The Ice Swimmer

by Kjell Ola Dahl

  He left the immense hall, took the travellator up to Galleriet then continued to the exit that led to the hotel and the footbridge over to Oslo Station.

  The icy wind hit him as soon as he came out. The first snowflakes were dancing in the air. He didn’t envy anyone sitting still and begging in this weather. He passed Café Fiasco. Some frozen smokers sat huddled with rugs over their shoulders as they sucked in nicotine under the patio heaters. He immediately spotted the Buddha-like figure on the footbridge. A steady flow of people hurried back and forth.

  Stig Eriksen was sitting on a flattened cardboard box. He had his hands buried in his jacket pockets. His long hair was held in place by a woollen hat. In front of him lay a piece of paper that was prevented from blowing away by a cup with a few coins in it. On the paper he had written that he was freezing cold and needed a warm meal. Under the bridge cars raced in both directions across four lanes.

  Gunnarstranda stopped. ‘Stig?’

  Slowly the beggar raised his head. His face was pitted and his eyes were listless.

  ‘I’d like a word with you. I’m investigating Nina’s death – Nina Stenshagen.’

  ‘Piss off,’ Stig said. ‘You’re blocking the sun and I’m losing customers.’

  Gunnarstranda grinned. He took a bank note from his pocket, two hundred kroner. He put the note in the cup.

  Stig scowled at the note and snatched it in a flash.

  ‘My name’s Gunnarstranda and I only want to talk to you, nothing else. We know Nina took the Metro to Tøyen at about half past six yesterday morning. After it continued on its way she jumped down onto the track and ran into the tunnel. Had she done that kind of thing before?’

  Gunnarstranda noticed that the garment under Stig’s coat was a hoodie. The man who jumped down onto the track half a minute after Nina had worn a hoodie. In fact, it could have been Stig who ran into the tunnel. But Stig wasn’t saying anything.

  ‘Where were you yesterday morning?’ Gunnarstranda asked.

  Stig smiled. It was a toothless grin.

  He did something behind his back. A moment later he was holding two crutches and hauling himself up.

  It was an impressive manoeuvre. Stig Eriksen had, it turned out, only one leg. His left leg had been amputated; his trouser leg was knotted under the knee. Now he was resting on his crutches and eyeing Gunnarstranda, who realised this man could not be the perpetrator he was after.

  Stig bent down and grabbed the cardboard seat and paper. He rolled them up and put them in his back pocket. ‘You won’t want to know where I hang out,’ Stig said. ‘But it’s a long time since I’ve seen Nina. We used to be together, but that was several years ago.’

  Beneath them the traffic stopped for a few brief seconds as a blue tram glided slowly east.

  ‘And you’re wondering what Nina was doing on the Metro?’ Stig said in a croaky voice. ‘Do you know what I’m wondering? I’m wondering why Nina’s become so bloody popular now that she’s dead.’ With which he turned his back on Gunnarstranda and hobbled away.

  ‘Stig,’ Gunnarstranda shouted after him.

  Stig stopped, rested on the crutches and glowered at him.

  ‘I think Nina was murdered,’ Gunnarstranda said.

  Stig fixed him with a stare – a long one. ‘You think so?’ he said at length.

  ‘We know someone followed her into the tunnel. I believe this man inflicted terrible injuries on her and afterwards pushed her in front of a moving train. I want that person punished.’

  Stig watched him thoughtfully without speaking.

  Gunnarstranda was at a loss as to how to interpret his looks, but felt his attitude was thawing.

  ‘You can help me by getting the perpetrator punished,’ he said, then went over and put his police card in Stig’s top pocket. ‘My number,’ Gunnarstranda said. ‘Ring me if you change your mind.’

  Stig turned his back on him again and hobbled off.

  10

  It wasn’t how she had planned the evening.

  Lena was lying on her side and holding her head in one hand. Steffen was lying on his stomach. He seemed to be asleep. She stroked his mane of hair, long and thick. She continued the movement down his back, over his buttocks and down his thigh. He didn’t stir; he was asleep. She lifted his hand, which was completely limp. The notes and one-word reminders on the back of his hand were a hotchpotch of blue letters and numbers. She laced her fingers through his and thought: It wasn’t seventh heaven, nor sixth or even fifth. Let’s say it was fourth. I’ve never been in fourth heaven when I’ve been with a man for the first time. What about next time when we know each other better?

  She lowered his hand. Took the remote from the floor and switched on the stereo. Sade’s velvet voice filled the air. ‘By Your Side’.

  This moment can go on and on, Lena reflected, and glanced across at Steffen, who was stirring now.

  ‘Hi,’ he smiled drowsily.

  ‘I thought you were asleep,’ she whispered and snuggled up to him.

  They lay entangled and silent for a long time as Sade’s music caressed them.

  When she opened her eyes he was on his side and looking at her.

  ‘What’s up?’

  His eyes twinkled. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘I’m over thirty, if that’s what you’re asking.’

  It was his turn to support his head on his hands. A tall, slim man’s body on the bed. She let her eyes bask in the sight and she liked it.

  ‘I’m closer to thirty than forty,’ she said. ‘And you?’

  ‘A bit closer to forty than forty-five.’

  She closed her eyes and felt his lips brush hers.

  ‘When I fall for a woman it’s like a tree hitting the ground,’ he whispered. ‘Branches crack, soil and gravel fly and, after the crash, there’s a long, long silence.’

  She opened her eyes. ‘A big tree, in other words?’

  He gazed at her without speaking. She felt the atmosphere change and wished she had bitten her tongue. She gulped. Was he annoyed?

  She cleared her throat. ‘Sorry.’

  He raised his eyes and ran his fingers over the pile of books on her bedside table. ‘Which of these are you reading?’

  ‘All of them,’ she said, relieved to talk about something else.

  ‘All of them at once?’

  ‘I read one at a time. But generally I start a new book before I’ve finished the last. I’ve always done that.’

  ‘But do you get anything out of a book, reading like that?’ he asked with a wry smile on his lips, as though he didn’t believe her.

  ‘It’s my way of reading,’ she said, and sat up. She put on the wrist-watch she had taken off a few hours before. Got up from bed.

  ‘When a woman puts her watch on her wrist, the bedsheet will go chilly,’ he said. ‘Japanese haiku,’ he added with a teasing smile.

  In the bathroom she closed her eyes and could feel her body was heavy and sluggish, but she was fine. She was just a little stiff. She opened her eyes and saw herself in the mirror. In the end she stared at her left breast.

  No.

  She turned on the water for a shower and let it run as she waited. When the jet was warm enough she stepped into the cabinet and enjoyed the hot massage of her shoulders, back and stomach. She leaned back and let the hot water wash over her face for ages. Then she shampooed her hair. Soaped her body.

  In the distance she heard a phone ring.

  Involuntarily she opened the shower door a fraction.

  It had to be Steffen’s phone. She could hear him talking. Heard him pacing up and down the sitting room. She hoped he was still naked, then the two nosy neighbours opposite would have something to talk about.

  She finished the shower, found some clean underwear in the cupboard by the door.

  The sitting room had gone quiet.

  Then she heard him fiddling with his shoes in the hall.

  She poked her head out.

  Steffen was in the hall, full
y dressed.

  ‘Did your wife ring?’ she asked, surprised.

  Steffen didn’t find the joke funny. His face was very serious. ‘Got a call. It was a source. I have to be off. That’s my job, be prepared. Let’s keep in touch.’

  Before Lena could react, his lips brushed hers. A second later he was gone.

  11

  The snow had become heavier. Street lamps and windows shone – yellow and inviting, like on Christmas cards. A taxi with poor tyres and spinning wheels dragged itself slowly and crookedly up the hill in Åkebergveien. Gunnarstranda kept his distance in case the taxi should come to a halt and start sliding back down. The lights changed to red and Gunnarstranda prepared to wait. He couldn’t bear the thought of having to get out and push the car in front. Snowflakes, downy and light, fell onto the windscreen, where they lay without melting. He put out a hand for a CD and pushed it into the player. Coltrane’s sax in the speakers, accompanied on the piano by – who was it? Bill Evans? Maybe. No. Too slow and blue. It had to be the quartet with McCoy Tyner on the ivories.

  The lights went green, and strangely enough the taxi with the poor winter tyres managed to cross at the first attempt. It went towards Galgeberg and was gone. Gunnarstrand bore left to Kjølberggata.

  The phone rang.

  He put it to his ear.

  ‘Stig here. Stig Eriksen.’

  Gunnarstranda pulled into the nearest bus lay-by and stopped. He turned down the volume of the CD player.

  ‘We’ve just been talking.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve remembered something.’

  ‘Fire away, Stig.’

  ‘Not on the phone.’

  ‘You do want to talk to me then. What about?’ Gunnarstranda could hear that his tone was unnecessarily dismissive, but it was late, he was looking forward to getting home, lighting the fire, putting his feet up and collapsing with Miles Davis in the speakers and a glass of whisky or Calvados in his mitt.

  Stig coughed hesitantly. ‘I was lying.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ Gunnarstranda said.

  ‘It’s right that Nina was killed. I know what happened, why she was killed, that’s why I have to talk to you.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ Gunnarstranda repeated, turned off the CD player, and said: ‘I gave you two hundred spondoolies and you slung your hook by way of thanks. Now I have to go looking for you in this shit weather. Don’t waste any more of my time, Stig. You have to give me something right now, on the phone, something that’ll make me think it’d be worth my while looking for you.’

  He looked in his mirror. A bus was coming. He drove forwards a few metres to give it some room.

  Stig still wasn’t talking.

  ‘What’s it going to be?’

  ‘I’ll give you something,’ Stig whispered. ‘Nina saw what happened to the fella who was fished out of the water by the City Hall Quay yesterday. Nina told me how he was killed. Nina watched as they threw the man in.’

  They, Gunnarstranda thought, but said nothing. Singular or plural, the situation had been turned on its head. Now it was important to find Stig Eriksen before he did another disappearing act.

  ‘That was why Nina was killed afterwards!’ Stig said.

  ‘Where are you?’ Gunnarstranda asked.

  Stig chuckled. ‘Thought that’d put a rocket up you,’ he laughed.

  ‘Are you stringing me along?’

  ‘No,’ Stig said quickly.

  ‘Who threw the guy off the quay?’

  The bus indicated, the driver hooted angrily as he drove past.

  ‘Not on the phone,’ Stig said.

  Gunnarstranda glanced at his watch and deferred Miles and the drink for two hours. He said: ‘Where will I find you?’

  12

  The whole of the brick wall behind the Statoil petrol station was now obscured by cars sneaking in to park for free. Gunnarstranda told himself this would be a lightning visit and parked behind a car with snow on the roof. To the east, new glass buildings towered over half-finished constructions. There was a lot going on in Bjørvika.

  Gunnarstranda grabbed a torch from the glove compartment. Got out.

  He dug his chin deep into his scarf and headed for the building site.

  He stopped by a temporary wire fence. Several signs warned that access was forbidden. He was going the right way. The snow lashed his face. He pulled his coat tighter around him and walked into the wind. Continued alongside the fence until he found the hole in the wire netting.

  A trail in the snow led to the unfinished building. The ends of the wire pointed in all directions. He wriggled through the hole and stared into the darkness. Straight ahead was the base of a huge crane. The yellow machine rose towards the sky and disappeared in the blackness and the driving snow. Beside the crane he could make out the outline of a compressor.

  The unfinished building gaped at him with its dark, rectangular orifices. He followed the trail in the snow to the nearest opening.

  No Stig.

  Gunnarstranda took a deep breath and regretted allowing himself to be duped.

  It was as black as night. Now he was standing in an enclosed area that smelt of cellar and refuse. At any rate, he was sheltered from the wind. He brushed the snow from his coat, switched on his torch and realised he was in some kind of stairwell. A bare concrete staircase led up to the higher floors.

  There was a crunch of cement particles under his shoes as he began to walk. He shone the torch over the walls. The yellow beam swept across sprayed artwork. There was a black plastic bag on the landing. It was full of bits of cable and debris.

  He heard footsteps.

  ‘Stig?’ he called.

  No answer.

  Someone was up there. No doubt about that.

  He pointed the torch upwards. It went out.

  Leaving him in the pitch black.

  Gunnarstranda shook the torch. It wouldn’t come back on. He banged it against the wall. There was a flash of light and then it went dark again.

  He needed light. He turned the screw cap at the end of the torch, slid out the batteries and put them back in. Tightened the cap.

  Then he heard the footsteps again. Closer now. Very close.

  ‘Hello?’

  He held his breath and listened. Now there was only the sound of the town outside.

  No footsteps.

  Was this Stig’s latest trick? If so, what bright idea had he come up with this time?

  Gunnarstranda tried the torch again. It worked.

  Lit up his surroundings. He couldn’t see anyone. But he had heard footsteps. Where?

  He walked slowly up the staircase with the torch in front of him.

  Second floor. Here some light from the town came in through an opening in the concrete wall. But he couldn’t see anyone. Had he really heard footsteps? Or had he been imagining it?

  He stood in front of a forest of steel pipes. Deep inside, behind the beams, a little flame flickered. It had to be from a candle.

  He shouted: ‘Stig!’

  The building was as quiet and still as before.

  He walked slowly towards the light. Groping his way forwards. The ends of reinforcement bars poked out from the concrete. The air was dead and stale, the smell a mixture of damp concrete, urine and vomit.

  He made it to an open door in the wall.

  Inside, the meagre candlelight revealed a den that must have belonged to a homeless person.

  Frightened that the torch would go out with any sudden movement, he held it absolutely still.

  The candle was in an empty wine bottle and well burned down. On the floor there was a creased sleeping bag, the remains of a pizza and the packaging of what might have been hamburgers or kebabs.

  No Stig.

  He shone his torch slowly over the abject inventory. Smashed glass, a half-full bottle of Coke…

  He cleared his throat and shouted again: ‘Stig!’

  No answer.

  He switched off the torch. Took out his mobile. Calle
d Stig’s number.

  A phone rang. The ringtone was a metallic version of ‘Jingle Bells’.

  Gunnarstranda followed the sound.

  With the phone in one hand and the torch in the other, he followed the tune. Passed through a corridor of bare concrete.

  The sound suddenly died.

  Gunnarstranda stopped and listened.

  All he could hear was the rumble from the town in the distance. His mouth was dry. He pointed the yellow beam behind him. No one.

  He shone his torch in front of him. He was close to the end wall. Noise from the town carried through a hole in the wall, the opening for a window.

  The torch beam formed a yellow circle. It wandered along the wall, down to the floor, passed something. Stopped and slowly went back.

  An oblong bundle lay under the gaping hole in the wall.

  Gunnarstranda feared the worst and proceeded with care.

  The bundle was a body.

  The body had only one leg and lay in a contorted position. His foot pointed to the sky while he lay face down on the concrete. Gunnarstranda crouched down.

  The back of Stig’s head was a mass of coagulated blood.

  He turned the dead man onto his back. The hole in his forehead was as round as a one-krone coin.

  Gunnarstranda switched off the torch and crouched without moving. He held his breath and listened, but could hear nothing except the sound of traffic drifting through the window.

  The footsteps he had heard were the footsteps of an armed murderer. And all he had to defend himself with was a semi-defective torch.

  But he couldn’t stay here.

  With a dry mouth and a pounding heart he went through Stig’s pockets. No phone. He had to find it. Took out his own and called Stig’s number.

  ‘Jingle Bells’.

  Gunnarstranda stood up. Orientated himself. Took two steps. Then the sound died.

  Gunnarstranda crouched down.

  He sat still, but nothing happened. Only the sound of footsteps resonated now, as clearly as church bells on a Sunday morning.

  With infinite lentitude, his eyes became accustomed to the dark. He made out the shape of an opening in the wall.