She held back about Sveinung Adeler and Aud Helen Vestgård.
‘If Rømer gets wind of the police investigating him, we may lose him,’ Ingrid Kobro said with great earnestness and a suspicious furrow in her brow.
‘You would’ve done the same. You’re in the kitchen and see a fishy car outside your block, with the engine running. It’s there for a long time, till past midnight, and you know you’ve seen one like it twice before. Then it turns out it’s the same one. I got the heebie-jeebies. For some reason the guy must be watching me.’
Ingrid eyed her, still thoughtful.
‘Let’s take this from the beginning. Where and when did you see it?’
‘The first time? Several days ago. Thursday night. I was about to get into my car in Bærum and saw a Fiat 500 with a man inside. The engine wasn’t running and there was frost on the windscreen. It was freezing outside. I drove home and as I was turning down into the garage I looked into my rear-view mirror and saw the same car drive past, fifty metres behind me. I mean, why would a strange car be following me? I reckoned it had to be two different cars – but two cabriolets? Same brand, model and colour? It left me with a tingle in my stomach. But then, last night, there was the identical car outside the block where I live. I jotted down the registration number and it turns out to be the car I saw the first time. You can imagine how paranoid I became.’
‘What cases are you working on?’
Lena listed the cases. Without quite knowing why, she left the Adeler affair till last: ‘And now I’m busy investigating an official who drowned in the harbour by the City Hall. A so-called suspicious death, which looks like murder. I’m trying to find out what happened.’
‘It must be one of the cases you’re working on,’ Ingrid said, regarding her pensively. But then she suddenly changed her opinion, shook her head and said, almost to herself: ‘It just doesn’t sound like it.’
Lena asked: ‘Have you got a photo of Stian Rømer?’
Ingrid hesitated. ‘I need to know you’ll co-operate.’
‘Why wouldn’t I?’ Lena pointed to the folder under Ingrid’s arm. ‘If this man’s following me I’d like to know what he looks like. Let me see a photo!’
Ingrid Kobro opened the folder and took out a sheet. A black-and-white photo. The man staring out from the picture could have been an extra in a TV crime series. A round head with cropped hair and a sullen, brutal mouth. Lena passed the photo back, and Ingrid tucked it into her folder.
‘Let’s take this one more time,’ she said. ‘You’ve seen a rental car three times. So there are no other reasons for you wanting to find out about Rømer?’
What was this? Lena angled her head in surprise. ‘Ingrid?’
They looked each other in the eye. Ingrid lowered her shoulders. ‘You know, we’re considering legal proceedings against him, on a prevention basis. That’s why I wanted to talk to you now. We’re at an early, sensitive phase in the process. We can’t risk anything getting out. So we’re asking PD to lie low. Don’t blow his cover.’
‘What is it about this guy?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t comment on that, even if I’d like to.’ She went to the door. ‘If you see this car again or the man in the photo, get in touch and leave the car and the man to us, OK?’
Lena nodded. ‘Fine,’ she said without any enthusiasm.
Ingrid left.
Lena sat in the same place, looking at the closed door for quite a while. Ingrid’s message had been unambiguous.
But if Ingrid was going to be able to do anything at all she had better locate the car damned quickly.
Lena began to mull over the conversation. PST was interested in Rømer, but could Rømer be interested in her?
What Ingrid had said meant Rømer wasn’t necessarily after her. But why had she seen him three times in her vicinity? If this man was spying on her, the question was why.
Might Ingrid be wrong? Perhaps not. But she was definitely holding back.
Lena weighed up the pros and cons. She remembered the sudden chill she had felt the previous night. Her reaction when she realised that the car outside was the same one that she had seen the first time. One of the most unpleasant feelings you can have is to feel unsafe in your own home. Lena would not accept that. She ached to do something about it.
There was one question she hadn’t asked Ingrid: Is my safety in jeopardy? Why hadn’t she asked? Because she knew what Ingrid’s answer would be: WEABS – Wandering Eyes And Bullshit. The answer that meant nothing at all. Ingrid had as good as admitted PST didn’t know what Rømer’s agenda was. So no one knew what his agenda was. No one knew who he might or might not be a threat to. Accordingly, Ingrid couldn’t know if the guy was spying on her or not.
What about steering a middle course? Checking out his flat, just to be on the safe side?
2
An hour later Lena was on her way down Schweigaards gate on foot. If Ingrid was right that Rømer had no interest in her, no harm done, she reasoned. But if Ingrid was wrong, finding Rømer’s flat was the best thing she could do.
A large part of Schweigaards gate was taken up by the Central Station and the bus terminal. So Lena concentrated her search on the apartment buildings in Gamlebyen. She went into every single house entrance and studied the lists of names by the doorbells.
After working her way through all the apartment blocks she still hadn’t found the name Stian Rømer. That didn’t necessarily mean his mother was lying. Lists of occupants weren’t always complete. Rømer could be living in one of the apartments without a name tag below.
She trawled through the side streets looking for the car.
It took her another ten minutes to find the black Fiat. It was parked in Østfoldgata. This was as easy as building Kinder Egg toys. The closest apartment building in Schweigaards gate was short of one name on the occupants list.
Lena crossed the street and scanned the façade. Some windows were lit and inviting. Others were dark. The apartment on the third floor had curtains and hooks on the windows. On the floor below, the occupants liked green plants and flowers.
The apartment on the first floor appeared to be empty. The windows were black and inhospitable. Where the Fiat was parked suggested that Stian Rømer would be living close by. She was becoming more confident now. Rømer lived behind the black windows.
She walked back across the street, stepped over the bank of snow and continued towards the apartment building. The front entrance was locked. She looked around. It was now gone eleven in the morning. If there were any PST undercover officers nearby, they were good at hiding.
Lena went for a recce around the block. When she was approaching the building again she found herself walking behind an elderly woman with a stoop. Two thin legs protruded from under her long woollen coat. The ice cleats under her boots scraped and creaked. She struggled to manoeuvre her shopping trolley on the snow and turned into the right entrance – at least for Lena’s purposes.
Lena was kindness in person. ‘I’ll help you,’ she said, and grabbed the trolley.
‘Oh, thank you,’ said the woman, who appeared to be suffering from some kind of rheumatic illness. She removed the cleats with some difficulty, but she was still stooped. Her big blue eyes peeked up at Lena from under the rim of a brown beret. A dewdrop hung from the tip of her long red nose. She rummaged in her pocket and found a tissue. After drying her nose, she took out a bunch of keys.
‘Which floor?’ Lena asked.
‘Second,’ the woman said. ‘And there’s no lift. It’s terrible to get old, I can tell you. Enjoy life while you’re young.’
Lena took the trolley in her right hand and supported the woman with the other. She was so thin and fragile that Lena was frightened her thin upper arm would break. The woman struggled with the stairs. She concentrated on raising one foot at a time and almost fell against Lena every time she straightened her leg. A sweet smell of alcohol hovered around her.
The trolley was incredibly heavy. Ho
w could the woman have imagined she would be able to get up the stairs under her own steam?
They reached the first floor. The glass in the door to the flat there was as dark and uninviting as the windows looking onto the street. It was as though the door in the gloomy stairwell was pulsating. Lena tried not to look.
She could no longer carry the heavy trolley bag and put it down on a step. The woman wasn’t happy with that. ‘Bottles,’ she mumbled and wanted to go back down.
‘I’ll fetch them later,’ Lena said quickly. ‘First of all, let’s get you up the stairs.’
‘Thank you. That’s very nice of you,’ the woman said. ‘Let’s rest a little.’
Lena felt uneasy by the black door and didn’t want to attract more attention than was necessary. ‘Just seven more steps,’ she whispered.
‘What did you say?’
‘Seven steps. Let’s go.’
‘I’ve been to the Vinmonopol,’ the woman explained, almost tumbling backwards.
Lena half carried her up the last steps, took the bunch of keys from her hand and unlocked the door. The woman was on her way down.
‘Come here,’ Lena snapped. ‘I’ll get the bottles.’
‘Thank you very much,’ the woman said as Lena trundled the trolley through the door. There was a smell of dust and urine in the entrance hall.
The woman stood, as far as she was able, looking up at her. ‘Would you like a drop before you go?’
Lena hesitated. Perhaps the woman knew something about the occupant below. On the other hand…
She shook her head and said a polite ‘no’. After waiting for the woman to close the door she turned and tiptoed down the stairs.
3
She stopped by the black door on the first floor and thought: The car that was spying on you is outside. Two plus two are four. Stian Rømer is inside. You know where he lives, the choice is yours now, either file this information and leave or go a step further and try and clarify the facts. What facts?
Is he really behind this door? And if so, has he got his eye on me?
Anyway, she thought, if he wasn’t living here, if the flat was unoccupied, no harm was done.
She raised her hand and pressed the bell.
No going back now.
Slowly she counted in her head. Thirty … fifty.
No reaction.
No footsteps audible inside the door. Not a sound to be heard.
She raised her hand to ring again.
A chain rattled inside and the door was pulled open.
A man wearing green military combat pants stood looking at her. His chest was bare. It was the most muscular chest Lena had ever seen. Delicate muscles flitted across a rugged six-pack. He had the biceps of a weightlifter. This man could have posed for men’s underwear had it not been for an ugly white scar running diagonally from his right nipple, over his stomach, to down below the waistband.
But the man had his right arm hidden behind the door.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked in English.
His face was sun-tanned, his teeth were white and the suggestion of a smile was mocking. The likeness with Ingrid’s photo was striking. They kept eye contact and Lena realised at once that Rømer knew who she was.
At first she was unable to say anything. She focused exclusively on the man’s right forearm and hand hidden behind the door.
Lena’s mouth was dry, but she managed to clear her throat nonetheless. ‘Stian Rømer?’
‘English please,’ he said, flexing his muscles.
Lena frowned, a little confused.
His neck and left shoulder were adorned with a massive tattoo. She stepped back a pace.
‘Please,’ the man continued, advancing and stretching out the visible arm after her. ‘Come in.’
In there? Not likely. Lena was already on her way down the stairs.
The door slammed shut behind her.
How much time did she have? A minute? Two? He would have to put some clothes on.
The front door was locked. She pushed with both hands, but it remained just as closed when she pushed again. My God, what a fool, it was locked. She flicked the lock and when she banged open the door, fooststeps were thundering down the staircase behind her.
Out. Lena ran, through the gate, not looking left or right, chose right, stumbled and slipped on the loose snow, gasped for air and crossed the street, raced into Klostergata and leaned against the wall.
Here, behind the corner of the house, she waited, panting. Her ears were rushing; she could hear her own heartbeat.
Carefully she leaned forwards to see around the corner.
He was standing on the pavement, scouring the area. A soldier dressed in a short, black hooded jacket and green fatigues.
He was holding something in his right hand. It was a gun. Black, heavy, and the man handled it with a natural nonchalance, as though he were a carpenter with a hammer.
Lena held her breath.
The man scanned the street in both directions, then put the gun in his waistband at the back with practised ease.
Lena was paralysed for a couple of seconds. Her legs almost buckled.
Finally she was ready to move. She backed away a few metres, then she turned and carried on, trying to walk calmly, trying to control her breathing, but instinctively increased her tempo. She ran the last metres to the wall by Minnepark and dived into the narrow opening. Peered out.
The man was charging towards the wall.
Lena threw herself around and ran between the rocks in the little park, which was so small, but now seemed enormous with the deep snow that made it so hard to raise her legs. Her back was in agony and she approached the exit on the opposite side much too slowly, not daring to look behind her.
Out.
She ran. Sprinted. Cast a glance over her shoulder. He was behind her. A machine. High knee pumps and black eyes. He was getting closer. She lost her balance, stumbled and regained it again.
Her coat, her long coat, was preventing her legs from stretching out. Lena tore it off as she ran. Jumped over the bank of snow at the side of the road and into the carriageway.
Now, now, now, she thought, and ran ino the middle of the road. Her feet found traction and she picked up speed. Breathe! In, out, in, out. Another glance over her shoulder, the distance was the same. At that moment her pursuer slipped on the ice, half fell, then re-found his footing.
The sight gave her renewed strength. Breathe in, out, in, out. She swung her arms in time with her knees. She had the right shoes on and was fit. Glanced back again. Got a strand of hair in her eyes. The distance was the same.
A tram came down Oslo gate. Lena ran inside the rails. The tram stopped fifty metres ahead. People poured out onto the platform.
Lena came level. Dived for the nearest door. Gasping for air, the taste of blood in her mouth. She was ready to drop, close to vomiting. She paused to look back.
The man had stopped on the pavement thirty metres away. They had eye contact. He was also gasping for air. Steam was coming from his mouth.
‘Are you coming in or not?’
She was startled. It was the tram driver, a man of around fifty with dark hair in a ponytail and a handlebar moustache.
Lena clambered in, her thighs stiff with lactic acid. The tram set off. Stain Rømer didn’t move. They held each other’s gaze as the tram glided past.
The House in the Forest, Lena thought – the fairy tale about the girl who was told not to enter the house, but did anyway. Too late for any regrets now, she told herself. You got an answer to your questions, even if you escaped only by the skin of your teeth. Nevertheless, you will have to face the music. She dug in her pocket for her phone and was fumbling to find Ingrid’s number when it rang. She read the number on the display. It was Ingrid Kobro’s.
Lena pressed her forehead against the window. Of course PST had their undercover officers out and about. Ingrid probably already knew what had happened.
At that moment a man tapped her
on the shoulder. Lena sat up straight and looked at him. Hat, scarf, grey beard.
‘Lena,’ the man said. ‘Answer the phone. Ingrid wants to talk to you.’ Then he gave her a sly wink and went back to his seat.
4
Lena straightened up and braced herself when the door opened.
Ingrid Kobro was standing in the doorway.
No hug this time. No slanted smile under twinkling eyes. They stared at each other for a few seconds.
‘Do you know how much we invest internationally to build up our reliable sources?’
‘Ingrid—’
‘Hang on! Do you know what risks such people run when they work for us?’
Ingrid’s eyes flashed. ‘You don’t give a damn, do you. You ignored my order and went straight to the flat after we’d agreed you would keep away from anything to do with Rømer. There’s a risk now that we’ve lost Rømer. Most likely all the work we’ve done on the guy has been for nothing. You see, he drove straight to Gardermoen, handed over the car and checked in on a flight to London.’
London? Lena wondered vacantly. Why would a man first try to kill her and then take the next flight to London?
‘Have you considered the consequences?’ Straightaway Ingrid Kobro answered her own question: ‘No, you haven’t.’ She continued: ‘Should you care whether other people’s lives and well-being have been put in jeopardy? No, sir. You’ve seen a car and what I or others might think about this case doesn’t concern you in the slightest.’
Lena glanced up. ‘Why…?’
‘Lena,’ Ingrid Kobro said in the same harsh tone. ‘Listen to what I’m saying now and take good note. Rømer and his business come under PST. Rømer’s our case and has nothing to do with you or Oslo Police District. The rental car has been returned. He did it an hour after you got on the tram in Gamlebyen. The man who handed in the car and checked in on a flight to London is on the plane at this minute. In other words, the bird has flown. The man who chased after you has left the country. You don’t have a problem now. But we do, precisely because he’s gone. So I have to know what it is you haven’t told me.’
The Ice Swimmer Page 14
