He concentrated and saw a shadow moving towards the opening.
Gunnarstranda got up. The shadow slipped through. Gunnarstranda went after it, through the door opening. The wind blew harder here. He came to a sudden stop.
The wind came from below. He shook his torch and tried to switch it on. It lit up.
He was standing on the edge of a sheer drop. A square hole in the floor.
He gasped as his hands groped for something to hold on to. They found nothing, but he regained his balance.
A vibration made him step back two paces without his knowing why. A crash made him start. A concrete block had landed where he had just been standing. It smashed into pieces and sprayed his face with bits of cement and gravel.
The shock made him drop his torch. He squatted down and scrabbled around for it, but the torch rolled towards the edge and vanished down the shaft.
He went down on all fours and blinked the cement dust from his eyes.
Then he stood up and fumbled for something to grab on to. His hand found the wall.
Slowly he groped his way through the darkness to the staircase. The man was somewhere above him, he would have to use the staircase to get out.
He heard footsteps again.
At that moment he received a violent push and fell. He broke his fall with his hands and grazed both palms. Someone jumped over him and ran down the stairs.
Gunnarstranda struggled to his feet and stumbled after him. But then he fell again. Hitting himself on the head. Once more he struggled up.
At last he made it to the bottom.
No one around. Only snow, a crane, a compressor and a gaping hole in the fence.
Gunnarstranda leaned against the bare wall, breathless. Once again he took out his phone, rang Stig’s number and put the phone to his ear. This time there was an answer. He could hear the traffic and the sound of footsteps.
‘Who are you?’ Gunnarstranda asked and listened.
He heard the footsteps come to a halt. A long silence followed. Gunnarstranda was about to repeat the question when the sound ended.
He lowered his phone. End of conversation.
Saturday, 12th December
1
A bright ray from the low winter sun struck the glass of water, was refracted and hit him in the eyes. The alarm clock never stopped beeping. Gunnarstranda raised an arm, groped and managed to turn it off. It was a few minutes past nine in the morning. He had slept for three hours. Swinging his legs to the floor, he took the glass and downed the water in one.
Tove had gone to work. An empty plate lay on the worktop beside a packet of muesli.
The room smelt of burnt coffee. Tove had left the machine on. There was still half a litre in the jug. He poured himself a cup. It was strong. He diluted it with milk from the fridge. Looking at the contents of the fridge he couldn’t decide if he was hungry or not. All he knew was he was tired.
He went to the bathroom and considered whether to have a shower or not. What he most wanted was to go back to bed.
He looked at his watch again. Almost twenty minutes had passed and all he had achieved in the day so far was to pour a cup of coffee.
He went to the telephone and called the Pathology Institute. He asked if they had received a request for an autopsy of Nina Stenshagen. They hadn’t. He asked to be put through to Schwenke.
‘It’s Saturday.’
‘So?’
‘I’m not sure he’ll be there.’
‘Try,’ Gunnarstranda said, irritated.
The phone rang for a long time. Gunnarstranda was thinking of hanging up. He didn’t have time.
‘Schwenke.’
‘Gunnarstranda here. Nina Stenshagen. She was hit by a train on Thursday morning. Could you fix up an autopsy?’
Schwenke wanted to know why he should.
‘I want to know if she was shot before she was hit,’ Gunnarstranda said. ‘And yes, I have reasonable grounds to suspect that she was.’
He rang off.
Gunnarstranda squinted into the low sun outside the window. He felt lousy. The previous day, which he had thought would culminate in a quiet evening at home, had turned into a long night at a murder scene. And on top of that he had found himself the victim of a murder attempt! He deserved more than three hours’ sleep.
He trudged back to the bedroom and crawled under the duvet.
As soon as he closed his eyes he felt wide awake. Opened his eyes and looked through the window at the blue sky. It was no good. He wasn’t going to be able to sleep.
He got up and sipped at the coffee he had poured himself. That, at least, was a start.
2
Lena started Saturday morning by switching off her phone. She had a lot to do and needed an hour away from the tyranny of total accessibility. Then she wrote a to-do list. She had to buy mutton ribs, smoked and salted; she had to buy icing sugar and almonds for the marzipan; Kong Haakon chocolate. Three boxes at least. And Christmas presents.
She sat chewing her pen. Her mind drifted to the man in the harbour. He wasn’t coming home for Christmas. But there were relatives still waiting. She had to tell them which day the body would be released. She mustn’t forget.
Lena had two to-do lists. One for work. One for Christmas.
Thank God I’m such a control freak, she reflected, that I start my Christmas shopping in January. On every holiday trip or mooch through an exotic shop in town this random thought would strike her. A candle with cinnamon fragrance? Would that be suitable as a gift for Ingeborg? Or a jar of Italian chestnut honey? Or that beautiful top? But I’m not enough of a control freak, Lena mused. There are still two names on the list without a present. And I still haven’t bought anything for Mum.
What should she buy for her mother? She hadn’t a clue. She chewed her pen, unable to come up with a single idea. She got to her feet and went over to her laptop, which was on. A little search online – the list of Christmas radio stations was long. She chose xmasmelody.com. Chris Reah’s breathy voice immediately began to sing ‘Driving Home for Christmas’. Back to the list. Still a blank. Lena went to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Perhaps that could be a present for Mum? A kettle? A cafetière? She took the tea-light holders on the table and scraped out the remaining wax. Eleven burnt-out metal cups. She ought to go to IKEA and buy five or six bags of cheap tea-lights. She had almost run out in the cupboard. That’s all I’m really good at, she thought. Drinking tea and burning tea-lights. But first things first: Oslo city centre and Christmas presents.
Lena caught the bus to the centre and set off on a peregrination lasting several hours, first through Arkaden Mall, then Oslo City shopping centre. But as she had no clear idea what she was after and she hadn’t planned who she was buying for, her wanderings ended in Platekompaniet and her buying a DVD for herself: the classic Pride and Prejudice from 1995 with Colin Firth starring as Mr Darcy.
She stood weighing the DVD in her hand. Actually she would have liked to receive this film herself, but knew she wouldn’t be able to wait until Christmas and so decided it would be a pre-Christmas present. She was already wildly excited about spending the weekend on the sofa and following the emotional struggle of a decent romantic drama. She was looking forward to despairing with Lizzie, looking forward to crying with Jane.
Her attention was caught by a display model in a window, wearing stockings, a suspender belt, transparent knickers, a bra and a very intricate Santa Lucia wreath on her head. With Christmas tree candles. The cables for the candles were taped to the stomach and the thighs of the model. Lena took a deep breath. Tomorrow it was Santa Lucia Day, 13th December. Children singing: ‘Black the night descends…’ She turned and looked outside. It was already getting dark. The Vinmonopol would be closing soon.
Lena took the escalator down, laid in for a minor siege and wrapped every bottle in Christmas paper so that they wouldn’t clink. Suddenly she felt hungry.
Should she go straight home or have a bite in town first?
&
nbsp; Lena considered the options and had a brainwave.
She could have a bite to eat at the famous Flamingo Bar & Restaurant. She checked her shoulder bag. The photo of Sveinung Adler was there.
A little later, as the tram whizzed up Grefsenveien, Lena was sitting by a window, looking at the detached houses with welcoming yellow windows beneath snow-covered roofs with grey wisps of smoke swirling upwards into the sky.
Lena got off the tram and trudged towards the restaurant with the carrier bags in her hand.
The place was closed. Typical.
Lena, who was starving now, didn’t give up. She banged on one of the windows facing the street.
The door was opened by a young man in jeans and a yellow jumper with a chic cap on his head.
‘I might not look like it,’ Lena said, ‘but I work for the police.’
She put down her carrier bag and fished her ID card from her shoulder bag.
The room was empty, but still smelt of the previous day’s Christmas meals. A small girl of three or four was crawling on the floor between the tables. She grabbed Lena’s trouser leg and wanted to play.
The man apologised and lifted the girl up.
‘Wednesday evening,’ Lena said, abandoning all hope of a quick bite to eat. She took out a photo of Sveinung Adeler. ‘Can you tell me if this man was here then?’
The man took the photo and studied it. ‘It’s possible. I think I’ve seen the guy, and if he was here on Wednesday that might be right, but I can’t remember exactly. Only the face. It seems to ring a bell.’
‘Were you working here on Wednesday night?’
‘Every night. All of us are here – my brother and sister, my father and my mother.’
‘Do you have a full house on Wednesdays?’
‘Not usually. But this is peak period. From the beginning of November it’s a full house, so to speak, every night, right through to the twenty-third.’ He splayed his hands. ‘Christmas dinners, lutefisk, you know what it’s like. The most popular places in the centre are already fully booked in October and many people turn to us when Christmas approaches, but we have lots of regular customers too, in the Christmas rush.’
‘Who was serving here, apart from you?’
The man put the child down on the floor, took the photo with him and went into the kitchen. Judging by the noise, it was busy.
Lena’s stomach rumbled. When she got home she was going to run wild, make cheese toasties with lashings of butter and mustard and ham. At least four. No champers. She would drink beer. Lager, Mexican, the kind Adeler had in his fridge. Her stomach rumbled again. She stood up in the hope it would stop. Looked at the little girl with golden skin and gorgeous black locks. The girl smiled secretively and grabbed her leg.
Lena capitulated. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked.
The girl shook her head, bursting with laughter and embarrassment. She ran to the kitchen door after her daddy.
They almost collided in the doorway. The father was followed by a woman in her fifties with a sharp, weather-bitten face.
Now the woman was holding the photograph. ‘I remember him,’ she said with a whisky voice. ‘Has he done something?’
Lena shook her head. ‘What I’d like to know is who he was with.’
‘There were three of them,’ the woman said, pointing to a table by the window. ‘I remember them because one was a VIP. The good-looking one, the one in parliament. Aud Helen Vestgård. That was a bit special. We do have celebs here now and then, but not every day, and I thought that was nice, you know. I like her, and I was pleased it was me serving her, you know. There were three of them. Him, Vestgård and one more.’
‘Man or woman?’
‘Man.’
‘So this third person wasn’t a VIP?’
‘No. Never seen the man before. But it was a bit of an unusual order. The man in the photo wanted lutefisk, beer and aquavit, while Vestgård wanted mutton ribs and red wine, of all things; and the third person was a veggie and drank water. So that was a bit different, but fine.’
‘What did the third person look like?’
‘Bit over fifty, I’d say. Good-looking, brown eyes, a little beard around his mouth and chin – not on his cheeks though; short hair, dark, grey streaks. He was wearing a suit. Very elegant. Gold watch and a ring with jewels in on his finger. The type that takes a lot of care about his appearance, if you ask me. Both of the men wore suits, and Vestgård had a woollen dress on, rather chic actually, sort of earthy colour, although I can’t imagine she knitted it herself.’
‘You’re very observant,’ Lena said.
‘As I said, he was a good-looking guy,’ the woman replied with a smile.
‘I assume they booked the table in advance?’
‘They must’ve done. We don’t go in for preferential treatment here.’
The little girl had crawled under the table where Lena was sitting. She pulled her trouser leg and wanted some attention again.
The guy with the cap went to the kitchen door, reached inside and brought out a wad of booking sheets. ‘Let me see now, Wednesday.’ He flicked through. ‘Vestgård, eight-thirty pm.’
Lena got up and went over to him. ‘So, she booked the table?’
‘Looks like it.’
‘I’d like a copy of the booking sheet,’ Lena said.
‘I can scan the page and email it to you.’
Lena nodded and searched for a police card in her back pocket. She passed it to him. ‘Email address and phone number. How long were they here?’ she asked.
The woman sat thinking. ‘They split the bill,’ she said at last, ‘Vestgård and the older man. No. She paid for two, cash. The other man – him,’ she said, pointing to the photo of Adeler, ‘paid for himself, cash. Off the top of my head, it would’ve been around eleven, maybe a bit before. The kitchen closes at half past ten and the restaurant begins to thin out then.’
‘Is there a credit-card receipt with the time on?’ Lena asked.
The woman shook her head. ‘No. They paid cash. But they asked me to ring for a taxi, I do remember that.’
‘They left here together?’
‘That was my impression. I only rang for one taxi.’
Lena straightened up on her chair. ‘Do you remember the number of the taxi?’
‘Are you out of your mind? The taxi was one of a hundred that evening. At least.’
Lena thanked her and made ready to leave.
The little girl whispered something to her father as Lena wound her scarf around her neck.
‘You do that,’ the father said.
The little girl blushed.
Lena crouched down. ‘What is it?’ she asked.
The little girl gave her a flower. It was a crinkled plastic flower.
Lena took it. ‘Thank you very much.’ Lena was moved and happy. She stretched out her arms to give her a hug. But the girl ran off into the kitchen.
Her father winked at Lena. ‘My daughter wanted to give you a present, but she’s so shy.’
Lena stuffed the flower into her pocket. While waiting for the tram to take her back down to town, she called the Pathology Institute. She got a pathologist on the line and told him Sveinung Adeler had ingested lutefisk, beer and aquavit on Wednesday evening between seven-thirty and eleven. Would that make it easier to define the moment of death?
The pathologist she was talking to was unsure. She was passed over to Schwenke.
‘What is it now?’ Schwenke barked with irritation. ‘It’s Saturday. Why do the police keep phoning me?’
Lena apologised and promised him a Christmas present if he could answer her question on the hoof.
When Schwenke hesitated she repeated her question about Adeler’s last meal and when he ate it.
Schwenke didn’t waste any time, he said: ‘From the way the food was digested my conclusion is that Adeler drowned somewhere between five and six o’clock on Thursday morning.’
Lena thanked him and hung up.
The blue tram glided in, stopped and opened its doors. Lena got on. Schwenke was right, of course.
Saturday was a free day and she had several hours of a tussle for love ahead of her.
She found a free seat. Alone, she reflected. A whole weekend on her own.
She took out the crinkled plastic flower she had been given by the little girl. Twirled it between her fingers. Again she was moved, felt a lump in her throat and was reminded of the lump in her breast. When you are weighed down by negative thoughts it is good to feel acknowledged. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. This is a sign. I am vulnerable. I have to use my freedom properly, use it on myself, meditate, train.
Monday, 14th December
1
‘I’m sorry,’ Lena said. ‘But I didn’t get your message until last night.’
Gunnarstranda didn’t answer.
‘My phone was off and at home while I was out preparing for Christmas. I have a mother who has certain requirements regarding Christmas celebrations.’
She didn’t need to apologise, but she did anyway.
A kind soul had baked too many saffron buns at the weekend and decided to share the surplus with the gang of officers. A red woven basket with the glistening Kringle cakes was placed between two half-full cups of coffee that had stopped steaming. Lena watched Gunnarstranda take one of the buns and break it into two. When he saw the yellow contents inside, he put the two pieces back.
‘You can’t do that,’ she said.
‘We were talking about what you were going to do,’ Gunnarstranda said, but took note of her objections. He grasped the two halves and threw them in the wastepaper basket.
Lena lifted one of the cups and swirled the cold liquid round. The coffee grounds stained the sides.
The conclusion was indisputable. One or more unknown persons had been with Adeler at the moment he fell in the water. It was as clear as crystal now that the lab had done its share of the work. The plank that was floating in the water beside the corpse bore fibres that came from Adeler’s shirt. Someone had been standing on the quay and pressing the plank down onto the neck of the man splashing in the water. To give him a hand, push him down or to pull the body in. Whatever this person was doing they hadn’t come forward. Six luminous letters flashed in Lena’s head: M-U-R-D-E-R.
The Ice Swimmer Page 9
