Sandland shrugs.
‘Not money, certainly.’
‘How about medication?’ Bjarne suggests.
Sandland looks unconvinced.
‘The manager of Grünerhjemmet did say yesterday that quite a lot of medication has gone missing.’
‘I don’t think that’s particularly unusual, Bjarne.’
‘No, you may be right, but prescription medication has a certain street value no matter what part of Oslo you live in. And Daniel Nielsen, you remember, has already admitted needing cash.’
At the entrance to Birkelunden Park the car rattles as it crosses the tramlines. Three trams are queuing at a tram stop. There is an endless flow of passengers getting on and off.
‘But what does that have to do with Erna Pedersen?’ Sandland asks while Bjarne manoeuvres in between two cars at the pedestrian crossing. ‘Could she have seen them pilfer medication and threaten to expose them?’
Bjarne doesn’t reply immediately.
‘I don’t know,’ he says, pressing the accelerator. ‘But let’s see if we can find out. There has to be a reason why Pernille Thorbjørnsen’s fingerprints are on Erna Pedersen’s knitting needles.’
Chapter 41
The dots signposting the route aren’t quite as blue as she remembers them. Nor does she have a clear recollection of the coastal path, only that they used to walk it and that it was a great walk. Cocoa and gooey brown cheese sandwiches. Perhaps a bar of milk chocolate – on special occasions. Plastic bottles filled with yellow squash.
While she put some food in a rucksack she found in the cabin, she told her bodyguards to prepare themselves for a bit of a walk today. But when she announced where she was planning to go, they insisted on positioning themselves in front and behind her, so they could check the path first and warn her should anyone appear. If she really didn’t want anyone to know where she was, then that was what they had to do, they said. Besides, there was a security risk that couldn’t be ignored and which she obviously understood and accepted, but she still insisted that they keep their distance.
They have been walking for one and a half hours in spitting rain when Trine’s mobile rings. She takes it out from her anorak and stops on a knoll that reminds her of a bald head.
‘Hi, Katarina,’ she says. ‘I was wondering when you’d call.’
‘Yes, there has – there has been quite a lot to do this morning. Have you seen today’s headlines?’
‘No.’
‘It’s—’
Trine’s Director of Communications sighs heavily before she tells her about the press release that was issued last night.
‘You’re joking,’ Trine says.
‘I wish. The Permanent Secretary came up to me this morning and asked me what the hell you think you’re doing. “She’s holding us hostage,” those were her exact words.’
Trine closes her eyes. That incompetent, sour-faced bitch.
‘I don’t know for how long we can keep putting out the same statement, Trine. The press office is very frustrated. I think that Ullevik can weather the worst of the political pressure, but—’
‘What about the Prime Minister’s office? Have they said anything?’
‘Their Director of Communications called me this morning wanting to know what our strategy was. I said I would have to ring him back. That was some time ago now.’
Trine opens her eyes again and stares across the surface of the water where ripples are starting to form.
‘By the way, where are you?’ Katarina asks.
‘I’ve gone out for a walk. I’m trying to clear my head.’
‘That sounds like a good idea. And I don’t want to pressure you, Trine, because I know how hard it is for you. But have you given any further thought as to what you’re going to do?’
Trine sighs and takes a step nearer the edge of the knoll. There is a drop of several metres down to a pile of stones that leads on further to some rocks which are getting a thorough and constant wash from the waves. She feels the wind take hold of strands of her hair, which have torn themselves loose from under her red baseball cap.
‘No,’ she says.
Trine turns away from the wind, which makes the mobile howl. But it’s not true. She has thought about what to do. She’s going to do the only sensible thing she can. There is no other way out.
Chapter 42
Brinken is a residential development the size of a small village. It lies to the left of the main road when you approach Jessheim from the south.
Henning has driven past it many times, but he has never driven through it. Once he does, it’s exactly as he imagined it would be. Criss-crossing streets, detached houses in a grid, tarmac roads and pavements. Not so many new builds, most of the houses seem to have been built in the seventies and eighties.
After entering the address he got from Atle Abelsen, Henning follows the instructions provided by the sat nav. Atle was also able to give him a plot number as well as a detailed description of the house Erna Pedersen used to live in – a terraced bungalow with two bedrooms.
As Henning pulls up he can see that the house is well maintained. It is timber-framed, clad with wooden panels and painted mustard yellow. A flat roof. A tarmac drive. There is a garden with a well-kept lawn, hedges, flowerbeds, an apple tree and a terrace.
The property has clearly been renovated.
Henning parks outside and rings the bell. No one is in. It’s to be expected; he imagines the owners are probably at work. Henning takes out a business card, writes on the back that he would like to speak to them and pushes the card under the front door before it strikes him that the new owners might not have known Erna Pedersen.
So he decides to call Tom Sverre Pedersen.
‘You again?’ says the doctor.
‘Yes, me again,’ Henning replies. ‘Listen, I’m in Jessheim now and I’ve just had a thought. I know that you said that your mother was unpopular, but do you know how she got on with her neighbours?’
Pedersen doesn’t reply immediately.
‘I know that some neighbours will chat over the fence for hours, especially in the summer. I was wondering if your mother liked or knew some of her neighbours better than others.’
‘Then it would have to be Borgny,’ Pedersen says. ‘But I don’t know if she still lives there.’
‘What’s her full name?’
‘Borgny Ramstad. I know they belonged to the same knitting club a lifetime ago. Give her my best if you manage to track her down.’
‘Okay. Thanks for the tip.’
Henning ends the call and walks up to a row of letterboxes nearby. He reads the name ‘RAMSTAD’ on one of the boxes with a clumsy number ‘25’ written below. Henning looks around, finds a house wall with the same number and rings the bell. Again, no one answers so he slips yet another business card under the door.
Henning is on his way back to the car when a text message from the paper’s breaking news service arrives. Henning clicks on the link.
According to VG, there has been no word from Justice Secretary Trine Juul-Osmundsen since yesterday afternoon. The Prime Minister is concerned.
He reads on and learns that Trine didn’t come home last night. Nor did she turn up at her office at the usual time this morning. No one in the department has been able to contact her. All media requests are being passed through Katarina Hatlem, Trine’s Director of Communications, but she is playing everything down. She repeats yesterday’s statement that Trine doesn’t wish to comment on anonymous allegations and she has gone into hiding due to the enormous media pressure. ‘Surely most people can understand this if they just take a moment to think about it.’ But Hatlem refuses to say if she knows where Trine is.