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.
Chapter 23
‘How is that even possible?’
Bjarne Brogeland is still standing outside the meeting room on the ground floor of Grünerhjemmet, flicking through the documents that Ella Sandland has had faxed over from the police station. Sandland shrugs.
‘I mean – don’t they run checks on people before they hire them? I thought anyone who wanted a job in the care sector had to disclose criminal convictions.’
Brogeland reads the document from the beginning again, and sees that the conviction of Daniel Nielsen, Erna Pedersen’s primary care worker, dates back to May 2006. Nielsen suspected his girlfriend of being unfaithful and tried to beat the truth out of her. The fact that he was right wasn’t regarded as a mitigating circumstance.
‘So he has a temper and a predisposition for violence,’ Bjarne says.
‘But is it likely that Erna Pedersen could have provoked him in quite the same way?’ Sandland wonders.
Brogeland grimaces quickly before he takes out his mobile and sees that Nielsen still hasn’t returned his call. Brogeland rings the number again, but it goes straight to voicemail. This time he doesn’t leave a message.
‘When is he due in at work?’ he asks Sandland and hangs up.
‘Not until four o’clock this afternoon.’
‘Okay,’ Brogeland says. ‘Let’s pay him a home visit.’
The city is grey from the low hanging clouds when Bjarne starts the car and manoeuvres out into the traffic.
‘What did she have to say in her defence?’ he asks as he turns left into Søndregate. At the bottom of the hill the River Aker winds its way under several bridges, warbles between dense alders and weeping willows whose branches arch down and only just avoid getting wet.
‘Who?’ Sandland asks.
‘The manager of the care home. I presume she was the one who hired Nielsen?’
‘No defence,’ Sandland says with a sigh. ‘She was desperate for people, she said, and Nielsen came across as a good candidate at the interview. And you don’t have a legal obligation to disclose criminal convictions before you start working in a care home.’
Brogeland shakes his head and drives up through Grünerløkka. The wheels find their own path between tramlines and potholes in the streets after years of cable laying and poor maintenance. The buildings they pass look like unwashed Lego bricks, square and painted a range of different colours.
The ground in Sofienberg Park is sated with foliage from the chestnut trees in between patches of wet green grass and dark brown, slippery paths. They continue driving in the direction of Sinsen where the green area of Torshovdalen lies like a deep ravine in between arms of criss-crossing roads leading out of the city. The car ploughs through the wind.
‘Did you get a chance to speak to that angry man from the TV lounge?’ Bjarne asks. ‘Guttorm Tveter or whatever his name was?’
‘I did,’ Sandland says and a smile forms around her lips. ‘It’s a wonder I’ve got any voice left. The old guy’s deaf as a post. And he refuses to wear a hearing aid.’
‘Typical,’ Bjarne says. ‘Did he see anything? Did you get the impression that he might be involved?’