The Ice Swimmer

by Kjell Ola Dahl

  Lies are serious when someone has lost their life.

  Lena got to her feet. Soheyla Moestue did the same.

  ‘Sorry,’ Lena said. ‘It looks as if I’m wasting your time.’

  The woman smiled disarmingly.

  They left the conference room and walked down the corridor side by side.

  ‘One final tiny question,’ Lena said as they stopped outside the lift.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you document the work you do?’

  ‘We produce quite a bit of material, yes, which is sent to the Ethics Council.’ Soheyla Moestue pressed the lift button.

  ‘But what is it precisely that you investigate?’

  ‘Ethics. We try to establish whether a company is involved with child labour, whether it conforms to norms and rules regarding emissions, whether they abide by international law.’

  ‘You dig, and that means you probably travel a bit?’

  ‘Naturally. Child labour, for example, has to be documented, on film, photos, in interviews, and that isn’t easy. Rumours run ahead of us, things are changed at the drop of a hat. When we arrive at a factory where children are working, suddenly there isn’t a child to be seen for miles. A lot of what is characterised as “unethical” nowadays is hard to prove.’

  ‘What about Western Sahara?’

  Soheyla hesitated. ‘Western Sahara is a big discussion.’

  ‘Why?’

  The lift arrived. The door opened with a little jolt. Lena stretched out a hand and blocked the sensor.

  ‘Morocco has occupied Western Sahara,’ Soheyla said. ‘And parliament has ruled that the Oil Fund mustn’t get involved with businesses that trade with occupying forces. But you have to draw a line somewhere. Even if a company deals with an occupying force, thereby breaking international law, this company has customers and sub-vendors who are not necessarily breaking international law and are independent of the spider in the centre of the web. Do you understand? Sometimes politics is like the surface of water. It’s coloured by its surroundings and the eye of the beholder. Whoever has to clarify internal legal issues often has to be better at language than morality.’

  Lena looked Soheyla in the eye and could tell that the woman knew which question was coming: ‘Was Adeler in Western Sahara?’

  ‘Yes, he was. But, as I said, I don’t know specifically what businesses he was investigating.’

  ‘But he went there, talked to people who would undoubtedly dislike the job he was carrying out?’

  ‘Yes, but once again, inflicting any harm on Sveinung would be more stupid than shooting the pianist if you didn’t like the music he was playing. Utterly pointless.’

  ‘Would it be possible to read the report Adeler wrote about Mac-Farrell Limited?’

  Soheyla shook her head. ‘First of all, neither you nor I know whether such a report exists. If there is one, it will be not for public consumption anyway. If it has to be submitted, the Ministry of Finance is responsible for the case.’

  ‘But to which person in the Ministry?’

  ‘The Finance Minister.’

  Lena stepped into the lift and pressed the button. ‘Thank you for your time,’ she said. ‘I may be back.’

  The lift doors closed, Lena descended and emerged in Rådhusgata.

  2

  She had barely stepped out of the lift on the third floor of Police HQ when she was met by Rindal in the corridor. Lena backed away and turned to take the lift down. She wasn’t quick enough.

  Rindal reacted with surprise and said: ‘Just the person I was looking for, at last!’ His face had a pink hue. She could almost see steam coming from the scalp under his thin head of hair.

  ‘My office,’ Rindal said curtly, spun on his heel and marched ahead.

  He sat down behind his desk without a word.

  She stood in front of him and stared.

  ‘Door,’ Rindal said.

  She turned and closed it. Went back.

  He tore the paper off a strip of chewing gum and bit into it angrily. ‘Tell me something,’ he chewed. ‘Are you completely off your head?’

  Lena didn’t answer.

  ‘You’ve already received one reprimand, but you don’t seem to understand. You can’t have comprehended a thing. Or why would you go straight from here and cause public consternation by taking a statement from an MP? Didn’t they teach you at school that all power resides in Parliament?’

  Rindal took a deep breath.

  Lena took advantage of the brief pause: ‘You weren’t here when new information came in.’

  ‘You had all weekend to contact me!’

  Lena didn’t answer.

  ‘Why didn’t you get in touch?’

  ‘I was off at the weekend. I conferred with Gunnarstranda on Monday morning. We concluded that it was urgent to take a fresh statement from Vestgård.’

  Rindal swivelled round on his chair and lifted the telephone receiver.

  ‘Gunnarstranda! Here, this minute.’

  Rindal smacked down the phone. He sat scowling at her without saying a word. Then he jumped up with such violence that the chair rolled backwards and hit the wall with a bang. He strode to the window. He stood there with his back to Lena.

  Lena contemplated his broad back. Wondering if now was the right moment to tell him about the admission that Vestgård made in the end. Lena wasn’t willing to take the risk. Best to wait until Gunnarstranda came, she reckoned. Three people, three voices. That would make it easier to manipulate the conversation.

  At last the door opened.

  Gunnarstranda came in.

  Rindal turned away from the window: ‘Tell me this minute – is Sveinung Adeler’s death murder or an accident? There are people in government offices questioning how we use our resources. There’ll soon be a review of the state budget and the police need more money. Do you hear me? We need the cash. We must have new equipment, we must have our overtime covered. We must have more officers. And do you know what that means?’

  ‘Excuse me,’ Gunnarstranda interrupted.

  ‘Shut up,’ Rindal barked. ‘It’s in the Bible. It’s what you learn as a child: Don’t bite the hand that feeds you!’

  ‘Is that in the Bible?’ Gunnarstranda queried.

  ‘I told you to shut up.’

  Lena seized the opportunity. The atmosphere couldn’t get worse than this. She said: ‘Adeler was killed by an unknown perp. He had wounds to the neck and his shirt was torn after he fell in the water. The fibres from the shirt tally with the fibres found on a piece of wood on the quay. Someone pushed him into the harbour and pressed the wood down on his head and shoulders when he was fighting for his life, and Aud Helen Vestgård can’t be ruled out as a suspect.’

  Rindal’s face went from rosé to lobster.

  However, Gunnarstranda managed to get a word in before Rindal recovered: ‘The drug addict, Nina Stenshagen, was killed by the same person who killed Adeler. Stenshagen was an eyewitness. She saw the man deliberately kill Adeler. She saw Adeler splashing, heard him shouting, saw him freeze and drown. We know Nina Stenshagen fled the scene chased by the perpetrator. Half an hour later her body was thrown under a train in the tunnel.’

  Rindal had a more normal complexion now. ‘This theory’s based, as far as I know, on the now deceased Stig Eriksen’s statement, isn’t it?’

  ‘The theory’s based on evidence and the statement Stig Eriksen made on the phone before he was shot and killed.’

  Rindal contemplated Gunnarstranda in silence. At length he took a deep breath and said: ‘Shot and killed. Why aren’t you out scouring the countryside to find the killer?’

  ‘Because you asked me to come here. The Eriksen case is closely connected with the Adeler case. They are one and the same.’

  ‘I’m terribly old-fashioned, Gunnarstranda,’ Rindal said in an ominously gentle voice. ‘Perhaps you could bring me up to date. When did a junkie from Plata have greater credibility than an elected MP?’

  Gunnarst
randa was about to reply, but Rindal dismissed him with a wave of his hand. ‘Firstly,’ Rindal said, ‘when a junkie’s shot it’s because the guy’s up to his ears in debt and he can’t pay. Secondly, the Stig story doesn’t hold water. If Stig was shot because he knew something about Adeler’s death why do several days pass from the moment he saw Adeler die to when he’s shot?’

  Lena and Gunnarstranda exchanged glances. Lena quietly hoped that Gunnarstranda had a reply to this question. She left him to answer.

  ‘The perpertrator can’t have known Stig saw Adeler killed,’ Gunnarstranda said. ‘The perpetrator didn’t know about Stig until Stig contacted him. And he did that after I’d spoken to him. When I asked Stig for information he realised he could blackmail the man with less risk to himself – by using me as back-up. He arranged to meet me and the perpetrator at the same time and place.’

  ‘If that was Stig Eriksen’s plan, then it played out pretty badly, don’t you think?’

  Gunnarstranda shrugged and riposted: ‘Now and then things do go wrong, don’t they? For you, too.’

  Lena watched Gunnarstranda. Thinking about the torch that had malfunctioned – Gunnarstranda’s sense that he was just a little too late. But Gunnarstranda didn’t mention a word of this now. She decided she wouldn’t either.

  ‘You’re fantasising again,’ Rindal said. ‘You’re speculating. You’re imagining Stig’s presence on the quay so that you can make it fit with the rest. I know you!’

  Gunnarstranda shook his head.

  ‘Fine. Let’s suppose Stig actually did see a man push Adeler off the quay. There’s just one little thing that bothers me,’ Rindal smiled. ‘A minor detail. Alright, Stig sees someone. How could Stig contact this person afterwards? Was this Mr X wearing a T-shirt with his name and address on? Or perhaps he shouted out his name?’ Rindal roared with laughter and flung his arms into the air. ‘Perhaps this guy shouted: ‘Hey everyone who saw me push this poor sucker splashing around in the water, my name’s such and such and you can ring me on the following number.’

  Before Gunnarstranda could answer, Rindal lifted his hand like a priest and said: ‘Evidence. I want concrete, tangible evidence. A tingle down your spine or your famous gut instinct are not admissable evidence.’

  ‘No problem. We can document the communication between Nina and Stig Eriksen.’

  ‘I said I wanted concrete evidence!’

  ‘We have Nina Stenshagen’s mobile phone. That is evidence. Nina’s phone wasn’t used. Nina didn’t speak on the phone in the time between Adeler drowning and her dying under the train. Nor can Nina have had time to speak to Stig face to face in the time between Adeler’s and her own death. Yet Stig claimed to me that Nina was killed because she witnessed Adeler’s death. There’s only one answer to why he could maintain this. He was a witness himself. It’s obvious. We know Nina and Stig were in a relationship. They were together during the night and in the morning. They both saw what happened to Adeler, but the perpetrator only saw Nina and followed her. Stig was killed when he made his presence known to the perpetrator later.’

  Rindal shook his head. ‘You didn’t answer my question. Seeing someone perform an act is quite a different thing from recognising this person’s identity. Your theory stands and falls on the question: How could Stig contact a person he knew nothing about? He had no name, no address, nothing.’

  Gunnarstranda shrugged. ‘I don’t know how. I only know he must’ve contacted him. I’m sure that further investigation will provide a satisfactory answer to that question.’

  Rindal sat down behind his desk and swung from side to side in his chair. He was thinking.

  Lena and Gunnarstranda exchanged a fleeting glance. They had almost succeeded in making Rindal turn.

  ‘There are several weaknesses in the theory,’ Rindal said. ‘Three bodies and various modus operandi. If the perpetrator killed Sveinung Adeler in an apparent accident, then eliminated Nina Stenshagen in another apparent accident, why the heck would he shoot Stig with an automatic weapon?’

  Gunnarstranda didn’t reply with an immediate answer. Lena realised he didn’t have one. In fact, it was possible his theory was wrong.

  Gunnarstranda cleared his throat. ‘I’ve asked Schwenke to do an autopsy on Nina.’

  ‘You did what? Do you know what that costs? The woman was sliced into bits by the train!’

  ‘You know we found Nina’s blood in very different places from the track in the tunnel. So she’d had major injuries inflicted before the train hit her. It was time to request an autopsy.’

  Rindal scowled, but he didn’t object.

  Gunnarstranda carried on speaking. ‘Nina Stenshagen was shot. Schwenke rang me an hour ago. The blood matches the finds in the bomb shelter. Nina used to work for the Metro many years ago. She was familiar with the network inside the tunnels. She might have sneaked down there for warmth and shelter on cold winter nights. The security service ejected her several times, from the loop under the Storting building, they said. On Thursday morning she ran into the tunnel to evade her pursuer. She was heading for the emergency exit when he shot her in the back. He hid the body, and himself, until the trains resumed. Then he arranged the accident. The fact that Nina Stenshagen was shot explains everything. Nina was already dead when she was thrown under the train. I’m going to deliver the bullet to the ballistics lab at Kripos in person.’

  After Gunnarstranda stopped talking, silence reigned, like after a thunderstorm. Broken only by the sound of Rindal pensively swivelling from side to side on his chair.

  Rindal cleared his throat. ‘Two drug addicts shot dead in Oslo’s worst junkie milieu tells me this is where we should look for the killer. But have you done anything? No. None of Nina Stenshagen’s relatives has been interviewed; no one in Stig Eriksen’s circles has been questioned. Not a single one of our informants has been asked if they’ve noticed a gunman in their midst. Instead of which, you’ve been walking roughshod all over our MPs.’

  Rindal was getting angrier as he spoke. ‘The link between the two shootings and Sveinung Adeler is weak – much too weak. I want you to clarify whether there is a link within the next twenty-four hours. And I want concrete, tangible evidence. The statements of dead witnesses don’t count. If, after twenty-four hours, you don’t have concrete, tangible evidence that would hold up in court, the Adeler case will be downgraded so that we can concentrate on what should be our focus.’

  ‘Forty-eight,’ Gunnarstranda said.

  ‘I beg your pardon.’

  ‘You’re experienced, you know as well as I do that twenty-four hours is barely time enough to write the report. You can give us forty-eight…’

  ‘Out!’ Rindal shouted.

  The two of them were already backing towards the door when Rindal yelled: ‘Wait! I haven’t finished with you yet!’ Rindal pointed to Lena with a quivering finger. ‘Fine. Forty-eight hours, on one condition. From now on I don’t want any more harassment of MPs or any other respectable people, capisce?’

  Gunnarstranda had left a carrier bag on the corridor floor outside Rindal’s door. He grabbed it as they ambled back to their office.

  ‘Been shopping?’ Lena asked, relieved to be able to talk about something else.

  ‘It’s my turn to cook this evening,’ Gunnarstranda said. ‘And what do you make on such a cold day? Fish soup, of course. I make it the way my mother used to.’

  He lifted the bag and lowered his voice as if he were going to reveal a great secret. ‘I’ve bought a halibut, the head. Everyone knows fish heads give you the most energy. But halibut is best. It’s the most expensive fish, of course, but most people don’t know the head is the most valuable bit. So I get the head cheap.’ He chuckled, with a secretive, triumphant smile on his face. ‘A kilo of halibut costs three hundred kroner while the head costs ten. The guy on the fish counter’s just happy to get rid of it. A head like this generally weighs a kilo and a half. This one weighs 1.9 kilos. Two kilos of the world’s most exclusive fish fo
r ten kroner, Lena. What people don’t consider is that the neck comes with the head, and the neck is the best meat on the fish, over half a kilo of fine, white fish, perfect for soup. First of all, I cut the head lengthwise, using a sharp knife. Afterwards I rinse the brain. Then I let the two halves soak in warm, lightly salted water with a dash of vinegar and a good slosh of white wine for an hour. Just soak – not boil. Afterwards it’s bursting with energy. You won’t find more powerful soup on this earth. Then I thicken it with butter and flour – good butter, mind you, butter from the dairy – and thin it with stock and cream. And I add sliced carrots and leek. Finally, I use the meat from the neck. Sometimes I add bits of other fish, particularly salmon or trout – the meat has a lovely reddish colour which goes well with the carrots and leeks; some mussels and shrimps are not bad, either, but you mustn’t boil or soak shellfish for too long – adding shellfish to a soup is an art form in itself. Season with pepper right at the end. This soup’s magnificent. It warms you on cold days and is so nutritious that every spoonful tastes like you’re eating liquid sunshine and the new spring. A single plate is an evening meal in itself because the halibut and the cream are fat. With this, we drink a little glass of Chablis, Tove and I, or a Riesling. At any rate it has to be a very dry white wine, with a mineral tang. Personally, I prefer a Moselle. I won’t tell you the name. There are some secrets I can share, but not all of them. The taste of the wine is so rich in minerals that every swallow is like drinking the essence of slate and steel.’

  The door to the stairs opened. Axel Rise came up. He stopped when he saw Gunnarstranda and Lena. He glowered. ‘He who whispers, lies,’ he said grumpily.

  Gunnarstranda walked past him. ‘I’ve just been sharing a precious secret with Lena,’ he said, raising the bag in her direction. ‘And it’ll stay between us, Lena, capisce?’

  3

  The communal fridge in the corridor was packed with milk cartons past their sell-by date and half-full yoghurt beakers. Gunnarstranda cleared a spot on a shelf and put the fish head there. He was excited about making the soup. But there were things he had to do first. Rindal had asked for evidence. So, evidence he would get.