Rindal sat down again and concentrated on the computer screen.
Gunnarstranda stayed on his feet.
‘Close the door on your way out,’ Rindal said.
Gunnarstranda didn’t budge.
Rindal swivelled round on his chair and looked at him. ‘Yes?’
‘I thought you’d asked Mr Bergen to do this.’
‘His name’s Rise,’ Rindal replied curtly. ‘We like to call each other by name at this station, Gunnarstranda. It’s best for everyone. You wouldn’t like to be called “Baldy”, would you.’
Gunnarstranda sighed. ‘Could I have an update?’ he asked.
‘On what?’ Rindal jutted out his chin.
‘On what Rise’s job is and on why I’m doing all the legwork for another person. Is Rise not happy with doing this?’
Rindal grimaced. ‘Rise’s a competent officer,’ he said, and then added: ‘I know he is.’ He raised a hand as Gunnarstranda made to say something. ‘You don’t need to object. I know he’s competent because he’s worked under me before. You’ll discover the same as I did. You’ll be working together, you see.’
Gunnarstranda eyed Rindal closely without saying a word.
Rindal shrugged and swivelled the chair back to his desk to concentrate on a pen lying on some papers.
‘Yup,’ Rindal said to the pen. ‘As I told you, the guy’s having a hard time. Things happen to people who have it tough. Well, Rise hasn’t taken this threatening letter very seriously. That’s a matter between Rise and me, and of course I’ll take it up with him. But you and he have to work together from now on. Which will apply to the Metro incident if it turns out there’s any more to it.’ Rindal swivelled back and eyed Gunnarstranda: ‘You don’t have to look so bloody miserable. You outrank Rise and I expect you to ensure your co-operation proceeds without any problems. But until I’ve informed Rise about the situation there’s still someone who wants an answer to what’s behind the letter threatening Vestgård. She regards it as extremely unpleasant. Vestgård talks about this to colleagues in parliament. The people sitting and chatting about this over lunch are the same people who decide your salary and mine, and future overtime packages. So I’m sure you can see the need for something to happen. I expect a report clarifying this matter before twelve o’clock, capisce?’
Gunnarstranda was at a loss for words. Rindal realised and beamed at him in triumph, his famous Gene Hackman smile.
Gunnarstranda turned and let himself out. Capisce? Was Rindal doing an evening course in Italian, or what? he wondered.
3
Lena waited impatiently until it was two minutes past eight. She locked the office door, then took out her phone and called.
The voice that answered was gentle and warm, but still Lena was unable to relax. She explained the reason for her call, how the lump close to the nipple felt and said it was sensitive when she pressed it. It was difficult to estimate the size. She had never noticed it before, but had to concede she didn’t check her breasts regularly.
The gentle voice talked about mammograms and tissue samples, and asked whether there was any discharge from her nipple.
Lena shuddered.
At the same time someone was trying her door. How annoying. Anyone pulling the handle would wonder why she had locked it. Whoever it was knocked.
Lena raised her voice. ‘Just a minute!’
She walked towards the door with the phone to her ear. No, not as far as she knew.
The voice continued: If the nipple did have discharge she wanted Lena to take note of the colour and whether there was any blood in it.
Lena turned her back to the door. ‘I’ve read quite a bit about this online,’ she said, slightly frustrated. ‘But I’d like an appointment as soon as possible.’
‘By far the majority of lumps are benign,’ the voice said.
‘I work for the police,’ Lena said, ‘and I have a meeting in a second. When do you think…?’
‘Monday,’ the voice said. ‘Twelve-thirty.’
‘I’ll be there,’ Lena said, and rang off. She turned to the door, unlocked and opened up. The person who had been knocking had gone.
Lena walked down the corridor and almost collided with Rindal.
‘My office,’ he said, and marched off ahead of her.
Once inside the closed door, they stood looking at each other.
‘Can you give me an update on the Sveinung Adeler case?’
Lena cursed internally. She had the reports on her laptop at home. ‘I’m afraid they’re on my home computer…’
‘Just give me an update,’ Rindal said softly.
Lena explained that she was trying to assess what had happened before Adeler fell in the water. There were no CCTV cameras on the pier by the City Hall Quay. No witnesses had come forward. Just one transaction on his bank card that Wednesday: a withdrawal of three thousand kroner. They had found a little over two thousand in his wallet. Nothing unusual about spending eight hundred, particularly in December, just before Christmas. There was every reason to suspect that he had fallen in accidentally.
‘Why should this not be an accident?’
‘The pathology report isn’t clear. Formally, we don’t know what he died of. Also, his flies weren’t open,’ Lena said. ‘If he was drunk and went to the harbour edge to urinate, his flies would’ve been open. The belt and the top button of his trousers were untouched as well.’
‘Perhaps he didn’t have time. He was dressed up and coming back from a Christmas dinner pissed, wasn’t he?’
‘As I said, we don’t know anything about his alcohol level. Accordingly, I think it’s too early to shelve this case.’ All while cursing her own goodie-goodie syndrome. Good girl, doing her homework. Thorough examination. What was the point of believing that Adeler’s death was anything but an accident? Absolutely no point at all. Except that Lena knew Rindal would have preferred to have Emil Yttergjerde doing this job. Several people in the department thought that Lena had benefited from positive discrimination; she was the pussy vote and in some gentlemen’s eyes not as good as the other officers, i.e. those police employees with a dick between their legs. And now Lena had a strong instinct that Rindal intended to get even for his defeat over her nomination.
But Rindal just stood there, watching her, silent, waiting.
It struck Lena that she should have made a note of the doctor’s appointment before she forgot. She looked at her watch and was about to go when Rindal spoke up.
‘Excellent,’ he said distantly, and coughed. ‘So far, so good. But of all things – of all the possible decisions to take – you chose to go to the home of an elected MP and ask her to account for her movements? Isn’t that a bit much?’
Who had Rindal been talking to, Lena wondered, but instantly corrected her line of thought. Who had been talking to Rindal?
‘On the contrary,’ she said. ‘I got a tip-off that Adeler was with this Storting woman the evening before he drowned. My view was that Vestgård might be able to give us useful information about Adeler’s actions before his death. That’s why I went to Vestgård’s private address. Yes, I was aware that she was a VIP and for that reason I decided to approach her discreetly. I intentionally visited her after working hours and drove there in my own car and in plain clothes. I just wanted to eliminate her from the case.’ Lena continued in a firmer tone: ‘Vestgård, however, blathered on about death threats. That put me in a difficult spot. If we at HQ knew Vestgård had received death threats when I drove there, I should’ve been told about them, so why wasn’t I?’
Rindal was deaf in that ear. He said: ‘You should’ve informed me about the Vestgård tip-off before you left and invaded her home.’
‘I didn’t invade anyone’s home. This was pure routine stuff. Surely I don’t have to consult a superior officer for clearance before I eliminate a witness from our enquiries?’
‘The witness this time was an MP. In this case, that is precisely what you should’ve done.’
Lena relaxed. Rindal might not have been on the defensive, but he certainly didn’t seem quite as worked-up any more. He was thinking now. She backed towards the door.
Rindal coughed.
She stopped.
‘Sooner or later this harbour incident is going to be shunted down our list of priorities,’ Rindal said.
She nodded.
‘The sooner, the better,’ he went on. ‘We have a lot to do.’
Lena didn’t reply.
‘Off you go then,’ Rindal said brusquely.
Lena let herself out. In the corridor she stopped and thought: What actually is going on in there?
4
The voice on the intercom belonged to a woman. The door buzzed as soon as Gunnarstranda said he was from the police.
Naturally the woman had to live on the top floor of a block with no lift. She stood waiting in the doorway as he panted his way up the last flight of stairs: a fair-haired woman in her late twenties, dressed in baggy jogging pants and a large, hand-knitted jumper.
The flat was as hot as an oven. A strong smell of fried eggs and morning filled the air. A low, familiar, homely voice sang from the mini stereo. Gunnarstranda hung his winter coat over his arm and spotted the CD over on one speaker: Norah Jones. The young woman’s taste in music immediately predisposed him in her favour.
He asked if she had any ID.
‘I’ve got a bank card with a photo on. If you want my passport I’ll have to start a search.’
‘The bank card’s fine.’
She picked up her shoulder bag and rummaged nervously through it.
Gunnarstranda asked: ‘What comes to mind when I mention the name Aud Helen Vestgård?’
The woman shrugged. Her fair hair was held up with slides. She continued to hunt for her bank card.
Gunnarstranda took in the room. On the sitting-room table was a jumble of worn textbooks, loose paper and an open exercise book. Beside them was a plate of unfinished bread and eggs. She had been interrupted in the middle of her breakfast. She hadn’t had time to throw on anything more than a jumper and jogging trousers. She was a student and worked from home. He felt a sudden wave of solicitude for the young woman. And a hungry rumble in his stomach.
At last, she handed him the card. He studied it. The picture on the card was of her. Judging by the signature in the threatening letter, it had been written by this woman. He passed the card back.
‘Do you know who Vestgård is?’ he asked.
‘I know she’s a politician, yes, but I’m not interested in politics.’
He nodded towards the books. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Studying for an exam.’
He took one of the books. The title was in English and the cover was illustrated with a picture of the human body with only the muscles showing. An anatomy textbook.
‘Medicine?’
‘Kinesiology – sort of medicine, yes. Alternative though.’ She still seemed taken aback and uncomfortable. Three pairs of panties and some red tights were drying on the radiator below the window. She quickly grabbed the clothes and stood with the bundle in her hand, not quite knowing what to do with it. ‘Sorry,’ she said.
‘You don’t need to tidy up for me,’ he said. ‘Kinesiology – so you’re learning about energy pathways in the body and that sort of thing?’
She smiled at his attempt to meet her halfway. ‘Something like that. But a bit more.’
‘My partner’s into all that alternative stuff,’ he said.
She nodded and switched off the stereo.
‘Homeopathy and healing and so on.’
She nodded again.
Gunnarstranda lifted an exercise book from the table. It was her notes. He examined her handwriting – it was clearly different from the writing in the letter. Her notes were extremely tidy. The ‘A’s and ‘R’s were formed almost like printed letters – consistent – and quite different from how they were written in the letter. ‘Your notes?’ he asked.
Another nod.
‘I’d like you to look at this.’ He dug into his pocket and passed her the copy of the letter.
She tucked her underwear under her arm and held the letter with both hands as she read. She rolled her eyes when she saw the contents.
She gasped: ‘Signed using my name?’
‘Can you explain that to me?’
She shook her head. ‘I’ve never seen this before.’
He flicked through her notes. Noticing that she finished the letter G with a fish hook that went below the line. In the letter it looked more like a loop.
‘Aud Helen Vestgård received this letter at Storting,’ he said. ‘As the contents might be construed as a threat we have to find out if there’s any substance to it. The signature points to you and now you’re telling me you never wrote it. The question is whether I should believe you or not. What’s your opinion of Aud Helen Vestgård?’
‘I don’t have one. She doesn’t interest me. I don’t have the time to read newspapers. Haven’t had for several weeks. I don’t understand any of this.’ She regarded him with her clear blue eyes – wide open.
‘Do you think someone might’ve done this as a prank?’ Gunnarstranda asked. ‘Someone trying to get you into trouble, to disrupt your studies?’
The young woman considered the question, then shook her head. ‘I simply have no idea.’
‘A boyfriend you’ve just finished with or maybe your current boyfriend’s ex?’
She shook her head again. ‘I’m engaged; we have been for quite a while.’
‘Someone who might’ve been jealous of you?’
Again she shrugged. ‘How could they be?’
‘You’re a student, maybe a clever one. Do you know of anyone who would be capable of such mischief, maybe because they’re nursing a grudge against you?’
‘Nope.’
‘Anyone who’s annoyed by your personality?’
She reflected. At length she shook her head. ‘No one I can think of.’
‘Someone’s written a threatening letter in your name. Why yours?’
‘I’m sorry. I don’t have the slightest idea.’
‘What’s odd about this letter is that it’s signed,’ Gunnarstranda said. ‘No genuine threatening letter would be signed. They’re always anonymous. I think someone’s trying to get you into trouble.’ Gunnarstranda interlaced his fingers behind his back. ‘I hope this won’t upset your studies. However, someone has shown with this letter that they wish to cause you some grief. Should it occur to you who this might be, just get in touch.’ He passed her his card. ‘Shall we leave it like that?’
She nodded.
Gunnarstranda went to the door. He motioned to the table. ‘Good luck with your swotting and the exam.’
5
A crow flapped its wings and hopped across the snow. The sight reminded Lena of a hunchback – the bellringer in Notre Dame de Paris. She had hardly articulated the thought before another crow appeared. Then wings flapped behind one of the tree trunks. There were lots of them. Grey crows and black crows with strong, black beaks. One of them was staring at her. The eye looked like a button. One of the others had something red in its beak. Fibres, Lena thought, and saw the body the very next second. It was lying at the foot of the tree. The remains of flesh and a ragged furry coat. A squirrel? The crows pecked and tore at a little indeterminate animal, perhaps a kitten.
The traffic lights in Grønlandsleiret changed to green, and when she crossed the street and approached the tree the crows took fright and hopped off. She looked away and spotted a figure in a short leather jacket and motorbike boots walking towards her. Lena hurried towards him.
‘Rise!’
‘Yes?’
Lena got straight to the point: ‘I need to ask you about something. The tip-off about Sveinung Adler dining with Vestgård on Wednesday night – it’s important you tell me where you got it.’
Axel Rise held her eyes for a long time without speaking. ‘How come?’
Rise let out a whistle. The information seemed to have cheered him up. ‘I was given it by a journalist,’ he said.
‘Who?’
‘He works for Dagens Næringsliv. Steffen Gjerstad.’
Now it was her turn to be lost for words.
‘We talked about you, and he said he’d been trying to ring you, but you didn’t pick up.’
I’m a conceited fool, Lena thought as she trudged on, up the hill to Police HQ.
When Steffen Gjerstad rang the previous day she hadn’t answered because she had assumed he was after her. But he had only wanted to give her a tip-off in the Adler case. Everything she did went wrong.
Lena took the lift up and walked to her office. There, she took out the business card Gjerstad had given her.
Her fingers trembled as she tapped in the number.
The phone rang once before he picked up. ‘Lena here,’ she said. And hastened to add, ‘Stigersand.’
‘Hi, Lena, I’ve been waiting for you to ring.’
‘You tipped off a colleague of mine, Axel Rise, that Sveinung Adler was out for dinner on Wednesday evening,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ Steffen replied, in the same contented tone.
‘There are a few inconsistencies,’ Lena said. ‘Where did you find out the two of them were together?’
‘That’s precisely what I want to talk to you about,’ he said. ‘Shall we discuss this over a meal tonight? My treat.’
So he didn’t want to answer her question. He wanted to use this opportunity to get to know her better.
‘What do you reckon?’ he asked in the same slick way.
Is it such a big deal? she thought at first. Would it really be that bad? she thought next. But she had to give an answer. Yes or no, she wondered. Heads or tails.
The Ice Swimmer Page 5
