking about?’
Sund puts on his most indignant face.
‘Just what exactly are you accusing us of?’
Bjarne doesn’t reply.
‘We visit people in their own homes and give them the care they don’t feel they get enough of from social services.’
Bjarne doesn’t realise that his jaw has dropped. This particular development has taken him completely by surprise.
‘Have you any idea how many people are let down by the health service in Norway today, Brogeland? Here in Oslo alone? How many people have watched relatives, people who helped build this country, be treated like rubbish? Like—’
Sund can’t even find the words.
‘I’m sure it’s bad,’ Bjarne says. ‘But are you telling me that you care for elderly people in their own homes?’
Sund nods.
‘And you get paid cash?’
Sund looks away.
‘That’s against the law,’ Sandland says.
‘Don’t I know it,’ Sund says, sounding cross.
‘And you’ve never stolen medication from the care home?’
‘Our clients have plenty of medication; they can get whatever they need for free on prescription. I don’t know why so much medication goes missing from Grünerhjemmet, but it’s something that happens in every care home. But care isn’t just about giving someone pills, Brogeland. Care is so much more.’
‘Mm,’ Bjarne says again. ‘So this was a business you were running on the side?’
Sund nods.
‘How long have you been doing this? When did you start?’
Sund looks up at him again. The outrage he had worked up appears to have deserted him. His head hangs heavy.
‘My father had a stroke when he was only fifty-seven years old. He relied completely on full-time care for the rest of his life. I looked after him right up until his death a couple of years ago. My mother had died when I was little. Many of those who knew us also knew how I had cared for my father and they asked me if I might consider doing the same for their relatives. Not all the time, of course, but whenever I could. They would pay me. In the meantime, I had managed to get a job in the care sector and I was all too aware of the problems and the dissatisfaction people felt. So I said yes.’
‘And it took off?’
Sund nods.
‘Daniel and I met through work and had become friends. I knew that he needed money so I asked him if he might be interested in a second job. Yes, we don’t declare it and yes it’s illegal, but neither of us has a guilty conscience. Not for one second. People live better lives because of what we do.’
‘As do you.’
Sund snorts.
‘I can pay my rent, yes. Just about. Something you would think was owed to a highly skilled man like me. But I guess you have to follow procedure,’ he says, now sounding grumpy. ‘Lock me up. And when you get home tonight, look in the mirror and ask yourself if Oslo is a better place because you did. If we can all now sleep safely in our beds?’
Bjarne says nothing; he sees no point in embarking on a discussion with Sund. So he thinks about Erna Pedersen again. His initial theory was that she must have seen something, but she hadn’t. Ole Christian Sund has nothing to do with her death. Nor would it appear do Daniel Nielsen and Pernille Thorbjørnsen.
So who does?
Sandland’s mobile starts to ring in her jacket pocket. She takes it out and signals to Bjarne that she will take the call outside. Bjarne is left alone with the care workers who don’t say anything, nor do they look at each other.
Sandland reappears shortly, but she stays in the doorway and summons him outside with her right index finger. Bjarne does as she asks. Sandland leans towards his ear and whispers: ‘We’ve got to go. There’s been another murder.’