The engine cut out, a heavy silence rushing into the car, pressing down on my shoulders. Lela sat beside me in the driver’s seat. Ingrid was gone.
She had argued, of course. Her voice had been sharp with the insistence that she had to be there beside Asmund’s bed. I had countered her with a voice like honey, relaxed, calm and comforting. I’d told her that she was exhausted, whispered that she needed rest. Promised that I’d call her as soon as anything changed. Reluctantly, she had swallowed my bait. Her shoulders had dropped, and she had left for home, leaving me alone with Lela.
Sitting there, the silence settled over me, a small smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. But as the car door opened with a click, the thick dampness of the mid-morning air lunged at me, raising the hairs on the back of my neck.
Walking up the stone slabbed steps, the hospital loomed over us. A grey prison of stone and concrete. The windows were black, looking out vacantly, reflecting the leaden grey clouds that hung low overhead.
My hands trembled with a nervous energy, a prickling tingle that fluttered just under the skin. I reached out towards the cold steel handle of the imposing double doors. As soon as I touched that freezing metal, a shiver surged through my body.
“It’s ok, babe,” her pure, clear voice chimed in my ears. “You don’t have to do this. If coming back here is too painful, Asmund will understand.”
Was it the memories of Rune that suddenly flashed before my eyes? Or perhaps it was the vision of Asmund’s body crumpling to the ground that held me back? Or was there something else niggling in the back of my mind? The sense of a domino wavering, dangerously close to toppling over?
Squeezing my eyes shut, I sucked in a shuddering breath, banishing the image of the blade flashing in the sodium orange lights and the sound of Asmund’s rattling breath.
“I’m ok,” I said, glancing into those beautiful, understanding eyes.
****
The hospital lobby was its usual hustle and bustle of people, doctors, and the occasional squeak of a trolley as a patient was wheeled past. We ignored them all, moving through the commotion, our eyes fixed on the door ahead and a sign marking out the Holst-Frølich Ward.
Pushing through the doors, we found ourselves in a long, narrow corridor. A hard tiled floor and sterile white walls stretched out in front of us, under the harsh lighting of the fluorescent strip lights, humming with a low electrical vibration. The sharp, biting scent of disinfectant stung my nostrils. Our footsteps clipped loudly, a hollow rhythm keeping perfect time with the heart pounding inside my chest.
A dark shape appeared at the end of the corridor, its long shadow stretching towards me across the cold floor. My feet froze to the ground, refusing to move. My breath hitched in my throat. I recognised that worn brown suit and short cropped hair instantly.
Inspector Skarsgård.
I filled my lungs with a deep breath and I forced my legs to find their strength. Pushing myself forward, I fell back into step with Lela, but my eyes were locked onto the policeman striding purposefully forward.
Inside my head, that domino rattled ever more loudly.
His footsteps rang in my ears, a perfect offbeat to our own. His unblinking pupils were fixed on me, his thin, grey brows drawn down low.
We drew level, our shoulders almost brushing. With nostrils twitching from the scent of the stale tobacco which followed him like a cloud, I kept my gaze locked onto the glass doors at the distant end of the deserted passage.
My breathing faltered, but he didn’t break his stride; he walked straight past. He didn’t look at me. He didn’t utter a word.
My shoulders relaxed, the air whistling softly through my nose.
“Miss Bjornson?” His voice jolted me to a sudden stop. “I thought that was you, Miss Bjornson.”
I turned around slowly, my heart hammering against my ribs, to find the inspector facing me, his eyes fixed on me.
“You’re certainly looking better than when I last saw you,” he continued, a thin smile playing on his lips. “Perhaps you don’t remember me? We spoke a couple of days ago. I’m Inspector Skarsgård from the Oslo Police.”
“Of course, Inspector.” I forced the words out, desperate to keep my voice steady.
“I’m glad that I’ve bumped into you here. It saves me the trouble of coming around to the house.”
What did he want with me? Did he know of the secrets that I kept? Surely he couldn’t know. A cold sweat began to bead on my brow as a single droplet ran an icy trail between my shoulder blades, making me shiver.
Skarsgård’s head tilted, his jaw set firmly.
“I was wondering if you recognised the man in this photo?”
He watched me, looking for any reaction as he delved deeply into his jacket pocket. With a faint rustle, he pulled out a square of glossy paper.
“I’ve spoken to the other witnesses, but unfortunately it was dark and they couldn’t identify him.”
Snatching the photo from him, with perhaps slightly more force than I had intended, I looked down at it. Staring up at me was the grainy mug shot of a bald-headed man. A vicious scar tugged at his eyebrow and a sneer twisted his lips.
“Rune!” The name hissed in the air.
“This is the man you were with the night Mr Hansen was attacked?” Skarsgård’s voice was a low rumble. “This is the man who attacked him?”
“Yes,” I said, nodding quickly as I handed the photo back. “That’s him.”
“Rune Hagen,” the Inspector said, his voice flat. “A nasty lowlife, he is. We’ve been wanting to talk to him for a while regarding a string of assaults, rapes and murders in the Jernbanetorget area. Would you be prepared to give a formal identification when we catch up with him?”
“Of course,” I said.
“Thank you, Miss Bjornson,” he said, tucking the photo away as he turned to leave. “Oh, but before I go, there’s one last thing.”
His eyes snapped back to mine, his voice dropping. “I just want to offer you my condolences for your parents.”
My parents? My heart, now hammering a frantic beat against my ribs as the air in my chest turned to ice. My fist clenched into a tight ball. He knew! He knew about my parents. In his eyes, I was no longer just some nameless, broken junkie on the streets. He knew who I was. My mask had been torn away, leaving only Heidi Bjornson.
But how?
“I knew your name seemed familiar when I first spoke to you,” he continued, his eyes boring deeply into me. “But I didn’t place you until I got back to the station. Firstly, let me assure you that we’re doing all we can to find whoever murdered your father and to track down your mother.”
He paused for a moment, letting the weight of his words settle. “I wonder if you’d mind dropping by the station at some point? I know you were out of the country, but we’d really like to take your statement. We’ve been trying to get in touch with you for a while, but when we contacted the address your brother gave us for Copenhagen, we were told they didn’t know you.”
“It…” My voice stammered as I frantically fought to get it back under control. “…it was a share house, Inspector. Perhaps someone made a mistake.”
Lela’s feet shuffled on the floor beside me, the black leather of her jacket creaking as she shifted to look at me.
“Perhaps… There’s just one more thing, Miss Bjornson.” Skarsgård’s gaze didn’t waver as he pinned me with a steel-grey stare. “We’ve been wanting to speak to your brother. Just to check a few details of the night your parents were attacked, but we can’t seem to get hold of him. He’s not answering his phone, and nobody seems to be at the house when we call. Do you know where we can reach him?”
My hands clenched; the palms felt cold and damp. My eyes flickered over the Inspector’s shoulder to the door at the end of the corridor, the door to Asmund’s ward. Sucking in a ragged breath, I looked back into his eyes, the left one betraying a slight, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner.
“Lars?” My tongue twisted as I forced out my brother’s name. “I haven’t seen him for a few days. His head has been all over the place lately. He’s been struggling since Dad was found. The stress of everything has really got to him. He said something about getting away from everything, mentioning a hunting trip in the North. But that’s all I know.”
“Very well, that’s understandable,” Skarsgård replied, his tone unreadable. “It’s not all that important. We can speak to him when he returns. At least we know where to find you now if we have any more questions.”
He offered a curt nod to me and a fleeting smile directed at Lela, before his boots began their rhythmic clip-clop, marching away from us.
I stood frozen to the spot, unable to move until the sound of him had vanished completely.
“Heidi?” Lela’s voice was a frantic whisper beside me. “You lied to him. You lied to the police. About Copenhagen… about Lars.”
“What was I supposed to say?” my voice snapping like a bowstring. Spinning to face her, my eyes were hard. “I can’t have anyone knowing what really happened to me. Come on, let’s find Asmund.”
I couldn’t let the police discover the truth. I couldn’t risk Skarsgård digging through my past. Besides, it had been Lela who had first fed the Copenhagen story to the police in her statement. What right did she have to pull me up about it now?