Harald Sohlberg nodded while his wife said:
“Well thank you Leif. This boat is incredible . . . it looks like an elegant torpedo on steroids.”
Leif gave them a quick tour of the luxurious interior and then raced the boat south around Malmøya Island and then north across the Oslofjord. They drew gaping stares from everyone who saw them. The trip to the Otterstads took less than 20 minutes before they approached the northwest shores of Malmøya Island.
Although Malmøya and Ulvøya islands are separated by less than half a mile of water there’s quite a big jump in net worth and income for those who live on the bigger island of Malmøya. Sohlberg spotted the Otterstad dock the minute he saw a massive Bénéteau Swift Trawler 52 floating on the placid waters near his host’s spectacular home on Skjellveien.
~ ~ ~
“I want to go home,” said Karl Haugen.
The woman with kind eyes smiled. “This is your new home.”
“No! I want my Daddy. I want to go home.”
The woman tried to hug the little boy but he turned away from her and started crying.
~ ~ ~
A crowd of about 50 adults and children on the beach cheered when the Sohlbergs stepped out of the boat and onto the pier. Matthias and Nora Otterstad waved at them from a bench under a grove of cedars.
The two couples hugged.
“Welcome Emma and Harald!” said the always effusive Nora Otterstad. “I’m so glad you’re here. Finally home. Will you stay this time and live here in Oslo?”
“Who knows,” said Fru Sohlberg before Sohlberg could say anything.
Matthias Otterstad interjected:
“Interpol must be somewhat like the French Foreign Legion . . . you never really know where you are going to posted . . . eh?”
“True,” said Fru Sohlberg while Harald Sohlberg nodded.
Nora Otterstad pointed at two long tables. “Now come along Emma. Let’s get something to drink and eat for us and our boys . . . I’ll also introduce you to some folks you may not know.”
The women left for the enormous koldtbord that offered amazing mountains of salmon—glazed and smoked and marinated and broiled. Slabs of crayfish and mountain trout towered over all sorts of cold cuts from Norway and Italy including prosciutto and mortadella along with salads and breads and pastries and desserts.
“It’s been a long time,” said Matthias Otterstad, “since we met in person . . . eh?”
“Too long.”
“I saw your parents before they left for Texas. I invited them over for dinner.”
“Thank you. I’m glad you did that. They rarely go out any more . . . even during those few weeks when they’re here in Norway.”
“I was surprised I found them here and not in Houston. . . . You’re very lucky that they’re still around. And in overall good shape for folks in their mid-eighties.”
“I’d be glad to be in half as good health as they are when I get that age.”
“I understand Emma joined a cult.”
“What? . . . Did my mother . . . or father tell you that?”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“Just what cult are you talking about?”
“You know . . . that cult from America. . . . Maybe I shouldn’t have used that word. But it’s something I’ve been very curious about.”
“Matthias . . . I’ve also been very curious about something and yet I never asked you about it for years and years.”
“Go ahead . . . ask me.”
“As I remember . . . you faced nasty lawsuits from Goldman Sachs. They alleged that you had stolen some of their employees and clients. You prevailed in the lower courts . . . and won again at the Supreme Court until two justices mysteriously switched their votes and recalled their original opinions in your favor. . . . You lost a lot of money and swore you’d get even. . . . Right?”
“So far you’re right Sohlberg.”
“Well now . . . you can finally tell me . . . were you the anonymous tipster who led me to find those two corrupt justices in the court? . . . Did you do that to get even with those two crooked pieces of garbage?”
“Sohlberg! . . . Why would you think that?”
“Answering a question with a question. Interesting. . . .”
“You too answered my cult question with a question.”
“So we’re even . . . at a stalemate.”
“A good old-fashioned deadlock. . . . Sometimes a deadlock is not a bad thing. It gives you time to think things over . . . figure things out.”
Sohlberg nodded and observed the koldtbord carefully. He shook his head when Fru Sohlberg pointed at the fårikål which he could never digest—not even when he was a teenager. The heavily peppered cabbage-and-mutton stew left him bloated for hours. Unlike most Norwegians he disliked meat including the ever-popular kjøttkaker meatballs. What Sohlberg most wanted—in addition to the grilled salmon—was a heaping plate of Norway’s heavenly muiter or cloudberries. He also wanted a lump of mouth-watering lingonberries spooned on top of the Jarlsberg cheese that he had missed so badly when living abroad.
“Here,” said Emma Sohlberg who arrived with two laden plates for her famished husband.
“Perfect!” Sohlberg grabbed the first plate which was packed full with flatbrød or paper-thin crisp rye bread topped with brunost or carmelized goat cheese. “Oh . . . this is good.” The appetizer disappeared before the two women turned to go back to the buffet table. “Ah . . . heavenly.” Sohlberg digged into the second plate topped with grilled salmon and his other favorite foods.
Matthias smiled at his friend’s voracious appetite. “So . . . tell me . . . are you staying here in Norway for good this time?”
“No,” said Sohlberg between bites. “Just for a conference. Then back to the United States.”
“It’s too bad.” A downcast Matthias Otterstad did not hide his disappointment. “I wish you’d move back here.”
“Why? . . . Are you getting sentimental?”
“Maybe. Besides . . . I don’t like living off my investments. It’s a comfortable but boring existence. Dividends and interest and capital gains aren’t as exciting as running a business. I was hoping you’d stay and come work with me. You’d be a great business partner. We could easily build another company from scratch. As you know almost everyone with brains leaves Norway for better jobs and opportunities. Look at your brother . . . a top-notch petroleum engineer who should be helping his own country find more oil. Instead of staying at Statoil he’s now helping British Petroleum find oil in America.”
“Well . . . they need all the help they can get since a lot of their oil has spilled and polluted the Gulf of Mexico.”
Matthias Otterstad laughed. “Yes. Those crazy British idiots. Unbelievable. And not one of those rats have been prosecuted. Interesting how the enviro-radical Obama people turn a blind eye when it comes to one of their biggest corporate campaign donors. I wish I could buy off politicians that easily and thoroughly in Norway.”
“It would be too expensive.”
Matthias Otterstad laughed. “As the old saying goes . . . politicians don’t sell their integrity . . . they just rent it. It figures that the rent for a Norwegian politician would be much more expensive in good old Norway . . . as with everything else.”
“How true. Norway has gotten way too expensive. Remember the good old days? . . . I still remember our law school days and going to your Nora’s apartment so I could get some food when I was low on funds . . . which was almost always. Your Nora always had good food in her refrigerator. I think she earned more money in one month as a registered nurse than both of us made during all of our years in law school.”
“Yes,” said Matthias Otterstad with a chuckle. “I think we both married our wives because they made so much more money as nurses than we did back then as lawyers. By the way . . . I’m glad to see you and Emma are so happy together. That’s getting to be a rarity nowadays.”
“You name it . . . everything’s gettin
g to be a rarity nowadays.”
“What you and Emma have is quite special . . . which reminds me . . . that you owe me a lot . . . after all Nora and I introduced you to Emma.”
“I’m so glad I married her.”
“Nora and I were so worried about you those two years after Karoline died.”
“Thank you my friend,” said Sohlberg who quickly switched the topic. “But you owe me more for recommending you to your first clients when they asked for references.”
The men laughed.
~ ~ ~
Karl Haugen did not understand why his father no longer looked for him. Several times his father had come so close to him but his father had not seen or heard him. He now felt so far away from his father.
“Daddy!” he yelled.
Silence. As always. The silence sometimes overwhelmed him. Other times he felt happy when he heard the pretty music. He wondered how long he would be kept away from his father.
~ ~ ~
Sohlberg finished eating. He discretely inspected Matthias Otterstad and his immense estate and he wondered how all this had happened to a law school graduate who had never practiced law. He only knew the basic details: that shortly before graduating from law school Matthias Otterstad had inherited $ 200,000 kroner or less than $ 40,000 U.S. dollars from an elderly aunt; and that within a year he had quadrupled his inheritance by investing in out-of-favor stocks and currencies from his home.
Matthias Otterstad caught Sohlberg giving him and his property the once-over. “My good friend . . . look at all this. . . . I owe you. And that’s why I’ve asked you many many times to come work with me. Thanks to your references and recommendations I soon had wealthy investors in Norway and abroad begging me to manage their money.”
Sohlberg nodded. He remembered the fawning newspaper and magazine articles about his friend. Within four years of starting his investment fund Matthias Otterstad was managing large amounts of Other People’s Money for a hefty percentage of profits. Over a ten year period his take-home income added up to tens of millions of dollars and kroner and euros.
Matthias Otterstad moved closer to Sohlberg and said:
“Any regrets over not joining me in the business?”
“No. None.”
“Really?”
“No. I truly love what I do.”
“Why?”
“Because nothing excites me more than outsmarting the criminal mind. Nothing. I also love finding out how people really live their life in private . . . away from the public eye. Their choices fascinate me . . . how they make choices for the better or for the worse.”
“But a policeman’s pay is so little compared to what you could’ve earned in business.”
“Material possessions never attracted me.”
“How lucky. You know . . . it’s always a fight to own things and not let them own you. My five children all know that they will get very little when I die . . . just as I got very little when my father died. See those fancy Bénéteau boats floating out there?”
“They’re hard to miss.”
“Those boats are not a rich man’s toys but rather the principal assets for three of my children who own small businesses that charter and rent the boats. No sir . . . my children will not to grow up to be weak degenerates like the royals of Europe or all those trust fund babies.”
“Good for you. I’ve seen so many disasters when parents spoil their children. You have no idea how many of my worst criminals became just that thanks to a father or mother who coddled and spoiled them and encouraged them to do whatever they felt like doing.”
“Yes! . . . That’s why all of my children have to work if they want to eat.”
“So they get nothing?”
“Practically nothing. Just seed money to start a business or get an education or learn a trade. Almost everything will go to foundations and charities and think-tanks and political causes when Nora and I kick the bucket. More than anything else we want to make sure that Norwegians stay Norwegians . . . that Norway stays out of the European Union racket and stops all this social engineering nonsense of immigration and other insanities.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t moved to Switzerland to avoid taxes.”
“We did for a time after I sold the company to those idiots in New York. But we couldn’t stand being in Switzerland . . . it’s the money laundering capital of the world . . . after a while the stench of dirty money starts clinging to you. You know what I mean?”
“I think so.”
“Sooner or later you start smelling like a filthy pig from all those dirty billions of euros and dollars parked in Switzerland from drug bosses and corrupt Third World dictators. I’m sure most of Interpol’s targets have all or most of their money in Switzerland.”
Sohlberg smiled and switched the topic to avoid even the remotest chance of accidentally mentioning any Interpol investigation. “What luck of yours Matthias . . . or intelligence . . . in selling out your company before the market crashed.”
“You wouldn’t believe what I knew about. . . .”
Both men fell silent when other guests joined them. Fru Otterstad and Fru Sohlberg rejoined their spouses. The Otterstads sipped wine while the Sohlbergs drank an alcohol-free cider.
~ ~ ~
He lost track of his wife at the gym. She kept flitting about from machine to machine and then chit-chatting here and there with all of her dumb and superficial gym friends. Of course he now knew all about her flirting in the gym and picking up men for dalliances when he was at work.
“Faster! . . . Let’s go people! . . . Faster!” yelled one of the cretins who posed as a fitness trainer and so-called Olympic cyclist.
He looked for his wife among the women who were panting after their leader in the stationary exercise bicycle group. The so-called Olympian was a bottle-blonde 20-something male who was often called Gluts behind his powerful backside by the more lecherous and hormonal-minded women and gay men at the gym.
There she is. Brazen as always. Look at her ogling him.
He caught his wife standing by a weight machine and staring straight at the Olympian’s bulging rump. He inspected his wife in her tight workout clothes and noticed that she was indeed no longer in as good physical condition as she had been when she was a body builder.
Although she was no longer a Miss Charles Atlas or Miss Arnold Schwarzenegger he knew that she would probably put up a good fight if he tried to strangle or stab her. He had to avoid any combat with her. The trick would be to disable her and maybe even drug her beforehand. Or get her really drunk. She liked smoking cannabis two or three times a week and that might do the job along with some beers and tranquilizers.
He took a break from the strenuous exercise that the Jacob’s Ladder gave him. Of all the gym equipment the Jacob’s Ladder was his absolute favorite because of the punishing nature of that exercise beast.
Who was the genius who designed the Jacob’s Ladder exercise machine?
As he drank from a bottle of Farris mineral water he realized that the Jacob’s Ladder exercise machine was nothing less than a perfect symbol for his life. In other words he was climbing a ladder and a marriage that went nowhere and the efforts were draining his energy and the ladder and the marriage would eventually exhaust and defeat him. He looked at other gym members on others ladders and the grueling workouts that they received as they climbed the endless procession of wood rails on the 40 degree slope.
Wasn’t there a Bible story about a Jacob’s ladder?
Or was it the story about Jacob wrestling with God?
He tried to remember the exact context of the Bible story.
Like almost all Norwegians he had grown up as a member of the government-sponsored Evangelical Lutheran Church of Norway. Like most children he had taken the mandatory Kristendomskunnskap or Christian theology courses given in public elementary schools until 2007. Like almost all Norwegians he celebrated religious Christian holidays like Easter and Christmas as well as Lutheran ceremonies
for births and confirmations and weddings and funerals. And like most Norwegians he never went to church except for those holidays and events.
Jacobs’ ladder . . . what did the Bible say about that?
As soon as his wife joined the stationary bicycling group he went over to the weight lifting section and began a workout with dumbbells. He then switched to various hand grips in order to strengthen his hands and wrists in preparation for the happy day when he would kill her.
Strangling her with his bare hands would be such a pleasure.
Sohlberg and the Missing Schoolboy: an Inspector Sohlberg mystery (Inspector Sohlberg Mysteries) Page 5
