– Five years ago, a nineteen-year-old girl was killed in Bergen, she began. – She was found in the woods about twenty kilometres south of the town. The case was never solved.
– Everybody remembers that, Viken said, immediately impatient. – We live, thank God, in a country in which murders aren’t forgotten in three days.
She wasn’t sure what he was referring to, but chose to ignore the interruption.
– The girl was found tied to a tree. She was handcuffed, and had frozen to death.
– That much we gathered, grunted Viken. – Even if they gave an exemplary demonstration on that occasion of how not to share the details of the case with others.
– What struck me as I examined Mailin Bjerke, Jennifer went on, – was the damage inflicted on the eyes. The girl in Bergen had something similar.
– And how on earth did you find that out?
She explained. The seminar she had attended at Gades Pathological Institute in Bergen a few months after the girl was found. A colleague whom she knew well had spoken about the case over a drink in the hotel bar one evening. Confidentially, naturally.
– I took the liberty of calling my colleague earlier today.
She paused. Could feel Viken’s irritation rising.
– He was struck by the similarities with what I described, she continued. – The eyelids in both cases were not damaged. The person who did this must have forced them open and stabbed the eyeballs directly with a nail or some other sharp object. But one of the wounds is bigger. I examined it, and it appears to have been done by something like a screw with a fairly large distance between the threads. It was screwed directly through the cornea. She let that sink in. – In addition, both victims were found in remote places.
Initially Viken said nothing. Then he said, rather irritably: – You’re divulging important information to someone who is not directly involved in our case.
Jennifer’s anger flared up. – I can assure you that it will go no further, she said as calmly as she could. She realised she had been expecting some recognition of the value of what she had done. – Well, I’ve spent enough time on this, she concluded. – If you think it is interesting enough, you can get in touch.
– Of course, said Viken tartly. – Everything is of interest.
– It looks as if Mailin Bjerke was drugged, Roar Horvath interposed in a conciliatory tone. – What about the girl in Bergen?
Jennifer permitted herself a small smile as she met his gaze. – There I am afraid I must disappoint you. She was totally clean.
He nodded thoughtfully, as though to demonstrate that at least he thought her information was interesting.
3
Friday 26 December
THEY SAT IN the vestibule. The middle-aged man was the first to catch sight of Jennifer and get to his feet. He wore a cord jacket under his overcoat, had round glasses and a grey beard. The other visitor, a woman with reddish hair, sat with her back turned.
The grey-bearded man held out his hand and introduced himself. – Tage Turén Bjerke.
She heard at once that he was Swedish. His palm was moist and his lips trembled.
– Are you the deceased’s father?
He shook his head. – I’m married to her mother. She was in no condition to come here today.
Jennifer turned to the other visitor, who had now also got to her feet. The young woman was tall and unusually slim, but her eyes were what attracted the attention. They were large and green, or perhaps hazel, and there was something about the gaze that made it hard to look away. Beautiful women had always fascinated Jennifer. She subscribed to three or four fashion magazines, partly to keep herself up to date on matters of clothing and make-up, mostly to browse through the pictures of stylised feminine beauty. She had been prepared for something else that morning. She’d worked out what she was going to say, how she would accompany the bereaved to the chapel, even how she would draw aside the sheet covering the dead woman’s body, and how much of it she should expose. But the sight of the young woman’s face momentarily disorientated her. Not only the eyes, but the bow of the mouth and the curve of the forehead under the auburn hair.
– Liss Bjerke. I’m Mailin Bjerke’s sister.
The hand the woman held out was cold and dry, the skin like marble. Jennifer explained who she was and recovered the thread of the ritual she had prepared. She walked ahead of them, stopping when she reached the door to the chapel.
– I know what a strain it must be to come here.
The young woman nodded almost imperceptibly. The grey-bearded man was shaking even more.
Jennifer opened the door. The bier with the dead body on it stood in the middle of the room, beneath the light from the ceiling lamp. She stood beside it, waved them over. The grey-bearded man remained in the doorway as though frozen, apparently unable to move. But the young woman crossed the floor. When she stopped by the bier, Jennifer waited a few seconds before lifting the sheet and drawing it slowly down to the chest. At that moment she felt relieved that it had been possible to hide the worst injuries to the body lying there. The mortuary assistant had wrapped a towel around the head, hiding all the crushed areas, and washed the hair; it had been matted with dried blood and matter that had oozed out from inside the skull. Jennifer was able to show the sister a face that the brutal death had not rendered physically repulsive; nothing crushed, no skin cut into pieces or melted. Scant comfort, she thought, but a comfort to me at least.
Suddenly the young woman bent down, took hold of her dead sister’s hands, pressed her cheek against her own. A tremor passed through her back, two or three times, as she murmured her sister’s name. She said something else, something whispered that Jennifer didn’t catch as she had withdrawn a few paces and half turned away. For a long time the young woman stood there with her cheek pressed to the dead woman’s. So long that Jennifer began to think she might have to give some kind of sign. Before that happened, however, the visitor straightened up. Still looking at the body, she asked:
– What’s the matter with her eyes?
The voice was unexpectedly firm and clear. Jennifer looked down at the dead woman’s face. It had not been possible to close the eyelids completely; beneath them, the rim of the destroyed membranes was still visible.
She said: – There are signs of damage to both the deceased’s eyes.
The woman turned towards her. The gaze was veiled, the effect now even stronger.
– What kind of damage?
– From a pointed object.
– Was she blind when she died?
– It’s hard to tell. It’s possible she could still see, at least light.
Suddenly the young woman lifted the hand she was holding.
– Where is her ring? Did you take it off?
Jennifer had noticed the marks of a ring on the fourth finger of the left hand.
– She wasn’t wearing one when we found her. What did it look like?
– A wedding ring, the dead woman’s sister answered. – From our grandmother. She bit her lower lip. – What did she die of?
– We still can’t say with absolute certainty, replied Jennifer. – Probably head wounds. But it looks as if she was already in a hypothermic state when death occurred. It may have made the pain less.
The grounds for making the claim were not convincing, but it felt good to say it.
– Could still see light, Liss Bjerke repeated to herself. She had not let go of her dead sister’s hand. – You were freezing, Mailin.
4
Saturday 27 December