The Ice Swimmer

by Kjell Ola Dahl

  As soon as the seller turned away she poured the caustic brew down the grille by the kerb.

  She perked up when the door to the block of flats opened. But the residents who came and went were elderly women in long coats or old gents with skinny legs in slacks and scarves loosely knotted around their necks.

  Whenever the door closed behind the person entering, she gave them sufficient time, then leaned back and looked up. The windows of the flat on the top floor remained dark. Her icy breath took on a rainbow aura when she exhaled under the street lights.

  The last shops were closing. The tree seller slammed the sliding door of his VW Transporter shut. He waved to her and asked if he would be seeing her again, tomorrow for example.

  Lena shrugged.

  ‘I’ve kept back this one,’ the seller said, showing her a tree that was a shorter version of the previous example – nice and compact with shiny needles. ‘Same tree, with a metre lopped off.’

  ‘Beautiful,’ Lena said. ‘Perfect, but I can’t take it with me. Sorry.’

  ‘See you,’ the seller said optimistically. He waved through the window as he drove off.

  By the time midnight came, Lena was frozen stiff. She had been fantasising for hours about the cakes at Pascal’s and gave herself another ten minutes before admitting defeat.

  She hated giving up.

  The ten minutes passed and Lena counted her buttons. Shall I, shan’t I?

  A bus drove past slowly and pulled in to the stop. It drove on. Leaving a young woman. Lena watched her. Fashionable fur hat over a mass of blonde hair that fell down her back. The woman ran across the street, light on her feet. She wore a short white jacket cut in at the waist. Her tight trousers emphasised curvy hips and a lithe backside that men would certainly give a second look. The woman opened the correct door. It closed behind her.

  Lena stared up at the windows on the top floor. She imagined what was happening in the block and could almost hear the lift ascending through the floors. She visualised the woman searching for the keys in her bag and switching on the light…

  The windows on the top floor remained dark.

  The last hope. Enough was enough.

  Lena strolled back to Gabels gate and the car. When she opened the car door there was just enough electricity in the battery for a dim glow in the ceiling light. Which went out as she was watching.

  Lena got in anyway, pressed the accelerator once and optimistically turned the key.

  But her good ol’ boy had had it. A dry click was all that could be heard.

  This was not her day.

  ‘Home,’ she said aloud, got out of the car and locked it. Strolled slowly back, up the hill to Bygdøy allé to find a taxi rank. When she was level with the block of flats she sent a final glance up at the flat she’d had under surveillance.

  The window on the top floor was lit.

  5

  The package he had ordered online was in the letter box. On the rare occasions Gunnarstranda received a parcel he behaved like a child. His hands were shaking and he didn’t have the patience to untie the knots or look for a pair of scissors to cut the tape in a civilised fashion. He ripped the package open. The more obstinate the packaging, the more vicious his assault.

  While he was struggling with it, Tove sat watching him with arched eyebrows. She said nothing.

  At the top of the pile of CDs was the soundtrack to the film Ascenseur Pour L’échafaud by Louis Malle.

  This CD was also wrapped in plastic. His fingers skidded across the plastic. He tried with a fingernail, but that was no use, either.

  Tove arched her eyebrows once again. She leaned forwards and took a knitting needle from a bag on the floor. It pierced the plastic.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Gunnarstranda could finally sit comfortably and pull the headphones over his ears. He wore them because Tove was a TV fan. She liked to have the TV on twenty-four hours a day, and there was a constant stream of noise from the room – junk TV, news programmes, church services, whatever. Sound or no sound. The TV was on whether Tove was on the phone or reading a newspaper or a book.

  He knew she wouldn’t object if he turned off the TV. But if he did, and put on Miles Davis, for example, Tove would probably start talking.

  That in turn would lead to him either switching off the music or asking her to be quiet.

  He didn’t want Tove to be quiet. But that was the way he was wired. He could not talk to people while Miles Davis was playing.

  The solution was therefore to insulate the sound of music in headphones while Tove had the TV on.

  Miles Davis was dead by the time the CD came out. Miles had always recorded on vinyl and had consequently taken into account that listeners would have to get up and turn the record manually. Recordings generally had two concepts, one on side one and one on side two. The first side of In a Silent Way was an eighteen-minute-long melody borne by a hectic drumbeat. The other side was a lyrical composition in three parts. Gunnarstranda had always thought it an absurdity to listen to Miles Davis without being able to turn the record. However, this CD was the soundtrack of a film, so the music wasn’t tied to an A and a B side.

  Gunnarstranda was impressed that a French film director in the late 1950s had managed to persuade Miles to record a soundtrack for a whole film. What was more, it was beautiful. The harmonic progression was spare and melancholy, not unlike the soundscape on the classic Kind of Blue. But the only musician Gunnarstranda knew on the CD was the drummer, Kenny Clarke.

  Sipping from a glass of Upper Ten on the rocks, he relished the trumpet solos as he absent-mindedly stared at the TV screen showing the news. He tapped his left foot to the beat – and stopped.

  The screen was filled with the face of Frikk Råholt.

  Gunnarstranda pulled off the headphones and asked Tove what the item had been about.

  Uninterested, she glanced up from the paper where she was trying to do a Sudoku. ‘He’s giving up.’

  ‘Giving up? Politics?’

  The face of Frikk Råholt had gone now. It was the weather forecast.

  Gunnarstranda located the remote control and zapped through the channels.

  On TV2 News the story was still hot:

  ‘According to TV2’s information, Frikk Råholt will take over as a consultant for the PR agency First in Line. Råholt, who has built up a large network over many years as a politician, will be a lobbyist with great authority and force. Råholt’s move from being an MP at Storting to serving employers for a lucrative salary will stoke the debate about the realities behind government, says—’

  Gunnarstranda lowered the volume.

  ‘Why are you so interested?’ Tove asked.

  ‘Actually I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I only know I’m intrigued.’

  ‘What are you listening to?’ she asked.

  ‘Miles.’

  Tove took the CD with pictures of the film on the cover. ‘I’ve seen that one,’ she said. ‘The woman is that French…’ Tove snapped her fingers as she remembered the name. ‘Jeanne Moreau. The trumpet playing is when she wanders alone through the Paris night.’

  Tove grinned when she saw his surprise. ‘You like music, I like Jeanne Moreau. Sometimes you get both at once. Nice, isn’t it?’

  On the TV there was archive footage of Råholt’s political career.

  Gunnarstranda turned up the volume again. Råholt’s voice was mellifluous. He said politics was about achieving goals.

  ‘What many people forget is that we politicians are actually salesmen,’ the mellifluous voice said.

  Gunnarstranda sighed.

  ‘What is it?’ Tove asked.

  ‘My brother was on the picket lines at Linjegods in seventy-six and was attacked by the police.’

  Tove smiled. ‘Good job you weren’t working for the police then.’

  Gunnarstranda shook his head. ‘The point is that my brother said he was drawn to politics for ideological reasons. That cuckoo there,’ Gunnarstranda pointed
to a smiling Råholt waiting for another question from a fawning journalist, ‘he belongs to a generation that has turned politics into buying and selling.’

  Tove didn’t answer.

  ‘Why do we have to see all the people they interview on TV?’ Gunnarstranda said. ‘In the old days they filled the gaps between programmes with a picture of an aquarium and we could rest our eyes watching the fish. They should’ve kept that.’

  Tove lifted the remote control to switch off the television.

  Gunnarstranda raised both eyebrows in surprise. ‘Are you turning off the TV? Voluntarily? I’m impressed.’

  ‘I can take a hint,’ Tove said, walking over to the stereo. ‘Let’s have a bit of culture.’

  6

  Lena rang the bell on the top right. After a few seconds the lock buzzed. She pulled the door open and entered.

  There was no lift.

  She almost became hot walking up all the stairs to the top floor.

  Lena was about to ring the bell when the door opened.

  The woman standing in the doorway was at that indefinable age between twenty-seven and thirty-five. She was wearing tight black trousers and a short jumper revealing her navel. Her hair was honey blonde but with dark roots showing. She smiled in anticipation, showing her upper teeth, pointed, bent slightly inwards.

  A bit like a shark, Lena thought, and said: ‘Lisbet?’

  The woman nodded.

  Lena was wondering how to phrase the reason for her visit. This led to them looking at each other without speaking. The blonde spoke first.

  ‘You’re a policewoman,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen you on TV.’

  Lena nodded. ‘This is about Sveinung Adeler.’

  The woman pulled a kind of apologetic grimace. ‘I heard your message on voicemail and I was going to answer you tomorrow.’

  She kept looking at her watch as if to signal how late it was.

  ‘Can I come in?’ Lena was already undoing the zip of her overall.

  The flat was stylish. Sparsely furnished, but both the sofa and the broad armchair could have been displayed in one of the fancy boutiques in this area – clean lines, muted colours. Some glass shelving. A few magazines and a lot of textbooks stacked in piles on a dining table of solid wood. Lit tea-lights on a work table. Stereo with mini speakers.

  Some CDs scattered across the floor in front of the stereo. Lena tried, unsuccessfully, to read the titles. What came out of the speakers was some indie rock Lena recognised: Arcade Fire.

  Lena sat down on the sofa.

  The woman in the middle of the floor stood watching her – clearly ill at ease.

  ‘Would you mind turning the volume down a bit?’

  The woman took a remote from one of the shelves. The sound vanished.

  ‘You didn’t need to turn it off completely.’

  The woman didn’t answer.

  ‘I’ve come here to ask you whether you signed yourself L when making a date with Sveinung Adeler on Wednesday, the ninth of December at eleven o’clock in the evening.’

  The woman hesitated for a few moments before nodding and sitting down on the sofa as well.

  ‘It was our second meeting.’

  Lena said nothing, waiting for her to continue.

  ‘The first time was a month ago. In town. Very stupid actually. I was out with some girls. Just having a last shot at a bar. I met a guy and, well, he came back with me.’

  ‘And you met another time?’

  ‘After a few days he texted me, wanting us to meet again. Actually I wasn’t sure it was a good idea.’

  ‘A good idea?’

  ‘I’m in a relationship with someone else. Engaged.’

  Lena said nothing.

  ‘But then he rang and we talked … and then he rang again. In the end I said yes. Of course I realise now I behaved stupidly. I even told Sveinung I was in a relationship, and a lot besides. But I wanted it too, to meet Sveinung.’

  ‘You know he’s dead, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When did you find out?’

  ‘A couple of days ago.’

  Lena was quiet, waiting for an explanation.

  ‘I’ve cut myself off for the moment.’ She nodded towards the pile of books. ‘I read round the clock when I’m not working at Gardermoen. So I’m not always up-to-date with events. I saw you on Newsnight and my jaw dropped. Sveinung dead – what the…?’

  ‘We asked people to come forward if they knew anything.’

  Lisbeth didn’t answer.

  ‘But you didn’t contact us?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I was in total shock. So there was that. And I’m supposed to be engaged. So should I ring the police and tell them I’ve been unfaithful? If everything finishes with Olaf, I don’t want it to happen like this. If it does, I’ll do it on my own initiative. He doesn’t need to know about all of this.’

  Lisbet looked at her watch. ‘He’s coming here, by the way. She got up. ‘I thought it was him ringing now, but it was you.’ She took a phone from the windowsill. ‘And I have a feeling this conversation won’t finish that quickly.’ She sent Lena an enquiring look.

  Lena nodded.

  The woman tapped in a number and put the phone to her ear. When there was an answer she went into another room and closed the door behind her.

  Lena sat listening to her talking in a low voice behind the door. She was so annoyed. This girl was banging another guy on the side and failed to inform the police when they were asking for information!

  Lena’s eyes wandered around the walls. She was envious of the two designer candlesticks on the table.

  Lisbet had finished talking and was standing in the doorway watching her.

  ‘Well?’ Lena said.

  ‘Can I offer you anything? Something to drink perhaps?’

  Lena shook her head.

  Lisbet came over and sat down. They remained in these positions, each sitting in their corner of the sofa looking straight ahead.

  ‘Tell me what happened on Tuesday night.’

  ‘Sveinung came here at about half past eleven.’

  ‘How long did he stay?’

  ‘Till early in the morning.’

  ‘Time?’

  ‘Around five maybe.’

  ‘Did he say where he was going when he left?’

  ‘Home, I would suppose. He didn’t say, but I asked if I should ring for a taxi. Out of the question. He wanted to walk. He was like that, I think – a fitness freak … Of course, it was sad that he slipped into the water, but…’

  Lena waited in the ensuing silence.

  ‘After seeing you on TV and hearing what you said I thought about Sveinung. It was really tough. I didn’t feel anything. It struck me I didn’t know anything about Sveinung – nothing private, not even whether he liked fried eggs for breakfast. I mean, we had fun together, but he never said anything about himself. And so I thought: did I reveal anything of myself at all? What if I was suddenly gone like that? Would he, for example, have been able to say anything about me, something nice? I had no idea. It was frightening. I don’t know if you can understand that.’

  Lisbet looked at Lena, who decided to ask another question:

  ‘What did you do when he left that morning?’

  Lisbet didn’t answer. She looked into middle distance. Her eyes were moist. She blinked.

  ‘For example, could you get someone to confirm that you didn’t follow Sveinung Adeler?’

  ‘Who would confirm that? Olaf, my bloke? After all, he was in Berlin.’

  ‘What was he doing in Berlin?’

  ‘His job. He works for the Norwegian Export Council.’

  ‘Could I have his name and address?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you were cheating on a guy who was possibly pushed into the harbour half an hour after he got out of your bed.’

  Lisbet’s eyes were no longer moist.

  ‘We want to eliminate Ola
f from our enquiries. Do you understand?’

  ‘But I know he was in Berlin. He has a phone with a German SIM card. I rang him that night, in Berlin, only an hour before Sveinung arrived.’

  ‘I still need his name and address.’

  Lisbet continued to hesitate. ‘Does he have to know the reason for your questions?’

  Lena jumped up from the sofa.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ the blonde woman asked nervously.

  ‘You’ve withheld information from us for long enough!’

  Lisbet got to her feet without another word. She went to the work table with all the books and took a pen from beside some loose papers.

  A little later, as Lena was strolling down to the crossroads of Bygdøy allé and Gabels gate, she glanced at the car that had been frozen to death. It really did look like a corpse with a thick, solid, grey layer of rime on all the windows, even over the paintwork.

  Lena carried on towards the centre. It was past midnight now, and no one was around. She sluiced all thoughts of Sveinung Adeler and Lisbet out of her head. She had a whole free day ahead of her. Now she focused on finding a taxi, getting home and drinking a quarter of bubbly in bed. She felt she could sleep for several days.

  Monday, 21st December

  1

  Lena didn’t think about Sveinung Adeler or the woman he was with the night before he drowned until she got on the bus on Monday morning. As soon as she plumped down on the bus seat her phone rang.

  It was Gunnarstranda.

  ‘Did you see the note I found in Adeler’s flat?’ Lena asked. ‘The mysterious L at the bottom is Lisbet Enderud and she lives in Bygdøy allé. She and Adeler—’

  ‘I knew I’d seen the handwriting before!’ Gunnarstranda interrupted.

  Lena was quiet and fell back on the seat as the bus set off.

  ‘In her notes. Lisbet Enderud’s the name of the girl who signed the threatening letter to Vestgård. I compared the notes with the letter to see if it was her handwriting.’