Burned

The Foldviks had spaghetti for dinner before going out. They must have been in a hurry, since they forgot to close their front door properly. There is another open door. It leads to the master bedroom. It’s dark. The curtains are closed there, too. A digital piano stands up against one wall. Henning nearly trips over some cables on the floor. A laptop with a mouse sits on the piano. There is another door in the room and very welcome light pours in from it.

An en-suite bathroom. Henning enters. It is small and has a floor of white tiles and a shower cabin in the corner. The sink is white, too. It is right in front of him and there is a mirror above it. The mirror is on the door of a wall-mounted cabinet. He can see the remains of toothpaste spit on the glass; tiny, white dots. He opens the cabinet and takes a peek inside. Toothbrushes, toothpaste, dental floss, mouthwash, face creams, several pill jars whose labels face away from him. He turns one of them around. The label reads ‘Vival’ and Ingvild Foldvik’s name is printed on it. The jar is nearly empty. But that’s not what catches his attention. Further inside the cabinet, to the far right, is a bottle of aftershave. And though the wording on the label has partly worn off, he can see that the aftershave is called Romance.

Henning gulps as he recalls Thorbjorn Skagestad outside the tent at Ekeberg Common, how Skagestad entered the tent and smelled death and the aftershave that he splashes on himself to attract the opposite sex. What are the chances of finding the same aftershave in Yngve Foldvik’s bathroom cabinet?

I’m reasonably well informed, Henning thinks, but my knowledge is somewhat limited when it comes to aftershave in general and the popularity of Romance in particular. Did Yngve Foldvik kill his favourite student? Or could the aftershave belong to Stefan?

He closes the cabinet and decides to leave. He stops in the hallway when he notices a door to the left of the lavatory. A piece of paper saying STEFAN in black letters is attached with a pin. There is a sticker depicting a red skull on a black background underneath. He goes to the door. That too, is ajar. He pushes it open. And that’s when he sees him.

Stefan.

He is lying under the duvet with his eyes open.

But his eyes are open because he is dead.

Chapter 54

Bjarne Brogeland is in his office, staring into space. His hands are folded behind his head. He is thinking. And, for once, he isn’t thinking about Ella Sandland, stark-naked and free of inhibitions. He is thinking about Anette Skoppum, if she is in danger, who might be trying to hurt her and where she might be hiding. Brogeland jerks upright, picks up his telephone and calls Emil Hagen.

Hagen answers immediately.

‘Where are you?’ Brogeland barks. His voice is authoritarian. He feels he can speak like this to a junior officer.

‘Westerdal School of Communication. No one has seen her. I’m thinking I might hang round anyway.’

‘Is anyone still there this late in the evening?’

‘Yes, quite a few people, would you believe it? Last-minute exam cramming. And I think there’s a party later. There are posters on the notice board to that effect.’

‘Okay. Stay where you are and see if you can find her.’

‘That’s what I thought.’

Brogeland hangs up without saying goodbye. He leans back and starts thinking about Henning Juul. Could I really have been wrong about him, he wonders? Am I the one being used here? Could I really have been that naive?

He doesn’t have time to think about the Nigerian women before his mobile starts to vibrate on his desk. He looks at it. Talk of the devil, Brogeland thinks.

And ignores Juul’s call.

*

It feels like his feet are nailed to the floor. He has seen dead bodies before and death tends to look peaceful. Not in Stefan’s case. He looks tormented, as if he suffered right up until his final moment. Black rings around his eyes, bags under them, pallid skin; his face looks exhausted. One arm is on top of the duvet, stretching up towards his head. He is curled up against the wall as if he was trying to crawl inside it.

There is a glass on Stefan’s bedside table with a few drops of liquid in it. A pill lies next to it, on top of a book with a black cover. Valium, he thinks. An overdose. He knows he shouldn’t do it, but he goes over to the bedside table, leans forwards and sniffs the glass. It smells sharp. Alcohol. He steps closer to the bed. There is a crunching sound under his foot. He looks at the sole of his shoe and sees the remainder of something white and powdery. He mutters a curse, as he bends down and removes the blanket which overhangs the edge of bed.