The Silent Room

by Mari Hannah

  The magic was broken as O’Neil’s phone rang.

  ‘Maguire,’ she said.

  You’d think he’d been watching.

  ‘Maybe he has news of the four-by-four.’ O’Neil pressed to receive the call, checking over her shoulder at the same time. There were very few people around, none of them standing still. She put the phone on speaker so she wouldn’t have to repeat the conversation. ‘Yes, John.’

  ‘Claesson Logistics are an absolute waste of space. According to the guy I spoke to, the four-by-four we’re interested in can’t be traced—’

  ‘Does the registration belong to them or not?’

  ‘The vehicle is theirs, but they can’t find it … allegedly.’

  O’Neil rolled her eyes at Ryan. ‘They’re suggesting it was nicked?’

  ‘Yes and no.’

  ‘Go on …’

  ‘They have a fleet of identical vehicles. It wasn’t missed right away. They assumed it was lost in the system; that someone parked it up and forgot about it. Their admin is sloppy, guv. The logbooks for the day of the hijack aren’t available. When I pressed them on it, they said they must be in the car, along with the keys. To be honest—’

  ‘Did they report the vehicle stolen or not?’

  ‘Eventually.’ Maguire was dragging his heels.

  O’Neil could tell he was holding on to something, making them sweat. ‘What’s the date on the FWIN?’ she asked, her tone impatient. A Force Wide Incident Number was issued as soon as any offence was reported to the police and uploaded on to the police computer. ‘John, you still there?’

  ‘Where else would I be? You’ve got Golden Boy with you while I do the donkey work.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake! Stop whingeing.’

  ‘You’re not going to like it, guv.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s dated Tuesday twenty-second.’

  ‘The day after Jack died?’ Ryan exploded. ‘How convenient. They kill him and suddenly the vehicle is hot. Don’t take their bullshit, Maguire. Go back and put the pressure on.’

  ‘Fuck off!’

  ‘Oi! Cut it out, both of you.’ O’Neil threw Ryan a black look. ‘I issue the orders round here.’ She turned her attention to the phone. ‘Ryan has a point, John. Find out who reported it and bring them in for a formal interview. Are the team any further forward researching the notebooks?’

  ‘No, guv.’

  ‘OK, if there’s any news, call me.’

  As soon as she hung up, Ryan apologized for overstepping the mark, feeling guilty – but only slightly – for having laid into Maguire when it was her call to make. He was more bothered that the exchange had interrupted a perfectly amiable conversation between the two of them.

  ‘Forget it,’ she said. ‘C’mon, I need that drink.’

  They walked back along the quayside, the brygge. They took a seat outside the hotel, ordering a large glass of Ringnes – local beer. It was getting chilly but they were in no hurry to rush off and check out their rooms.

  Ryan held up his beer.

  ‘Skål,’ he said.

  ‘Skål,’ she replied.

  They clinked glasses.

  Ryan opened the menu, his appetite for local cuisine not as high on his agenda as it was for her. The menu was wholly in Norwegian. He looked at her, a wry smile on his face. ‘Can’t make head nor tail of it. It’s written in reindeer blood.’

  61

  The Freberg family home was in Åresund, a typical wooden dwelling, painted in duck-egg blue with a wide wraparound balcony and a large garden that ran all the way down to the water’s edge. Ryan couldn’t imagine a place more tranquil. It was heavenly. An old Volvo was parked in the driveway with a small boat, or snekke, hooked on to the back. Despite the early hour for a Sunday morning – still only seven forty-five – the woman who lived there came out to greet them as they walked towards the front door, a curious look on her face.

  Hilde Freberg was fit, if tired-looking. Late forties, Ryan guessed, with a tanned and slightly weather-beaten face, a complexion not dissimilar to many of his neighbours who lived by the coast across the North Sea. Even if he hadn’t spotted her boat on his way in, this woman looked every bit a sailor.

  Svendsen took off his cap and spoke to her in Norwegian. Ryan caught a few words of the language he understood, something about the Englishman not speaking Norske. A firm handshake later and they were seated in a large living room in front of an enormous wood-burning stove.

  Introductions dispensed with, O’Neil took the lead. ‘Mrs Freberg, we are sorry for your loss. We appreciate how upsetting it is for you to discuss your husband’s death with strangers, but we have reason to believe that on the day Anders died he was going to meet an Englishman, a Special Branch colleague of ours. Does that make any sense to you?’

  Svendsen explained that Special Branch was like state security. The woman was shaking her head, a look of understandable panic crossing her face.

  ‘This officer’s name was Jack Fenwick.’ Ryan stepped forward, showing her a picture of Jack, watching for a reaction. This close to her, there was no escaping the effects of being widowed at a relatively early age. The wrinkles round her eyes told a tale of sleepless nights and having to fend for herself for the first time since she was in her twenties.

  No response was forthcoming, verbal or otherwise.

  ‘His brother died in an industrial accident on an oil rig in January 2006,’ Ryan added. ‘Detective Fenwick approached your husband around that time hoping he might help him to understand what had gone wrong. Did he ever mention him to you?’

  Mrs Freberg shifted her gaze to Svendsen, whether for guidance or reassurance, Ryan couldn’t tell. With a sympathetic nudge, the Norwegian officer told her, in English, that the British detectives were involved in an important case in their country and urged her to answer the question.

  ‘No …’ She looked at Jack’s photograph and said: ‘I don’t know him. I never heard of him.’

  Ryan was disappointed. Although he had no proof, he suspected that it was Anders Freberg who’d initiated contact recently. At the outset, it had been the other way round. Jack had been told to sling his hook, Freberg accusing him of talking rubbish. Safety was of paramount importance, blah blah … billions of dollars were spent every year recruiting the world’s best engineers to construct oil platforms that kept the workforce safe. Their expertise was highly prized and lucrative. It was laughable to accuse them, or the companies employing them, of a cover-up.

  ‘Are you absolutely sure?’ O’Neil said. ‘Perhaps Anders mentioned officer Fenwick to you at the time?’

  ‘If he did, I don’t recall it.’

  Ryan thought this odd. He didn’t think the woman was being deliberately evasive but, if there was no cover-up, then why not mention such an unusual event to his wife? Some nut-job Brit with a score to settle would be something he’d share, surely. It isn’t every day that a member of Special Branch contacts you, or any other foreign police officer for that matter.

  ‘Mrs Freberg?’ Ryan could see cogs turning.

  ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Call me Hilde.’

  ‘You have something you’d like to tell me?’

  ‘My husband had become unhappy in the months leading up to his death.’ She wiped her face with her hand. ‘I didn’t tell the police this at the time – I was too ashamed because I didn’t get help for him – the depression was so acute he didn’t want to leave the house.’

  O’Neil and Ryan exchanged a look.

  ‘And that was unusual behaviour?’ O’Neil asked.

  Mrs Freberg nodded. ‘Before that, he was always outside, sailing, gardening, playing tennis. He lost all interest. I was worried for him, of course, but he refused to see a doctor. What could I do?’

  ‘Did your husband keep his work papers at home?’ Ryan asked.

  ‘Yes, he often worked remotely.’

  ‘May we see his office?’ O’Neil asked.

  ‘Through that door.’ Hi
lde pointed off to the side. ‘But there’s very little in there.’

  Ryan led the way into a light and airy south-facing room, O’Neil, Hilde and Svendsen following him in. There were many textbooks on the shelves. The desk, however, was bare apart from a few pens and pencils stuffed into a glass tankard, some personal photographs of Hilde and two grown lads he assumed were her sons.

  ‘No computer?’ O’Neil asked.

  ‘A laptop,’ Hilde said. ‘But it belonged to his employer, QiOil.’

  Ryan’s head went down. ‘They took it away?’

  ‘Yes.’ Mrs Freberg opened the desk drawer, took out one of her husband’s business cards and handed it to O’Neil. ‘In case you want to talk to them.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘What about a diary? Did he keep one?’

  ‘No. He used the calendar in his phone and made notes there too—’

  O’Neil turned to face Knut. ‘Was there a mobile in Anders’ possession when they found him?’

  ‘They don’t have it,’ Hilde interrupted. ‘The police told me it was probably lost in the water.’

  Ryan had an idea. ‘This is important, Hilde. Have you ever been burgled?’

  It was a straightforward question. He registered the doubt on her face.

  The woman gave a shrug of apology. ‘I’m not sure how to answer that. It’s possible.’ Seeing their bewilderment, she offered clarification. ‘Anders and I took a trip, just for a few days. My sister was very ill at the time. When we returned, he was convinced that someone had been in, that things had been moved.’

  ‘In this office?’

  ‘And the rest of the house. I was equally sure he was imagining it. He was always losing things. My husband was a brilliant engineer but a very untidy man.’ She managed a half-smile. ‘I was always telling him off.’

  ‘Was this before he started to get depressed?’ O’Neil asked. ‘When he stopped wanting to go out?’

  ‘Yes, he worked at home a lot more after that. He seemed very agitated. I thought it was stress. He’d been under a lot of pressure. A few weeks before he …’ She tripped on her words. ‘Before he died, he told me not to concern myself any more. He said he knew …’ She stopped talking and closed her eyes, fighting to keep her emotions in check.

  Svendsen asked if she was OK to continue.

  She nodded tearfully.

  ‘Hilde, my colleague and I are grateful for any information.’ Ryan was trying to build trust. ‘And we can see how distressing it is for you to share these memories, but what we are doing is vitally important and may even save lives. We can’t tell you how. We don’t yet know the full extent of what we’re dealing with.’

  ‘I’m sorry. You’ll have to ask the detective Anders was meeting. I can’t help you.’

  O’Neil stepped in. ‘Jack Fenwick is dead, Hilde. And I have conclusive proof that your husband paid for his stay at the Thon Hotel on his credit card. They were planning to meet on the day Anders died.’

  You could cut the atmosphere with a knife.

  Ryan fully expected Hilde to ask how Jack died, but she remained silent. Maybe she couldn’t bring herself to speak because the implication was too hard to take. He gave her every opportunity and then pressed on. They had covered a lot of ground and he couldn’t afford to lose momentum.

  ‘You said your husband told you not to worry. That he knew something. What was it he knew, Hilde?’

  ‘He said he knew it would soon be over. The day he went missing I had a horrible feeling that he’d done something stupid. And when they pulled his body from the water, I thought that’s what he meant. I thought he’d jumped in. Except … I couldn’t believe that.’ She glanced at her countryman, the stress making her lapse into her own language once more. ‘Jeg følte meg så skyldig. Det var en lettelse når dommeren avsa dommen. Jeg vet ingenting om et møte med en engelskmann.’

  When O’Neil looked at Svendsen he began to translate. ‘She was feeling guilty,’ he said. ‘She was relieved also to learn that his death was not a suicide. She insists she had no knowledge of the meeting with Jack Fenwick.’

  ‘OK, thank you.’ O’Neil decided to leave it there. ‘I may come back at some point to ask more questions and to carry out a more thorough search of the house, if you’ll permit us to. Is that OK? DS Ryan and I need time to gather our thoughts.’

  Freberg’s widow spoke Norwegian to Svendsen one more time, her tone urgent, as if she had something to add and was worried it wouldn’t be heard. Sergeant Svendsen had an intent look on his face. Thoughtful. Whatever she’d said, it was important.

  ‘Knut?’ Ryan waited.

  O’Neil was equally rapt, her focus on Freberg’s widow. ‘Hilde? Can you repeat that for me – in English?’

  The woman hesitated.

  ‘Please?’

  ‘I said if it wasn’t an accident, it definitely wasn’t suicide. I was at my sister’s when Anders left the house. He knew I wouldn’t be home until very late. If he was going to kill himself, he’d have let the dog out into the garden.’

  62

  ‘Even if she agrees to let us search the rest of the house, I don’t think we’ll find anything,’ Ryan said as they made their way down the garden path. ‘I think Anders Freberg’s evidence was either taken from him on the day he died by persons unknown, or it was going to be verbal. If I were a betting man, I’d say the latter is true.’

  They had reached the police car.

  ‘Where next?’ Svendsen asked.

  ‘Good question.’ Ryan climbed in the rear next to O’Neil.

  ‘Your place will be fine,’ O’Neil said. ‘I’d like to use a computer at the station, if you have one free, then make some calls and find out if our incident room has come up with anything we need to know about.’

  ‘I wonder how far-reaching or serious this is,’ Ryan said, as Svendsen pulled away, turning left on to a main road. ‘For all we know, we could be looking at a potential Piper Alpha. No wonder Jack was so worried.’

  It was a sobering thought.

  In 1988, the same year Ryan’s father was murdered, almost two hundred kilometres northeast of Aberdeen, one hundred and sixty-seven men – including two who were part of the rescue effort – had perished in the worst offshore oil disaster in history, a catastrophe from anyone’s point of view. Thirty bodies were never found. As Svendsen drove them back to town, Ryan pushed both tragedies from his mind.

  He had to stay focused.

  O’Neil was quiet. Probably dwelling on what he’d just said, contemplating where to go next as she stared blankly out of the window, her mood as dark as the sky overhead. On the way there, she’d vented her frustration at always being one step behind the action. Ryan knew she wanted a result as much as he did. Right now, it seemed a world away. There was still much to do, so many unanswered questions.

  As the landscape rushed by, something niggled him – almost, but not quite, in reach. They were crossing Kanalbroa into Tønsberg centre, approaching the båthavn, when it bubbled to the surface.

  ‘The boat!’ he muttered under his breath.

  O’Neil turned her head. ‘What?’

  ‘The boat in Freberg’s driveway.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Knut, turn the car around. We need to go back.’ Ryan looked at O’Neil, adrenalin pumping through his veins. He took a moment to gather his thoughts. ‘Last night, here at the marina, I noticed that most of the smaller craft were gone, uplifted for the winter. That normally takes place around September/October time. It looks like Hilde has just done the same. Why else would the boat still be attached to her car?’

  Svendsen pulled over.

  He twisted in his seat, eyes on O’Neil. ‘Ryan is correct. Unless it’s a particularly good summer, they are mostly out by now. I took mine out three weeks ago to store at home. It’s to stop ice or algae forming that might damage the hull. I do all the maintenance over the winter.’

  O’Neil was making connections but Ryan shared his own thoughts anyway.
‘If Anders Freberg was murdered, it’s reasonable to assume that the hijackers went after Jack because they thought the information had already been passed on, otherwise they would have shut up shop long ago. But we know it wasn’t. Where better to hide something than on board a vessel moored in a locked pontoon?’

  ‘Drive, Knut!’ O’Neil said.

  Svendsen turned the car around and sped off the way they had come. Engaging his blue light to aid their passage, he spoke into the service radio clipped to his uniform, letting Control know what was happening so they could pass it on to Nystrom. O’Neil was hoping that Ryan’s keen observation would be the key that would unlock the case. They were running out of options otherwise.

  She smiled at him. ‘I knew we’d make a good team.’

  Ryan caught the eyes of Svendsen in the rear-view. Oops! His Norwegian helper didn’t like that. ‘Won’t this roller-skate go any faster?’ he asked. ‘We need to get a wriggle on.’

  O’Neil nudged him with her elbow. ‘Stop teasing,’ she whispered.

  Twenty minutes later, they came full circle, arriving back at Freberg’s home. As they entered the driveway, Ryan caught a glimpse of Hilde as she walked into the house from the side garden with a neighbour.

  The police officers jumped out.

  At O’Neil’s request, Svendsen stood guard by the boat while she and Ryan went inside to ask a few pertinent questions. When the neighbour, a young woman, realized that Ryan and O’Neil were British detectives who’d prefer the conversation to remain confidential, common sense kicked in. She shook hands with them and then excused herself, telling Hilde she’d catch up with her later.

  As she hurried off, Ryan explained that they had not come to search the house, that the boat was the reason they had returned so quickly. He felt sorry for Hilde. Like Hilary, she was a woman who deserved to know the truth – for herself and her children – except in her case an accidental death verdict was about to be revoked and replaced with murder, if his suspicions were confirmed. He had an inkling she’d already worked that out.