The Frozen Woman

by Jon Michelet

  ‘I roll back my mind to the autopsy. How thin we thought Picea was, lying on the stretcher in the Pathology Institute. I saw and still see her as a rebellious spirit from the mountains on the Turkish peninsula. I am aware this might be a romanticisation. And as I have imagined her as a Kurd from the very start I have to be careful about pursuing this idea, this view, too far.’

  Stribolt saves what he has written, apologises to Rønningen by saying that he has a tendency to lose himself in detail when he finds new leads.

  ‘I got so excited I forgot to ask you to give me a precise description of Picea,’ he says.

  ‘Picea?’

  ‘That’s a codename we’ve given her as we haven’t identified her yet.’

  Rønningen says she is a hundred per cent sure that the woman was wearing a white blouse and had a dark padded coat with her, but was unsure whether she had a skirt or trousers on.

  ‘I might remember if you can tell me where the toilet is.’

  Stribolt gives her directions. He doesn’t understand why Rønningen is so tense. He is reminded of the Olaf Palme investigator Hans Holmér, who put all his efforts into searching among the Kurds in Sweden at the start of his endeavours to identify the Swedish Prime Minister’s killer. At that time in 1986, when young Stribolt decided to stifle his prejudices about the police, defy his father’s deep aversion to the bourgeois forces of law and order and apply for a place at Police College, journalist Jan Guillou’s public derision of Holmér’s Kurdish trail left an indelible mark on him. If a leading Swedish detective could make such a cardinal error as to invest all his and his staff’s energy in pursuing one lead there should be hope for a hobby detective from Hammerfest to become a passable officer, not to say a better detective. Sadly, there is no sign that that has indeed come about. Then again he hasn’t had the main responsibility for solving any real crime mysteries until the Picea riddle was dropped in his lap in February of 2001.

  If he succeeds in solving it, he will be able to leave Kripos walking tall. He has been on the way out for a long time. He has bad chemistry with his boss, Arne Huuse. Stribolt drafted one of his many letters of resignation in March when Huuse said on the TV news that ninety-five per cent of all the heroin smuggling in Norway was undertaken by Kosovo-Albanians. Not one single person in the media reacted to this initiative. What made the hairs on Stribolt’s neck stand up wasn’t that Huuse was spreading disinformation. His boss had proof for what he said. But he didn’t need to release all the force’s knowledge about heroin seizures and the Albanian mafia.

  Especially not in a situation where there was public debate about the sending of Kosovo refugees to Norway. This was going to criminalise and stigmatise a whole ethnic group.

  Another officer incapable of understanding that it is better to keep your mouth tightly buttoned is one Ola Thune. The private detective has bad-mouthed the police during almost every major case over the last few years. If there is anything in the rumours that Huuse is thinking of employing Thune as the Head of the Investigation Department and calling it the Homicide Commission, Thune, on his way in, will meet Stribolt on his way out.

  Rønningen returns with her lipstick adjusted and says apologetically that she cannot remember any more about the woman’s clothes. What she does remember is that she wore no make-up, at least none that was obvious, and she wasn’t carrying much. Only a suitcase, the type you can take on a plane as hand luggage, and a bag.

  Stribolt notices that Rønningen looked straight at him when she mentioned the suitcase, but glanced away when she mentioned the bag.

  ‘It doesn’t matter about her clothes,’ he says. ‘I’d like to know more about the pest.’

  ‘He was definitely Norwegian,’ Rønningen says. ‘From Oslo West I would guess. Judging by his accent. A motormouth as he waltzed around with his camera taking photos and annoying people. He said he wanted to document life on board the world’s most boring train. Words to that effect. Those who objected were told they were enemies of art.’

  ‘Age and appearance?’

  ‘Around twenty-five. Tall and strong. Bit flabby. Dark hair. Most was hidden under a captain’s hat, a sailor’s hat, whatever they are. The bit that was visible was quite long and looked dirty. Greasy. And he was wearing a leather coat which he didn’t take off even though it was suffocatingly hot in the compartment. Leather boots. Don’t remember his trousers.’

  The description of the pest on the train doesn’t tally with the one Stribolt was given of young Øystein Strand who was killed in a possible rigged accident in Østfold. On the other hand, the captain’s hat and the leather coat suggest the person using the alias Captain Paw-Paw, who sent the photo of Picea alive to Thygesen and which he passed on to Vaage.

  ‘Was he high?’ Stribolt asks.

  ‘Not on alcohol, maybe on drugs. I remember thinking he was as high as his girl was low.’

  ‘Girl? Was someone with him?’

  ‘Yes, I forgot to say that. She didn’t stand out. She was asleep from the moment I got on the train to the moment I got off in Halden. It went through my mind that she must have taken something that knocked her out. I remember a big head of tousled hair with red stripes in and a face so white you could say she was as white as a sheet. I couldn’t see any more of her because she was wrapped in a blanket.’

  ‘You said drugs. Any idea what kind?’

  ‘I’m no expert on drugs,’ Rønningen says, trying without much success to roll her eyes coquettishly. ‘He was pretty hyper and wild-eyed, but kept his feet even though the train was swaying all over the place. That’s how people get when they take amphetamines or drink a very strong cocktail with what the Swedes call party poppers.’

  ‘The camera?’ Stribolt asks, adding the keyword to the screen.

  ‘Small, shiny. Nothing special. But when he came back to my compartment as we were going through the wasteland before Ed he took out a big, old-fashioned video camera and started filming the passengers. One guy jumped to his feet to fetch the conductor. And she, the woman who was later killed, was so fed up with having a camera thrust up her nose she began to cry. She went and hid in the toilet. Then there was another woman, also foreign, who was so angry she tried to knock the camera out of the guy’s hands. When we arrived at Ed the whole train was invaded by Norwegian customs officials doing a cattle check.’

  ‘A foot-and-mouth disease control,’ Stribolt says.

  ‘Exactly. I hate the expression, foot-and-mouth disease, it sounds so revolting. There was quite a commotion when the customs officials got on. The guy was filming total chaos, and didn’t stop. The woman who’d tried to snatch his camera saw the officials and ran off the train without taking her suitcase.’

  ‘Interesting. Was she arrested?’

  ‘Not as far as I could see.’

  ‘Was she very similar in appearance to the woman we call Picea?’

  ‘She was dark-haired too. But fatter. And she spoke German. At least she could swear in German, because she shouted Scheisskerl when she hit him.’

  ‘What did Picea do during the check?’

  ‘She returned from the toilet after we left Ed. I didn’t see her being checked. She didn’t look like a meat smuggler.’

  ‘And the passport control?’ Stribolt asks.

  ‘They didn’t seem very interested in anyone’s passports except the poor couple with the packet of salami,’ Rønningen says. ‘In the end the conductor came and stopped the guy using the camera. But the pest made a drawing which he showed everyone. Pornographic. The woman you call Picea… said “crazy man, dangerous man” and asked if there were cheap hotels in Halden. I said the best for her would be the Grand in the square outside the station.

  ‘She said she had been travelling for a long time and rubbed her eyes as if to show she was worn out. She gave the finger to the film guy although he didn’t see it and then we both got off in Halden.’r />
  ‘She got off in Halden?’

  ‘Yes, despite having a ticket for Oslo.’

  ‘You’re sure she didn’t get back on the train?’

  ‘Absolutely sure. We both lit up a cigarette. You couldn’t smoke on the train. I pointed to the Grand. The train chugged off.’

  ‘The photo freak, did he get off in Halden too?’

  ‘I don’t think so. If he did, I didn’t see him.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Pretty sure. I was so relieved that we’d got away from any more hassle with the nutter. No, if he’d got off I’d have noticed. We notice unpleasant things much faster than nice things.’

  Stribolt goes for a coffee refill. In the corridor he curses: ‘Shit, this is a clear murderer type, but he gets off at the wrong station, or at least he doesn’t get off at the same station as the victim.’

  Back in the interview room, he asks for a little break, adds the new information and notes down some more questions.

  ‘So she got off in Halden unexpectedly. Did you see anyone meet her or walk towards her?’ he asks.

  ‘No, I hurried to my car, which was in the NSB car park. It’s a crappy little car, a Fiat Ritmo, and I was worried it wouldn’t start in the cold.’

  ‘Did it?’

  ‘Almost,’ Rønningen says, imitating the sound of an unwilling starter motor driven by a frozen battery: ‘Oonk, oonk, oonk. I gave up and went to find a taxi, at great expense.’

  ‘Did you see any more of Picea around the station or nearby?’

  ‘No, I thought she’d gone to the Grand. It’s not far, just across the street from the station.’

  ‘You mentioned another woman. The one who ran off in Ed and left a suitcase on the train. Did Picea take the suitcase?’

  ‘No, she had her own.’

  ‘And a bag,’ Stribolt adds. ‘I’ve got here that she had a bag. Was there anything special about it?’

  ‘Only that it was more expensive and elegant than her other stuff. Crocodile skin. Probably fake, but it looked authentic enough.’

  ‘Did she have the bag when she got off the train?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘But you’re not sure?’

  ‘Odd question,’ Rønningen says. She blushes lightly but becomingly. ‘Do you think there might have been dope in it and she was supposed to take it to Oslo where it would be collected?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘I’m sure she took her bag. That was where she had her cigarettes and her dictionary.’

  ‘Dictionary?’

  ‘Yes, I forgot to say. While she was reading the Memed book she was using a small English dictionary, a Collins.’

  ‘What was the other language?’

  ‘Russian.’

  ‘Russian?’

  ‘Is that so strange? I’m positive there were Cyrillic letters on the cover.’

  ‘Hell,’ Stribolt says.

  ‘Did I say something wrong?’ asks Hege Dorothy Rønningen.

  ‘No, no, no. My hypothesis has just been sunk, that’s all. Let’s call it a day now. I’m waiting for photographic evidence from Kripos in Oslo which I’d like you to see. Can we meet again, preferably early tomorrow?’

  Rønningen says that is fine. She doesn’t have any lectures until eleven. Stribolt feels an immense desire to invite her out for a beer, but stops himself and, after she has left, growls: ‘Long live professionalism. Death to professionalism.’

  15

  In the light spring evening on the Scandinavian peninsula, a Kawasaki motorbike is roaring through the Swedish countryside of Södermanland, a Toyota Landcruiser is motoring through the forest in the Norwegian county of Østfold and an ancient, recently stolen, Datsun is heading towards Aspedammen outside Halden by the Swedish border. The three men, with three very different Japanese vehicles, also have very distinct intentions as regards their journeys.

  Kykkelsrud, behind the handlebars of the bike he calls Brontes, is fleeing from a murder he has committed. Before him lies a future in a country that until recently was a part of the Soviet Union, but is now open to any capital, legal or otherwise. But he isn’t sure that the partners in the gang he still belongs to are trustworthy. So he has taken precautions. When the light evening turns into golden night he will meet his partners, Borken and Lips, in Stockholm. He doesn’t take the main road through Västmanland and Uppland, as most Norwegians do. Kykke has chosen to take the road south around Lake Mälaren, for no other reason than that he, as a biker, prefers that route.

  Bård Isachsen, known to his friends as Bård the Board, is driving towards Aspedammen where he has a job to do. He is going to burn down the abandoned shack his uncle owns so that any evidence of the crime committed there is destroyed. Bård the Board thinks the crime that took place in his uncle’s house was drug smuggling, and it is true that the house was used a drugs warehouse. What he doesn’t know is that a murder was also committed there, a murder that in the eyes of the law has to be viewed as premeditated.

  Bård the Board assumes he is in with Borken after his smart disguise and having given such a precise report on how Beach Boy died. When Uncle Reidar’s house has been burned down his star will be even higher with the gang. And he will get a stack of cash, which he sorely needs after dropping out of school and being unemployed for eighteen months. To start the fire he has brought a five-litre can of petrol. He took it from Øystein’s mother’s place when he popped in to say how sorry he was that her son had died in an accident. She has only a small lawn outside her house in Tistedalen and she hardly ever cuts it. So she won’t notice the petrol can for her mower has gone.

  Gerhard Ryland is sitting behind the wheel in his private Landcruiser. The big car is one of the few luxuries he allows himself. Beside him in the passenger seat sits his secretary John Olsen, who has doubled as his trusty sidekick on a few occasions. Fru Ryland, Natasha, is lying on the back seat in a foetal position, asleep, covered with her coat. Ryland is on the way to a decisive dinner on the Bærøe estate. There he will meet the top management of the Peterson concern and the negotiators from the Finnish Norpaper company. What they will decide is whether the wood-processing industry in Østfold will broadly speaking still be in Norwegian hands. The worst scenario for the negotiations over dinner is that Peterson refuses to sell to the Finns and prefers to merge with the financial tight-rope walker Kingo, with the sole intention of selling up lock, stock and barrel to Canada.

  Ryland has other things on his mind too. He is pondering his decision not to go to the police and report the blackmail attempt. He still thinks the risk of a police leak to the media is so great that it isn’t an option.

  ‘Left here,’ says Olsen, the map reader.

  They have driven down the E6 south from Oslo, turned on to the R121 by Såner Church and are now coming on to the R120 between Moss and Elvestad.

  ‘Now it’s straight for five or six kilometres, then there’s a signpost to Bærøe,’ Olsen says.

  After a couple of minutes he speaks up again: ‘There must have been an accident here.’

  He points to the police cordon alongside the road.

  ‘Someone must have misjudged the bend,’ Ryland says. ‘People drive like bats out of hell.’

  ‘And die like flies.’

  *

  In Halden, Arve Stribolt, the Kripos detective, goes to the Grand Hotel. He spends an hour plying between the guest books and the staff. His conclusion is that no single woman answering to Picea’s description registered at the Grand on the evening of 28 January or any of the subsequent days.

  ‘It’s all too rare for stylish, single women to be guests here,’ the receptionist sighed.

  Stribolt has invited the receptionist to a beer so that he can hear a little about what goes on in the area around Halden station in the evenings. From what Stribolt has been to
ld, there is no life at all. The hot rods – of which there are many in Halden – don’t burn rubber around the station. If Halden had open prostitution in the streets there might have been a red-light area between the station and the harbour, but it doesn’t.

  ‘No, there’s nothing here at night,’ the receptionist says. ‘It’s just so quiet.’

  They both listen to the silence in Halden until the rising wind catches an empty beer can and rattles it down the street outside the hotel window.

  *

  The wind in Aspedammen Forest is gusting hard. The spruce trees move like trolls swaying in the pitch darkness. Bård Isachsen has parked the stolen rust-bucket out of sight from the drunkard who is Reidar’s neighbour and lives in a timber hovel that is almost as tumbledown as his uncle’s. There is light in the kitchen window, but the old soak is nowhere to be seen.

  The last time he was here the guy came out pissed and started talking with Øystein, Beach Boy, who had been in Reidar’s house looking for dope. Øystein, the dickhead, thought the house was let to the Kamikaze gang.

  He never knew it was his own gang, the Seven Samurai, who were renting the house. When Øystein finally got into his car he was annoyed that he hadn’t found any dope, only a ladies bag.

  ‘I reckon they’ve been having orgies in there,’ Øystein said at the time. ‘And it must’ve been a pretty wild affair because there’s menstrual blood over the walls.’

  He was told to sling the bag and when he drove down into town Øystein said he would throw it into the Tista.

  Perhaps Borken and Lips had raped someone in Reidar’s house and wanted any evidence of that burned, as well as whatever drugs could be found? No point thinking about that now. Just do the job and get the hell out of it.

  Quickly Bård the Board sprinkles petrol over the woodwork of his uncle’s house. He rolls up a newspaper he brought with him into a little ball, lights a corner and throws it against the wall.