The Ice Swimmer

by Kjell Ola Dahl

  ‘You didn’t want to talk to me, did you,’ Steffen said. ‘I rang you. You didn’t pick up and you didn’t ring back either.’

  Lena looked down again.

  ‘I know Rise from when he used to work in Bergen,’ he continued. ‘We met yesterday. He’s new in the job, isn’t he. I asked him how he was doing and your name came up. I said I’d bumped into you at the harbour and I’d tried to ring you because I’d been tipped off about what Adeler was doing on the Wednesday evening.’

  She felt a fool. ‘I didn’t mean to grill you,’ she said. ‘I was just a bit put out when Vestgård denied it.’

  ‘Naturally,’ Steffen said, warming to the topic. ‘It doesn’t make sense for Vestgård to deny knowing Adeler. The two of them know each other very well. She was almost a mentor to him. That’s widely known. Adeler was a fully paid-up member of the party; she was an MP.’

  Lena raised both hands in defence: ‘Fine. Your source says Adeler was out with Vestgård on the Wednesday. Where?’

  Steffen grinned. ‘In Grefsen. The Flamingo Bar & Restaurant – an anonymous hangout. The local eatery up there. Why did they choose to meet and dine there of all places? My guess is,’ he waggled his forefinger, ‘so as not to attract attention.’

  ‘Are you dropping a hint?’ Lena asked sceptically. ‘Were they having an affair?’

  Steffen twirled the glass between his fingers. It was empty. He got up. ‘Another?’

  ‘Red wine,’ she said quickly.

  Just one glass, she told herself. She could allow herself to sit there for as long as Steffen was coughing up relevant information. She observed him ordering. He clearly knew the barmaid – an attractive, Asiatic-looking woman with a fringe. She laughed at something he said as she was filling his glass. He knew a couple of the regulars too, exchanged a few words with a man in a brown cord jacket on the way back to the table.

  ‘House wine,’ Steffen said, placing the glass in front of her.

  They sat looking at each other. She liked the way he looked at her.

  She raised her glass and sipped the wine. ‘Level with me,’ she said.

  ‘Hm?’

  ‘What’s your agenda in all this?’

  ‘I’ve been waiting for you to ask,’ he said, shifting on his seat. ‘The newpaper’s preparing a big series of articles on raw materials – their production and the stock exchange.’

  He interlaced his fingers and mused – as though he were considering how to choose his words, then he said: ‘Interested?’

  ‘As long as it’s relevant.’

  ‘Let’s see then.’

  ‘I’ve vowed I’ll stop after this glass.’

  The response derailed him for a moment. He smiled absent-mindedly and then renewed his concentration. ‘Well, the fact is that one of the world’s most important raw materials today is phosphate. It’s needed to make things grow. Phosphate is an important ingredient in fertilisers. The world needs phosphate for food and it’s mined from phosphorus ore. But the problem is there’s almost no ore left in the world. Quite frightening actually. When the world’s phosphate resources have been used up there won’t be enough food to feed the Earth’s current population. We’re talking a potential ecological crisis here, the like of which the world has never seen. Never ever. Already we can see the first signs. Obviously the less phosphate there is, the higher the prices of fertiliser. Today the prices have risen so high that many farmers in poor countries can barely afford to buy it. And these price increases have just started.’ Steffen sipped from his glass.

  Lena asked: ‘But is this relevant to…?’

  ‘I’m coming to that,’ Steffen grinned. ‘I’m trying to be pedagogical. Don’t be so impatient, Lena. To sum up, phosphates are one of the most valuable raw materials in the world. There’s a lot of money to be earned here. Do you understand? Who invests in this market? Many people. And among them the Norwegian Oil Fund – the Government Pension Fund Global. Take it easy, I’m getting to Adeler. The Norwegian Oil Fund behaves like any other capitalist. They buy and sell shares and bonds; they short sell shares and gamble with derivatives. The Oil Fund’s like a standard investor except in one area: the Oil Fund’s a capitalist who is INCREDIBLY rich! I doubt if there’s been such a rich investor in this or the previous century. He’s so fat and well nourished he can hardly walk. He’s like Theodor Kittelsen’s troll in Karl Johans gate. But he doesn’t scatter moss and trees when he walks. He scatters money and gold. He’s so fat and enormous he barely dares sit down for fear he’ll never be able to get up again. But ask any Norwegian in the street if they know what the Oil Fund does – no one has a clue. This is where Norway’s free press comes in. We – that is, I – educate the public with active, critical investigative journalism. What we know is that it plays a crucial role in international business where the Oil Fund invests its money – simply because the fund is so big! Other investors listen to what the Oil Fund does. If they move their money, other investors follow suit. If the Oil Fund makes an investment, others fight to follow suit. In other words, the Norwegian Oil Fund has considerable power because it’s the world’s biggest and most important bellwether in the finance market. Its size means that its investments affect share prices. They also give companies credibility, of course. Whatever the Oil Fund does is of significance. As soon as it invests in a company, this company becomes an interesting investment for other investors.’

  ‘Very interesting,’ Lena said, trying hard not to sound bored. ‘But Sveinung Adler was a low-ranking official with only one interest in life: to train hard enough to beat his pals in the Birkebeiner.’

  Steffen blinked again and flashed his charm-attack smile. ‘I’m afraid you’re somewhat mistaken. It’s exactly at this point that Adeler becomes interesting. Or his job does. Adeler worked with the Oil Fund. He did research for the Oil Fund’s Ethics Council, which reports back on businesses they invest in. Adeler worked in the secretariat. He was the person who researched facts about companies. After he had investigated a company he submitted a report, which he delivered to the Ethics Council, who in turn used it as a document in a thorough discussion. Afterwards the Ethics Council would draw its conclusions and pass on its recommendations to Norges Bank – who control the Oil Fund.’

  Steffen straightened his back as if weighing up the pros and cons. At length he seemed to have decided. ‘OK,’ he whispered in a low, intense voice. ‘Can I rely on you for the utmost discretion?’

  She nodded and leaned forwards as well. Barely twenty centimetres separated their heads.

  ‘The world’s last great deposits of phosphate rock are found in Western Sahara. Several producers operate there. One of the companies is MacFarrell. The Oil Fund has invested in MacFarrell and they make a lot of money. Do you know the history of Western Sahara? No? Let me give you the edited highlights: The country was a Spanish colony until the 1970s. Since then, the neighbouring country, Morocco, has laid claim to a great swathe of it. So we’re talking occupation. Well, the dilemma for the Oil Fund is that this conflicts with the Norwegian policy towards investing in companies that do business in occupied territories. That is why the Ethics Council is investigating companies that have dealings in Western Sahara. Some companies are regarded as kosher, others aren’t. We at the newspaper ask why. What are the interests that dictate policy here? To find the answers we’ve started to dig.’

  Lena nodded and smiled weakly into her glass. She was having a nice time and could feel her head buzzing.

  ‘The Oil Fund’s Ethics Council has a secretariat,’ Steffen continued. ‘Which is where Sveinung Adeler works. He did research into the Oil Fund’s investments. In the early hours of yesterday he fell into the harbour after a Christmas dinner.’

  Lena anticipated what was about to come. She closed both eyes and said: ‘Don’t mention the name Aud Helen Vestgård.’

  ‘I asked for discretion and you promised to keep stumm.’

  The moment was still magical. She was still sitting with her ey
es closed. ‘OK.’

  ‘The newspaper – that is, me – I get a tip-off that Adeler was having Christmas dinner with a party member. That doesn’t have to mean anything; not even the fact that the party member is an attractive, married woman has to mean anything. Her being a prominent member of the parliamentary finance committee doesn’t have to mean anything, either.

  ‘But then the news of Adeler’s death was on the net for several hours. The man’s identity is made public. Sveinung Adeler drowned, dressed in a suit and smart shoes, at twenty-five degrees below zero. The police need information to determine what he was doing before he drowned. Has anyone come forward?’

  Lena shook her head.

  ‘Right. Who was Adeler having dinner with? Who hasn’t come forward?’ Steffen grasped Lena’s hand.

  She looked down at the two hands, raised her head and looked him in the eye. She had a tingle in her stomach. Despite the tingling, Lena didn’t want things to go too fast.

  Slowly she extricated her hand and said: ‘If what you say is true, why does Vestgård deny that she knew Adeler – to me, to the police?’

  Steffen leaned forwards, excited. ‘Exactly! There’s something fishy about the whole case. Why does Vestgård whisper in your superior officer’s ear and you’re reprimanded for interviewing her?’

  Lena straightened up. ‘Neither of us has a clue whether she did that. If she had done, it’d be the most natural explanation in existence. Firstly, Vestgård was put on the spot when I rolled up at her house. She thought I was there because of the death threat. Instead she was confronted with a suspicious death. Bad press could ruin Vestgård’s career.’

  Steffen grasped her hand again. ‘Suspicious death?’

  For a few seconds she looked down at the hand that was covering hers, before, once again, slowly extricating it. And once again they exchanged looks.

  The signals between them now were like salvoes. No point pretending. Her mouth was dry and it wasn’t the odd butterfly fluttering around in her stomach, it was a swarm, and an unknown species.

  ‘My mistake. I meant the drowning incident.’

  She was aware they were both looking at their hands.

  Then they glanced up – at the same moment.

  At once she lowered her gaze.

  Steffen said: ‘You can believe what you like, but I’m convinced there’s something fishy about the rendezvous in the restaurant. The journalist in me has caught the scent. I know there’s a big case waiting for me out there.’

  Lena smiled. Steffen Gjerstad had a fascinating personality. The impression of a leggy model had first given way to a sharp analyst, then the analyst had given way to a little boy with Lego bricks, ready to shout ‘broom, broom’, as soon as he had a toy car in his hands.

  Her glass was empty. And her mind was in a whirl. On the one hand she needed time for herself; on the other she was tempted a little now to drink and laugh without a care in the world. The problem was that pub and flirting sessions like this generally had one outcome. She didn’t want the outcome to be a mistake. Not now. Not today. She chose therefore to listen to the solemn voice in her head. She rose to her feet.

  He looked up at her. ‘Are you going?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Me too.’

  The door wouldn’t close properly after them. They almost collided when they both went to shut it. They were standing close to each other, and it was cold outside. Neither of them said anything, Lena turned and set off.

  They walked side by side, silent. They were crossing Akersgata when she saw the bus coming. ‘That’s my bus,’ she shouted. ‘It’s half an hour to the next one. Bye!’

  She broke into a run.

  The bus stopped at the shelter fifty metres ahead. The door opened. As she got on she turned.

  Steffen was behind her. He had also got on. He was gasping for breath. They exchanged looks and both had to laugh.

  They sat down beside each other on a double seat by the rear door. Neither said a word.

  In the end she couldn’t bear the silence any more and asked: ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘Hegdehaugsveien 31.’

  ‘Then you’re on the wrong bus. This one goes to Helsfyr.’

  He didn’t answer.

  Lena stared into the black night and saw only the reflection of Steffen’s face. They exchanged glances again.

  She took a deep breath and turned her face to him. Neither of them spoke. When he swallowed, she rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes.

  9

  The drone of a floor-washing machine approached in the corridor. It was the signal that told him it was beginning to get late. Gunnarstranda got up. He looked down at what he had written. A variety of scenarios that boiled down to the same questions: Who had been bleeding in front of the door with the panic handle? Nina Stenshagen or her pursuer? Why?

  Of the various scenarios, Gunnarstranda had most faith in the one based on the following roles: She ran first. He sprinted after her. Presumably she was fleeing from him. She knew about the bomb shelter with the emergency exits in the tunnel. She was counting on giving her pursuer the slip down there. Either because the pursuer didn’t dare run after her in the tunnel or, if he did, because she could hide and escape from him through an emergency exit. However, he did go after her and caught her before she managed to get out. There was a struggle. He injured her. Perhaps he killed her. At any rate he injured her enough to cause haemorrhaging. When the light was switched on and the traffic stopped he tore down a cable and shorted the light circuit in the bomb shelter. The crime scene was in total darkness. He hid with her. When the electricity came back on, he pushed her in front of the first passing train.

  Well, this theory might hold water. But if this was how it happened the question was why did he push her in front of the train?

  Had he only hurt her and therefore wanted the train to finish the job off? Or was she already dead? Was he trying to disguise a murder as suicide? But once more: why? It was so much bother. If he killed her by the emergency exit, he could have left her there and made his escape through the door. There must have been something that made him decide to throw her in front of the train instead.

  What would have happened if he had left her lying by the door? She would have been found by the search teams. If she had lived she could have told them who had injured her. If she had died the alarm would have been raised instantly and the murderer didn’t know if the CCTV cameras had caught him. That might possibly be one explanation.

  Gunnarstranda rubbed his eyes. The telephone on the desk rang. He stood for a few seconds, looking at it. Heaved a big sigh. Went back and lifted the receiver.

  ‘Gunnarstranda?’ The voice belonged to Iqbal in the undercover team.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Stig Eriksen. You asked where he was. Right now he’s sitting on the footbridge between Oslo Station and Hotel Plaza, begging.’

  Gunnarstranda thanked him and put down the receiver. He shrugged on his jacket.

  The drone of the floor-washer was getting louder. But it wasn’t a cleaner who appeared in the doorway. It was Axel Rise.

  ‘Heard you looked at the CCTV cameras and went through the tunnel,’ Rise said.

  Gunnarstranda nodded.

  ‘I’d like a copy of your report,’ Rise said.

  Gunnarstranda angled his head.

  ‘Rindal’s told me you’re in charge of this investigation and we should liaise, but to do the latter I’ll have to see what you’ve done so far.’

  ‘It hasn’t struck you that I might need to do the same?’

  Rise passed him a pile of papers. ‘Here.’

  Gunnarstranda didn’t move a muscle. ‘I understand you spoke to the Metro’s security service after the incident?’ he said.

  Rise nodded. ‘They said they’d examined the tunnel, but they couldn’t have done. She was there all the time, inside.’

  ‘Did you walk along the track?’ Gunnarstranda asked.

  ‘
Why would I?’

  ‘Well, for example, to find out how the security staff could go in and not see there was actually someone there.’

  Rise blinked. ‘As I said, I’d like to read your report and see the CCTV pictures,’ he intoned.

  Gunnarstranda walked past Rise into the corridor. From there, he turned and pointed to his desk. It was covered with loose sheets and documents. ‘It’s all there. Since you’re here anyway, you can tidy up. I’d appreciate that.’ He took three steps. Then he spun on his heel with a raised finger and said, ‘One thing…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You might find the report, and the CD. But what you’re looking for, you will never find.’

  ‘How can you know that?’

  ‘I’m talking from experience.’ Gunnarstranda smiled. ‘Tomorrow morning we can synchronise our watches, as they say in crime fiction. I think this case has much more to it than meets the eye – more than a suicide.’ He swivelled round and continued down the corridor.

  ‘Tomorrow’s Saturday,’ Rise shouted after him.

  Gunnarstranda stopped and turned.

  ‘Rindal said he’d told you. I go home to Bergen every weekend.’ Rise raised his hand and looked at his watch. ‘The plane goes in three hours.’

  Gunnarstranda nodded amiably. ‘Have a good weekend.’

  Gunnarstranda had a suspicion this liaison was not going to be of the intense variety. But it didn’t matter much. He didn’t really get on with Rise. Besides, he liked working on his own.

  His car was parked in one of the police bays in Åkerbergveien. The air was damp. It’s going to turn to snow, he thought, and got in. The engine was cold and he shivered, despite the hat on his head and the gloves on his hands, while he drove the few metres to Tøyenbekken. He wondered about driving into the multi-storey car park, but decided against it. Instead he parked at the Statoil petrol station. He got out, crossed the street at the lights and hurried towards the taxi rank outside the bus terminal. When he was level with the taxis in the queue he went inside. Here, in the terminal building, he headed towards the stream of passengers hurrying in the direction of the departures hall.