She moved slowly up the escalator. On the step in front of her was an unusually beautiful Asiatic woman accompanying an overweight man of a similar age. Lena followed them. The two of them looked at ladies’ underwear. The dusky beauty put some transparent panties and a provocative corset over her arm and showed them to her beefy lover, who nodded encouragement. Lena walked past them and took the escalator back down. She wasn’t someone who had no cares in the world. She was mortal.
There was no question of her going to work today. She walked almost blindly to her car. Got in and drove. She thought of her mother, thought of her dead father and was startled when a car hooted.
She had gone through the crossing on red! Pull yourself together, Lena!
She snapped out of her thoughts and concentrated on driving. Then she held her hand to her breast. Why did she do that? She felt a stab of pain.
She pulled in and stopped. Released her safety belt. It helped, the pain went. On the other side of the road a multi-storey block of flats towered above her. On the third floor lived someone with a passion for Christmas. The balcony was festooned with red, green and yellow lights. Above all this a message flashed to the world, like an advertising slogan in red and white: Happy Christmas.
Lena indicated and pulled onto the carriageway. She wanted to go home, away from everything and into her dreams, put a match to tea-lights and burn incense. She still had three episodes left of Pride and Prejudice. Lizzie still hadn’t been to Blenheim with her aunt and uncle. Mr Darcy hadn’t ridden in on his white charger yet and Lydia hadn’t eloped with Wickham.
4
Going through the door to the noisy Asylet pub was like going back years in time. The wall- and floorboards looked as if they had been cut with a chainsaw. Winter logs were piled up against the wall. The big fireplace was roaring, and Frank Frølich was sitting at one of the long tables in the room with the bar.
Frølich was good friends with the barmaid, who had sat down next to him with a coffee. She stood up as soon as Gunnarstranda appeared.
‘Stay where you are,’ he said.
‘I won’t if you want something to drink,’ she grinned. ‘Besides I’ve poured out my heart enough for this evening.’
‘What do you want?’ he asked Frølich, who was leaning back against the wall. He had placed a large fur cap and two big fur mittens beside him on the table.
‘A pils and a Gammel Dansk.’
‘Same for me,’ Gunnarstranda said to the barmaid. ‘How’s it going?’ he asked Frølich.
‘So-so,’ Frølich said. ‘I’ve had two offers of work. One as Father Christmas and one as a security guard at Oslo Station. It’s a toss-up which one to take.’
‘No point trying to tickle my funny bone,’ Gunnarstranda said. ‘I never laugh.’
The barmaid came over with the beer and shots of bitters. The two men raised their dram glasses and drained them in one.
‘Another,’ Frølich said.
‘Don’t they come in smaller glasses?’ Gunnarstranda enquired gently.
The barmaid shook her head.
‘OK, another.’
‘Soon be Christmas and I’m living on my savings,’ Frølich went on. ‘I’ve decided to make my own Christmas presents. And to save electricity by staying in bed longer in the morning. That’s going well with the sleep deficit I’ve accumulated over years of night shifts. Now I’m horizontal for up to ten hours a night. Soon I’ll be able to go to the doctor and have my new illness ratified: narcolepsy. Then I’ll go to social security, apply for early retirement, buy a yacht on the never-never and travel around the world. I’m like the lion in that zoo in Kabul. I’ve got enough food, enough leisure time, I’ve got everything.’
‘Just no lion friends,’ Gunnarstranda said.
‘How’s the newbie?’ Frølich asked.
‘Axel Rise works in Oslo, but lives in Bergen and has a tragic personal life.’
Frølich drank instead of making a comment.
‘Did you know that Bergen calls itself the town between the seven mountains?’ Gunnarstranda said. ‘But they can’t agree on which seven they are. There are more than seven, you see. Maybe fourteen or even more. Isn’t it a bit strange to reduce the number to seven when you’re trying to put your town on the map?’
‘Skål,’ Frølich said.
‘I’ve got a riddle for you,’ Gunnarstranda said, putting down his glass.
‘Come on then.’
‘OK, this is what happened. At eight o’clock on Thursday morning we receive a message about a guy floating in the water off the City Hall Quay. Lena goes down, and what looks like a drowning accident isn’t.’
‘He was pushed in?’
‘Someone not only pushed him in, but found a piece of wood and forced the poor devil under – at minus twenty-five. Anyway, Lena discovered that this guy, Sveinung Adeler, died from drowning at about six o’clock in the morning. The same morning Nina Stenshagen ends up under the wheels of a Grorud train and dies. She’s one of the junkies at Plata. By then it was half past seven.’
‘Suicide?’
‘She ran into the tunnel, chased by some guy. Three minutes after Nina falls under the train an unknown person leaves the tunnel through an emergency exit a few metres away.’
‘So it’s not necessarily suicide. What does the train driver say?’
‘She’s still in shock at the moment and didn’t see anything. She just heard a bang, according to my partner Rise, who took her statement.
‘This Nina turned out to be the girlfriend of another junkie – Stig Eriksen. I talked to him the day after. He wouldn’t say anything, but rang me half an hour later. This time he told me – on the phone, that is – that Nina was killed because she saw who threw the guy off the quay and drowned him.’
Gunnarstranda took a deep breath and drank some beer.
‘Haul Stig Eriksen in. Put him in a cell until he goes cold turkey and then he’ll tell you everything you want to know,’ Frølich said.
‘The problem is that Stig Eriksen’s dead,’ Gunnarstranda said bluntly. ‘Shot with an automatic weapon a few minutes before I was going to do what you suggested.’
Frølich whistled.
‘Just like in American films,’ Gunnarstranda continued. ‘Entry wound in the forehead, blood and gore everywhere.’
Gunnarstranda realised that the barmaid had brought another round of Gammel Dansk. Frølich’s glass was already empty.
Gunnarstranda sipped from the glass and swallowed the bitters down with some beer. ‘Now, the thing is I have Nina Stenshagen’s mobile phone. And it wasn’t used – neither on the Wednesday nor on the Thursday morning. The last time it had been used was on Tuesday evening – when Nina and Stig talked on the phone.
‘So a man’s drowned in the harbour on Thursday morning. Nina sees what happens. She’s frightened and runs from the crime scene with the perpetrator hard on her heels. In her happier years she worked at the Metro, so decides to lose her pursuer by running into the tunnel. I think she was caught and killed. The riddle I’m trying to solve is this: How could Stig know Nina was killed because she saw someone kill Adeler when they hadn’t spoken?’
‘You’ve always said simple is best,’ Frølich said.
Gunnarstranda nodded.
‘The simple solution is that Stig was bluffing. He knew nothing.’
‘Of course I’ve considered that possibility,’ Gunnarstranda said. ‘But my gut instinct is that Stig knew. Don’t forget, at first he refused to talk to me. Then he rang and wanted me to go back. Stig could’ve lured me with anything to make me go back. He could’ve claimed he knew who ran after Nina into the tunnel or said he knew what was really happening. I would still have turned round and run straight to him. Instead he talked about the motive for the murder of Nina – he talked about the man who drowned in the harbour. I hadn’t mentioned Adeler or the drowning. So Stig was telling the truth. I know it in my bones. Nina saw what happened on the harbour. And I want the mystery solved.
You’re a smart guy, Frølich, and you read crime novels. Help me. How could Stig have known what Nina saw that morning?’
‘That’s obvious,’ Frølich said with a smile. ‘Stig was also there and saw what happened!’
Gunnarstranda frowned sceptically.
‘If Stig’s telling the truth,’ Frølich said, ‘he must also have been present. Stig must’ve seen what happened as well.’
‘You may be partly right,’ Gunnarstranda said, rapt in thought. ‘The two of them were a couple. Two homeless people searching for somewhere to sleep every night. It was freezing cold that Wednesday. They might’ve found a bolthole near City Hall Quay. It’s early in the morning. The victim and the unknown killer approach, they walk along the pier. One pushes the other into the water. Both Stig and Nina are eyewitnesses, but the killer spots only Nina – who makes a run for it.’
Frølich nodded.
Gunnarstranda was still sceptical. At the same time he felt things happening inside his head. Two glasses of bitters and one and a half beers were playing pinball with his brain cells.
‘The most interesting bit,’ Frølich grinned, ‘is what drove Stig to contact you. Why didn’t he want to tell you anything at first, but then revealed all half an hour later?’
Gunnarstranda tried to focus.
‘Stig contacted you because he was afraid,’ Frølich went on. ‘He was shit scared and wanted your help. Why was he scared?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Probably because he contacted the perp after you left him,’ Frølich said.
‘That’s exactly what I can’t make tally,’ Gunnarstranda said. ‘If you’re right that both Nina and Stig saw the man push Adeler into the sea, and if you’re right that Stig contacted the same man after I spoke to him, why would he wait? Why didn’t he contact the killer the day before, why did it only happen after I’d spoken to him?’
‘He might’ve done. Have you got Stig’s phone?’
Gunnarstranda shook his head. ‘Thorough killer. He took it with him. I tried to find it, but no luck. Telenor say it’s probably been destroyed.’
Frølich licked the last bitter drops of his Gammel Dansk. ‘You seem dejected,’ he said. ‘I think you need another one.’
Gunnarstranda peered up. There was another half a litre of beer and another glass of bitters on the table. He smiled wanly. ‘This round,’ he said, ‘but then that’s it.’
‘My guess is that Stig tried to work out how he could blackmail the killer without any risk to himself. Put yourself in his shoes: he sees a murder committed. He can earn money with his silence. But how? He knows the killer is highly dangerous. If he makes a mistake all he can expect is that his friends will club together for an obituary. Stig must’ve really put his thinking cap on. When you came along, he saw his opportunity. He must’ve used you as his insurance policy. First he rings the killer, demands money and agrees to meet. Then he rings you and tells you to come. If the killer plays tough, Stig had you – the police – as back-up.’
Gunnarstranda nodded. This idea was not a million miles off. He remembered the footsteps. The shadow on the stairs. The margins had been tiny. If he hadn’t waited for Stig in the stairwell perhaps … No, he couldn’t think like that. Stig had been killed by an unknown person. He had nothing to reproach himself with. Gunnarstranda raised his glass. The beer didn’t taste good.
‘You know you’ve got an even bigger riddle on your hands, don’t you?’ Frølich said.
‘Really?’
‘There are two MOs,’ Frølich said. ‘One man is pushed into the harbour; Nina is pushed under a train. Whereas Stig is shot. Stig’s murder is different. The fact that Stig was shot suggests it wasn’t the same person who killed all three of them.’
Gunnarstranda nodded. ‘Don’t you think I’ve thought about that?’ he mumbled. ‘I’ve asked to have Nina Stenshagen’s body autopsied. But even if it turns out Nina was also shot, I’m no further on. Adeler drowned, that’s irrefutable. There’s something here I can’t grasp. There’s a piece missing.’
‘Nina ran off,’ Frølich said. ‘The killer ran after her. But Stig stayed put. Why didn’t Stig go into action and save the man splashing in the water?’
‘Stig was handicapped. One leg was amputated. He may well have tried to help. We’ll never know, anyway.’
Gunnarstranda cleared his throat and thought aloud again. ‘Stig and Nina were both wasted junkies. They’d tried everything. Stig would gladly have extracted the gold teeth from his grandmother’s mouth to get money for drugs. If Stig had known the identity of the killer, he was sitting on valuable information. I think he was trying to blackmail the killer.’
‘Oslo has half a million inhabitants. How did he get hold of his name and phone number?’
‘Hm…’ Gunnarstranda said, then had an idea: ‘The killer could’ve been someone well known.’
Frølich grinned. ‘A VIP?’
‘We do, in fact, have one VIP mixed up in this,’ Gunnarstranda said darkly. ‘An MP – a woman.’
Frølich shook his head. ‘Now you’re way off target, old chap. There’s something not right about the whole of the Stig angle. Stig was shot. That constitutes a difference, as some of our politicians say. Stig may’ve been with Nina on the quay and seen who pushed this Adeler into the water. But Stig was shot by an armed man. The people who shoot junkies in this country are dealers who don’t get their money – or heavies they get to do the job for them.’
Gunnarstranda continued to sit in silence. Everything was going round in his head, but he didn’t object.
‘There’s a much more likely scenario,’ Frølich said.
Gunnarstranda didn’t much like the idea of a heavy. He knew there was a connection between the three murder victims. He could feel it in his bones.
He tapped his forefinger on his temple. ‘The little grey cells say you’re right,’ he said, and patted his stomach. ‘But this tells me you’re wrong.’
‘“Follow the money”,’ Frølich said in English, with a grin. ‘Shame there’s no money to follow.’
‘Follow the White Rabbit,’ Gunnarstranda retorted, getting to his feet. ‘I need something to eat.’
Tuesday, 15th December
1
There was a jug of water with some plastic glasses and a bowl of Twist sweets on the table. Lena resisted the temptation to take a chocolate, although her favourite was on top, in green paper with a coconut filling.
‘What’s difficult, exactly?’ she asked, raising her eyes from the sweets to the woman sitting opposite her.
Soheyla Moestue was Lena’s age, of Indian or Pakistani origin. Her black hair cascaded in elegant waves to her shoulders. She looked good in the narrow-striped trouser suit and short, tight-fitting coat over a bright-red blouse. Her clothes made her appear extremely feminine while also radiating authority. Lena wished she had more of the gene some women had that allowed them to emanate womanliness as well as competence.
‘Nothing, except that it’s the Ethics Council who pass on any information there is. The contents of our – that is, the secretariat’s – investigations are secret. I don’t know where you’ve heard that Sveinung had this MacFarrell company on his radar. I knew nothing about them. But it might well be true. We work on companies’ portfolios all the time and spend a lot of time on borderline cases. But…’ The dark-skinned woman shook her head in doubt and didn’t finish her sentence.
Lena was unable to resist the temptation any longer. She took the chocolate on top and peeled off the green paper.
‘Sorry,’ she said, popping the sweet in her mouth. ‘It’s the only one I like. I can buy a whole bag of Twist just so that I can eat the coconut choc. The worst is that there seem to be fewer and fewer of them. The last time I bought a bag there were only two.’
Soheyla Moestue poked around in the bowl. ‘I like the liquorice ones best,’ she said. ‘But they’ve always gone by the time I get there.’ She pushed the bowl away.
‘I interrupt
ed you,’ Lena said. ‘You were talking about borderline cases you spend a lot of time on.’
‘Exactly. I was about to say it seems so ridiculously far-fetched. Sveinung was a low-ranking employee like me. It’s unbelieveable that his job should have anything to do with the drowning incident. When you talk about companies connected with Western Sahara the subtext is that Sveinung’s death has something to do with sleaze and political conspiracies. It’s…’ Soheyla shook her head. ‘It’s just crazy! Anyone who wants to lobby the SPU – the Oil Fund – whether in investments or whatever, has to go higher up the pyramid, to work directly against people in the Fund or to influence decisions that have already been taken, such as getting the Fund to withdraw its investments from a company. The logical path would be to try and influence the Ethics Council directly or politicians in parliament or, best, in the Ministry.’
Lena nodded. That sounded reasonable. Decisions were taken at a political level, not in a secretariat.
‘What I’m trying to say is that there’s a very long obstacle course between what Sveinung did at work and the decision the Oil Fund might take in a particular case.’ The woman revealed a line of flawless white teeth in a condescending smile.
‘Still off the record, and still completely between us, it’s simply nonsense to believe that Sveinung’s job here in the secretariat might have jeopardised his safety. And I’m saying that as someone who does exactly the same job as Sveinung. I’ve never felt threatened or vulnerable working here and I don’t think anyone else has, either.’
Lena pondered this. The woman was right of course. Sveinung Adeler was just a low-ranking official who liked skiing. But, she thought, Aud Helen Vestgård was not at the bottom of the pyramid. She was high up, on the Finance Committee.
Steffen Gjerstad’s speculation might well have been right. The journalist in him might have dug up something or other that couldn’t stand the light of day. Why else would Vestgård have lied to her face?
The Ice Swimmer Page 11
