Scarred (27 page)

Bjarne mutters curses under his breath. Emilie Blomvik still isn’t answering her phone. And worse, she has just blocked his call.

He swears loudly and drives as fast as he can in the direction of the Trafikkmaskinen interchange roundabout to get out of Oslo. While he weaves frantically in and out of the traffic, he finds a white cable, which he plugs into his mobile. He sticks the earplugs into his ears and calls Fredrik Stang again.

‘Did you get hold of Romerike Police?’

‘Yes, they’re despatching a patrol car to the address now.’

‘Just the one car?’

‘Yes, they said that was all they had available.’

Bjarne rolls his eyes.

‘Okay, I’m on my way there now. Have you found out more information about Remi Gulliksen?’

‘Yes, a bit. He was born and grew up in Jessheim, but now lives in a small flat in Tøyen.’

‘Have we sent people over to his address?’

‘We have. Gjerstad has got everyone working on it.’

‘Great.’

‘By the way, Remi was due to be evicted from his flat today.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, that could have been what set him off.’

‘Hm. Keep me posted.’

‘Will do.’

Some high-risk driving enables Bjarne to get out of Oslo in the rush-hour while he calls Directory Enquiries and asks to be put through to Nordby Nursery. There he learns that Sebastian Blomvik failed to show up today.

Bjarne calls Emilie again, but this time his call is cut off immediately.

‘Damn,’ he says and hits the accelerator.

Emilie Blomvik.

She was his first, his only one. Now, when he thinks about it, he doesn’t know why he loved her, only that he did. He couldn’t explain it. Perhaps it was just that she made him feel loved and valued. He believed that she admired him. That’s what she told him, she praised him, called him nice and good. No one had ever said that to him before.

But he should have known that it couldn’t last. Emilie wasn’t that kind of girl. She got bored easily and hated staying in. She liked going to parties and having fun, while he just wanted her all to himself. At first when the rumours about Markus and her started to circulate, he refused to believe them. He was in denial.

Right until that became impossible.

Emilie was his first, his only one. He could never erase her; no one would ever surpass her. It had started with Emilie and it would finish with Emilie.

The doorbell rings.

He is startled, as are Emilie and Mattis. Both of them are about to cry out, but Remi points the gun at them.

‘Hush,’ he says. ‘Not a sound.’

Bjarne has barely left Oslo when his mobile rings again.

‘Yes?’

It is Ella Sandland.

‘I’ve just spoken to Remi Gulliksen’s mother,’ she says. ‘Remi visited them Tuesday evening. She says he went berserk.’

‘In what way?’

‘He beat up his father.’

An articulated lorry pulls out in front of Bjarne. He sounds the horn and flashes his headlights while he says: ‘Why?’

‘His mother wasn’t sure. It came out of the blue. Remi had knocked over a glass of water and refused to clean it up. And when his father told Remi to apologise, he went crazy.’

‘Just because he knocked over a glass of water?’

The articulated lorry refuses to get out of his way.

‘So it would seem. They don’t sound like the world’s happiest family.’

Bjarne opens the window and places a blue flashing light on the roof, though technically he should have requested permission first. It takes only a few seconds before the lorry pulls over. Bjarne accelerates and sends the driver a long hard stare before he overtakes him. The speedometer is close to 150.

‘We need to send officers over to Remi’s parents’ address,’ he says.

‘I think that’s already happening.’

‘I’m seven or eight minutes away from Jessheim.’

‘Thanks for letting me know.’

Bjarne exits the motorway at Jessheim, turns right at the first roundabout, drives past a bank and across the new roundabout left of the bridge. He continues towards the industrial estate and speeds through more roundabouts and sleeping policemen until he reaches a residential area. He follows the sat nav instructions on the screen and it doesn’t take long before he spots the patrol car from Romerike Police parked outside a red house. Bjarne parks his car alongside the local officers and looks across to Henning.

‘Stay here. And don’t even think about leaving the car—’

He pushes his index finger very close to Henning’s face.

‘Okay.’

Bjarne gets out and introduces himself.

‘It doesn’t look as if anyone is in,’ says one of the officers.

‘Have you rung the doorbell?’

‘Yes. No one came to the door.’

Bjarne checks the windows for signs of movement and listens out for sounds. The house glistens in the sunlight that has broken through the layer of clouds. The garage door is open. A stroller is parked outside. A green garden hose is stretched across the shingle.

‘There!’ Bjarne exclaims.

‘Where?’ the officer asks.

‘The curtain in the small window. It twitched. There’s someone inside.’

‘Then why doesn’t she open the door?’

Bjarne doesn’t reply.

‘I’ll try calling her again,’ he says and takes out his mobile. He lets it ring for a long time.

Finally the call is answered, but he hears only static.

‘Hello?’ Bjarne says.

There is no voice down the other end.

‘This is Detective Inspector Bjarne Brogeland from Oslo Police. Who am I speaking to?’

The silence continues.

At last a dark voice says: ‘Go away.’

Bjarne freezes.

‘Remi?’ he stutters. ‘Is that you?’

‘I want you to leave.’

Bjarne hears a chill in Remi’s voice that he doesn’t like the sound of. Bjarne says Remi’s full name, but gets no response.

‘Is Emilie there?’ Bjarne then asks.

Silence.

‘Emilie isn’t here,’ the voice replies eventually.

‘I know she’s in there, Remi. I want to talk to her.’

‘No.’

Pause.

Bjarne starts to feel hot.

‘Please could you just tell me if she’s okay?’

No reply.

Bjarne places his hand over the telephone and looks at the others for assistance, but all he gets in return are blank stares.

‘Remi,’ Bjarne begins.

‘Just drop it,’ Remi interrupts him. ‘And don’t try to come inside or I’ll shoot.’

It takes Bjarne a moment before he is able to respond.

‘What did you just say, Remi?’

‘I’ve got a gun and I’m not afraid to use it. Don’t – come – in.’

Then he hangs up.

Trine Juul-Osmundsen looks at her watch and sighs. In just a few hours she will be facing the pack of wolves. She has tried writing a statement, but her fingers just hovered over the keyboard. She has heard about writer’s block and believed that it was restricted only to writers, but now she understands its true meaning. Not being able to put down a single, coherent thought. Stare at the screen and get nothing but emptiness back. It’s like living in a vacuum.

She has gone through her emails and fortunately not found any more messages from biglie0910. It confirms the conclusion she reached earlier this morning. The sender knows that there is no point in sending her emails she can’t read or reply to.

There is a knock on the door and Katarina Hatlem peeks in.

‘You wanted a word with me?’ she says and enters Trine’s office. Her long red curls are coiled around her neck.

‘Yes. Close the door behind you,’ Trine says.

Katarina does as she is asked and approaches the desk. Her steps are normally brisk. Her face is usually alert. Now it looks haggard. As if she has been crying or not slept for several days.

‘How are you?’ Hatlem asks her cautiously.

‘Sit down.’

Katarina hesitates a second before she does as she is told.

‘I’ve been doing a bit of thinking recently,’ Trine begins. ‘Or more accurately, I wasn’t able to think very much until I came home last night. It has been a little – how can I put it – difficult to focus on anything other than negative thoughts.’

‘I understand,’ Katarina says, nodding vigorously.

‘But this morning I remembered something.’

Trine drums her fingers on the desk.

‘Whoever started this smear campaign against me must have known that I wouldn’t defend myself. He or she must have known why I couldn’t tell the public what I really did on the night of 9 October last year, or rather what I did the following day. It means that this person must have known that I was in Denmark and what it would do to me if the truth came out.’

Katarina Hatlem lowers her gaze.

‘I confided in one person,’ Trine says, locking her eyes on to Katarina. ‘One person who helped me with the arrangements. And that person, Katarina dear, was you.’

Katarina makes no reply. She just stares at the floor.

‘Either you’re behind all of this or you told someone what I did.’

Trine pre-empts Katarina’s potential protest.

‘I’m going to give you one chance – just one – to explain yourself. And spare me the outrage; don’t tell me it wasn’t you, because you must have had something to do with it. Because I certainly didn’t tell anyone else.’

Katarina can’t even look her in the eye, but Trine sees the colour flare up in her cheeks. It doesn’t take long before the corners of her mouth start twitching.

‘Please believe me,’ she whimpers. ‘I never thought that it would go this far.’

‘Didn’t you?’ Trine replies tartly. ‘Few people know the media better than you, Katarina. You knew exactly how to play it.’

Katarina shakes her head frantically.

‘It wasn’t like that,’ she says. ‘It was my fault, but I promise you, Trine, I had nothing to do with this.’

‘Then I suggest that you start talking. The press conference begins in less than two hours.’

Katarina breaks down and sobs. She cries for a long time until Trine orders her to pull herself together.

‘I’m sorry,’ Katarina stutters while she closes her eyes and lets the tears run free. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’

Trine doesn’t reply, she just looks at someone who has been her closest colleague for several years. A colleague she regarded as her friend. And the tender feeling she gets inside surprises her. But she can’t make herself say that it’s okay. It’s very much not okay. The damage can never be undone.

‘I’m waiting,’ she says and juts out her chin.

Katarina Hatlem sniffs, puts a finger under each eye and lets the skin absorb some of the moisture, but to no avail. When she finally starts talking, her voice no longer trembles.

And Trine thought she knew how bad getting hurt could be. Dull pain punctured by tiny pulsating pricks, words driving splinters of pain into her heart and forcing all the air out of her lungs. She thought she knew how bad getting hurt could get.

She was wrong.

As soon as Bjarne has finished the call, he rings a new number. It takes only a moment before the call is answered. He quickly explains where he is and what has happened.

‘This is a hostage situation,’ he repeats to emphasise the gravity of the situation. As he ends the call, he looks up at the house.

‘Do you have any experience with hostage situations?’ he asks.

The local police officers exchange glances.

‘I mean, apart from what they taught you at the police academy?’

‘No,’ one of them says.

‘Would it be okay with you if I take charge until the armed response unit arrives?’

‘Yes,’ they reply in unison.

‘Okay,’ Bjarne begins. ‘We need to set up an inner cordon so that the hostage taker can’t escape if he decides to leave the house. Next we set up an outer cordon that will stop outsiders entering the area. We’re lucky, only one road leads in here and it starts around the bend over there.’ Bjarne points to a grey house with tall walls. ‘There’s a footpath over there. One of you, you for example,’ he says, pointing to the man on his left, ‘go over there and stop everyone from getting through. And I mean everyone.’

The police officer nods.

‘I noticed another footpath on my way here, over by the post boxes. You go over there,’ Bjarne says, pointing to the other officer. ‘You should still be able to see inside the house, but act discreetly. We mustn’t do anything to provoke the hostage taker. Take off your jacket, there’s always a chance he won’t realise you’re a police officer. See if you can get an idea of how many people are inside. We also have to assess whether we need to evacuate any of the neighbours, certainly anyone we see outdoors. We have to get them out of here.’

The officers nod.

‘I’ll stay here in front of the house. We’ll do what we can, and wait for backup.’

The officers nod again.

‘Okay,’ Bjarne says and waves them off. The officers quickly take up their positions. Bjarne watches the house closely, sees the curtain twitch again. A head pops up and then disappears.

Bjarne has been present at two previous hostage situations. The first took place in an asylum centre. A staff member at reception called the police himself to say that he was being held against his will by a resident threatening him with a knife and a can of petrol. An ambulance and armed police officers attended immediately, and initially there were fears that the resident might burn down the whole centre. But everything was over in thirty minutes. The resident was arrested without drama.

The second time was a woman in a house out in Lørenskog and the call they got was similar to this one, that a man inside had a weapon and that he wasn’t afraid to use it. The hostage taker even stepped out on the veranda and fired a shot in the air to prove his claim. The police arrived in full force, took up positions around the house, and the hostage negotiator made contact. Again, it didn’t take long before the hostage was released. The man was arrested inside the house after a short raid.

What both hostage situations had in common was that Bjarne felt strangely disappointed afterwards. There was no action, no adrenaline rush. No messages on the police radio about an arm, a shoulder or a head in the middle of quivering crosshairs. But though Bjarne felt a little cheated then, he realises now with all of his being that he hopes this hostage situation will have the same outcome. That it will play out just as quickly, end just as undramatically and with as few injuries as possible.

Bjarne jumps when his mobile rings. He looks at the display. The call is from Emilie Blomvik’s phone. Bjarne stands frozen for several long seconds. Reluctantly, he presses the green button.

‘Hello?’

‘Didn’t you hear what I said?’ says the heavy, dark voice.

‘Yes, Remi. I heard everything you said.’

‘So why are you still there? I told you I had a gun. Do you need a demonstration?’

Bjarne closes his eyes and thinks hard.

‘No, Remi, I don’t.’

‘Then I suggest that you get out of here now.’

Bjarne rubs his forehead, his hand gets wet from sweat and he realises he has no source of advice, he is on his own. Police academy training means nothing; he can’t access the calm, the sensible advice, the gentle voice that tells the hostage taker that the negotiator is now in charge.

‘Let me help you,’ he says and immediately hears a snort down the other end.

‘The only thing I want you to do is keep your mouth shut and listen to me. I know that you’re going to call for backup now; negotiators and armed officers will turn up and everyone will want to help me, isn’t that right, everybody’s going to be ever so patient and understanding. Well, you can forget about it. I don’t want to talk to some bloody hostage negotiator.’

There is silence again. The sweat is dripping from Bjarne’s forehead.

‘Okay,’ he says. ‘So who do you want to talk to?’

The police officer’s voice echoes in Remi’s head. He looks at the TV screen where the news channel is on. A red dot is flashing as if a tsunami warning is being broadcast.

Next to the dot it says that Justice Secretary Trine Juul-Osmundsen has called a press conference later today and that she is expected to resign. But the experts Remi can hear, the reporters in the television studio, think that no one should expect her to apologise for what she has done.

So she is another one of those.

‘I want to talk to the woman on the TV,’ Remi says. ‘The Minister for Justice. I want to talk to Trine Juul-Osmundsen.’