Scarred (22 page)

Trine’s legs are killing her after yesterday’s coastal walk. Her head feels leaden too. She hasn’t managed to eat very much in the last few days. Nor has she had enough to drink. Not water, anyway.

Though she still doesn’t know what to do, she feels better for having spent time out here. It has been good to have only the sea, the wind and the rocks for company. Feeling small again. She realises she would like to return to the cabin as soon as possible, but knows she will have a hard time persuading Pål Fredrik to join her. She will have to bribe him with at least fifty kilometres of main road cycling every day; though whether she will still have him after recent events remains to be seen. Perhaps that is why she feels so drained of energy. So terrified.

Trine locks the cabin, returns the key to the nail under the bench and says a quiet ‘goodbye for now’ in her head. Then she walks up the mound and rings Katarina Hatlem, who answers after just a few rings.

‘Hi, it’s me,’ Trine says. ‘I’m coming home.’

The voice of her Director of Communications sounds instantly relieved, but Trine adds that she won’t be returning to her office today. She probably won’t come in until tomorrow.

‘Okay.’

‘But you can tell anyone who might be wondering that I intend to make a statement soon. I have to. I just don’t know when.’

‘That’s great, Trine. But what are you going to say?’

Trine stops, turns to look at the sea, at Tvistein Lighthouse and the endless blue.

‘Well, that’s the thing. Whatever will do the least damage.’

At the morning meeting, Heidi Kjus is in a foul mood because Henning isn’t up to speed on the Bislett murder and even more annoyed because
123news
are still having to quote NTB. Henning has been told to cover the Bislett murder as well, but he has little interest in it as he finally appears to be making headway in the mystery surrounding Trine.

He thinks about the fax that was sent to every newspaper in the country a couple of days ago. The death blow to his sister’s career. Surely it must be possible to trace where that fax was sent from?

Trine’s enemy probably wouldn’t be stupid enough to send it from their own office. They might have got someone else to do it, of course, but that would be risky. If you want to keep a secret, tell no one.

Henning’s gaze is drawn towards the desk where Kåre Hjeltland is clapping his hands for joy.

‘Sign of life from Juul-Osmundsen!’ he shouts.

Hjeltland turns to one of his staff.

‘Great,’ he continues. ‘Issue a short version. Two lines maximum and put it on the front page.’

The news desk assistant nods.

‘Tuva, what other cases are we waiting to publish?’

Henning cranes his neck; he can just see the head of the girl who looks down at the screen in front of her. Henning blocks out her voice while he shakes his head.
Business as usual
, he thinks.
Nothing ever changes
.

And if it hadn’t been the equivalent of banging his head against a brick wall, Henning would have contacted the
VG
journalists himself and asked them straight out who had sold them this pathetic pile of tosh that they have been happy to splash across several front pages without a second thought. But no journalist ever reveals their sources and certainly not to another journalist. And no newspaper would ever admit that they had allowed themselves to be used to bring down a government Minister.

Instead Henning retrieves the notorious fax from the huge pile of documents and newspapers on his desk. At the top of the printout he sees a fax number. It takes only minutes to discover that it belongs to an Internet café in Eiksmarka Shopping Centre. He decides to give them a call.

‘Hello,’ he says and introduces himself. ‘I’m wondering about something: do people have to show ID when they want to use one of your machines?’

‘People have to give their name and mobile number, which we register in our database, yes. If the FBI, for example, were to discover that someone had sent a threatening email to the US President from one of my machines, then I’m obliged to tell them the name of the person who used it.’

‘So if I were from the FBI, you’d be able to tell me who came to your café Monday evening sometime after ten o’clock to send a fax?’

‘Not exactly; the fax machine is available to anyone who comes here. But it’s probably going to be a short list. There weren’t that many people here that night.’

‘Great,’ Henning says. ‘Thank you so much.’

Fredrik Stang races into Bjarne’s office without knocking.

‘We’ve got a hit!’ he exclaims. ‘We’ve gone through some of Erna Pedersen’s registers from Jessheim School. We’ve got a hit!’ he says again.

‘Who is it?’

‘Markus Gjerløw,’ Stang says with jubilation written all over his face.

Markus Gjerløw, Bjarne mutters to himself. The man he spoke to only yesterday. He was one of the volunteers who visited Grünerhjemmet.

‘He was two years above Emilie Blomvik and Johanne Klingenberg,’ Stang continues.

It has to be him.

‘Okay. Fantastic, Fredrik. Good job.’

Bjarne rings Emilie Blomvik immediately.

‘Markus Gjerløw,’ he says, pronouncing the name with exaggerated clarity when she answers. ‘Do you know who he is?’

Blomvik doesn’t reply immediately. Background noise from Oslo intrudes on the line.

‘Markus? Yes, of course I know him.’

‘Were Markus and Johanne ever friends?’

Bjarne sticks a finger in his ear in order to hear better.

‘They were an item at school, I think. I went out with Markus as well, but only for a short time in sixth form.’

Bjarne can barely sit still.

‘Emilie, this is very important. Can you remember why Markus and Johanne broke up?’

‘Yes,’ she says and laughs. ‘They were thirteen or fourteen years old. At that age it’s a miracle if anyone stays together for more than three weeks.’

‘So it wasn’t very serious, is that what you’re saying?’

‘That’s exactly what I’m saying, yes.’

‘And what about your relationship with him?’

Another short pause.

‘I don’t suppose I could have been more than seventeen or eighteen years old. Far too young for a serious relationship. And anyway, he was off to do national service, and so—’

Bjarne nods slowly while he digests the information.

‘Do you know what his relationship with Erna Pedersen was like?’

‘No, he was a few years older than me. But why do you want to know about that? Is he the man you’re—’

‘We don’t know yet,’ Bjarne interrupts her.

But his gut feeling tells him that Markus Gjerløw is his man.

A child, Henning ponders. How strange that such a blessing can cause so much destruction. His life is ruined by the death of a child. Trine’s life might be falling apart because of a child she never had. And he thinks about how his family slipped through his fingers without him doing anything about it. But could he really have prevented it? Was he even interested in stopping it happening?

He doesn’t think so. Not after he met Nora, not after Jonas. When he had his own family and became preoccupied with them. He didn’t think much about Trine or their shared past, he just accepted that it was a closed book for them both. He never made any attempt to patch up his family. Yes, he makes sure that their mother has cigarettes and alcohol, and that her flat is reasonably clean, but that’s the limit of his involvement. And now, as he sits here alone, knowing full well that Trine lives her life independently of him, independently of him and their mother, it’s tempting to think that the breakdown of the Juul family is his fault. He was the man of the house after his father died, he should have done something. Taken steps to uncover the problems and then fix them. Instead, he just let it fall apart.

And perhaps it’s too late now. Trine made it perfectly clear that she didn’t want his help. There was so much remoteness in her eyes in the cabin, so much hostility. It was hard to admit it, but it felt good to see her again even though she threw him out. Away from the newspaper interviews and the TV debates where she always comes across as so confident and self-assured. She had been her old self. Just as temperamental and just as bossy as when she was little.

Henning hasn’t yet returned the rental car, something he is pleased about as he parks outside Eiksmarka Shopping Centre with the front of the car practically inside a florist called Blåklokken. The centre is deserted this early in the day, as is the Internet café. There is not a single customer around when Henning enters and introduces himself to a balding, dark-skinned man with a moustache who is chewing vigorously on something.

‘I’d like to speak to anyone who worked here Monday evening,’ Henning says.

The man carries on chewing.

‘Do you know who was working here that night?’

‘Possibly. Why do you want to talk to them?’

‘Because I’m trying to find out who sent a fax from that machine,’ Henning says, pointing left where the room’s only fax machine is located. ‘It’s important to a person who . . . who’s important to me. I’d be really grateful if you could help me.’

The man carries on chewing while he gives Henning a sideways glance. Then he looks across the room. There is no one at the computers. Outside the entrance a man with a walking stick shuffles past.

‘How much?’

Henning hesitates for a second before he takes out a 500 kroner note from his back pocket. The man takes the money. Studies it. Then he wanders off to the back room and stays there for a long time. Henning is starting to feel awkward when another man comes out. Same skin colour. Same short hair and a moustache.

He nods quickly to Henning, something Henning interprets as a green light so he asks if the man whose badge states his name is ‘Sheraz’ could check on his computer to find out who visited the café Monday evening. Sheraz looks languidly at him and shakes his head.

‘It’s against the law,’ he says.

‘Is that right?’

Henning never really thought that it would be that easy. Over to Plan B.

Henning opens his shoulder bag and takes out a pile of paper he printed out before he left the office. He has lost count of how many pictures he printed out from the home pages of the Justice Department and various political parties, but it was a lot.

‘I’m going to show you some pictures,’ he says, ‘and I want you to say stop if you recognise the person who came here Monday night. Is that all right?’

Sheraz waits a little, then he nods without enthusiasm.

‘Okay, let’s begin.’

Henning puts down the shoulder bag. He pushes the first printout across the counter. They go through a number of politicians – government as well as opposition – political advisers and past and present members of the Justice Department. All he gets by way of response from Sheraz is a shake of the head. Henning flicks through the printouts while Sheraz keeps on shaking his head, more and more reluctant and increasingly hostile in his demeanour.

Suddenly he says: ‘Stop.’

Henning stops.

‘Go back.’

Henning removes the top sheet. Sheraz plants his index finger right in the middle of the sheet, but says nothing.

‘And you’re sure?’ Henning asks.

Sheraz nods.

‘Okay,’ Henning says, taking back the pile of paper and stuffing it into his shoulder bag.
Well worth 500 kroner
, he thinks to himself, and quickly leaves the café.

The atmosphere in the incident room is like the area behind the starting gate right before a skiing race. Everyone is eager to push off as quickly as possible. But it’s essential to do things in the right order.

‘Okay,’ Arild Gjerstad says, ‘this is what we know about Markus Gjerløw so far: he’s thirty-seven years old, he lives in Grorud and he’s unemployed. No wife or girlfriend, nor does he have any children. His parents live in Jessheim. Gjerløw’s mobile is switched on right now and we know that it’s in the vicinity of a mast close to his home address. So it’s likely that he’s at home. The armed response unit has been alerted and the whole building must be hermetically sealed before we go in.’

Several people nod.

‘Okay,’ Gjerstad says. ‘We’re going in. We’ve been given permission to enter by force.’

The patrol cars drive without flashing lights so as not to alert Gjerløw that they are on their way. Bjarne peeks furtively at Sandland and sees that she, too, lives for moments like these. For the action. Taking that six-month vacancy with Vestfold Police would feel like a step backwards, at least to begin with. More paperwork. More time spent at his desk.

Is that really what he wants?

The drive to Grorud takes them less than fifteen minutes. At this speed the raindrops smack against the windscreen. They park on the pavement only one street away from the large tower block where Gjerløw lives and jog to the entrance. Some officers shelter from the rain under the covered area outside.

A uniformed officer from the armed response unit opens the front door and enters followed by several officers. Two men position themselves outside the lift, while another four take the stairs. Bjarne and Sandland follow. Soon they have reached the seventh floor. Behind him Sandland is panting heavily.

One of the uniformed officers knocks on Gjerløw’s door. The sound fills the stairwell with short, sharp bangs. There is no reply. He knocks again, harder this time. Calls out Gjerløw’s name. Still no response.

Several officers from the armed response unit have now joined them. One of them has brought a battering ram. The others stand aside. He hits the door with full force and the door gives way at his second attempt. The officers burst into the flat, holding up their weapons and shouting words no one is meant to understand, but are intended to shock.

The reports come in quickly.

‘Clear!’

‘Clear!’

Then there is silence.

It takes a few minutes before an officer comes out and takes off his helmet. He looks gravely at Brogeland and Sandland.

‘I’m fairly certain that the man inside is Markus Gjerløw,’ the officer says, jerking a thumb over his left shoulder. ‘And I’m absolutely certain that he’s dead as a doornail.’

Markus Gjerløw is leaning back in the Stressless armchair with his arms flopping to each side; his glazed eyes stare vacantly into space. An almost empty bottle containing a clear liquid is standing on the table beside him. And on the floor under the same table they see it – a small, transparent bag with capsules.

Bjarne knows morphine capsules when he sees them.

What he first took to be a living room turns out also to be the bedroom. The duvet lies bunched up on the bed. Clothes have been flung over a chair and piled up on the floor. Bjarne’s gaze glides across the empty walls, a desk with newspapers, books, papers and randomly scattered food packaging. On the floor, mostly along the skirting board, various cables have been trailed, white as well as black, leading to a home cinema unit in the corner. A vast TV screen is mounted on the wall with satellite speakers on either side. Two laptops are turned on. Facebook on one, a shooter game on the other.

‘He can’t have been dead long,’ Sandland says as she scrolls down his Facebook profile. ‘He updated his status—’

She checks her watch.

‘Two hours and fifteen minutes ago.’

Bjarne takes a step closer to her.

‘What did he write?’

‘“Sorry”.’

Bjarne stops.

‘He has had comments from some of his friends asking what he means, wondering what has happened, but he hasn’t replied.’

‘So he felt remorse,’ Bjarne concludes.

‘Yes. We’ve got the guy,’ Sandland says, looking relieved. ‘It’s over.’

The crime scene officers soon take charge of the room, but Bjarne doesn’t want to leave before he has had some more answers. It takes a long time before Ann-Mari Sara comes out to him. She is carrying an evidence bag, which she hands to him.

‘This was lying at the top in one of his drawers,’ Sara says.

Bjarne takes the bag. There is an envelope inside it.

‘Check the logo,’ Sara says.

Bjarne turns over the bag, recognises the logo, a green ‘G’ surrounded by flowers in the top left-hand corner.

‘Grünerhjemmet,’ he says.

‘As you can see the letter is addressed to Tom Sverre Pedersen in Vindern. Erna Pedersen’s son.’

‘So Gjerløw stole his mail,’ Bjarne declares. ‘That was how he found out where Erna Pedersen went to live after she left Jessheim.’

Sara nods.

But why smash the picture of the family? What sparked his rage?
Bjarne wonders.

‘Did you find anything else in there?’

‘Pictures,’ Sara says. ‘Numerous pictures on his laptop of Johanne Klingenberg and of Erna Pedersen’s room at the care home. But while the pictures of Klingenberg were sharp and almost professional, the photographs at the care home were taken with a mobile phone.’

Bjarne heaves a sigh and tries to get the pieces to fit together. Markus Gjerløw had unfinished business of some kind with Erna Pedersen and Johanne Klingenberg. He finds them, kills them – and then commits suicide? So killing them didn’t help? Did he not recover the balance in his life once he had got his revenge? And what part did Emilie Blomvik’s little son play in all this?

The only thing that appears clear is that Markus Gjerløw will take no more lives. Exactly what turned him into a killer will have to be discovered in due course.