The Oslo Conspiracy

by Asle Skredderberget

  Benedetti provided a light for them both. Milo inhaled, and because he smoked so rarely, he immediately felt the sensation of dizziness that settled like a calming blanket over his thoughts.

  “She may have known the killer,” Benedetti began.

  “Mmm.”

  “There was no sign of a break-in or that anyone has forced the door into the room. She simply opened for him.”

  “For him? Do we know it’s a man?”

  Benedetti looked at him with surprise.

  “Of course it’s a man who killed her.”

  “I think so too, but can we rule out that it’s a woman?”

  “Yes. Signorina Tollefsen was in good shape, relatively tall, but she was strangled without a trace of a struggle. The one who killed her was bigger and stronger. A man.”

  Milo did not contradict him.

  “The fact that the bathroom door was broken open also suggests a man. She knew him, let him in, but then she realized what was about to happen. She must have locked herself in the bathroom, and then he broke open the door,” he said.

  Benedetti nodded thoughtfully while he took a substantial drag on the cigarette.

  “But this was not a man who was after her body. It was not a man who was numbed by alcohol and fired up by desire, and who killed her in passion. There is no sign of sexual violence. The motive must have been something completely different.”

  “There’s something cold and planned about the whole thing. The killer has obviously taken his time to remove his traces. No laptop, no papers, no flash drive,” said Milo.

  Benedetti nodded before he took a couple sips from the wineglass. They sat quietly a little while as Vespas and Fiats rushed past.

  “Do you know anything else about what kind of conference she was at?” Milo asked.

  “A pharmaceutical conference under the auspices of one of those international corporations. I have the papers at the office. You can get them tomorrow after we’ve been to the medical examiner.”

  Milo smiled in thanks. It was obvious that Benedetti had seriously abandoned any hope of a work-free weekend.

  “Can I see the vial of pills again?” Benedetti asked.

  Milo handed it to him, and Benedetti opened it. The slip of paper was still there, but it was impossible to decipher any more letters. “Verba” was the only thing that could be read. The rest of the word and any other words remained illegible.

  “I’ll get the lab to look at this. Analyze the tablets that are left and look at the paper,” said Benedetti.

  “Yes, it’s worth a try. She must be the one who threw it,” said Milo, as he let his eyes meet the gaze of a dark-haired woman in her thirties who was passing with a girlfriend.

  “I agree. It wasn’t the killer who did it. And she didn’t lose it. It’s just a shame that what she tried to write is illegible.”

  Milo took out his phone.

  “What are the tablets called?” he asked.

  “Antidiab.”

  Milo googled it quickly on the phone.

  “A kind of antidiabetic agent, it says here,” he said.

  “Which means?”

  “A diabetes medicine that contributes to lowering blood sugar.”

  “So she had diabetes?” asked Benedetti.

  Milo shrugged.

  “I’ll get her whole medical history checked when I’m back in Oslo.”

  “Va bene.” That’s good, said Benedetti, finishing the wine. He looked at Milo.

  “Would you like to eat with us?”

  “Thanks, but I already have a date.”

  “Okay, then. Another time, perhaps.”

  Milo nodded in reply. He thought about the aroma that had seeped out from the kitchen in their apartment. The traditional Sicilian dish meant that the Benedetti had family ties to the south. The way he also swallowed his words at times suggested that he was not born and raised in Rome.

  “Where are you from, originally? You’re not from Rome, are you?” Milo asked.

  Benedetti looked at him attentively.

  “What makes you say that?”

  Milo commented on the food that awaited him at home with his wife, and the hint of a southern Italian dialect.

  “That’s right. I’m originally from the south. Naples…” he began.

  But then it was as if he stopped himself and didn’t want to complete the sentence.

  “How did you end up in Rome?”

  Benedetti let his gaze wander over the sidewalk and street, where more and more cars and people flowed past on their way home, or out, to dinner.

  “It’s a long story. Another time, perhaps,” he answered.

  7

  She was easy to spot in the crowd of people on the platform.

  Not because she was particularly tall. Or particularly short. Or because she was particularly stylishly dressed or particularly casual in terms of clothing. But because with her warm smile and eyes that were not hidden behind big sunglasses, she stood out from the other Italian women walking past. She had a smile that signaled a secure presence, happy to be there, happy to have her eyes on him, housing a warmth he did not often see in other Italian women of her age.

  But her gaze held something else too, he noticed. Determination. As if she was there for a particular reason.

  She pressed herself to him, reached up on tiptoe and kissed him softly on the lips.

  “Ciao, caro.” Hi, honey, she said and hugged him.

  “Ciao, Theresa,“he answered, kissing her a long time and almost lifting her up from the platform.

  She smelled faintly of perfume and tasted the way he remembered. She had on a nice pair of jeans that sat snugly around her slender thighs and rear, a light-blue blouse and an elegant cashmere sweater under her open trench coat. Her hair was shorter than the last time he’d seen her—it gave her a tougher look—but it was just as black as it had always been.

  They found a taxi and drove toward the hotel. She held his hand firmly, while with the other she stroked the back of it.

  “Do you want to take a shower and change before we eat?” he asked.

  “No, afterward,” she answered.

  She waited in the taxi while he ran up with her bag, and fifteen minutes later they were sitting in a small restaurant. At the other tables most were finishing their main course and waiting for dessert.

  The thought of the dead Ingrid Tollefsen was slowly giving way.

  They got water and wine on the table and toasted cautiously.

  “It’s good to see you again, Emilio.”

  “It’s good to see you too.”

  The appetizers came to the table. A tomato and mozzarella salad for Theresa and local sausages and cheese for Milo.

  “Buon appetito,” he said.

  “Grazie, altrettanto.”

  The waiter refilled their wineglasses, and they updated each other on studies and work. Theresa was studying art history in Bologna, but planned to start her studies in industrial design in Milan in the fall.

  “Are you glad I came?” she asked.

  The inquiry was simple and innocent enough, but something in her tone made it sound like a trick question.

  “Yes, of course. I can’t imagine anything better than sitting in a little restaurant in Rome with you.”

  “No?”

  With calm movements she cut off a piece of mozzarella, speared a piece of tomato and brought it to her mouth.

  “No, not really,” he answered.

  She chewed slowly and met his gaze.

  There was something unexpressed between them, and both remained sitting in silence a little longer. The ball was in her court.

  “So why didn’t you call and say you were coming?” she asked finally.

  And he understood what had been smoldering beneath the surface.

  “I told you. I only found out about the trip this morning. It was something that came up suddenly. A Norwegian woman was murdered, and Sørensen—you remember he’s the one I told you about—asked me for
a favor.”

  “But you could have called.”

  He sighed and took a gulp of wine. It was only twenty-four hours since he had fought with Reeza Hamid, and his body still ached. It was less than twelve hours since he had been dragged into a homicide investigation. And it was barely an hour since he had inspected the scene of the murder of Ingrid Tollefsen.

  The last thing he needed was more problems.

  “Yeah, I could have called, but I didn’t. Because I was at work, and because it’s just a short visit. But since you’re here, I’m very happy about that,” he said sincerely.

  “Sometimes I wonder what kind of relationship you really want.”

  “Haven’t we talked about that? I think we do very well when we’re together,” he replied.

  She rolled her eyes. “When we see each other, yes. The problem is that we almost never see each other.”

  “We were together almost every day this summer. That was really nice.”

  She looked at him, and her gaze suddenly turned glassy.

  “That’s just it. It was really nice. But then you just disappear again,” she said.

  “I don’t disappear. You know where I am, and I come back.”

  “But it’s off-and-on-and-off-and-on the whole time!” she exclaimed, drying the corners of her eyes with her napkin.

  “I’m sorry, but right now—”

  “Maybe those superindependent, mountain-climbing, downhill-skiing, athletic Nordic girls you’re used to think it’s just fine to turn a relationship off and on like that, but I don’t,” she interrupted.

  He looked at her, but she lowered her eyes. Part of him wanted to get up and embrace her. Another part of him had no patience for this and simply wanted to end the meal and go to bed.

  “There isn’t anyone else,” he said.

  “How should I know that?”

  “Because I say so.”

  “The thing is, Emilio, I love you. And miss you. And … I don’t know how long I can bear having it like this. Either we’re together, or we aren’t.”

  They remained sitting silently a few moments. Theresa had said what she wanted to have said. The ball was in Milo´s court.

  “This is starting to sound like an ultimatum,” he said.

  He could never stand letting himself be controlled by others. Milo was antiauthoritarian on the verge of extreme. Something everyone from teachers, coaches, employers and colleagues got to experience. Even the head of Financial Crimes noticed it when at the six-month interview Milo opened by saying that he “hadn’t started in Financial Crimes to chase small-fry,” and that he would quit if he didn’t get to work on the big cases.

  When faced with an ultimatum his gut instinct was to counter or to attack, but with Theresa it was different. There was no doubt that he was in love with her, and in the back of his mind a dawning sense that she had the right to demand more of him was gnawing.

  “This is not an ultimatum, Emilio. But I can’t hide what I feel. I just want to know what you think about this. I need to know what direction we’re going in. Or, more precisely, what direction you’re going in.”

  “I’m going in your direction,” he answered, taking another gulp of wine. “But I don’t know if I’m going at your pace.”

  She smiled and it reached almost up to her eyes.

  “I’m not saying that you have to propose … yet…”

  He smiled back.

  “And I understand that you don’t want me to move to Norway. But is it completely inconceivable, for example, for you to live in Italy?”

  He squirmed a little in his chair, and the pain in his back made him moan. A sound Theresa immediately misunderstood as a response to her question.

  “Is the thought really that unbearable to you?” she asked with a shadow in her eyes.

  “Not at all, I was just moaning because my back hurts.”

  “Okay…”

  “I have a job in Oslo—”

  “—that you don’t really need.”

  He sighed.

  “That´s perhaps where you’re mistaken. Even though I don’t need the money, I feel for the first time I can remember that I’m actually doing something important. It’s correct that I don’t need to work. I actually don’t need to lift a finger the rest of my life, I can just live on money from the family fortune. But I would fall apart.”

  “You’re not the type who falls apart, Emilio. Just because your mother—”

  “We don’t need to talk about her now. The point is that right now this is important to me. And in any event it will be for some time. But I have never felt about anyone what I feel for you.”

  “Okay.”

  “But I don’t know if that’s enough for you now.”

  She shrugged slightly.

  “Me neither,” she answered.

  After the appetizers came the first course. Milo went for his favorite, spaghetti alla vongole—spaghetti with clams. The pasta was as firm—al dente—as it should be, and the cook had spiced up the dish with some peperoncino. Theresa had penne al pesto.

  The food was good, but the atmosphere was not.

  While they waited for the second course, they tried to make small talk, but both were aware of how much effort the other was making.

  The veal they both ordered was served, and the waiter poured the rest of the wine into their glasses. Theresa, as always, sipped the wine carefully, but it was still enough to put a glazed layer over her eyes. Slowly her smile got warmer.

  “Listen here, Theresa. Believe it or not, I’m happy that you’re saying how you feel. The next few weeks will be very tough for me, but it would be great if we can talk this out properly after that.”

  “Of course. Finish up what you have to do. Now you know what I’m thinking, anyway,” she answered.

  They declined both dessert and coffee, and hailed a taxi to take them back to the hotel.

  While Theresa took clothes and toiletries from her suitcase, Milo started to calmly undress. He hung up the suit jacket, and unbuttoned his shirt. As he was taking it off, he felt a shooting pain through the small of his back, and let out another moan. Theresa looked at him.

  “You’ve really hurt yourself,” she said, helping him take off his shirt.

  Then she caught sight of the purple marks on his back and the scraped elbow, and exclaimed, “Poverino! You poor thing!”

  Gently she stroked his back while she kissed his shoulder and on up his neck until she ended up at his mouth. Slowly they started to remove each other’s clothing. She squeezed out of her jeans, and her blouse fell on the floor. Then she loosened his belt and helped ease his trousers down to his ankles.

  While he kissed her, he led her toward the bed. She let herself fall backward, and he followed. They rolled around, and she set herself on top of him. Her golden-brown skin was warm and smooth. Slowly he undid her bra, and they rolled back again. He took hold of her black panties, and as he pulled them gently off her, she raised her rear to help out. She was lying completely naked under him and pulled him to her.

  Afterward they showered together and there she did things—and let him do things with her—that no unmarried Catholic woman should really do.

  SUNDAY

  8

  She was asleep when he left.

  It was only eight thirty, and he had a lot to get done before lunch.

  After a quick coffee and cornetto he hailed a taxi and went to the police station, where Commissario Benedetti was already waiting.

  “I’m just filling out the documents you need to get the body released and sent home again,” he said while he signed some papers and took out an envelope.

  Milo had never experienced this sort of efficient, accommodating Italian bureaucracy, and something told him that it would probably be just this one time. What had gotten Benedetti to change from reluctant to accommodating he did not know, but he had no intention of asking about it either.

  “Grazie,” he said, taking the envelope.

  “Niente
.” It was nothing. “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  The building was classically beautiful and could just as well be a museum. Milo commented on it, and Benedetti showed a set of brown teeth.

  “I know what you mean. But this building doesn’t house any old, dead objects. Just dead people,” he said.

  Inside they were met by a tall, slender man in brown corduroy pants, a checked shirt, a tie and a V-neck lamb’s wool sweater. His narrow face was encircled by a thin beard and a high hairline. It was impossible to estimate his age, but Milo suspected that he had looked equally elegant and sovereign the past twenty years.

  “Dottore,” said Benedetti, extending his hand.

  “Commissario. You are here because of the Norwegian woman, right?” the other man answered in a bass voice.

  “Yes. Thanks for meeting us on a Sunday.”

  The other man waved him away and turned to Milo.

  “Dottore Brizi. I’m the medical examiner. A pleasure.”

  Milo answered the handshake.

  “Cavalli. Polizia Norvegese. A pleasure.”

  They took the stairs down to the basement, where the temperature was several degrees lower. In a little closet they put on green pouches over their shoes, hairnets and white coats.

  A few minutes later they were standing around the corpse of Ingrid Tollefsen.

  The light hair was no longer flowing around her head, but instead was in a ponytail under her left shoulder. The skin, which was pale to begin with, appeared chalk-white under the strong fluorescent lights, which made the dark flecks on each side of her throat stand out even more clearly. Like specks of blood in snow.

  “Suffocation?” Milo asked.

  “Sì,” Brizi answered in a low voice, as if he did not want to disturb her sleep.

  She was lying on a metal bench in the middle of the room. Along one wall were two large, white washbasins. Above the basins were dispensers with sterilizing fluid and brushes for scrubbing hands. Along the other wall were the medical examiners’ tools. The razor-sharp scalpels. Scissors of all sizes. Knives. And at the far end was the bone saw, with the ergonomically designed handle. Everything in shining steel.