The Ice Swimmer

by Kjell Ola Dahl

  She spun round and went to the door. She opened it. And came face to face with a man barring her way.

  Lena tried to push him aside.

  He was like a rock.

  ‘Shift.’

  The man shook his head. There was something familiar about his appearance. He had a scar on his top lip.

  ‘I’ve seen you before,’ Lena said.

  ‘PST,’ he said. ‘I’d appreciate it if you’d go back and sit down.’

  ‘There are some photos in the interview room I’d like to see.’

  Ingrid’s voice on the screen made Lena turn:

  ‘The photos show your friend Rømer carrying a lifeless Lena Stigersand to her car. As you can see, her hands are tied with plastic strips. She is being taken away against her will. What I’m trying to tell you is that these photos prove Rømer is performing unlawful transportation – kidnapping. And it happened in your flat. After the photos were taken, Rømer drove this woman’s car out of town to the sea at Asker. These photos show him dragging Lena towards the water. One of our officers decided to step in. Thereby thwarting the plan both of you had made.’

  Lena turned to the door again.

  ‘Me,’ said the man with the harelip, tapping his chest. ‘I was the fireman that morning.’

  Lena remembered. The man in front of her was the smoke diver who had spoken to the residents outside the block where Steffen lived.

  ‘So,’ said Kobro’s voice on the screen. ‘The DPP’s willing to drop the charge of premeditated murder in the case of Sveinung Adeler. Also complicity in the premeditated murders of Nina Stenshagen and Stig Eriksen. We’re also willing to drop the death threat against Vestgård, which of necessity falls under the terrorism clause; the same applies to complicity in the conspiracy against Lena Stigersand, so long as you sign this declaration.’

  She pushed the document across the table.

  Steffen looked at her with raised eyebrows.

  ‘You hereby declare that you saw Stian Rømer alive and well at the Kenzi Farah Hotel in Marrakech on the third of December.’

  Steffen took his time. Silence hung over the interview room.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked the man with the harelip. ‘Is he going to sign?’

  Lena’s mouth was dry. She barely heard the question.

  ‘What will the charge be in the end?’ Steffen said in a businesslike fashion.

  ‘If you sign, you’ll be charged with manslaughter as a result of pushing Sveinung Adeler into the sea during a fight, plus gross negligence for not trying to save him.’

  Steffen mulled this over.

  ‘Together this makes wilful manslaughter,’ said the smoke diver in a dry voice. ‘Twelve years at least. But he doesn’t realise.’

  ‘It’s the plank that makes it premeditated murder?’ Steffen asked.

  Ingrid Kobro nodded.

  ‘But the plank won’t be mentioned in the charge?’ Steffen asked with a look askance.

  ‘Correct,’ Ingrid said.

  Steffen ruminated further. Eventually he said: ‘I don’t remember if I was at the Kenzi Farah Hotel that day.’

  ‘We were there,’ Ingrid said. ‘We saw you and have both of you on film. We weren’t interested in you then, but in Stian Rømer.’

  Lena switched off the screen.

  She headed for the door again.

  The man with the harelip held her back. ‘Rømer’s death mustn’t get out,’ he said. ‘A lot of people’s lives and safety depend on him being officially in Mogadishu, Somalia, today. Lots of people who risk their lives on a daily basis and those of their closest families depend on Gjerstad signing the deal right here and now.’

  ‘How can you say that?’

  The man deliberated for a few seconds, then said: ‘What if there’s a man pretending to be Stian Rømer in Mogadishu at this very moment? What do you think will happen to him and the players around him if the real Rømer turns up in Oslo – dead?’

  Lena took a deep breath. There was nothing she could say. The man watched her in silence.

  ‘You were there?’ Lena said at last. ‘In Asker? When I got the pepper spray in my face?’

  The man nodded. ‘We were keeping an eye on Rømer. We’d been on his heels the day before, when he was searching for a place to dump you. We didn’t know what he was up to. It was only when he took the car and drove you out of town that we knew where he was going. We were in position when you arrived. As I said, we didn’t want to harm Rømer, but it couldn’t be avoided when he tried to kick you into the sea.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘There were two of us.’

  ‘You threw him in?’

  The man shook his head.

  ‘You shot him?’

  The man with the harelip nodded.

  ‘I didn’t hear a bang.’

  ‘You weren’t supposed to.’

  ‘It was dark.’

  ‘We used lasers.’

  ‘I could’ve fallen!’

  The man nodded again.

  ‘I could’ve died.’

  ‘I doubt that. As I said, there were two of us – both ready to step in if you were in difficulty.’

  ‘But you allowed him to carry out the whole plan. Light the fire on the stairs, the attack, the car journey…’

  ‘We had no idea what he was up to. When it became clear he intended to drown you, we stepped in.’

  Lena looked down at her hands. They were trembling.

  ‘I thought it was my fault he fell.’

  The man didn’t answer.

  ‘He could’ve shot me in the flat.’

  ‘I doubt that,’ the man said. ‘That would’ve put his pal, Gjerstad, in a very tricky spot.’

  Lena closed her eyes. She grabbed the door handle.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Out,’ Lena said. ‘Away from here.’

  Lena didn’t go away. She stood motionless in the corridor until the door opened and Ingrid Kobro emerged from the interview room.

  ‘Did he sign?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Ingrid Kobro folded the piece of paper in her hand and looked at her watch. ‘It’s past midnight. Now we can say “Happy Christmas”.’

  Lena nodded wearily. She turned away and went into her own office. The word Christmas had set off alarm bells in her head.

  It was Christmas and she had actually committed the cardinal sin. She had forgotten to soak the mutton ribs. Mum would never forgive her.

  She had to shake her head at herself. Mum’s forgiveness? Mutton ribs? What was she like?

  She closed the door behind her and leaned back against it. For a long time. She was still there when she heard footsteps in the corridor. The footsteps faded.

  It had to be Gunnarstranda taking Steffen to the custody suite. Should she or shouldn’t she? There was no question. She had to!

  She ripped open the door and hurried along the corridor. On the steps she saw the lift was already on its way down. She descended the stairs at a gallop and got to the bottom just as Gunnarstranda was about to open the gate to the cells.

  ‘Steffen!’

  Both men stopped and turned.

  Lena asked: ‘Why did you do it?’

  Steffen stared at her with empty eyes. ‘Do what? The charges have been radically revised. I don’t know if you’re aware.’

  ‘Why did you take part in planning the fire? Why did you let the guy wait for me in your flat?’

  Steffen turned to Gunnarstranda with a questioning look on his face, but Gunnarstanda shrugged and said: ‘I’m deaf in that ear.’

  ‘Shared guilt,’ Steffen said. ‘Stian couldn’t accept that you knew his identity and wanted to do something about it. On the practical side, you gave me the idea when you got the cherry stone stuck in your throat.’

  Lena had to count to ten. She propped herself against the wall.

  She and Gunnarstranda sent each other a look.

  Gunnarstranda grabbed Gjerstad’s arm to hurry him along.r />
  ‘Wait,’ Lena said.

  Both men turned. ‘Since you think you’re so bloody clever, Steffen,’ Lena said, ‘there’s one little thing you should know.’

  He looked at her, curious.

  ‘You needn’t have killed Sveinung Adeler.’

  Steffen’s eyes glazed over.

  ‘Didn’t you read it? Let me tell you what he wrote on the last page: “In this case it is necessary to draw a distinction.” I know it off by heart, Steffen. I memorised it so that I could tell you when we met: “MacFarrell Ltd only has owning interests in the plants; they play no part in the production. Because the concern necessarily receives profit from its activities and through its ownership indirectly maintains the production in occupied territory, there will always be controversy about whether this kind of interest violates recognised principles of international law. However, this level of ownership is not enough to have any direct influence on the decision-making authority of the production company.”’

  Lena paused for dramatic effect, then continued: ‘So Adeler came to the sensational recommendation that the Government Pension Fund Global didn’t need to withdraw from MacFarrell. Even if everyone believed the opposite to be the case. MacFarrell was frightened they would be forced out. Råholt was sure the Oil Fund would force out MacFarrrell and was paid an enormous fee to lobby the decision-makers. He was so sure of the outcome of the official’s investigations he paid you money to smear him. When Adeler told you he’d already handed in the report you should’ve taken the trouble to ask what his conclusions were. Had you done that, you would’ve known there was no point in bumping him off.’

  Gunnarstranda pulled Gjerstad into the custody suite with Lena shouting after him: ‘There was no point! Do you hear me, Steffen? You screwed up!’

  The door slammed.

  She waited.

  For ten minutes.

  Then Gunnarstranda returned.

  ‘Are you still here?’

  She nodded.

  Gunnarstranda’s voice was low and sympathetic as he spoke: ‘Gjerstad told me you were ill, Lena. Is that true?’

  She nodded.

  ‘When you’re served up that kind of diagnosis it’s absolutely understandable you come unstuck at the edges,’ Gunnarstranda said. ‘I’ve lost people who were very close to me; in fact everyone I know has had someone who’s been affected by that illness. Everyone understands. You have colleagues who’ll cover for you. You need to rest, Lena. You have to go through a very tough course of treatment. I know you and I’m sure you’ll beat it. But only if you focus! Do the sensible thing. Go home and celebrate Christmas like other people. Think positively. Take sick leave and get well. Life’s not a motorway on the Po Plain. Life’s a struggle with a few uphill climbs. Sometimes we solve the problems as easy as winking. Sometimes we have to be patient. That’s the most important quality you can have as a cop. To know your own limits. We have to maintain law and order. The power lies elsewhere. It’s in parliament, in the government and the courts.’

  Lena stared, knowing he hadn’t finished.

  ‘In the press, too, sometimes,’ Gunnarstranda said with a characteristic little smirk. ‘That’s what they think anyway. Come on,’ he said, taking her arm. ‘We’re going the same way, so we can share a taxi.’

  They sat side by side in the back seat of the taxi without speaking. The car passed through quiet Oslo streets. Inside there was a smell of Wunderbaum air freshener. The driver had lowered the music on the radio and the windscreen wipers were on intermittent in the snow.

  Gunnarstranda coughed. ‘Are you celebrating Christmas with your mother?’

  Lena didn’t answer.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked.

  ‘The man with the hare lip – where does he come from?’

  Gunnarstranda shrugged. ‘Sounded like Fredrikstad.’

  ‘I mean which police department.’

  ‘No idea. Think he’s been with PST for quite a while. Why?’

  ‘I wonder what kind of people PST are … or become.’

  Gunnarstranda looked at her sideways.

  ‘It suddenly struck me they’ve been following Rømer ever since he landed in Gardermoen.’

  The taxi stopped for the lights.

  The driver turned up the volume on the radio. It was Bing Crosby singing ‘White Christmas’.

  ‘What if PST saw everything that happened in the harbour that morning?’

  Gunnarstranda didn’t answer.

  ‘My guess is they were there and saw the lot,’ Lena said. ‘But they didn’t step in and they said nothing to us. Think about everything that happened, and it’s all because they think they’re working in the most important service in the world and what is paramount in life is to keep mum.’

  ‘I doubt they were there and saw what went on.’

  ‘But what if they were?’

  Gunnarstranda heaved a sigh. ‘If the sun didn’t exist, neither would we,’ he said. ‘But the sun rises every morning. Think of the future, Lena. Tomorrow it’s Christmas Eve and it’ll be better for you and your mother if you remember to soak the mutton ribs.’

  Sunday, 7th March

  Footsteps creaked on the snow-covered path. The thrum of a car engine was the sole sound to break the winter silence as a figure hoisted a shovel and mattock over her shoulder, stepped over the heaped snow at the side of the road and waded into the blanket of snow, which reached up over her knees. The white expanse glistened. The bright sun hung low in the sky and made the bark on the tree trunks glitter like gold.

  The woman dug her way down in the snow, to the ice layer, squinted into the sun and carried on. It was important to keep warm. Beneath the loose snow there was an older, compressed layer which required a great deal of muscle. The woman worked systematically and rhythmically, digging away a rectangle of two metres by four. She dug down deeper. Soon the snow was up to her waist.

  Then the job of hacking into the ice started. With every swing of the mattock a shower of tiny fragments of ice shot into the air. The rays of sun didn’t find their way down into the hole. Matt pieces of ice lay on the ground until they were shovelled away or crushed to powder underfoot. The mattock had two ends: a pick, and a blade like a small axe. The shaft was a little loose in the welded rim. At the start the debris could easily be removed with the shovel, but the deeper the mattock went into the ice, the more energy it took to lever the chunks loose. She worked up a sweat. Her breath froze on the edge of her fur hat. Now and then she straightened up and measured the depth with the shaft of the mattock. Thirty centimetres of blue ice and still no water. Forty centimetres and no water. Fifty centimetres and no water.

  There! The pick was stuck and water was bubbling up. The sight of it made her redouble her efforts. She wriggled the mattock loose and then smashed the hole wider. Now she was pushing loose fragments and debris under the edge of the ice as the water rose. When the hole was clean and square she had to create a step into the water. Splinters flew as the axe blade hacked one out.

  She put the mattock down. It stood like a crooked pole in the snow. Now the engine was the only sound to break the silence. The exhaust fumes rose like a grey sculpture into the frozen air. She walked back to the car, using her previous footprints.

  On the seat in the car were a towel, a blanket and two ice picks, pointed implements with handles. The walk back to the hole was faster. She stopped by the edge, looked at the black water, pulled the mattock over and sliced off a jagged piece of ice protruding into the water by the step. Removed her woollen mittens. Instantly the cold gnawed at her fingers. She laid her jacket on the snow. Undid the zip at the side of her thermal trousers. Folded her clothes nicely. Loosened the laces of her boots and kicked them off. She stood barefoot on her puffa trousers. Brushed away the snow. Took off her woollen jumper, woollen shirt, thermal tights. Finally, she peeled off her bra and panties. She stood there naked in the sub-zero temperature. Her skin steamed; in seconds the sweat was transformed into invisible fro
zen mist. She could feel the frost biting and numbing her skin, yet she stood still. She wanted to be cooled down and thoroughly cold before she moved. The water temperature would be two, maybe three degrees. She wanted it to feel warm when she went in. That was why she was bathing her body in the Siberian air, waiting, naked, beneath the blue sky – white skin yellow-ish against the whiteness of the snow. Short, red hair, blue eyes, red lips, pink nipples and a little red scar on her left breast. The sun was already setting. It had cast a barely visible, yet heavy shadow over the countryside. The late-winter sunset was close. The tree trunks no longer shone like gold. The crystals in the white carpet of snow over the ice no longer glistened; the tree trunks no longer cast shadows. Grey mist in the sky became pink as though it were the final convulsions of a dying sun. She still waited. But she was no longer warm. She was shivering. Her hands trembled, and her thigh muscles were tense to the extreme as she set out. She went down the step and lowered herself into the water. Her body was a white log that sank into black matter. Feet, calves, knees, thighs, breasts, arms, neck, head – the whole of her body sank beneath the water to meet the all-decisive moment. Now she could choose to die, finish everything, give up, continue her journey through this purgatory of coruscating pain, to sink further to the great mother of all anguish as she descended with open eyes, the hole a light patch in a dark, all-consuming nothingness.

  In that moment she fought with death once again. Her body began to ascend, towards the light patch – it became white, it became the thread to which her life was attached. She gasped for air as her head broke the surface of the water. Her movements were automatic: her hands gripped the ice picks, all her muscles tensed as she pulled herself up in one immense leap; she dragged herself over the hard edge scratching her breasts and stomach. She felt nothing, she concentrated solely on her breathing. She dried her body, wrapped it in the blanket, consciously breathed in and out to transfer oxygen into her blood while her fingers searched for her clothes, put them on. Panties, bra, tights, shirt, jumper, everything was slow, her clothes wouldn’t slide on smoothly over her damp skin. Breathe – in, out, in, out. Don’t give in to the urge that had crept up on her, to drift into sleep. She forced her feet into her boots, succeeded, without losing her balance and falling over. It was becoming harder to resist the desire to sleep. She couldn’t stand the pain any more, grabbed her jacket and trousers and hurried back to the warm car. Her fingers trembled, her lower lip quivered. Her legs moved more slowly, the snow seemed impassable. Her biceps were sore from just carrying her clothes. Her fingers were numb. It was a fight to open the car door, to scramble in. To close the door behind her.