The Ice Swimmer

by Kjell Ola Dahl

  ‘The reason I applied to work here was to have more responsibility. I need to grow. You know that. It makes no sense to commute between Bergen and Oslo only to get bits and bobs.’

  Rindal leaned back in his chair and reflected. At length he took a piece of paper. ‘I’ve got something here, sent to us from the security service, PST.’ He added: ‘A garbled letter to a female MP at Storting. Probably nothing. But check it out. Apparently a woman wrote the letter. The parliamentary administrators at Storting regard this letter as threatening.’

  Rindal pushed the sheet across the table to Rise, who sat studying it disapprovingly.

  Rindal fixed him with his eyes.

  Axel Rise took the sheet and left.

  ‘Rise,’ Rindal said.

  He turned by the door.

  ‘I’d like you to get to know Gunnarstranda.’

  ‘Why?’

  Rindal looked down. ‘We can discuss that later.’ He swivelled round on his chair and concentrated on the computer screen.

  Rise stared at him for a few seconds and then left.

  8

  On the way to Rindal’s office Gunnarstranda met Lena Stigersand.

  ‘Can you do me a favour?’ he asked.

  Lena tilted her head, curious.

  ‘Ring me in eight minutes.’

  Linda looked at her watch. ‘From now?’

  Gunnarstranda nodded and carried on walking. He didn’t want to let this case go. There were a number of unanswered questions regarding the Metro suicide.

  Rindal listened in silence as Gunnarstranda reported back on what he had seen in the Metro ops centre.

  When Gunnarstranda had finished he said: ‘There are two possibilities. Either the mysterious second man has something to do with the incident or he hasn’t.’

  Gunnarstranda resisted the temptation to comment.

  ‘So there are two people hiding from the search teams,’ Rindal summarised, ‘and as the searchers don’t find anyone, the electricity is switched back on, the lights are extinguished and the trains start to run, then this woman throws herself in front of one. Everything is stopped again and there’s a full alert. The passengers are evacuated, are they?’

  Gunnarstranda nodded. ‘They had to climb down onto the track and were guided back to Grønland Station.’

  ‘When?’ Rindal asked.

  ‘The collision occurred at 07:19.’ Gunnarstranda took out his notes. ‘This is the timeline: A train driver sees someone running on the track from Tøyen to Grønland Station and reports it. The electricity is switched off almost immediately. The time is 06:37. The search team starts walking from Tøyen down to Grønland at 06:43. It takes them just over twenty minutes. It takes that long because they have to search bomb shelters and corridors and so on down there. They shine torches through gates and check for anyone hiding. They don’t see anyone. The tunnel is about eight hundred metres long. When they reach the end, at 07:03, the conclusion is that either the train driver was mistaken or the person had run back out. So they send two men back, one on each track, for safety’s sake. These two move faster and it takes them ten minutes. They report the all-clear at 07:17. The electricity is switched on. The Grorud train starts up and hits the woman at 07:19.’

  ‘And the alarm shows the emergency exit being used?’

  ‘At 07:22. At that time all the train doors were closed and the train driver was in conversation with the ops room. He was reporting what had happened. The evacuation of the passengers doesn’t start until half an hour later.’

  Rindal and Gunnarstranda looked at each other.

  ‘There was a person in the tunnel who saw her commit suicide,’ Rindal said, his brow furrowed with doubt.

  Gunnarstranda corrected Rindal’s conclusion. ‘There was one person in the tunnel, one person who knows what happened.’

  Rindal raised both palms in defence. ‘Control your imagination. This was a suicide. Case closed.’

  ‘She was a hardened junkie. Why didn’t she OD if she wanted to die?’

  Rindal closed both eyes. ‘I’m not listening to what you’re saying.’

  Gunnarstranda’s phone rang. He looked at the display and stood up. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I have to take this one.’ Gunnarstranda left the room with the phone to his ear. ‘Just a moment,’ he said, and turned to Rindal. He lowered the phone. ‘Two people, Rindal. Both hiding. How is it possible that the security officers didn’t see them? This is a tricky situation for Oslo Metro, but also for the police. I intend to follow this line of enquiry.’

  After he closed the door behind him he thanked Lena and rang off.

  9

  When Lena called Gunnarstranda she was queueing outside Mikels Kebab Shop in Grønlandsleiret. She asked to have hers wrapped. The low sun cast long shadows and made the cold air seem even colder as she trudged up the path to Police HQ. On her way in she met Axel Rise on his way out. She nodded to him.

  ‘Stigersand?’

  She stopped.

  ‘You’ve got the case with the guy they fished out of the harbour, haven’t you? Sveinung Adeler?’

  Axel Rise stood winding a long scarf around his neck. When he had finished he looked at her as if expecting a report.

  ‘Looks like an accident. He was probably pissed after a Christmas dinner and slipped on his way home,’ she said to fill the silence. ‘May know a bit more after I’ve spoken to the pathologists.’

  Rise observed her without speaking, the same hangdog eyes.

  The icy air was nipping at her ears, she was hungry and wanted to go in and eat. She made as if to move on.

  ‘I’ve received a tip-off,’ Axel Rise added quickly. ‘About the Christmas dinner last night. Sveinung Adeler was having dinner with a Storting MP.’

  ‘And who was that?’

  ‘Aud Helen Vestgård.’

  Lena waited for him to continue, to give her more context. It didn’t come. Talking with this guy was like coaxing old wax out of a narrow candlestick holder with a broad-bladed knife, she reflected. Somehow it wouldn’t come out.

  ‘Where did you get that from?’

  Rise gave her a sly wink, turned and walked down the hill.

  Confused, Lena stood watching him disappear for four long seconds before following him at a jog. ‘You must have more than a name.’

  Rise stopped. ‘What more do you need?’

  Lena racked her brains for a sensible answer. ‘Anything. The woman has to be eliminated from enquiries.’

  ‘Of course she has,’ Rise said. ‘Ask her,’ he grinned. ‘That’s not hard.’ Axel revealed a set of broad, even teeth as he smiled. ‘Are you worried about talking to Vestgård? If you need help I’m at your service.’

  Lena felt her irritation rise. ‘You and I are colleagues; we pass on what we know to each other. We don’t sit on secrets or buy and sell info.’

  Axel Rise angled his head as though unaware of what she meant: ‘What are you talking about? We work in teams, yes. I just passed on a tip-off to you and I’m offering you help.’

  ‘You can start by saying who gave you the tip-off.’

  Rise went quiet and the silence persisted. He didn’t want to say any more, that much was obvious. Lena spun on her heel and walked off. She tore open the door and marched in without looking back. She was already blaming herself. She hadn’t needed to lose her temper at Rise. His tip-off was useful. Sveinung Adeler worked in the Finance Department. Having dinner with a politician would be quite normal. But Rise had in some way suggested that they were alone. Aud Helena Vestgård was an attractive, married female politician. She occasionally appeared on TV. She took stands on controversial topics and could do the banter on popular satirical TV programmes. If she was having dinner with a younger civil servant, would that make matters more complicated?

  Lena dismissed the idea. She would have to talk to Aud Helen Vestgård whatever.

  10

  The mirror had the same shape and size as a piece of A4 paper. The frame was narrow, but delicate
ly wrought. The surface of the mirror had cracked at the edges. Old, thought Gunnarstranda. The edges of the mirror have aged, in the same pattern that cobblestones do. Looking at the mirror, he barely recognised himself. Cheeks puffed out, nose like a potato. In other words, the mirror was useless. Nevertheless he considered buying it. He knew Tove would love a mirror like this. It would be the perfect gift for someone who was interested in antiques. But the decision still hadn’t matured enough in him. Even if the mirror was a treasure, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He put it back, avoided eye contact with the sales assistant and left the second-hand shop.

  It had become dark outside. The only reason he had come this way had been that he was looking for the bus the Salvation Army used to help severe cases of drug addiction. He needed to know more about the dead woman, Nina Stenshagen. The challenge was to find someone who knew something and was also reliable. People like this were thin on the ground in Nina’s milieu.

  He headed towards Jernbanetorget and caught sight of the bus as it turned into Dronningens gate. The bus was old, from the 1980s, and the diesel exhaust it spewed out as thick and black as the smoke from burnt tyres. Gunnarstranda flagged it down. It pulled in to the kerb and stopped. The front door opened and Gunnarstranda jumped in.

  There was hardly anyone on board. Only three or four jaded-looking addicts sitting at the back and eating their packed lunches.

  The bus drove on as he leaned against a pole and showed his ID card to the guy behind the wheel: a man in his forties with long grey hair in a ponytail and wearing the Salvation Army uniform.

  ‘Nina Stenshagen,’ Gunnarstranda said.

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘She’s dead.’

  ‘OD?’

  Gunnarstranda shook his head. ‘She fell under a train in the tunnel between Tøyen and Grønland this morning. I’m trying to establish the circumstances.’

  ‘Well, you won’t find them here.’

  ‘Did you know her?’

  ‘You don’t know people like Nina, but I was aware who she was. I’ve dealt with her a few times.’

  Gunnarstranda held on tight as the lights changed to green and the bus accelerated. ‘Did she have any enemies?’

  ‘Nina? Hardly. It was hard enough for her to survive, poor thing. No enemies – unless she’d pinched someone’s shot for the following day.’

  Gunnarstranda glanced over to the back of the bus. One of the passengers was passing round a carton of chocolate milk.

  ‘Is that likely?’

  ‘Is what likely?’

  ‘Was Nina the type to pinch stuff?’

  The man behind the wheel smiled at Gunnarstranda as though the answer was obvious.

  ‘Do you know the names of anyone she hung around with?’

  ‘She had a boyfriend. She has had for a long time. Stig. That’s another tragic story. Once, Nina went on methadone. Five or six years ago. She tried to go straight. Stig’s never been on methadone. The inevitable happened. Just a mo and I’ll ask.’ He turned and shouted down the bus. ‘Any of you know where Stig is – Nina’s fella?’

  No one answered. But one of them got up and stumbled to the front.

  ‘Nothing else?’ Gunnarstranda asked the driver. ‘She had a boyfriend, tried to go straight and otherwise, what? How did she end up on drugs? Where did she come from? Did she speak dialect for example?’

  ‘Nina was an Oslo girl.’

  ‘Past? Job?’

  The driver shrugged. He stopped at the lights. ‘No idea.’

  ‘I know,’ said the guy who had joined them from the back. A skinny man with a very wrinkled face. He leaned against the back of a seat and rolled a cigarette with trembling hands.

  Gunnarstranda watched him stick the roll-up between his lips and the pouch into his trouser pocket. Red Mix. He had smoked that brand – once.

  ‘Nina worked at Oslo Metro,’ said the guy, the cigarette bouncing up and down between his lips. ‘When her hands were steady she drove on the Østensjøbane for many years. Shift work, right. Then they have problems sleeping, and then they start on pills, then they start mixing them, and then they don’t get prescriptions any more, and then they have to buy them on the street. In the end they join us.’ He grinned and revealed a row of dark stumps in his lower jaw. ‘That’s how crazy it can get.’

  The driver opened the door for him. The man jumped down and out. ‘Keep an eye on your kids,’ he shouted up to Gunnarstranda and the driver, and was gone.

  11

  It was too cold for the highway maintenance department to salt. Light snow mixed with previous falls and frozen salt brine made the carriageway on Drammensveien smooth and treacherous. Lena drove carefully and stayed in the right-hand lane the whole way out of Oslo. Grey and brown snow lay on the verge. She turned off at Lysaker. The further she drove towards Bærum, the cleaner and whiter the snow.

  The street lamps along the road dotted with large detached houses cast a deep-yellow light over the countryside. Lena parked by the edge of a pile of snow.

  The house where Aud Helen Vestgård lived towered like a castle in the winter darkness a few metres behind a wire netting fence. All the windows shone with light, but there were no occupants in sight.

  Lena’s timing was calculated. The most important TV news programmes were over and there was still at least an hour before the debates started. So she wouldn’t be disturbing, she assumed.

  Two figures came walking up the hill. Two young women, it turned out. One had long blonde curls that bounced on her shoulders as she walked. The other had wound a large scarf around her head and shoulders. Both disappeared into the gates of the Vestgårds’ house. The daughters of the house, Lena concluded – or the daughter of the house and a friend. Lena watched them enter through the front door. When it closed behind them she got out of the car.

  Not a sound could be heard when she pressed the bell. A few long seconds passed, then the broad door was opened by a man in his mid-forties. Lena recognised his face. It was Frikk Råholt, Aud Helen Vestgård’s husband and a state secretary in some ministry or other. She had seen him many times before – on TV. Nevertheless she was taken aback by how small in stature he was. His face was square and attractive; his hair combed back, greying at the temples. He inclined his head in an enquiring smile.

  Lena showed him her ID. ‘Lena Stigersand, Oslo Police District. I’d like to speak to Aud Helen Vestgård, if I may.’

  Frikk Råholt was clearly curious, but his manners prevailed over his curiosity. He held the door open and moved aside. ‘Come in.’

  He closed the door behind her. ‘Please wait here. I’ll call you.’ He left.

  The hall was large and welcoming. Wide sliding wardrobe doors on one wall. Big, black tiles on the floor.

  A song on the radio came from the depths of the house: Dean Martin. Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.

  Dean Martin was faded out and a voice took over.

  Lena felt a sneaking sense that she had made a bad decision steal down her body. She looked at her watch. It was several minutes since Råholt had let her in. What were they doing?

  Another Christmas song: ‘I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus’.

  Lena plumped down on a stool beside the front door. If Aud Helen Vestgård had been out with Sveinung Adeler last night she would of course have informed the police. After all, the name of the drowned man had been made public many hours ago. And if there was one thing MPs did it was to follow the news on the TV, radio and internet.

  Lena turned her head and almost jumped out of her skin.

  Aud Helen Vestgård was standing in the doorway watching her.

  Lena shot up like a schoolgirl caught sleeping in class.

  ‘Stigersand, wasn’t it?’ Aud Helen Vestgård stretched out a hand.

  The owner of the hand was in good shape for a woman over forty. She obviously spent a lot of time keeping fit. And she had quite a different style from her husband. Vestgård wore jeans and a bright-red top – cloth
es that emphasised her figure and made her seem youthfully casual.

  ‘As you can perhaps imagine, I’m quite curious to know more,’ Vestgård said in her pleasant speaking voice. ‘Have you found anything yet?’

  Lena had no idea what she was talking about and had to admit it with a tentative smile.

  Vestgård regarded Lena with surprise, but explained: ‘Parliament reported a letter I’d received to the police. It was confused, but there was no misunderstanding its intent. It was a death threat. Am I to understand that is not why you’re here?’

  Lena concentrated hard and chose her words with care: ‘I’m afraid I know nothing about that case. I’m investigating the circumstances surrounding the death of Sveinung Adeler.’

  Aud Helen Vestgård turned her head in a friendly yet inquisitive way: ‘Oh, yes?’

  Lena hesitated, but again chose her words with care: ‘I understood you knew him.’

  ‘I don’t.’ Aud Helen Vestgård stuck both hands in her pockets. Her jeans were so tight there was only room for her fingertips. ‘Excuse me for asking, but where did you get the idea I know this man?’

  This meeting was taking a very different turn from what Lena had expected. She was feeling warm in her thick clothes and unzipped her jacket. ‘Your name has been mentioned and so we’re obliged to check. We’re trying to clarify the circumstances regarding Adeler’s death and what might’ve happened—’

  She didn’t get a chance to finish her sentence.

  ‘Could you bring me up to speed here? Who is this Adeler and what has happened?’

  Lena let her words sink in. The questions made the MP look exceptionally bad. An official in the Finance Department had been found floating in the harbour that morning. The young man’s death was on everyone’s tongue and she, a Member of, the Norwegian Parliament, didn’t know what had happened?

  ‘A drowning incident,’ Lena said with a poker face. ‘Last night or early this morning. Tragic story. Sveinung Adeler died when he fell into the water by the City Hall Quay. But no witnesses have come forward and before we draw any conclusions we have to detail what exactly happened. He was dressed as if he had been out dining last night, and we’ve received a tip-off suggesting he was at a Christmas dinner where you were also present, but you’re saying that isn’t the case?’