The Oslo Conspiracy

by Asle Skredderberget

  Milo moved around the body of Ingrid. Her breasts lay flat over her ribcage, and almost flowed a little past it. Her stomach was flat, but marred by thirty or so stitches that extended from under the navel and almost up to the breastbone where the pathologist had opened her to examine the internal organs.

  She had been beautiful. And in good shape. She could have been one of his fellow students a few years ago, apart from the fact that she had studied science and technology, while he had taken economics. But she reminded him of a fellow student, or a young colleague.

  This was a lady with guts, thought Milo.

  At the same time, this was also a lady with baggage. The big sister who was only in her early teens when her life changed. She’d lost a mother and gained a brother. A baby brother. Who, fifteen years later, had been shot and killed in a quiet Oslo suburb. And now, two years later, she herself had met death. In a hotel room in Rome.

  Milo had seen dead people before, but still reacted to their immobility. People who had lived, suffered, cried, run, loved and hated, and suddenly a line was drawn over all their exertions. Before him was a corpse. But it was also a daughter. And a star student who, in addition to her studies in Trondheim, had worked on fundraising campaigns for everything from orphanages in Rumania to famines.

  But above all she had been a big sister.

  What thoughts had raced through her head in the moment of death? Did she have time to feel panic? Was she paralyzed by fear?

  “There’s one thing I don’t quite understand,” said Milo, looking over at Brizi.

  “What’s that?” the medical examiner replied.

  “Someone suffocated her, but the body bears no signs of struggle. Not so much as a scratch.”

  “It’s because of this,” Brizi answered, going over to her head.

  He moved it slightly to the side so that the throat and parts of the neck were exposed, and pointed at a little red mark on the left side of the throat.

  “What’s that?” asked Milo.

  “Anesthetic. Someone drove a syringe of propofol into her neck. After a few minutes she passed out, and then the person in question suffocated her. Without her being able to put up resistance.”

  * * *

  Benedetti parked outside a little three-star hotel in the vicinity of Termini, the central train station, and let Milo enter first. They had agreed to meet in the lounge next to reception, and Milo immediately caught sight of him.

  The man was sitting, bent over and passive. His gaze was fixed on a point on the floor, and his torso rocked slightly forward. A mentally ill man, many probably thought when they saw him, but Milo understood: Sigurd Tollefsen was grief-stricken.

  Milo recognized the apathy. The soothing rocking of the upper body because the loss of a dear one had settled in the stomach region and threatened to slice him into filets from inside. And when Tollefsen looked up at him, Milo saw a face drained of tears.

  “Milo Cavalli. From the Norwegian police,” he said, extending his hand.

  Sigurd Tollefsen raised up a little from the bench and responded to the handshake.

  “My condolences,” said Milo.

  “Thanks. It’s—”

  But the sentence stopped there. His gaze sought the floor again. He took a deep breath.

  “Are you connected with the embassy?” he asked.

  Milo shook his head.

  “I got here yesterday. I’m working with Chief Inspector Sørensen, whom you spoke with on Friday.”

  Tollefsen nodded heavily.

  “And what happens now? I understood that there is a long paper mill to go through.”

  “It’s arranged. A flight leaves this afternoon with your daughter’s casket on board. I’ve taken the liberty of reserving a seat for you too,” Milo replied.

  “But … my understanding was that it wouldn’t happen until tomorrow.”

  “I got here yesterday.”

  “And you arranged it in one day? On a Saturday?”

  Milo shrugged.

  “I don’t like to wait for things,” he answered.

  Tollefsen stood up heavily and firmly shook Milo’s hand. His eyes were shiny and his lower lip was trembling. He cleared his throat weakly.

  “Thank you. Now I understand what Sørensen meant when he said he had someone he thought could get the case moving.”

  Milo smiled.

  “The only thing you have to do now is sign a few papers that my Italian colleague has here. Then we can talk again back in Oslo.”

  “When?…” Sigurd Tollefsen had to take a breath. “When do I get to see her?”

  “Soon,” Milo replied.

  Benedetti took a step forward with a little plastic folder under his arm. He briefly greeted Tollefsen and expressed his condolences. A few minutes later the papers were signed, and Tollefsen was on his way up to his room to pack.

  “Poor bastard,” Benedetti mumbled while he gathered up the papers.

  “I know. Thanks for arranging all this so quickly.”

  “No problem. I’m sorry I was so difficult in the beginning. The thought of yet another case with unpaid overtime is not tempting. I have a tendency to get stuck with the cases that have the least resources available.”

  “Why is that?”

  Benedetti shrugged his shoulders, as if he didn’t know the answer. But Milo saw through him.

  “Are you unpopular with the bosses?” he asked.

  The Italian detective snorted.

  “I guess I’m not exactly known for my tactical qualities where scratching the right person on the back is concerned, no.”

  “Does that mean this homicide is not a priority case for the Rome police?”

  Benedetti sighed heavily and cast a glance up at Milo. He searched for words.

  “I’ll do all I can. Within the limits I have,” he said.

  Milo knew that was true, but understood at the same time that the Rome police were not standing ready with the cavalry in this case.

  “Thanks. But what was it really that got you to drop your free weekend and arrange this so quickly?”

  “When we were in her hotel room, some memories came up,” said Benedetti.

  “What memories?”

  “We’ve all lost someone, Cavalli. Personally, I lost my big brother over thirty years ago. It almost broke my mother and father and, when I saw your commitment, I was reminded of why I once became a policeman. To be able to help those like my mother and father. I was too young to do anything when we lost Giovanni, and I felt so helpless.”

  “I understand what you mean.”

  “You’ve also lost someone close to you?”

  “My mother.”

  Benedetti nodded thoughtfully.

  “Then we understand each other,” he said.

  They went out to the car and got in.

  “What actually happened with your brother?” Milo asked.

  “He died in a boat accident. A military cruiser that went down between Tunisia and Sicily in 1977. It was his last tour. He was going to start engineering studies after that.”

  “Why did it sink?”

  Benedetti shrugged his shoulders while he turned out of the parking space.

  “I tried to look into that … but got nowhere. The ship simply exploded. No one knows why. And the only one who survived didn’t remember anything that could explain the incident.”

  9

  He met Theresa outside the small, out-of-the-way restaurant. They kissed. Warmer than when they’d kissed at the train station the evening before. But cooler than when they had returned to the hotel room last night.

  “Sleep well?” he asked.

  “Very. Didn’t get up until eleven,” she answered.

  “So you haven’t eaten yet?”

  She shook her head.

  “I’m famished!” she said before they ducked in through the low doorway of the restaurant.

  The room was small, and the ceiling low. Only six small tables were spread around, and only one of them
was vacant. The unpadded chairs, the paper tablecloths on the table, the bare walls and small wineglasses signaled simplicity, but Milo knew that the food served at a place like this was anything but simple in taste and that this kitchen had taken more than a hundred years and three generations to be what it was: an out-of-the-way gem for the initiated.

  The waitress came over to them, and they ordered water and wine. When she was back again, she rattled off the menu, which consisted of a couple of appetizers, three pasta dishes, two meat entrées and a fish entrée.

  “What do you recommend?” asked Milo.

  The answer came readily.

  “Cheese and sausages as appetizer. Pasta from Sicily with vegetables. The fish.”

  Milo looked at Theresa.

  “Va bene per me.” That’s fine with me, she answered, taking a small sip of wine.

  “Then we’ll rely on you,” Milo said, turning to the waitress.

  It was never wrong to follow the kitchen’s recommendation at a place like this. The waitress took the compliment from Milo as a matter of course, turned on her heels and called the order into the kitchen.

  Milo tasted the Sicilian red wine while he looked around the place. The other guests appeared to be four couples and three friends at a table in the corner. Or there were at least three couples. The fourth pair he was unsure about. It could just as well be that the young man wanted to signal to the whole world that the small, dark curlyhead with the narrow mouth was his girlfriend.

  Opposite Milo sat a man in his midthirties with sad eyes, the kind like dogs’ eyes, that seem to pull down and get women to say, “Oh, how cute!”

  Milo suspected that the eyes were more tired than sad, a distinction women were seldom attentive to.

  The room was lit up by four wall lamps that occasionally dimmed and then brightened again.

  “What are you thinking of?” asked Theresa.

  “That the energy source for the lights in here is probably a guy on a stationary bicycle in the back room. The youngest son. And occasionally he has to lower his pace to refill his water or wine, and then the lights dim.”

  She laughed out loud, and took hold of his hand.

  “I like it when you make me laugh,” she said.

  “And I like that you make me want to make you laugh,” he answered.

  The appetizers came to the table. Simple in appearance. Complex in taste. And perfect with the wine.

  They ate and chatted. She asked about what he had done that morning, and he answered evasively. A description of the session at the morgue was hardly a good prelude to a meal.

  The conversation flowed better than the evening before, but not without a certain sense of exertion, as if they both tried not to mention the elephant in the room.

  “When are you leaving?” she asked.

  “This evening.”

  “And in a few weeks we’ll see each other again?”

  He nodded.

  “Yes. I’m going to think about what you said,” he answered.

  “Fine. But you don’t need to look so serious. It’s actually a compliment. I like being with you. And I don’t like not being with you,” she said.

  He looked at her.

  “I understand that. I don’t like it either when we’re away from each other.”

  “But it’s not so bad that you want to do something about it?”

  “We’ll have that discussion next time,” said Milo, asking for the bill.

  * * *

  As he got off the plane at Gardermoen, he sent three text messages. One to Theresa to say that he had arrived and that he’d had a nice time with her, one to his father to say that he could make it for dinner the following day, and the last to Sørensen to set up a debriefing.

  He had not even passed customs before his phone beeped again.

  I MISS YOU. T.

  Then his father answered and asked him to come at six o’clock the next day. The thought of meeting his father’s lady friend, and probable future wife, was not at all tempting, but he knew that it was something he had to get through.

  He had just gotten in the car when Sørensen texted his order: 9 TOMORROW. THAT COFFEE PLACE OF YOURS.

  MONDAY

  10

  Dolce Vita on Prinsens Gate eased the transition from Rome to Oslo. Alessio behind the counter nodded in recognition, and Antonello Venditti was streaming from the speakers.

  They found a table in the far corner. Milo with a cappuccino and cannoli, Sørensen with an Americano and snuff.

  “Tell me!” he ordered.

  “Fine. There are a couple of things that bother me.”

  Milo told Sørensen about the investigations at the hotel, the conversation with the medical examiner Brizi and the cooperation with Commissario Benedetti. Sørensen listened, sipped his coffee and sucked on the snuff.

  When Milo was finished, he leaned back with his arms crossed.

  “So someone was able to drug her. Probably someone she knew, since she must have let that person in. At the same time, someone, probably her, threw a pill bottle down into the back courtyard. With an illegible note in it.”

  “We could make out the letters v-e-r-b-a. Verba.”

  “Verba? What’s that supposed to mean? The beginning of a name? Is there an Italian name that starts with those letters?”

  Milo shook his head.

  “Not as far as I know.”

  “So we have an almost illegible note with some incomprehensible letters. We have no witnesses, no biological traces in the hotel room and no laptop or anything from her,” he summarized.

  “That’s right,” Milo replied.

  Sørensen sighed heavily, spitting the snuff pouch into the empty coffee cup.

  “That’s not too damned much,” he observed.

  “I know,” said Milo.

  “We’ll have to start by finding out what she was doing at that conference,” said Sørensen, getting up.

  He put on his topcoat and wrapped a scarf around his neck as if he were going out into a storm.

  “I have an appointment with the head of Forum Healthcare in Lilleaker, where she worked. Do you have time to come with me?”

  “Certo!”

  “Huh?”

  “Of course.”

  Sørensen shook his head.

  “Milo, you’re in Norway now. Knock off the Mafia talk.”

  Milo put on an innocent expression while he raised his shoulders and held both palms up in front of him at shoulder height in an apologetic gesture.

  “Scusa! Sorry!”

  “Nitwit! We’ll take your car,” Sørensen said, waddling toward the exit.

  * * *

  Their arrival was announced, and CEO Thomas Veivåg appeared with the legal director and public relations director too, both of whom introduced themselves with names Milo immediately forgot.

  As a Financial Crimes detective Milo was accustomed to companies showing up in force, but Sørensen did not like being in the minority.

  “Sheesh, the whole bucket brigade,” he muttered to Milo.

  They were shown into a vacant conference room that was featureless and functional. The conference table had room for ten to twelve persons, a projector was hanging from the ceiling and the view toward the Lysaker River was covered up by exterior blinds.

  Milo and Sørensen sat down at one end of the table, the three others on the opposite side.

  “Well, I don’t know how this sort of thing is done,” Veivåg began while he poured coffee for the two police officers.

  “The way it works is that we ask questions and you answer,” Sørensen said drily.

  He set his notebook on the table along with his snuffbox, and searched for his pen. Milo took out his Mont Blanc pen and gave it to him.

  “But, first of all, of course we must also express our condolences to you for the loss of a capable colleague,” said the chief inspector.

  The three on the other side nodded back as if on command.

  “Thank you. It’s
quite incomprehensible,” Veivåg replied. “Ingrid was … a great girl. Professionally accomplished, accessible, extremely well liked.”

  The two others nodded in affirmation.

  “Tell us a little about the company first, and then about what she worked on,” said Sørensen.

  “Okay.”

  Just then the legal director leaned over the table while he smoothed out his tie in an almost caressing motion.

  “Just something very brief to start with. If that’s okay, Thomas?”

  Veivåg nodded curtly, and the other man directed his attention across the table.

  “Just so we are clear on this. What kind of meeting is this, actually? In formal terms. Are we talking about an interrogation? Or is this just a background conversation?”

  Sørensen inserted two pouches of snuff and dropped the box onto the table.

  “This is an investigation,” he answered.

  “I understand that, but purely legally—”

  “Purely legally, we are trying to find out who killed Ingrid Tollefsen, arrest the person in question and get that person convicted.”

  The legal director looked uncertainly from Sørensen and Milo to his boss.

  “This is not an interrogation,” said Sørensen.

  “Okay, fine, thanks,” he answered, leaning back in his chair again.

  Thomas Veivåg cleared his throat.

  “Then I’ll begin by telling a little about the company and about … Ingrid and what she worked on here.”

  “Fine,” Sørensen answered, emptying his coffee cup.

  Veivåg gave them a condensed version of the company’s history, which he had obviously done countless times before. Forum Healthcare Norway was part of the international pharmaceutical giant Forum Healthcare Inc. Listed on the New York Stock Exchange and one of the world’s three largest pharmaceutical groups. The Norwegian part, formerly called NorMed had been acquired eight years earlier. NorMed was originally a sister company to NewMed, but the two companies developed in different directions. While NewMed merged with a British pharma giant, which was later swallowed up by EG Health, NorMed continued for a few more years as an independent company. Until the definitive breakthrough with the company’s own glucocorticoid tablets.

  “What did you call that?” asked Sørensen.

  “Glucocorticoid. Better known as cortisone,” Veivåg explained.