‘It was difficult to get much sense out of him. I’m not even sure he understands that Erna Pedersen is dead.’
‘Really?’
‘He was much more interested in telling me about his childhood in Linderud. He could remember every single detail of that.’
‘That’s often the way it is,’ Bjarne says. ‘Old people can’t remember what happened yesterday, but you try asking them about the war.’
Sandland laughs.
‘Do you know what he asked me?’
‘No?’
‘He asked me to bring a bottle of cognac next time.’
Brogeland smiles.
‘Braastad XO, preferably,’ Sandland says.
‘That’s priceless,’ Brogeland laughs. ‘I think I have a bottle of that at home.’
There is silence between them again. Brogeland turns into Sinsenterrassen, says goodbye to an open, grey Oslo and hello to denser development where the cars drive closer to the pavements and people lean into the weather.
‘But Guttorm Tveter must have had something to say about what happened yesterday. Doesn’t he remember anything?’
‘Doesn’t seem like it,’ Sandland says. ‘He was more concerned about what time it was. There was something he wanted to watch on TV.’
Bjarne finds a parking space outside the supermarket and reluctantly leaves the car in favour of an uninspiring walk that puts an end to their conversation. They step out on the pavement where wet leaves cover the tarmac like a blanket, find the brown building where Daniel Nielsen lives and press a button with his name on. Brogeland stuffs his hands in his jeans pockets in a vain attempt to warm them up and looks up at the grey and white windows.
Soon they hear a voice saying ‘hello?’
‘Hello, this is the police,’ Ella Sandland says. ‘Are you Daniel Nielsen?’
A long silence ensues before the intercom on the wall finally buzzes to let them in.
The officers enter and take the lift up to the fourth floor where a man meets them in the stairwell. Dark hair falls to his ears from a messy centre parting and three-day-old stubble steals the light from his face. He is wearing a black T-shirt with a picture of Whitney Houston. Below the artist’s face the caption says ‘Houston, we have a problem’ in red letters. His trousers, also black, are sagging. Over his belt hangs a belly that would make Bjarne run to the nearest treadmill in sheer panic.
‘Hi,’ Daniel Nielsen says quickly and smiles at the investigators. ‘Have you been trying to get hold of me today?’ He laughs. ‘I’ve been to the gym, you see, and I’ve only just got home this minute.’
‘So you haven’t managed to shower yet?’ Bjarne says.
‘No, I—’ Nielsen runs a hand through his hair. ‘I haven’t got round to that.’
He rubs his hands on his trouser leg. He smiles at them again.
‘Where do you work out?’ Bjarne asks.
‘Eh, Svein’s Gym,’ Nielsen says.
Bjarne nods.
‘Could we come in, please?’ Sandland asks.
Nielsen looks at her.
‘Can’t we just take it out here? My flat’s a real mess and I – I—’
‘We prefer to talk inside,’ Bjarne says firmly and doesn’t offer any explanation.
‘Of course,’ Nielsen nods and goes in first, holds the door open for them and kicks some shoes out of the way before they reach a narrow hallway. Pegs on the wall are taken by jackets, baseball caps and a sad-looking umbrella. They walk past a cracked mirror and a three-drawer white chest where one knob is falling off.
They step inside the living room. There is an open laptop on a desk. Next to it is a plate with a half-eaten sandwich. There are teeth marks in the saveloy. A full glass of milk is standing beside it. On the walls are big framed pictures. Snowboarders in a white mountain terrain. An angler in a river in water up to his waist. Some smaller close-ups of flowers in vivid colours.
‘Let’s talk about Caroline,’ Bjarne says and takes a seat.
The old sofa cushions sag under him and he ends up sitting close to the floor. Nielsen’s eyes widen. And then he slumps.
‘Of course,’ he says, looking down. ‘I should have known you’d find out about her.’
Nielsen heaves a sigh and clenches his fist.
‘Why didn’t you tell your boss about your conviction?’
Nielsen looks at Sandland.
‘Do you think I’d have got the job if I had?’
He shakes his head.
‘I needed money and I—’
He shakes his head again. The officers let him take his time. Soon he looks up at them.
‘But I’ve got nothing to do with what happened to Erna Pedersen,’ he says. ‘I give you my word.’
Nielsen does his best to give them a look that inspires confidence, but it is a staring competition that Bjarne wins easily.
‘Did you know her?’
‘No,’ he says quickly and loudly. ‘I mean, only through work, if that’s what you’re asking.’
‘That was what I was asking.’
‘No,’ Nielsen repeats. ‘Absolutely not.’
Bjarne nods slowly.
‘Did you go to work yesterday?’
‘Eh, no. I mean, I stopped off at work, but I wasn’t working.’
‘Why did you stop off at work?’
‘I was just dropping something off.’
Bjarne looks at him, waits for a continuation that doesn’t come.
‘When was this?’
‘Late afternoon. Four thirty, five or thereabouts.’
It grows quiet between them while Bjarne stares at him.
‘Did you see anyone enter or leave Erna Pedersen’s room while you were there?’
Nielsen shakes his head in jerks before he wipes his nose with the back of his hand.
‘Did you notice anything while you were there? Anything unusual?’
Nielsen scratches his nose vigorously with the nail of his index finger.
‘No, I don’t think so.’
High up his forehead along his hairline the sweat has darkened his brown hair.
Sandland looks around.
‘Why did you need money?’ she asks.
Nielsen looks at her. His eyebrows narrow.
‘Do you know how much it costs to rent a one-bedroom flat in Oslo these days? Even up here?’
Sandland shakes her head.
‘I’m paying just over 12,000 kroner a month before utility bills and phone charges. I have to have a job. Though I guess I’ll get the sack now.’
Nielsen tears a tiny bit of skin off his thumb. It starts to bleed so he reaches out for a loo roll in the middle of the table, next to two lumpy stones that look glued together.
‘How would you describe Erna Pedersen’s behaviour recently?’
Nielsen hesitates, rips off a sheet and wraps it round his thumb.
‘Difficult to say. I didn’t really know her all that well. I’ve only been her primary care worker for a couple of months and I rarely got a sensible word out of her.’
‘Okay,’ Bjarne says and gets up. Sandland does the same. ‘We’ll probably want to speak to you later. And it would be good if you could pick up the phone the next time we call, that way we don’t have to come up to your flat.’
‘Yes, er, sorry, I—’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Bjarne says. ‘You were at the gym. At Svein’s Gym.’
Bjarne stares at him for a long time.
‘Yes,’ Nielsen says and laughs quickly. ‘So I was.’
‘Thanks for the chat,’ Sandland says and leaves first.
Nielsen accompanies them to the door and closes it firmly behind them.
‘I don’t think he went to the gym,’ Bjarne says once they are inside the lift.
‘Why not?’
‘Did you see a sports bag anywhere?’
Sandland thinks about it, but doesn’t reply.
‘And why was he wearing regular clothes if he hadn’t showered yet? Where were his workout clothes?’