She clicks on it against her better judgement. And the message makes her clasp her hand over her mouth.
I know what happened on 9 October last year. Or should I say – the next day?
Consider this a warning. Resign or the truth will come out.
Chapter 13
The radio is on, but Bjarne Brogeland isn’t listening. His eyes scan the city that glides past him. There is a muffled sound of tyres against wet tarmac.
They finished the morning briefing only fifteen minutes ago. Today’s tasks were explained and allocated under Arild Gjerstad’s skilful management. Now a large number of officers, led by Emil Hagen, are on their way to Grünerhjemmet to continue interviewing everyone who was there yesterday. At the police station Fredrik Stang is doing background checks on all the staff members at the care home, focusing on those who worked on Erna Pedersen’s ward. Crime scene officers are supporting the investigation by taking fingerprints and looking for matches on record.
Bjarne was tasked with visiting Ulrik Elvevold Sund, the boy who discovered Erna Pedersen’s body; a job he was happy to accept since Ella Sandland, the station’s femme fatale, was coming with him. Bjarne has been smitten with her for a long time, but none of his flirtatious remarks or come-ons has ever provoked as much as a shrug. That, however, Bjarne thinks, only makes working with her all the more charged.
He gazes at her, at her discreet make-up, the elasticity of her cheeks, her chin, her lips slightly dry right now, but normally moist and soft. Her eyelashes arch up over her eyelids. Sandland is like the sun. It’s always warm wherever she is.
‘So,’ he says, exhaling hard. ‘What do you make of all this?’
Sandland, who sits straight upright and looks out of the window with an alert expression, turns to him.
‘I don’t know what to think. Who would do something like that? I mean – even thinking of pushing knitting needles through the eyes of an old lady in the first place? How sick is that?’
As always her west Norwegian accent tugs at his heartstrings. She shakes her head; her short, blonde hair doesn’t even move.
‘Someone must have really hated her,’ she concludes.
‘Do you think it’s symbolic that he used the Bible to whack the knitting needles through her eyes?’
‘I don’t know,’ Sandland replies. ‘Was she a Christian?’
‘Or perhaps it was about her eyes,’ Bjarne speculates. ‘Perhaps she’d seen something. It’s a very symbolic action, targeting her eyes.’
Sandland makes no reply, she just nods to herself.
Bjarne switches on the sat nav and takes a right, finds where he is going and parks facing the direction of traffic in Jens Bjelkesgate, right outside the entrance to an apartment block with the number 43. The wall is yellow with white painted windowsills and render below them. The door to Entrance B is blue.
Bjarne has phoned ahead to say that they are on their way, that Martine Elvevold should prepare both herself and her son for a chat. When Sandland rings the bell, they are admitted immediately, and are met on the ground floor by a woman with a gaunt face who greets them with a ‘hi’. Her face is pale and drawn as if she hasn’t slept well. Her brown hair lies messily on her shoulders.
‘Come in,’ she says when they have shaken hands. They enter a living room filled with film sounds. Bjarne recognises it immediately as one of the Shrek movies. Ulrik, a boy with blond, longish hair – just like his father – sits slumped on the floor in front of the TV.
‘Can I get you some coffee or something?’ Martine offers.
‘No, thank you,’ the officers reply in unison.
‘How is he?’ Bjarne says.
Martine Elvevold hesitates for a few seconds before she answers.
‘It’s difficult to say,’ she begins. ‘I’ve kept him at home from school today, but he seems a little – how can I put it – detached. There are moments when he’s his old self, but every now and then he’ll stare vacantly into space. Ulrik has always been a rather fidgety boy. Always a little on the anxious side.’
Bjarne nods.
‘Has he said anything about – about what happened?’
Elvevold shakes her head.
‘I haven’t pressed him, either. I decided it might be good to give him time.’
‘Unfortunately time isn’t a luxury that we can allow ourselves,’ Bjarne says. ‘Do you mind if I have a word with him?’
‘No,’ Elvevold says, but her eyes immediately assume a worried expression. ‘Only – go easy on him.’
Bjarne smiles empathetically.
‘Of course.’
He signals to Sandland that he will take this chat on his own.
‘I think I would like that cup of coffee after all,’ she says.
Martine Elvevold smiles and leads the way to the kitchen. Bjarne waits until he and Ulrik are alone. He sits down on the floor, not too close to him, but a little to the side.
‘What are you watching?’ he says, looking at the boy’s flitting eyes, which follow the images on the screen. Fiona is busy beating up a guy pretending to be Robin Hood.
‘Holy cow,’ Bjarne says. ‘That’s one tough lady.’
Ulrik makes no reply.
‘My little girl loves this film,’ Bjarne says after a pause. ‘I think I must have seen it thirty times.’
Ulrik still hasn’t got anything to say. Bjarne lets his gaze roam around the room while he thinks about how best to approach this nine-year-old boy. DVD boxes for several films are piled up in front of the television. There is a crate of Lego under the coffee table. Marbles lie scattered around. There is an indoor football on the floor near the sofa.
‘Ulrik,’ Bjarne says, turning to the boy. ‘My name is Bjarne. I work for the police.’
The boy doesn’t take his eyes off the screen.
‘I’m trying to find out what happened at the care home yesterday. I know that you were the first person who saw that Erna Pedersen had died.’
This time the nine-year-old looks at Bjarne.
‘Can you tell me what you saw?’
Ulrik’s eyes return to the TV.
‘Would you mind if I turn down the volume?’ Bjarne says, pointing to the remote control. ‘Makes it easier to talk?’
Ulrik says nothing, but Bjarne takes it as an indication that it’s fine. He reaches out for the remote control and turns off the sound. Immediately they can hear noises coming from the kitchen. Muffled talking, a cup clattering.
‘We know that somebody hurt her,’ Bjarne continues. ‘And it’s my job to stop anything like that from happening again. I’m hoping you might be able to help me.’
Ulrik meets Bjarne’s eyes.
‘Did you see someone hurt Mrs Pedersen?’
Ulrik lowers his gaze and fidgets. This time Bjarne waits.
‘She was just dead,’ Ulrik says eventually.
‘You didn’t see what happened when she died?’
Ulrik shakes his head fiercely. Bjarne nods and tries to think of another way to ask the same question. Can’t think of one.
‘Did you see anyone in her room?’
Same response. Again there is something brooding and sad about Ulrik.
‘Was she nice, Mrs Pedersen?’
The boy nods.
‘She used to give me toffees.’
‘Toffees? That was nice of her,’ Bjarne says. ‘So you knew her?’
‘Not very much.’
‘But a little?’
Ulrik stares down at the floor again. Bjarne doesn’t know if there is any point in continuing the interview. Though he doesn’t know the boy, it’s clear to see that he has retreated deep inside himself. If that is for any other reason than having seen a dead body, a murdered body at that, it is hard to say.