Scarred (9 page)

Back at the offices of
123news
Henning sits down at his desk and reflects. Did he actually glean anything from his meeting with Pia Nøkleby?

Only a professional liar can control the reflexes of their facial muscles when confronted with compromising information. The tell is in the movements of the eyes. But rather than getting nervous or appearing ill at ease, Pia looked inquisitive and alert.

Is she really that good a liar?

If that’s the case he has to find another way of solving the Indicia problem. And he thinks he has.

According to
6tiermes7
, Henning’s secret Internet source, a man called Andreas Kjær was the officer on duty on the night of the fire. It’s not unthinkable that he might remember something from that night. Perhaps he can provide Henning with information about which patrol car he despatched to investigate what Tore Pulli was doing in Markveien around 8.30 p.m. Perhaps the officers in that patrol car could be traced. It’s definitely worth following up, especially now when Henning has some free time. The police investigation at the care home is trundling along and the online newspapers are focusing mainly on Trine.

Henning discovers that Directory Enquiries list several Andreas Kjærs, but only one who lives in Oslo. Henning steps inside an office the size of a telephone booth and calls the number. A deep, male voice answers after just two rings.

‘Hi, my name’s Henning Juul. I’m looking for Andreas Kjær.’

‘That’s me.’

‘Hi,’ Henning says again. ‘I’m calling because two years ago you were working at Oslo Police’s control centre. Is that right?’

‘Yes, that’s correct. I’m still there.’

‘Okay. Fine. I have a question that might be a bit – which might not make sense straightaway, but I ask you to bear with me because it’s important.’

Henning gets no reply and takes it as a sign that he should keep talking.

‘On 11 September in 2007 there was a fire in my flat in Markveien in Grünerløkka. You were on duty that night and I know that a patrol car was despatched to Markveien 32 shortly before the fire started.’

Henning stops to make sure that Kjær is keeping up with him.

‘Okay?’ Kjær says, sounding unwilling. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. But why are you calling me?’

‘Because you were on duty that night. I also know that it was—’

‘How do you know that?’

‘I lost my son in that fire,’ Henning says and clears his throat. ‘And apart from being more than understandably keen to know what happened, I’m also a journalist. I have sources.’

Kjær says nothing. Henning decides to plough on.

‘A traffic warden had observed a man sitting in a car several evenings in a row outside the building where I lived; he got suspicious, called it in and you despatched a patrol car to the address.’

Henning holds another pause.

‘Ring any bells, Kjær?’

Silence.

‘The man sitting in the car was Tore Pulli,’ Henning continues when Kjær still doesn’t say anything. ‘You’ve heard of him, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, of course. But I don’t remember the case.’

‘Are you sure? It would be really helpful if you could try to think back. Like I said, it’s very important to me.’

‘I understand,’ Kjær replies. ‘But yes, I’m sure. And even if I did remember that case I wouldn’t be able to discuss it with you.’

‘Okay, I understand, but—’

‘I have to go now.’

Henning is about to launch a fresh protest before he realises his words will have no effect. The line has already gone dead.

Pernille Thorbjørnsen is perching on the edge of a chair and leaning forwards with one leg slung over the other. The care worker has a round face with dimpled cheeks. Her brown hair is swept back in a low ponytail. Bjarne Brogeland puts her at thirty, perhaps a few years older.

They are in a meeting room on the ground floor of the care home where a couple of IKEA tables have been pushed together. The light from two large windows casts a layer of something sallow across Thorbjørnsen’s face.

‘Thanks for coming in at such short notice,’ he says.

‘Don’t mention it,’ she smiles and leans back.

‘When did you leave work yesterday?’

‘My shift ended at five o’clock.’

‘Okay. Did anything strike you as unusual? I’m thinking about anyone who might have been acting differently. Staff. Patients. Visitors.’

Bjarne flings out his hands.

‘Anything and anyone is of interest,’ he says.

Thorbjørnsen squeezes her fingers for a moment, brushes a few stray strands of hair behind her ears; then she folds her arms across her chest.

‘I don’t think so,’ she begins. ‘I can’t really think of anything. I was working and I didn’t realise I was meant to be looking out for something.’

‘No, I know. But try to think back. Was anyone a bit more agitated than they normally were, or calmer than usual, or more exalted—’

Thorbjørnsen looks up to the left.

‘I don’t think so.’

Bjarne doesn’t continue until he is sure that she has finished sifting through her memories.

‘Were you here when the people from the Volunteer Service arrived?’

‘Yes, but I didn’t join in the entertainment this time.’

‘Why not?’

‘I had things to do. The residents here are ill, Officer. Not everyone is able to take part in the entertainment every time. And there isn’t room for us all, either.’

‘So you don’t know if Erna Pedersen took part yesterday?’

‘Yes, I do actually. Ole Christian told me that she didn’t.’

‘Ole Christian – you mean Ole Christian Sund?’

Thorbjørnsen nods.

‘When did you talk to him?’

‘Last night.’

Bjarne looks at her for several long moments. A hand shoots up to her cheek and her nails scratch a dark brown mole.

‘I’ve been told that someone had an argument in Ward 4 yesterday afternoon.’

Thorbjørnsen quickly glances up at him, but when she doesn’t comment on his statement, Bjarne continues: ‘Did you see or hear anything about that?’

She shakes her head.

Bjarne tries to make eye contact, but Thorbjørnsen is looking down now.

‘There’s always a little bit of arguing here and there,’ she says eventually and juts out her chin. ‘That doesn’t mean that anyone here would stick knitting needles through the eyes of our patients. You don’t seriously think that any of the staff or one of the patients could have done it?’

‘It’s too soon to say,’ Bjarne responds, surprised at the sudden resistance in her voice, but he doesn’t have time to think about it further before Ella Sandland knocks on the door and pops in her head to signal that she wants a word.

Bjarne apologises, irritated at the interruption because it shouldn’t happen during an interview. But because Sandland is aware of that and yet still interrupts him, he gets up and asks Thorbjørnsen to stay where she is. Then he steps out into the corridor and closes the door behind him.

‘What is it?’ he asks.

Sandland’s gaze is serious.

‘There’s something I’ve got to show you.’

Henning was sorely tempted to ring back Andreas Kjær immediately, but on second thoughts he decided against it. It was too desperate. Maybe Kjær was on his way to work, perhaps he was about to walk an impatient dog. Or maybe he is one of those people who don’t like answering the same question twice. Therefore another call would only make matters worse.

Henning grew up in Kløfta, seven or eight kilometres south of Jessheim where Erna Pedersen originally came from. One of his childhood friends is called Atle Abelsen. They didn’t really get to know each other until after sixth form when they discovered a shared love of music. They would meet up from time to time and try to put words to something that was supposed to be a melody. And where Henning’s interest in technology has remained at the gifted amateur level, Atle’s passion for cyberspace and computers fed and sustained him all the way into his choice of career. He now works as a programmer for a company in Lillestrøm, but every now and then he will take on work of a quirkier nature – as long as he considers it a challenge. Henning sends him an email and explains what he wants help with this time with the usual promise of a bottle of Calvados as a thank you.

Henning then thinks about Erna Pedersen’s closest family. Surely no one is better placed to tell him about any former enemies that she might have had and he finds out that Pedersen has a son called Tom Sverre Pedersen who works as a doctor at Ullevål University Hospital.

Tom Sverre Pedersen has featured in the media a few times in recent years because he believes that the training of doctors is ripe for reform. If Henning is not mistaken, Pedersen took part in a debate on NRK on exactly this subject not that long ago.

Henning finds Pedersen’s mobile number, but his call goes straight to voicemail.
I’m not the only one who wants to get hold of him today
, Henning guesses. For all he knows Pedersen could be being interviewed at the police station right now. Even so Henning leaves a message and asks Pedersen to return his call. He probably won’t, but you never know, he just might. Sometimes people with a public profile are happy to speak to the media when the opportunity presents itself.

The buzz in the offices of
123news
hasn’t diminished – on the contrary; Henning can’t remember when he last heard his sister’s name mentioned so many times in one day. And it occurs to him that he hasn’t even bothered to find out why every news organisation in Norway seems to have gone overboard with this story.

He brings up the front page of
123news
where he encounters fat, bold typeface against a black background and large pictures of Trine standing on a podium with a hotel logo strategically placed as near the microphone as possible. ‘Shortly after giving this speech she assaulted a young, male politician,’ the lead-in says.

Henning clicks on it and learns that Trine took part in the Labour Party’s annual conference on 9 October last year where she is alleged to have forced a young man to have sex with her. ‘The worst abuse of power,’ someone states. ‘Shameful,’ cries another. A third person says that Trine ought to be reported to the police. So far the police haven’t taken action; they are waiting for someone to file a complaint, but the public prosecutor the newspaper has spoken to will not rule out that the police might launch their own inquiry.

The lead story is accompanied by background material, reactions, comments, blogs and quotes. There are several other pictures of her; Henning looks at the new Trine as he has slowly started to know her. Smooth skin, nice make-up, elegant clothes, excellent posture and political gravitas in her eyes.

Henning clicks his way through several articles. An unnamed source claims that the unidentified, up-and-coming politician had tried to resolve the issue with Trine, to get her to apologise unreservedly, but that she refused. There are also speculations as to whether the Party knew about the accusations and failed to deal with them.

Henning’s attention is drawn to the TV screen to his right. The news channel is on and Prime Minister William Jespersen is seen getting out of a car. The footage is from earlier that morning and Jespersen is asked to comment on the story in today’s edition of
VG
. But Jespersen merely says that he agrees with the Justice Secretary, that he, too, refuses to comment on anonymous allegations, and that is all he is prepared to say for the time being.

The camera cuts back to the studio where a news anchor and a commentator look gravely at each other. The anchor asks how toxic this issue is for Jespersen’s government.

‘It’s highly toxic,’ the commentator replies. ‘Last year alone the Prime Minister had to replace several government Ministers and many have started to doubt his judgement when it comes to making appointments. Trine Juul-Osmundsen represents a huge headache for the Prime Minister since she – despite speculation to the contrary – has proved to be a very popular and effective Minister. The fact that even someone like her finds herself in hot water must cause the Prime Minister to lose sleep, I’m absolutely sure of it.’

‘Talking about sleep,’ the anchor continues, ‘how do you think that Juul-Osmundsen is feeling? It’s no secret that she struggled with mental health issues not all that long ago and that she had been on sick leave due to depression. How do you think all this is going to affect her?’

‘It’s far too early to say, but it clearly isn’t going to be easy for her. I don’t recall that we’ve ever had a case where a female Minister is alleged to have exploited her position in this way. Now we have to treat this matter with caution because we’ve yet to hear the Justice Secretary’s side of the story, but I find it hard to see how she can continue in her post after this.’

Depression
, Henning thinks and frowns. That comes as news to him, but perhaps it shouldn’t. Until his return to work last spring, he had barely read a newspaper or seen any TV while he was in Haukeland Hospital or later at Sunnaas Rehabilitation Centre. But why was Trine depressed?

The screen blurs and an image of Trine as a little girl appears in Henning’s head. She is jumping through a garden sprinkler at their home in Kløfta; she is probably no more than six or seven years old. Her hair is wet; it sticks to her back and neck. Excited, she races towards him with a triumphant smile across her face. She takes a run-up, leaps through the water, breaking the jets before they point up at the sky in an elegant arc once more. ‘Come on, Henning,’ she calls out in her childish voice. And for a moment her voice reminds him of Jonas.

Henning watches himself take a step towards her. Just one, then he stops. Trine shouts that he must have a go because it’s such fun. Sitting on a flimsy director’s chair nearby is their mother who is holding a cigarette and smiling. She follows her daughter with her eyes, but her expression changes as she looks at him as if to order him into the water. So Henning does it, he takes a run-up and jumps; the jets cut through him like icy knives and he hears Trine squeal and shout out: ‘I told you it would be fun!’

Henning blinks and is back in the office. He sees all the people in front of him, he hears the noise, senses the mood, the chaos; everything springs to life again. And he understands, possibly for the first time, the kind of strain Trine will be under for days to come. People will follow her wherever she goes, demand answers, try to speak to anyone who knows her, friends, family. Opposition politicians will make statements, there will be opinion polls and the telephones won’t ever stop ringing in the office of any Norwegian newspaper with more than ten readers. Every news organisation will try to catch up on the head start that
VG
currently has with its exclusive. This means high publication frequency and a low quality threshold for what is published. Single source journalism. And it won’t be long before other stories will come out; anything even vaguely controversial that Trine has ever done will be re-examined.

But this isn’t just about Trine
, Henning thinks. There are other people to consider. So he gets up and walks away from the others. He takes out his mobile and sees that the time is 12.21. Then he rings his mother. But instead of a dial tone he gets a message telling him that the number is temporarily unavailable.

Henning nods happily to himself.