The Ice Swimmer

by Kjell Ola Dahl

  He didn’t allow the rejection to upset him; he gallantly proffered a hand and pulled out a chair, as though he had done nothing else but dance attendance on women all his life.

  They sat down.

  A waiter came over to the table. ‘Something to drink first?’ he asked politely.

  ‘I have some Chablis.’ Steffen held up a glass by the stem.

  She hesitated. Both the waiter and Steffen looked at Lena patiently.

  She pointed to the menu. ‘Sancerre.’

  After the waiter had poured her wine, they raised their glasses.

  ‘Chablis, soft and sweet,’ Lena said.

  He arched his brows. ‘Sancerre, sulky and sour.’

  He twirled the glass between his fingers.

  He stared at her.

  ‘We had an agreement,’ she continued. ‘I came here on the condition that you’d tell me who your source was.’

  ‘It was Axel Rise,’ he admitted at once.

  ‘Prove it,’ she said.

  ‘Prove what?’

  ‘Give me some proof that it was Rise who tipped you off about Shamoun, Vestgård and their child! I’ve been suspended because of that case. Your say-so isn’t enough. I need proof.’

  Steffen put a hand into his inside pocket, pulled out a document and passed it to her.

  Lena straightened out the sheets of paper. It was Vestgård’s statement. The same text she’d read out to Lena and Rindal, with Vestgård’s lawyer, Irgens, present.

  ‘You’re lying again,’ she said.

  He stared at her.

  ‘The document I filed was stamped, by me personally. These two sheets are blank. No stamp. This isn’t a copy of my document. Axel Rise can’t have given you this.’

  He looked down at the two pieces of paper without uttering a word.

  Lena folded them and put them in her bag.

  ‘I don’t know how he did it,’ Steffen said. ‘But I do know where I got them. From Axel Rise.’

  She looked him in the eye. ‘I don’t believe you,’ she said coldly.

  He spread his open palms in resignation. ‘Then don’t.’

  As if I were the dishonest one, she thought, and said: ‘Tell me what Axel Rise’s agenda is. Why is he feeding you information? What have you got on him?’

  ‘Rise has a sick child.’

  At last he had said something that was the truth.

  ‘There’s a clinic in Germany,’ Steffen said, rubbing his thumb against his forefinger. ‘Outside Frankfurt. Naturopathy. Cleaning blood, the full programme. So-called alternative medicine. No support from the state. Rise has to pay the whole whack himself. That clinic costs money.’

  ‘You pay Rise for information?’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘Does your editor know this?’

  Steffen looked back at her, still silent. His hand sought hers. For a fraction of a second she eyed the hand. Blue and green numbers and letters in biro. It jolted a memory, something that happened a long time ago. She smiled weakly. Was about to look away, but his hand drew her eyes back:

  A hand covered in writing. Numbers. Numbers and writing in blue and green ink. Numbers. Numbers she had seen before. Where had she seen the numbers before? It was a phone number. It was a number she had dialled herself.

  It was a number belonging to Bodil Rømer – the mother of the man who tried to kill her.

  For a moment time stood still. Sound vanished. The waiter, who was on his way to the neighbouring table, didn’t move.

  It was a brief moment. But he must have noticed. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.

  Lena got up. ‘Won’t be a minute,’ she said, put her handbag under her arm and walked out through the glass door. She took a deep breath. Then rushed to the cloakroom. Handed the man behind the counter a coin, grabbed her coat with both hands and staggered out.

  Tuesday, 22nd December

  1

  She set off after him. Her eyes were fixed on his back. She picked up the pace to catch him. The man just walked faster; the distance stayed the same. Lena began to run. She closed the gap and stretched out a hand to grab his shoulder. Her hand fell short. He climbed into the cab of a lorry. The man was wearing some kind of uniform. He looked like the smoke diver who had got into the fire engine outside the block where Steffen lived. The man turned. At last she would see who he was. The man twisted his head round. At that moment she looked away. No, don’t look away! She fixed her eyes on the man again. Once again she saw a profile turning towards her.

  A loud noise woke her with a start.

  She was sweaty, clammy, but didn’t move a muscle, terrified of what lay behind the bang that had woken her.

  She listened to the darkness. The flat was totally silent. She could hear nothing, not even the traffic outside.

  The bang must have been in her dream. Was that possible? Could you hear such a realistic sound in your dream?

  At last she plucked up the courage to move. Stretched out an arm and took her watch from the bedside table. The small, luminous hands showed ten past two in the morning.

  She lay awake. Trying to focus on ordinary things, normal things, domestic things. For example, she had a frozen car to see to. That had to be sorted. She got out of bed, went to find her phone in the sitting room and texted Frank Frølich. Then went back to bed.

  She was woken by the phone ringing. It was light outside. Lunch time for people who were working. She picked up the phone.

  It was Gunnarstranda: ‘I’ve got some good news and some bad news,’ he said. ‘Which do you want first?’

  ‘The bad news.’

  ‘You’ve got to get out of bed.’

  ‘And the good news?’

  ‘Your suspension’s been countermanded.’

  She wondered how she felt about that.

  ‘You’ll be a desk rat for a few days, that’s all,’ Gunnarstranda said.

  ‘There’s something I have to talk to you about,’ Lena said, and launched into it: ‘Steffen Gjerstad, the journalist.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Six months ago he interviewed Nina Stenshagen and Stig Eriksen.’

  There was silence for a few seconds, then Gunnarstranda coughed. ‘Did he tell you that?’

  ‘No. I found his article on the internet. One report in a series about people living in extreme situations. A guy living all year round in a hunting lodge in Svalbard, one digging for gold on Finnmarksvidda and these two homeless drug addicts living in a city.’

  ‘So you’re thinking Gjerstad is someone these two knew?’

  ‘Yes,’ Lena said, holding her breast for the first time for a while. She could feel the tumour. It ached. The whole of her breast was sore.

  This silence lasted a little longer than the previous one.

  ‘What are you actually trying to tell me?’ he said.

  ‘I think Gjerstad’s the killer.’

  Gunnarstranda said nothing.

  ‘Why aren’t you saying anything?’

  ‘I’m thinking,’ Gunnarstranda said.

  Was he sceptical? Lena had never been so sure of herself. ‘I’m waiting to receive the final confirmation today,’ she said.

  ‘How?’

  ‘I’m going to Drammen to confront a witness.’

  Frankie had answered the message.

  He picked Lena up at just after two in the afternoon.

  She asked him to stop at the Shell petrol station in Østre Aker vei. He drove in and stopped by the front door. She got out and went to buy some jump leads.

  ‘I’ve got plenty of them,’ he sighed when she got back in. ‘You could’ve saved your money.’

  ‘I need them anyway,’ Lena said, not wishing to discuss the matter.

  The Micra was where she had left it, covered in more ice than ever. She put the yellow fine in her pocket before Frølich had a chance to comment.

  While he manoeuvred his Toyota into position she unlocked the door of the Micra and opened the bonnet. Lena hated every
thing to do with electricity. The mere thought of getting an electric shock could make her hysterical. And she tended to be oversensitive to static electricity. It wasn’t unusual for her to get a shock just touching a car. Now she had to connect two car batteries and was already sick and tired of men’s patronising attitudes towards her ignorance.

  ‘Now you’ll see,’ Frankie said, swaggering over to the engine.

  Lena opened the packet of jump leads. ‘I have to be able to do this myself,’ she said, pushing him away and taking one cable and attaching one clamp to the plus terminal. She took the other clamp and looked down into the engine of Frølich’s car.

  ‘There,’ he pointed.

  ‘I can see it,’ she said, looking for the plus sign.

  Frankie was impatient. ‘There,’ he said.

  ‘I told you I could see it,’ Lena said, about to attach the clamp.

  ‘Not there,’ he said, annoyed. ‘There!’ He went to take the clamp out of her hand.

  ‘I’m doing it!’

  She attached the clamp to the terminal without any further protests. This was child’s play, she thought, examining the second cable.

  Frølich watched her with a mildly condescending look.

  ‘Yes?’ Lena said.

  ‘It’s earth.’

  ‘I know it is!’ She attached the clamp to the opposite terminal on his battery. The cable was still too short to reach, so she attached the other end to the edge of the bonnet. ‘That’s earthed now.’

  ‘Clever,’ he said. ‘Let’s try.’

  Lena didn’t know what was clever, but she got into the car and turned the ignition key. The starter motor turned over as if the battery was new. The engine started. She put her foot on the accelerator. The car ran like a dream. Frankie removed the jump leads and closed the bonnet lid.

  ‘Everything OK?’ he shouted over the din of the engine.

  She nodded. ‘Thanks, Frankie!’

  ‘Drive around for half an hour before you switch off the engine,’ Frølich said, ‘so that the battery can charge up.’

  She nodded, waved as she let go of the clutch and turned the heater on full.

  2

  It was as hot as a sauna in the flat. Lena had taken off not only her jumper but also her short-sleeved top, which was sticking to her back.

  ‘You don’t need to offer me anything,’ she called.

  ‘What was that?’ came a voice from the kitchen.

  The lady really was hard of hearing. Lena gave up. She leaned back against the sofa. Then she spotted an ant parading along the windowsill. An ant! Lena’s eyes widened. This was late December, winter, icy outside, frozen ground. How could an ant be wandering around in here? She followed it. It continued on its indefatigable journey. She leaned over and placed a finger in front of the ant. It climbed over her finger and down to the other side. Whoops! The ant fell from the windowsill and vanished in a crack above the radiator.

  Lena jumped up, pulled the sofa back half a metre and knelt down to find it again. No ants on the floor. She presumed it was dead. Burnt to death on the radiator. It had survived half a winter here against all the odds, but then was killed because of her curiosity. It was a catastrophe. She tried to peer into the crack between the radiator and the wall to see it again.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Bodil Rømer stood in the kitchen doorway. In her hands she was holding a porcelain tray with two porcelain cups, a jug of cream and a sugar bowl.

  Lena blushed and sat up.

  ‘I thought there was a bit of a draught,’ she said, ‘and I was feeling to see where it came from.’

  ‘My husband was always repairing that corner,’ Bodil Rømer said, and came in. She put the tray down on the small round table. Placed a cup for each of them.

  ‘You don’t need to serve anything,’ Lena said. ‘I don’t want to be any bother.’

  ‘You will have a cup of coffee, won’t you? And a few cinnamon snaps. These cinnamon snaps are from Kiwi supermarket and are much better than the ones from Rema. You’re right, there is a draught. There’s a radiator behind the sofa. But I struggle to bend down. Would you turn the radiator up a bit?’

  Lena, who was still withering in the heat, got to her feet and knelt down beside the sofa. No ants. Yes, there it was, and it wasn’t alone. There was a little colony flourishing in the dust behind the radiator. An ant-hill in the sitting room! What might this woman have under her bed?

  ‘There we are,’ Lena said, straightening up. ‘Now you’ll be lovely and warm in here.’

  She turned and looked straight into the face of Bodil Rømer, straining to hear her.

  ‘Have a cinnamon snap,’ said Bodil.

  Lena took a heart-shaped biscuit and put it on her plate. She wondered what to say in order to point the conversation in the direction she wanted. She thought she would make some small talk first, then search for an opening. But the heat was still suffocating. This flat with its heavy curtains, even heavier door curtain, heavy furniture and ants on the floor was making her slightly claustrophobic. Suddenly Lena thought she had ants crawling up her legs and felt an acute urge to scratch; she longed to get out.

  She stood up, squeezed between the sofa and the table and walked into the free area in the centre of the room.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Bodil asked.

  ‘Draught,’ Lena said. ‘I’m a bit sensitive to draughts.’

  ‘Dearie me,’ Bodil said. ‘It’s true, it is cold. I’ll turn up the heating!’

  Lena was barely listening. She was back to when this woman’s son pounced on her and she was hanging from the side of the cliff for grim life.

  No, she told herself. What happened was not my fault. He was the one who dragged me towards the edge. He was the one who wanted to throw me off.

  Lena closed her eyes. She was counting days. Bodil Rømer apparently thought her son was still living abroad. Why? Why hadn’t Ingrid Kobro informed her of her son’s death? And why did this woman have such a sad face?

  ‘Imagine you meeting Stian on holiday and coming here to visit me. You’re a nice girl.’

  ‘So stupid of us not to exchange phone numbers,’ Lena said, ‘but that’s how holidays are. Before you know what’s happening you’re on your way home, and it’s only then you remember what you forgot to do.’

  ‘I’ll tell Stian you’ve been here next time he drops by. I’ll tell him to hold onto you!’

  I’d better get to the point, Lena thought. ‘Lovely coffee,’ she said with a smile.

  ‘Oh, I’m forgetting myself,’ Bodil said, got up and filled Lena’s cup. She held the jug with both hands. Now Lena noticed that her hands were crippled. Three of her fingers curled into her palm in an unnatural way. Arthritis, Lena thought. At that moment their eyes met. Bodil put down the jug and hid her hands in embarrassment under the table.

  Lena’s feelings of guilt grew. She turned to the wall.

  And she found herself looking straight at a school-leavers’ photo. The writing underneath told her this was the last year at Drammen Gymnas. She took the picture down and studied it.

  Bodil smiled. ‘Yes, that’s Stian’s school photo.’

  Lena scanned the heads wearing the famous red russ caps; the photo was nineteen years old. She had no idea what Stian looked like nineteen years ago.

  But then her legs gave way beneath her and she had to support herself on the wall.

  ‘What is it? Aren’t you feeling well?’

  Lena shook her head. If she had been hot before, she was cold now. ‘I think I’ve found Stian,’ she said, putting the photo on the table and pointing.

  ‘’No,’ Bodil said, pointing to the photo with a deformed hand. ‘This is Stian,’ she said, with a crooked little finger. ‘You were pointing at Steffen, his friend, but they’re very similar, I’ll give you that!’

  Lena kept a poker face and managed to simulate a smile. ‘How stupid I am. I can see it now. I met both of them there on Ibiza. Stian and Steffen were on hol
iday together.’

  ‘No change there then,’ Bodil said. ‘Steffen and Stian, they were like the Katzenjammer Kids – utterly inseparable.’

  ‘Has Steffen tried to contact Stian recently?’

  ‘He’s rung, but I can only tell him what I’ve told you. Stian’s abroad.’

  3

  As Lena was driving through Lierskogen Forest, down the hill towards Asker, with Oslo spreading in front of her like an inverted starry sky, she had an idea. She reviewed it once and then a second time. It got better the more she thought about it. Approaching Sandvika, she picked up her phone and rang Gunnarstranda. He was in Tanum Bookshop on Karl Johans gate, buying Christmas presents. They agreed to meet at the skating rink nearby, in Spikersuppa.

  She found a place to park at the bottom of Roald Amundsens gate and found Gunnarstranda talking to Frank Frølich by the statue of Henrik Wergeland. Metallic music was blaring out of the loudspeakers. Crowds of children were floundering round and round the little rink, which was bathed in light.

  Lena joined them.

  ‘I’ve just heard you’ve been rehabilitated,’ Frølich said. ‘Congratulations.’

  Lena shrugged. If Frankie was bitter she could understand. ‘I’m sure it’s a gender thing,’ she said, ‘like everything else.’

  Both of them looked at Gunnarstranda, who was sorting the books in his carrier bag.

  ‘It was Rindal’s doing,’ Gunnarstranda said. ‘He succumbed to persuasion. Actually I think he’s got a soft spot for you, Lena.’