by Geir Tangen
The only drawback was that he was sent out at odd intervals to the periphery of Norway to assist in homicide cases. He felt most at home in Oslo, and had little liking for being buckled into an airplane seat. Sunny Oslo with its eighteen degrees was replaced by gusty fog and seven degrees Celsius. He regretted not having brought his duffel coat along.
A short, narrow Jetway led to the arrival hall: a small area the size of an average Norwegian living room. Here a baggage carousel wound around at one end of the room while the other end was reserved for families and friends who were meeting their loved ones.
Among the three in attendance stood a tall colt of a police constable with a sheet of paper in front of him where HANSEN was written in marker. Olav was sharp enough that he probably would have picked him out anyway, because the man in question was in uniform.
Ten minutes later, Scheldrup Hansen was sitting in the passenger seat of a marked patrol car. A rattling Volkswagen Passat, with sausage wrappers and empty pop bottles where he was supposed to put his feet.
Olav was silent, and fortunately the constable wasn’t particularly talkative either. He nodded off in the seat, and half asleep registered that they were driving over a big bridge before the urban development began to take shape as they approached the center of Haugesund. The investigator’s mood rose a notch or two. Haugesund was certainly not completely out in the sticks anyway. He knew it had a population of about thirty-five thousand, and that the city actually had one of Norway’s better soccer teams, but he had nonetheless pictured a tiny urban core with scattered development in the surrounding area.
At Haugesund Hospital, they turned down into the city and drove through some empty city streets. Shortly afterwards the police car parked outside the police building by Smedasundet, and the constable jumped out to help him with his baggage. Olav took that as a sign that they hadn’t found a hotel room for him yet. Two minutes after he had reported in at the counter, Lotte Skeisvoll appeared. He remained seated, looking stupidly at her and her outstretched hand far too long before he reacted. That she was the leader of the homicide investigation turned everything he’d planned upside down. He recognized her at once, and it was not a heartfelt sight. Probably not for her either, but she was cleverer than he in concealing it.
Lotte Skeisvoll was the youngest cadet he had advised at the police academy. She had come in as a whippersnapper who thought she knew everything from day one. As he remembered her, she was so long-winded that she would probably take a year explaining evidence to come to the conclusion that an egg needed nine minutes in boiling water to be hard-boiled.
There’s really only one thing to do here, thought Olav as he finally stood up and took her hand. He had to use all channels to take over control of the case. All other outcomes would lead to an aimless investigation where nothing happened, nothing got done, and no one took chances to follow up leads before they turned ice cold. He didn’t expect that in the ten years since Lotte Skeisvoll graduated she had become any less pedantic and detail-oriented.
Olav could not avoid noticing that Lotte Skeisvoll had to struggle not to start laughing during the first meeting. His thoughts went back in time a few years. Back when he first made the acquaintance of this lady from West Norway. This know-it-all. The young woman who always raised her hand and tried to instruct him, when he was the one who was the lecturer. Olav felt annoyed. If he knew her right, she’d been looking forward to this day for ten years.…
Haugesund Police Station
Wednesday morning, October 15, 2014
Lotte observed the investigation group. This was the team that would solve the murder of Rita Lothe and hopefully manage to stop the killer before he could strike again.
She had noticed the obvious distrust on Scheldrup Hansen’s face when she met him in the hall an hour earlier. She knew very well that he could not stand women like her in the police department. That is … He could certainly tolerate women, but it was probably worse with women who thought and acted like typical women. Hansen was sharp, quick, decisive, and goal-oriented. She herself was detailed, in search of evidence, cautious, and precise. Both ways lead to Rome. She was clear about that, but she had longed to be able to prove to Olav that her methods worked just as well as his. Her arrest percentage could not measure up to the instructor’s, but where percentage of convictions was concerned, she gave him a run for his money.
Lotte cleared her throat to show that it was time to start the meeting. She introduced each of the members in the investigation group in alphabetical order, and she noticed in the corner of her eye that Scheldrup Hansen’s patience was already about to run out. He rolled his eyes and demonstratively smothered an occasional yawn. Lotte reluctantly set the preinstalled interval on the PowerPoint presentation to a faster mode.
“I’ll give you fifteen minutes to read through the papers on the table. There is a detailed description of what we know about the murder of Rita Lothe so far, and also a number of other interesting details that may be related to the case.”
Exactly fifteen minutes later, Lotte opened the floor for discussion, but immediately regretted that she hadn’t taken firmer control.
“We have to stop thinking like a flock of clucking hens at a sewing circle,” said Scheldrup Hansen without anyone else having said a peep, fixing his eyes on Lotte as he said it. “We have to prioritize our forces and put money on one horse at a time. Based on what I see and with my experience from a number of previous cases, I have an idea about what we should and what we absolutely should not do in a situation like this.
“To start with the latter. We should drop long, meaningless meetings where everyone sits and tosses out their theories. That leads nowhere. I know it sounds brutal, but you have no experience with these kinds of homicide cases, and the certain death of an investigation is when the police start spending more time on coffee parties than on investigation.”
He paused to take a sip of coffee, but raised the palm of his hand toward Lars Stople when he was about to say something. Scheldrup Hansen continued.
“I definitely think we should focus on what is closest at hand. The answers are almost always in those nearby things. We are going to find Rita Lothe’s killer by pulling on the threads of her love life. Lotte evidently thinks that this journalist Gudmundsson is a peripheral character, but I think it would be sloppy police work not to examine him more painstakingly. His name turns up everywhere. I’m not saying he’s the man we’re looking for, but it’s not a coincidence that he’s involved. Journalists have enemies. Check his previous cases. Has he made some big mistake or exposed someone who may have motive to get revenge on him?
“In addition, we should not remove him from the list of suspects. The way I read the documents, we’re talking about a journalist with previous high status who is no longer doing so well. Suddenly he himself is in the center of a ‘murder mystery.’”
Olav made quotation marks with his fingers.
“We mustn’t overlook that he may be trying to create a good story for himself that can get him back on his feet as a journalist. It’s every journalist’s wet dream to get a murderer in his hands who wants to use the newspaper as a mouthpiece. Now the thing is that this wet dream is and will remain a dream, because the killer doesn’t really want to be seen or heard. That happens only in movies and TV series. I hate to disappoint you, but this is Haugesund Police Station and not the final season of The Bridge.”
Olav looked into four sets of inquisitive eyes. He sighed before he continued the monologue.
“Don’t tell me you haven’t seen The Bridge?”
He rose from his seat while at the same time holding up his palms again. Everyone in the room had given up long ago, so no one interrupted him.
“Now we’ll shadow this Viljar Ravn Gudmundsson. If nothing else, this will prevent him from creating more trouble that ruins things for us.”
He turned toward Lotte.
“Now, Lotte, can you give those of us sitting here various tasks that can
help get this investigation on its feet?” Lotte straightened the tablecloth in front of her. Caressed the smooth surface. Needed time to gather her thoughts before she spoke. Scheldrup Hansen would undoubtedly be a harder nut to crack than she had imagined.
Rommetveit, Stord Municipality
Wednesday midmorning, October 15, 2014
Beate Fredriksen stretched her body like a kitten. The bed linens embraced her in a soft morning greeting. The sun made its way through the gaps in the blinds, and narrow streaks of light tickled her face. She lay quietly and listened. Quickly picked up familiar sounds from Disney Channel in the living room. So Sander was up anyway. Beate heaved a sigh. Her father had gone to work and once again turned over the kitchen to a six-year-old. There was probably a mess everywhere. She refused to let the irritation ruin the peace and contentment she felt under the warm duvet.
As Beate turned in bed, she picked up a faint odor of perfume from the clothes she had thrown off before she went to bed. She pushed it away. Couldn’t bear such smells in the morning. She was alone the whole day with little Sander and her sister, Julie. It was planning day at school, and her fourteen-year-old younger sister would probably sleep well into the afternoon, if she knew her right.
When she opened the bedroom door, she noticed that Julie was already up. The sounds from the shower meant that she’d dragged herself out of bed abnormally early this morning. Beate could only dream of a drop of hot water. Instead of starting the day by hammering on the bathroom door and arguing with the fourteen-year-old inside, she grabbed a bathrobe and pattered out into the living room.
“Sissy!” Sander leaped up from the little red TV chair and ran to meet her as soon as he caught sight of her in the doorway. She got a warm and long hug from the little boy. He was still in his pj’s, and his chalk-white hair stood straight up in a serious tangle on one side. Beate quickly noticed that her clean white bathrobe now had two sticky brown spots from an affectionate chocolate nougat mouth. She laughed and hoisted her brother up in the air.
“You little brat! Have you been eating nougat bars? It’s not Saturday today, is it?”
Sander looked at her with precocious eyes before he came up with the world’s best explanation. “Sissy, uh … It’s a day off today. And all days off are Saturdays.”
Beate laughed again, tousling him lightly on his bed head.
She set him down on the chair and went over to the kitchen counter. Noticed the mess made by little brother. Sighed a little, but decided that it evened things out a bit that her father had made coffee before he went to work, and for that reason she could pour herself a cup before she started cleaning and other housework.
She was brought up that way. She had never known anything else. Her mother, the author Sandra Borch Fredriksen, was a nomad in the desert. She swept into the oasis only occasionally for a refill of water. Otherwise they saw little of her, except on the TV screen. Beate was the eldest and the one who had to take on the household duties while her father was at work.
With coffee cup in hand she padded out into the hall and took out a pair of worn blue Crocs. She wanted to enjoy this morning time with the local newspaper, which hopefully was on the front steps. Dreadfully unmodern for a seventeen-year-old who had access to a horde of Mac computers, iPhones, and iPads in the house, but this had become her silent protest against the rich man’s life they lived here.
“You’re just soooo retro,” Julie said to her again and again. Her sister had not inherited a single gene of the rebellion against the family wealth after her mother had a breakthrough with her crime series. In the beginning it was just fun, but after the books had been made into TV series, and even had amazing success internationally, her mother more or less disappeared from their lives. For her little sister, life was a bottomless source of delights that they had every right to take advantage of. Beate cast a glance at Julie’s phone, which was on top of a heap of dirty clothes outside the bathroom. The display showed 9:40.
The newspaper carrier wasn’t usually there until ten o’clock at the earliest, but it didn’t hurt to check.
When she tried to open the door, something was blocking the entry. Beate was surprised, but after a few attempts to slip through the cracked-open door, she gave up and instead put all her weight against the door itself. The front door finally gave way, and she stumbled forward. As she fell, she embraced what was lying on the steps. A scream immediately rose up from her belly. Her body tensed and she felt her feet starting to shake. She stared at what had once been the back of her father’s head, but which now was a crater of blood, bone fragments, and brain mass. The scream didn’t reach her throat before she was on her feet again and had backed into the hall. Her scream echoed in the walls, as she was unable to take her eyes off the ghastly sight.
Before she knew it, she heard a small child’s feet come running. Sander called to his sister repeatedly while he ran the short distance from the living room to the hall. The boy stopped short at her feet. His desperate cries were strangled as if someone had used the remote control Mute button on him. The next few seconds seemed like an eternity of silence for Beate. A little sob broke the silence before the boy turned his face toward his sister’s paralyzed body.
A sound behind them took their eyes off the gruesome sight. Beate did not turn around. She knew who it was. The word was only whispered, but it could just as well have been screamed out by Julie’s mouth.
“Daddy?”
Viljar’s apartment on Austmannavegen, Haugesund
Wednesday midmorning, October 15, 2014
Hell had broken loose in the media house. The devil was heartily present in the form of editor Johan Øveraas, but the sinner had not shown up to take his just punishment. Viljar Ravn Gudmundsson had not appeared at work, and in the mingle area on the second floor, Øveraas had his hands full pacifying three police constables who’d been sent to the newspaper offices to get the journalist. Ranveig Børve had evening shift this Wednesday, but the editor had duly depicted the chaos and annoyance for her when he called her at ten thirty. He was furious and ordered Ranveig to track down Viljar as soon as hell.
She tried to explain that she was alone with Victoria and had no time to do detective work, but was met with a tirade of abuse that made it clear that Øveraas knew about both emails and the conversations she’d had with Viljar about them. The editor saw her actions as directly disloyal, which for that matter she could not dispute.
In rapid sequence her daughter was placed with Grandma, a café visit with a girlfriend was postponed, and her husband had to cut short his deer hunt and pick up Victoria as soon as he could.
As if that weren’t enough, she got a flood of abuse when she explained to Rolf that she and Viljar had kept something important concealed from management. He had every right to be annoyed—after all, in the end it was his hunting trip this affected.
She parked the car by the Opel Building on Karmsundsgata and went by foot the last stretch up to the top of the Austmann high-rises. Five rectangular blocks in a line each with sixteen apartments bathed in the sun in the grassy areas along Austmannavegen in the south part of the city. As Ranveig rounded the corner on her way to Viljar’s stairway, she noticed two police cars outside the entry. She hurried over to them and knocked on the window of the car in front. A young, dark police constable appeared behind the rolled-down window after a few seconds. His facial features were sculpted, and he had a becoming cleft in his chin. He looked inquisitively up at her.
After Ranveig had introduced herself and explained what she wanted, the policeman shook his head firmly. “No one’s going up there now. We’re waiting for permission from the city attorney to enter the apartment by force. We know he’s there, he was standing in the bedroom window a little while ago, but he won’t open the door.” The policeman who had introduced himself as Knut Veldetun was about to roll up the window again, but Ranveig stopped him.
“He won’t open for you, but he will for me. Call Lotte Skeisvoll. She knows me well,
” Ranveig said with a smile. “And I’m sure she’ll agree that I should try to talk with him.”
Veldetun scrutinized her and hesitated before he entered the number to the detective. After a moment, he handed the phone to Ranveig.
On the stairs, Ranveig encountered a familiar face. Alexander was sitting on the bottom step with his hands laced around his knees. He was staring straight ahead apathetically.
“Dad won’t answer the door.”
Ranveig noticed that she became sad and angry at the same time. Now that old chain-smoker would just have to straighten up. She patted Alexander on the cheek, asked him to go home to his mother instead, and went past him up the stairs.
Ranveig didn’t ring the bell. She knocked lightly and started talking to Viljar through the locked door. Without expecting any reaction from the other side of the door, she started to tell about what had happened this morning, and that he ought to open for her if he didn’t want to get in even deeper. That Alexander was sitting like a banished latchkey kid in the stairwell. He didn’t answer, but after a while, she heard a single click in the lock. It was open.
Once inside, she understood how wrong things were with Viljar. Stuffy enclosed air. Dirty clothes and mess all over the floor. Dust bunnies the size of tomcats danced in front of her feet. Old pizza boxes in stacks in the hall. The place hadn’t been cleaned for weeks. That Viljar clearly was no longer taking care of himself was perhaps not apparent at work, but here it couldn’t be concealed. What the hell? He has a son living in this pigsty? thought Ranveig while she stepped over the most toxic areas. Viljar shuffled ahead of her to the living room dressed in little other than a pair of shabby jogging pants. This is a man in decline. He tossed some dirty underwear and wrinkled jeans off an armchair and indicated with a hand gesture for her to sit down there. Ranveig felt uncomfortable, but she did so anyway.
