The Boy in the Headlights

by Samuel Bjork

  ‘Most are immigrants. It’s hard for them to get a job in Norway. I mean, it’s bad enough for people who are born here. Like I said, we’re only trying to help.’

  Munch raised a hand to pre-empt him.

  ‘Again, I totally understand. Not my department. I just need to know if one of your casuals matches the description I gave you?’

  ‘I think I know the man you’re looking for,’ he said at last.

  ‘You do?’

  Nguyen nodded.

  ‘We don’t usually hire – well, what did you call them? Ethnic Norwegians? They are few and far between here. We mostly get Afghans, Somalis, Poles. But, yes, we have had one.’

  The woman protested again, but Nguyen cut her off irritably.

  ‘What’s she saying?’

  ‘She’s saying she knows who he is and that he’s no longer welcome here.’

  ‘Trouble, no, no,’ the woman said, waving a crooked forefinger.

  ‘Mum, I’m dealing with this. You said mid-twenties? White?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We have one like that, but it’s been a while since I last saw him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We had a small disagreement.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Firstly, the casuals have no business going into my office.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And, in fact, we do require them to register with us, as it happens. I’ve no intention of taking the fall if they don’t declare their wages. If they earn more than the taxable limit, they have to give me their tax code.’

  ‘And this man didn’t do that?’

  ‘Karl,’ the woman said, and shook her head.

  ‘You have his details?’

  ‘It’s not much,’ Dinh Nguyen said. ‘I have his name, address and phone number, but he never told me his tax code.’

  ‘Owes money,’ the woman said.

  ‘Mum, I’m dealing with this.’

  ‘Swindle us, thousands.’

  ‘He owes you money?’

  Nguyen gave a little sigh.

  ‘Like I said, I’m not going to take a hit for someone working cash in hand. It’s bad for business. So we usually don’t pay them if they can’t prove that they’re free to work without paying tax.’

  ‘Too soft. Idiot,’ the woman said, taking off her glasses.

  ‘But you paid him anyway?’

  Nguyen nodded.

  ‘He promised to bring all his paperwork, but he never did.’

  ‘And how long ago was that?’

  ‘How long can it be now? Three weeks?’

  ‘And you haven’t seen him since?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you didn’t send anyone to Hotel Lundgren yesterday?’

  Nguyen shook his head.

  ‘No, we didn’t.’

  ‘You said you had some information about him?’

  ‘Hang on a moment.’ Nguyen disappeared into the back room.

  ‘Idiot,’ his mother muttered. She had sat down on the chair behind the reception counter and taken out her knitting.

  ‘Here you are,’ Nguyen said, putting a piece of paper on the counter.

  ‘Karl Overlind?’

  Nguyen nodded.

  ‘And this is his address?’

  ‘Yes, but the phone number doesn’t work, I’ve tried that.’

  The woman shook her head and said something in Vietnamese, which, judging by the look on Nguyen’s face, didn’t go down well with her dapper son.

  ‘If I send out a sketch artist, could you describe him to us?’

  ‘Absolutely. I could pick him out anywhere. I’m only glad to be of help. Can I ask why you’re looking for him?’

  ‘I’m afraid you can’t. Thank you very much for this.’

  Munch held up the note before stuffing it into the pocket of his coat.

  ‘We’ll be in touch. Thanks.’ He nodded goodbye to the knitting woman before going outside into the early-spring sun.

  Chapter 23

  Mia was standing outside her apartment building. She could feel that the fresh air had done the trick. The darkness had crept over her for a moment, but it hadn’t taken root. Fortunately. It was just a little hint from her soul of what might happen if she didn’t look after herself. Damn it. This was why she had booked herself a holiday. To rest. Don’t expose yourself to unnecessary stress in the near future. Wasn’t that what she had said, the therapist down at Jæren? Thirty days in rehab; she had felt like a new woman afterwards. Too late to think of that now. This investigation had already got under her skin. Just be a bit careful. She reminded herself to email the Virgin Islands, tell Viktor she wouldn’t make the boat this time. She stuck her key in the door and had barely opened it when she saw an old face, a neighbour.

  What was her name again? Was it Mrs Fredriksen?

  The old woman was standing on the ground floor by the postboxes, shaking her fist. A walking stick was in one hand, her wig a little askew. A strong smell of perfume, nauseating. Harshly made-up eyes. Her lips painted bright red and her voice so shrill and loud that Mia immediately wished that she was back outside in the street.

  ‘We have to get them out of here! We need a petition! Aren’t you that police officer from the second floor? This won’t do! Have you seen the bins in the backyard? Are you aware how much the stairwell stinks?’

  Mia shook her head lightly and slipped up the stairs to the second floor, only to be met by another expectant face outside the door to her flat.

  ‘Hello, Mia, how are you? Ready for your big trip? My sister is thrilled about the flat. She thinks it’s fabulous.’

  Her neighbour gave her a thumbs-up and a big smile.

  Sod it. It had completely slipped her mind.

  ‘Sorry. I’ve had to change my plans; I won’t be going abroad after all.’

  ‘Oh,’ the blond young man said. He looked disappointed.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Mia said again, and unlocked her door.

  Her neighbour was about to add something when he suddenly noticed what was going on down in the stairwell.

  ‘Oh, no. Is that Mrs Vigen sounding off again?’

  He sighed and shook his head in irritation.

  ‘She’s got it into her head that the Iranians on the third floor have got to leave. Typical, isn’t it? The state of this country. Bloody racists everywhere. This really has to stop.’

  The young man disappeared down the stairs. Mia said a silent prayer of thanks that there were still decent people left in the world and entered her flat.

  However, she stopped right inside the door. No, this was no good. She wouldn’t be able to think here. She waited in the passage until the stairwell was finally quiet again before tiptoeing down the stairs and making her way to one of her favourite pubs, Lorry.

  ‘Hi!’ A familiar face smiled, clearly surprised at seeing her again. ‘The usual?’

  The colourful pub at the end of Hegdehaugsveien had pretty much been her second home, but those days were long gone.

  Four months sober.

  ‘No, I’ll have a cup of tea and a Farris mineral water,’ Mia said, taking out the notebook from her bag.

  ‘Coming up.’ The friendly waiter winked at her and vanished as quietly as he had arrived.

  Mia could barely remember the last time she had done this, lost herself in the evidence without the aid of substances, but too bad, she had to give it a try. She sat staring at the empty pages in front of her until the mumbling, distant hum of the cosy pub finally gave her the calm she needed. She put pen to paper and slipped inside her head as the world around her slowly disappeared.

  Vivian Berg. Aged twenty-two. A ballet dancer. A mountain lake far from the city. Damage to her pointe shoes. Did she walk there herself? Yes? Voluntarily? Probably not. The video. Drugged? Hypnotized? Am I missing something?

  Kurt Wang. Jazz musician. Twenty-something. Does his age matter? ‘Watch what I can do.’ Bambi? Bambi on ice?

  Mountain lake? Ice?

/>   Water? Purification?

  The number four.

  The number seven.

  Mia reached for her teacup without even noticing it.

  Four … seven?

  Seven … four?

  Forty-seven? Seventy-four?

  The Brothers Lionheart.

  Something is burning.

  Is the fire …

  … at home?

  Number forty-seven? Number seventy-four?

  She reached for her mobile almost in a trance.

  ‘Grønlie speaking.’

  ‘Hello, Mia here. Just a quick one. Please could you check if we have something on a fire?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Sorry. A family that died in a fire – have we got anything like that?’

  ‘It’s a bit vague,’ Grønlie said.

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry. The house number could be either forty-seven or seventy-four. Please could you check if we have anything like that?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Mia rang off as quickly as she could so as not to lose her train of thought.

  Female, twenty-two.

  Male, twenty-five, maybe.

  Big sister?

  Younger brother?

  Family tragedy.

  The house burned.

  Who survived?

  Guilt?

  Was it your fault?

  Antifreeze in the heart. A syringe.

  Cold.

  Ice.

  Fire?

  Heat?

  Ice and fire?

  Her pen flew across the sheets now. She wasn’t even aware that she was smiling.

  Ice and fire? That’s what this is about, isn’t it? Did they burn to death? Was it your fault? Antifreeze? Are you sorry? Do you want to help them? Make it colder? Make it OK again?

  Is that what you want us to see?

  It is, isn’t it?

  That you’re sorry?

  Are you sorry?

  Do you repent?

  Did you not mean to do it?

  Do you want us to help you?

  Find you?

  ‘Excuse me, are you Mia Krüger?’

  Mia was so startled that she almost dropped her pen. She had been so far away that her brain struggled to find its way back to reality.

  ‘Eh, yes …’

  ‘I’m sorry for intruding, but do you have two minutes?’

  Black coat, white shirt, gloves, hair combed to one side. The eyes looking at her seemed familiar and yet she couldn’t place him.

  ‘And you are …?’ Mia began.

  ‘It won’t take long. But we’ve reached the stage where I need to have a few words with you.’

  His appearance.

  His expression.

  Mia could spot a police officer a hundred metres away, but she hadn’t seen him before.

  ‘Wold,’ the well-dressed man said, extending a hand across the table. ‘Internal Investigations.’

  Her initial irritation turned to curiosity as Wold waved away the friendly waiter and focused his attention on her once more.

  ‘I can see that you’re busy, and I know why, of course. Two bodies in just a few days. I’m not going to take up much of your time, but I had to talk to you. I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘I have a feeling that I don’t have a choice,’ Mia said, reaching for her teacup.

  ‘I apologize if it feels that way,’ Wold said, and glanced around the room. ‘But, yes, like I said, there’s something we need to talk to you about.’

  Mia also glanced around the now quite busy bar, but she couldn’t see anything that particularly caught her attention.

  ‘Who is “we”? Internal Investigations? Have I done something wrong? Again?’

  Wold smiled wryly.

  ‘No, no, definitely not, Mia. It’s not about you, not this time.’

  He leaned across the table towards her.

  ‘This investigation you’re involved in, can I ask you a question?’

  ‘The answer is no, obviously,’ Mia said drily. ‘I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation with you.’

  Wold smiled again and raised his hand cautiously.

  ‘I could have gone straight to Munch, or to Mikkelson, for that matter.’

  ‘So why don’t you?’

  Wold hesitated.

  ‘You know what we do, don’t you?’

  ‘You investigate internal police matters.’ Mia sighed. ‘Is this a quiz? As you can see, I’m quite busy here.’

  His mobile buzzed in his pocket, but he ignored it.

  ‘OK, Mia, let me get right to it. Thomas Lorentzen?’

  ‘Who?’

  Thomas Lorentzen?

  It took a few seconds before the penny dropped. The lawyer. The owner of the Mercedes in which Vivian Berg had been transported.

  ‘What about him?’ Mia was intrigued now.

  ‘We just need to know if he’s central to your investigation. Is he important? Is he a prime suspect?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Is Lorentzen involved? That’s all we want to know. It’s a straightforward question. I just need a straightforward answer and I’ll leave you alone.’

  Wold smiled, sphinx-like, and leaned back in his chair. Mia thought about it for a moment and then gave in. Internal Investigations. If Wold really wanted to know about the case, he could just call police headquarters at Grønland. No need to waste his time here. She was keen to get back to her own work. There was something there. She was on the right track. She could feel it.

  ‘No, we’re not interested in Lorentzen,’ she said quickly, and picked up her pen.

  ‘You’re not curious?’ Wold said, showing no sign of leaving.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About why we’re interested in him?’

  ‘Of course. But I’m a bit busy now. So are we done?’

  Wold looked a little hurt.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mia, I should have approached this differently. Is it all right if I …’

  He made to take off his coat.

  ‘Listen,’ Mia began, but he stopped her.

  ‘The truth is, I need your help. We’ve hit a dead end. We’ve discussed at length who to talk to and we decided on you. It’s that simple.’

  ‘And who is “we”?’ Mia said again, putting down her pen reluctantly.

  Wold thought about it.

  ‘This is just between us?’

  ‘You came to me.’ Mia gave another sigh. ‘I didn’t ask for this.’

  ‘No,’ Wold said, then looked around for a waiter. ‘I think I need some coffee. Would you like anything?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Like I said,’ Wold went on, once the waiter had taken his order. ‘We’ve been discussing this for a long time – it’s a delicate topic, if you know what I mean – but in the end we chose you.’

  ‘I’m honoured,’ Mia said, taking a sip of her mineral water. ‘So, again, who is “we”?’

  ‘Well, let me start by telling you who Thomas Lorentzen is. Would that be all right with you?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Heroin,’ Wold said, raising his cup to his lips.

  ‘As in?’

  ‘Importation. Distribution. And money-laundering.’

  ‘Go on.’ Mia was aware that she was starting to drop her guard.

  ‘We don’t have the full picture yet, but it’s really important to us that you don’t touch him right now. It would ruin an operation we’ve spent a lot of time on.’

  ‘We’re not interested in him,’ Mia reiterated. ‘It was pure coincidence, as far as we’re concerned, that his car was stolen. It could have happened to anyone.’

  ‘Fine. Great. But it’s not as simple as that.’

  ‘No, so you said. Why me? How can I help you?’

  Wold weighed up his words carefully before finally answering.

  ‘We have reason to believe that one of our own is involved.’

  ‘One of ours?’

  ‘Yes.’
/>
  Wold looked around the room again and moved closer.

  ‘We think there’s a police officer high up in the drug-trafficking business that Lorentzen is a part of.’

  ‘And you think that officer is me?’

  Wold laughed briefly.

  ‘No, definitely not. But we think you might be able to help us.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Because you know him.’

  ‘What? You know who it is?’

  ‘We think so. But we need proof.’

  ‘And you want me to get that for you?’

  ‘That’s the idea, yes. Would you be comfortable with that?’

  Wold leaned back in the chair and raised the coffee cup to his lips again.

  ‘You mean you want me to snitch on a colleague?’

  ‘“Snitching” is a strong word; I wouldn’t put it like that. But, yes, that’s what it boils down to. Like I said, we’ve hit a brick wall. We need help.’

  ‘So this Lorentzen is involved in the importation of heroin, and you think he’s got someone on the inside?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And this is a named police officer who I know?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You mean someone in our team? In Mariboesgate?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No way,’ Mia said, and shook her head. ‘I refuse to believe it.’

  ‘As did I to begin with.’ Wold shrugged.

  Mia could feel her curiosity starting to stir again.

  ‘How can I put it?’ Wold went on. ‘Munch is known for picking the best, but everyone can make a mistake, can’t they?’

  ‘I still find it very hard to believe,’ Mia said slowly.

  ‘Believe what?’

  ‘That one of our own could be involved in something like that. One of our team. We’re a close-knit unit. We’re practically family. Have you ever hugged a father who has just been told that his six-year-old daughter is dead?’

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ he said.

  ‘That does something to a team, do you understand?’ Mia said, irritated now.

  ‘I totally get it. Absolutely. I know what the special unit does, and we all have the greatest respect for you, but even so.’

  ‘It’s not one of ours,’ Mia said firmly and reached for her teacup again. It was empty.

  She looked around for the waiter but couldn’t find him.

  No, this was bullshit.

  Heroin.

  Someone in their team?

  No way.

  ‘Curry,’ Wold said suddenly, as if someone had pulled the needle from an LP.