Scarred (20 page)

Emilie has been to many funerals over the years, but the pain she felt at losing someone can’t compare to what she feels now. It’s completely different when someone is murdered. And what torments her the most is the thought of what must have been going through Johanne’s head when she realised that she was going to die.

Emilie has gone to bed and closed the door. She desperately needs to be alone. All she can think about is who could have taken the life of her best friend. A woman she could talk to about everything. She remembers all the wonderful things they used to do together. It’s impossible to understand that they will never do anything together again.

There is a knock on the door and Mattis opens without her having said ‘come in’.

‘It’s the police,’ he says, holding up Emilie’s mobile. ‘They want to talk to you.’

Emilie feels punched in the stomach at the mere thought of having to talk to someone now. She hoists herself upright. Mattis comes in, hands her the telephone with a cautious, friendly smile. Emilie wipes the tears from her face, her cheeks feel red hot; she takes the telephone and waits until Mattis has closed the door behind him. Then she says ‘hello’.

‘Hello, this is Bjarne Brogeland from Oslo Police.’

‘Hi,’ she says in a feeble voice.

‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ he says. ‘I understand that you were one of Johanne Klingenberg’s best friends.’

‘Yes,’ Emilie stutters. ‘I was. Thank you.’

‘I’m sorry for disturbing you, but I need to speak to you.’

‘I understand,’ she says, and straightens up a little more.
He has a nice voice
, she thinks.
Warm and reassuring
.

‘You and Johanne met at a café today, am I right?’

‘Yes. At Café Blabla on St Hanshaugen.’

‘How did she behave while you were together? Was she anxious about anything? Nervous?’

Emilie thinks about it.

‘No, she was just as she always was. Joking and laughing as usual.’

‘She didn’t give you the impression that she was scared of anything or anyone?’

‘No,’ Emilie almost laughs and wipes her nose. ‘She was in a good mood.’

She hears the policeman making notes.

‘Did she mention what she was going to do after you’d had lunch together?’

‘No, she was going home, I think. She might have had some shopping to do first.’

‘Nothing apart from that? Did she say anything about what she was doing with the rest of her day?’

‘No, we didn’t talk about that,’ Emilie replies.

‘Did you notice if anyone was watching you at the café?’

Emilie tries to search her memory, but not a single face comes up.

‘What time was it when you left?’

‘About one o’clock, I think.’

Emilie can hear that her voice is still weak so she clears her throat in an attempt to make it firmer.

‘How much do you know about your friend’s life?’

‘What do you mean?’ Emilie asks.

‘Would Johanne tell you everything?’

‘Yes, or at least I think so.’

‘Do you think she would have told you if she was in any kind of trouble?’

A stinging feeling starts in her stomach and spreads to the rest of her body. Even the thought that Johanne might have kept secrets from her, problems Emilie could have helped her solve, makes the tears well up again. She squeezes her eyes shut and feels the teardrops run in parallel down her flushed cheeks before dripping from her chin.

‘Yes, I’m sure of it,’ she stammers.

‘What about men, then? Boyfriends.’

Emilie coughs again.

‘Yes, we did used to talk about men.’

The policeman stirs and the chair he is sitting on squeaks.

‘Was she seeing anyone at the moment?’

‘No. She hasn’t had a boyfriend for ages, but I know that she would go on dates from time to time. But it never got serious.’

‘So she never mentioned anyone who was obsessed with her – or vice versa?’

Emilie shakes her head before she remembers that the officer can’t see her.

‘I can’t think of anyone,’ she replies.

‘Okay,’ the officer says, pausing again. ‘How long has it been since you last visited her flat?’

Emilie tries to remember.

‘It has been a while. We usually meet for lunch once a month or thereabouts, but we don’t visit each other at home nearly as often as we used to. I live in Jessheim, I have a young child and I work full-time, and she’s busy with her life in Oslo. Well, that’s to say,’ Emilie says and grief takes over her voice again. ‘She’s not busy with anything any more.’

Her voice breaks and she starts to sob; she loses control of her facial movements. A wave of anger and anguish overcomes her and she clutches the duvet while unintelligible noises escape from her mouth. The officer says nothing while Emilie calms herself down.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says eventually.

‘It’s all right; just let me know when you’re ready to continue.’

‘I’m ready, it’s just so—’

Emilie doesn’t know how to complete the sentence.

‘I understand,’ the officer says and pauses briefly before he asks the next question.

‘In your friend’s living room there was a picture of a small boy on the wall. Do you know which picture I’m talking about?’

Emilie thinks about it.

‘That must be the picture of Sebastian,’ she says.

‘Sebastian?’

‘Sebastian is my son,’ Emilie continues. ‘Johanne is – or she was – one of Sebastian’s godparents. We gave her a picture of him last Christmas.’

She switches the phone to her other hand and wipes her face with the duvet.

‘My next question might sound very strange, Emilie, but I have to ask it. Do you know if anyone might have a reason to be angry with your son?’

Emilie looks up.

‘With Sebastian? Why do you want to know that?’

‘Please just answer the question.’

‘What does my son have to do with this?’

The officer doesn’t explain. A sudden rage takes over her voice.

‘No,’ Emilie snaps. ‘Sebastian is two and a half years old. He hasn’t lived long enough to upset anyone yet, apart from me and his father.’

‘I understand,’ the police officer says.

Her head feels as if it’s going to explode and she realises that she hasn’t eaten for a long time. But the very thought of putting something in her mouth makes her stomach churn.

‘Johanne and you are both from Jessheim, I understand. If I mention the name Erna Pedersen to you – what would you say?’

Emilie rubs her cheeks with her knuckle.

‘Erna Pedersen?’ she repeats, but gets no reply. ‘We had a teacher called that, I remember, but it’s quite a common name, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, you’re right,’ the police officer says quickly. ‘But I believe you’re thinking of the right Erna Pedersen. What do you remember about your old teacher?’

‘Far too much,’ Emilie says and laughs before she feels guilty for laughing in a situation like this. ‘No, she was . . . strict, I suppose you’d say. What about her?’

But the officer gives her no answer.

‘You were at school together, you and Johanne?’

‘Yes.’

‘When was this?’

‘The whole time, we grew up together.’

‘So when did Erna Pedersen teach you? Do you remember?’

Emilie thinks about it.

‘Towards the end of primary school, I think it was. The last two or three years, possibly.’

‘Did you have any school photos taken?’

Emilie tries to remember.

‘I’m not sure. I think we might have had one taken in Year Six.’

There is a moment of silence.

‘Do you still happen to have that photo, Emilie?’

She thinks about it.

‘Yes, I think so. Somewhere.’

‘Do you think you could find it?’

Emilie hesitates for a second.

‘I can try looking for it, of course, but—’

Then she realises why the officer wants to know.

‘Was it . . . was it Erna Pedersen, who was—’

Emilie clasps her hand over her mouth.

‘I read something in the newspaper about an Erna Pedersen who had been—’

She is unable to complete the sentence.

‘Yes, that was her,’ the policeman says. ‘And we wouldn’t be doing our job if we didn’t investigate the possibility that there might be a connection between the two deaths. That doesn’t necessarily mean that there is. But can you think of anyone you went to school with who had unfinished business with Johanne
and
Erna Pedersen?’

Emilie doesn’t reply at once. She is thinking, or trying to think, but too many questions are hurling themselves at her at the same time.

‘Teachers are never very popular,’ she says. ‘But I can’t imagine that—’

She stops again.

‘No,’ she says quietly. ‘I don’t know of any.’

‘If you do think of any, please call. You have my number?’

Emilie checks the display on her mobile.

‘Yes.’

‘Good. I think that’s it for now. Please try to find that school photo. It might be important.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Good. Thank you. And once again, I’m sorry for your loss.’

Emilie smiles a feeble smile.

‘Thank you,’ she replies.

Henning hasn’t driven far before he pulls over in a lay-by. He is thinking about the map he saw on Trine’s laptop. The date in the top right-hand corner.

It did say ‘9 October’, didn’t it? The day when she, according to every newspaper in Norway, allegedly made the biggest blunder of her life. What kind of map was it? And why had she looked it up on her laptop?

Henning starts the car again and drives on. He stops at a Statoil petrol station in the centre of Stavern and helps himself to a handful of paper towels without buying anything. He finds a pen in the car’s glove compartment and clicks it ready while he tries to remember what he saw.

When he was at school, his friends used to tease him about his photographic memory. To some extent they were right, even though he always corrected them and said that it wasn’t about memory. He took a screen dump with his eyes and later he would note down what he had seen – a skill he has often found useful as a reporter.

Henning makes himself comfortable in the car, closes his eyes and summons up the image from the laptop, concentrating on its major features. First the parks and the lakes. Then he starts to draw. When he was little, he loved drawing city maps. It gave him a satisfying sense of order. Seeing the big picture. He sketches in any other streets that he remembers and the thick line that represented a kind of running profile – it looked like a malign virus under a microscope. When the sketch is done, he starts the car and drives on, pleased with the likeness he has managed to re-create.

When he gets home, he takes a long shower. While soap and shampoo settle in a foaming circle around the drain, he ponders his unfortunate tendency to irritate every woman he meets. In the past he could usually charm his way out of awkward situations, but there is very little left of that side of him. These days he is surrounded by women with problems, women who create problems, women who are the problem. Nora, Trine, Pia, Heidi.

Is that all his fault?

Now that he thinks about it, it’s not only the women. He has managed to fall out with everyone he knows; he couldn’t honestly say that he has a single friend left. Not a real one. No one came to visit him while he was in Sunnaas Rehabilitation Centre, though there might be a perfectly good reason for that. Before Jonas died, he might have gone for a drink or two with colleagues, but he never let anyone get close. He never felt the need to tell anyone about himself. Sometimes they would ask how things were with him and Nora, and every time he would say that they were fine, even though they weren’t.

Friendships and acquaintances are fleeting. You get close to people you see every day, and when your studies are over, when you move or get a new job, you say goodbye with every intention of keeping in touch. But new people take their place, time passes and it becomes harder to remain a central part of each other’s lives. It’s not because you don’t care any more. It’s just the way it goes.

The closest Henning has to a friend right now – and he is struggling to name even one – is Iver Gundersen. Even though Henning is loath to admit it.

Half naked, he walks into the living room. He stands there staring at all the photographs that are spread out on the floor. The thought of tidying up fills him with dismay and as he intends to work on the map he sketched in the car, he decides that clearing up will just have to wait. But then he spots a picture of Jonas, a big picture where his son is smiling. Henning bends down and picks it up.

It’s a lovely picture.

And though he tries as hard as he can, he can’t stop the pain from welling up inside him. Usually he can suppress it by trying to think of something else, looking at something else or forcing another image to appear in its place. But it’s not working now. Jonas is inside him, inside all of him, his eyes bore into him like a laser sight. His knees start to wobble.

I should have tried harder to cover myself up
, he thinks.
I should have thought about it for one more second, just one, then perhaps the flames would have burned me in a different place. It might have made all the difference. My eyes wouldn’t have glued themselves together and I would have been able to see properly before I got ready to jump off the railing and not slip just as I was about to escape. Everything could have been different. And Jonas would still have been alive.

Henning strangles a sob while he looks at the picture.
You should be on the wall
, he says to his son.
You should have been on my wall all this time. But I can’t bear to have you there. I’m so sorry, my darling boy, but I just can’t bear it
.

A rumble outside his window makes him take a step to one side. He looks for something familiar, something to fix his eyes on as the storm draws near. The sweat trickles down between his shoulder blades and he imagines tasting saltwater as he breaks through the surface of a shimmering, dark pink sea. Sinking like a sounding lead. He turns into a shadow and a dry noise is forced out of him. But the only part of him that gets wet is his eyes.