Burned

MakkaPakka: Stefan Foldvik didn’t kill himself. Anette Skoppum murdered him.

6tiermes7: What makes you think that?

MakkaPakka: Lots of reasons. Too many loose ends. I need you to do me a few more favours.

6tiermes7: Go on?

MakkaPakka: The samples you took from Stefan’s room — I suppose they’re low priority now?

6tiermes7: That’s right.

MakkaPakka: That mustn’t happen.

6tiermes7: You can’t assume I have the power to change that.

MakkaPakka: No, I know. I’m just telling you what needs to happen to solve this case.

6tiermes7: If the samples will solve the case in the end, then surely time isn’t of the essence?

MakkaPakka: No, except that Anette could be over the hills and far away by then. The summer holidays are about to begin. God knows which far-flung place she’ll visit this time. She has already explored half the globe. By the time you finish processing the evidence which could convict her, she could be anywhere.

6tiermes7: I understand the problem, but I can’t do a whole lot about it. You need to take this up with Gjerstad or go directly to Nokleby. Try to convince them. I can always help you afterwards.

MakkaPakka: Okay, I get it. But I’ve got a couple of other things I know you can help me with.

6tiermes7: What are they?

He takes a deep breath before he starts typing. It does little to calm the galloping beast in his chest.

Chapter 72

The day of Henriette Hagerup’s funeral starts off cloudless, clear and beautiful. It is Monday. Henning Juul has dusted down an old suit. He watches himself in the mirror. He adjusts the black tie he hates wearing, and runs his fingers over his scars.

It is a long time since he last looked at them. Really looked at them. But as he does, he thinks they have grown less noticeable. It’s like they have sunk into him, somehow.

He takes a deep breath in the bathroom, where the air is still warm and moist after the shower he took half an hour ago. Shaving cream and a razor lie next to the sink which now has a rim of stubble and foam.

Before he leaves, he checks that everything he needs is in place in his pockets. The most important thing you need to bring is your head, Jarle Hogseth used to say. That may be true, Henning thinks, but it’s not a bad idea to pack some tools as well. He needs to keep his wits about him now, even though he has made good use of them recently. He has reviewed every conversation and every encounter. Dr Helge and 6tiermes7 have both provided invaluable help and pieces for the jigsaw, but he doesn’t know if it’s enough.

He hopes to know the answer in a couple of hours.

*

Ris Church was consecrated in 1932. It is a beautiful stone church in Roman style. The church bells, all three of them, are already tolling when Henning arrives by taxi. He gets out and mixes with the mourners.

He enters the church and is given an order of service leaflet with Henriette Hagerup’s name and smiling face on the cover. He recognises the photograph. It was displayed on Henriette’s shrine outside the college last week. He remembers thinking that she looked intelligent. He takes a seat on a pew right at the back and refrains from staring at the mourners. He doesn’t want to look at anyone or talk to anyone. Not yet.

The ceremony is beautiful, dignified, subdued and sad. The vicar’s monotonous voice fills the church, accompanied by suppressed sniffling and silent weeping. Henning tries not to think about the last time he was in church, the last time he heard people mourn the loss of a child, but the thoughts are impossible to block out. Even when the vicar is speaking, he can hear the tune of ‘Little Friend’.

Fifteen minutes into the ceremony, he gets up and leaves. The atmosphere, the smell, the sounds, the black clothes, the faces, everything takes him two years back in time, to when he sat in another church, at the front, wondering if he could be put back together, if he would ever be human again.

He hasn’t moved on, he realises, as he comes out into the porch. He dreads to think about what lies ahead, his future, the unfinished business he has been too traumatised to face. But now that he knows his brain is working again, he can ignore it no longer. I can’t let it go, he thinks, I need to do something about the gnawing in my chest, this nagging clockwork which ticks away inside me; it will never release me and let me be swallowed up in the peaceful ground and close my eyes with a feeling of completion.

Because I know I’m right.

He loosens his tie a little as he comes outside and feels the fresh wind on his face. He steps away from the entrance. The vicar’s voice carries right through the open doors. A gardener is tidying up a nearby grave and making it look nice. Henning wanders around the graves. The grass is newly mown, its colours lush and green, and all shrubs are trimmed meticulously.

He strolls to the back of the church, where the gravestones are lined up like teeth. He thinks it has been a long time since he last visited Jonas, but pushes the thought aside when he sees her.