‘Sorry, we don’t know this woman.’
But she wasn’t so sure, Frølich thought. What gave rise to the uncertainty? And why did she have to confer with the other woman before she could make up her mind?
They stood eyeing each other. The woman seemed suddenly uneasy. She started putting her gloves back on. On her chest she wore a badge bearing her name: Gamon. She turned away from him.
‘Gamon.’
She turned back.
He rummaged in his wallet and handed her his business card.
She read the card and looked at him enquiringly.
‘Keep it,’ he said. ‘If you should happen to remember something or see her, I’d be grateful if you got in touch.’
She turned on her heel and left.
He walked out and trudged in the direction of his office. Bought a couple of newspapers on the way at one of the kiosks down in Kirkeristen and continued to Storgata. His stomach told him he was hungry, so he turned into Oslo’s last outpost of the old-style, dimly lit, café bar: Dovrehallen. He found some of the regulars were already in position: carefully combed grey hair above ruddy-cheeked faces staring pensively into the day’s first and perhaps Oslo’s cheapest beer. He nodded to the familiar faces and sat at a window table in a partitioned stall completely to himself. He ordered a fry-up from the faded beauty who brought the menus. She recognised him and asked what he wanted to drink. He was tempted to order a Pils, but went for iced water and coffee. After all, it was the middle of the day and he had convinced himself he was working on an assignment. This didn’t stop him musing on the fiasco that was Frank Frølich while he waited for the food. He had left the police in what some might call disgrace. And now he resembled the parody of a failed private detective, someone who wasted his time on an absolutely pointless assignment without getting paid, and on top of that had managed to slip into this place without even a second thought: Dovrehallen, which a hundred years ago had been a theatre and revue venue with enough excitement to entertain both the working class in the stalls and the champagne-sipping middle class in the boxes. What remained after fires, innumerable conversions and bankruptcies was the long railway carriage of a restaurant with chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, pictures of old film stars on the walls, the cloakroom adorned by unused clothes hangers and a ballroom for the old guard: retired tramway employees, former taxi drivers, lift installers and brewery workers and not least the women they had once been aroused to great passion by. The interior was originally of heavy wood. The historical patina gleamed on the walls, and Frølich could easily imagine the place was haunted by the revue queen Hansy Petra, who might let her hair down after the doors were closed. He was served his two fried eggs, potato wedges and crispy bacon, ate with a hearty appetite, flicked through the newspapers and savoured how much he appreciated exactly this: home-made food, the peace and aura of the place, the fact that in Oslo there were still oases where you could escape from American-style urban hustle-and-bustle, from the noise, the pace of life and boiling-hot drinks in paper cups. Once he was full and pushed the plate aside, the waitress appeared, unbidden, with coffee in a porcelain cup, which was so delectable that he was able to repress all his self-contempt and continue reading the papers.
12
At home he had access to the net and all digital conveniences. He was accessible via his mobile at all times of day and night. All his work could be done on site, so to speak. So renting an office was probably one of the most stupid decisions he had taken when he started up. He knew that, but still he set great store by being able to walk there. It was like a continuation of an earlier existence. In a way, having a workplace to go to seemed therapeutic. The office was a symbol, confirmation that he was in charge of his life as a self-employed businessman. He had felt important when he put his name on the board on the ground floor, as important as when he bought the desk from a widow in Smestad. But it cost an arm and a leg to rent an office, even in the cheapest parts of Oslo. The rent was so painful that every time it fell due he had to confront the decision of whether to continue or not. And every time he realised that the expense stung because his income was so poor. And every time he told himself that business would soon pick up. So he deferred the decision, like the master of self-deception that he was.
His office was in the corner block at the crossroads between Storgata and Brugata, with an entrance in Storgata. It was at this corner, in Frank Frølich’s view, that middle-class Oslo finished and multi-ethnic Oslo started. His office was on the second storey, above a dentist’s surgery that infected the whole floor with the smell of dental care and sterilisation. From the west-facing window he could look down on the city’s most hardened drug addicts performing self-destructive acts and related business activities on the corner beside the entrance. If he lifted his head he could make out the Folketeater building, beside it the opera passage where Marc Quinn’s sculpture of Kate Moss projected a western art aesthetic on an eastern yoga position. If he got up from the desk, went to the other window and peered down, he could observe Brugata, where international phone-call kiosks and hawala money transfer bureaus served Somalis, Afghans and others who in this way bypassed inefficient infrastructure in their home countries.
In the corridor outside the office the owner of the block had provided a kind of kitchenette with a sink, a cupboard filled with cups, a worktop, and on top a modern coffee machine and a dish containing two packets of Marie biscuits. Beside the kitchenette was a chair. It was Frank’s chair. It had been placed there in a moment of optimism when the office was being furnished and he imagined there could possibly be more than one client at a time. The chair was considered a waiting room.
Now something unusual must have happened, because someone was sitting on it.
When there were three metres left between Frank and the waiting-room chair and office door, the man stood up. He was a slight figure in his late forties, dressed in red cords and a light-green shirt. The man was somewhat smaller than Frank. His fair hair was short, but long enough to reveal suggestions of a curl at the nape and on top. He was carrying a leather shoulder bag.
‘Are you Frølich?’
Frank nodded and rummaged in his pocket for the keys.
The man extended a hand. ‘Fredrik Andersen.’
Frank shook his hand and mumbled a greeting, then unlocked the door and held it open. The air inside was stuffy and stale. The office stank of dust and inactivity. The sense increased as the man entered the room and Frank imagined what he must smell. Frank went straight to the window facing Storgata and managed, after struggling with a stubborn handle, to push the window ajar.
‘What can I do for you, Andersen?’
‘I’m a writer.’
There was a well-camouflaged melody to his intonation. Trondheim, Frølich thought, refined standard Norwegian. A genuine Trondheimer of the finer sort, he concluded, sitting down behind his desk. He watched his guest, who stayed on his feet, in a state Frank interpreted as unease.
He stood up again and made for the door. ‘May I offer you something? Coffee perhaps?’
‘No, thank you.’
He plumped back down on his chair. It rolled backwards, collided with the wall and came to a halt. This was his routine. He stretched out a foot as usual, hooked the tip of his shoe under the drawer handle, pulled out the bottom drawer of the desk and rested his foot on the edge.
He pointed to the chair in the corner. ‘Won’t you sit down?’
The writer remained where he was, in the middle of the room.
‘Among other things I’ve written a book about the Sea Breeze disaster, which happened in 1988. Have you read it?’
‘No,’ Frank Frølich said. ‘But I’ve heard about it. Well, not about your book – the disaster.’
‘There are lots of people with ties to the police who don’t like the book.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘I find fault with the police investigation and their conclusions, and also criticise their working methods
and the culture in the Oslo Police. I demonstrate how the police have overlooked evidence and as a consequence the killers have gone free.’
‘How can I help you in this regard?’
‘I know that you used to be a policeman.’
There was nothing he could say to that.
‘And that you fell out with the force and left.’
Frølich still had nothing to say. It was interesting that this man had investigated his background. It wasn’t against the law. And if the guy had come to hire him for a job, it wasn’t at all strange either. The only thing that slightly rankled was the talk about police incompetence. As though the writer were suggesting a kind of common cause between them.
‘I’ve come here for a completely different reason though,’ Andersen said. ‘I’m working on a new book, about immigration – legal and illegal – especially the grey area between, and people smuggling.’
The writer walked towards the open window. He looked out, as though the words he was searching for were to be found there.
‘People smuggling organised from departure countries and the networks across Europe and here in Norway. The book I’m working on is based on a number of cases.’
He turned from the window and stared straight at Frølich. ‘It’s come to my ears that you’re searching for someone who figures in one of my cases.’
‘Is that so?’
‘You visited a hotel in town, presented a photo and asked after this someone.’
Sheyma is alive, Frølich thought. She is in Norway. Had he not had some practice in concealing his reactions, he might have got up and waltzed around the floor. Instead he concentrated on not smiling.
Fredrik Andersen approached the desk, placed both hands on top, leaned forward and looked Frank in the eye.
Frank met his gaze.
‘Let me put it like this,’ Fredrik Andersen said in great earnest. ‘The woman you’re looking for is very vulnerable. Both she and I would like to know why you’re asking after her.’
She is here, in Norway, Frank thought. Aisha’s right. Her sister is alive and living here. Success. Bull’s eye, jackpot and eight score draws on the pools.
He said: ‘I don’t talk about my assignments with strangers. I’m sure you understand.’
‘I wouldn’t have visited you unless this was important. This woman fears for her own safety.’
‘Can you expand?’
Fredrik Andersen straightened up. ‘This is about the life of a vulnerable person,’ he said.
Frølich waited for him to continue. He didn’t. Andersen just looked at him.
‘Then I suggest you try to convince me,’ Frølich said. ‘Tell me what threats you’re talking about, so that perhaps we can have a dialogue.’
Andersen cleared his throat. ‘You’ll get twenty thousand kroner if you tell me who’s asked you to trace this person.’
‘Are you trying to bribe me?’
‘Did you hear what I said? We’re talking twenty thousand!’
Frølich shook his head again.
‘What’s your price?’
Frølich took a deep breath. ‘Try to digest the following: I don’t give the names of my employers whatever money you slap on the table. The answer’s no.’
‘You don’t enter a hornet’s nest without an agenda,’ Andersen countered.
‘A hornet’s nest?’
‘The place you’re heading isn’t very welcoming. We’re talking about an unparalleled cynicism. About people smugglers, pimps and fortune hunters who make filthy lucre from the trials and tribulations of others. We’re talking about people who have had to drop whatever they’re holding to escape barrages of bombs. They’ve walked for mile after mile through war zones; some of them have bought a place on unseaworthy, overcrowded rafts to cross strips of water, knowing the chances of drowning are much greater than landing safely. Those who reach a western country are thrown out; they live in a kind of hiatus then try again. They live hand to mouth for year after year. Dante’s descent into hell is nothing compared with what some of these people go through or have gone through. But not even in Norway can they breathe freely. However, so far they’ve been able to content themselves with the fact that Norwegians are happy to observe what’s going on and only draw a conclusion when there are elections. For the moment Norwegian businesses haven’t entered this market in order to make money from other people’s suffering. The appearance of your profession in this cynical killing game would be unflattering in a book, Frølich.’
Frank couldn’t repress a smile.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘Your version of reality. Isn’t business interested in the politics of asylum seeking? Norwegian refugee centres are private concerns and have been for years. The whole logistics of refugees and asylum seekers in Norway is a big money-spinner. You say you’re going to write a book about this. So you’re going to profit from these people’s suffering, too. Let me be honest with you: I have no agenda, other than to reassure a very anxious individual. I haven’t decided yet, but I doubt I’m going to demand a fee when this job’s done. It’s you who is the cynic here, not me.’
Andersen continued to send Frank grave looks. ‘Perhaps you imagine you know what this is about,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Believe me, you have no idea. I’ve researched this shadowland for years. You imagine you have a perspective and control. You imagine the person who commissioned you is an honest soul. Even in that you’ve revealed your naivety.’
‘I represent someone whose desire to be reunited with the person you want to protect is sincere – transparently so. Why can’t we meet each other halfway? Show me your cards and I’ll show you mine. The result will probably be two happy people.’
Andersen heaved a deep sigh and shook his head, desperate. ‘You may think this client of yours is open and sincere. You may not think this person has a hidden agenda. Unfortunately you’re showing all too clearly where you come from. At one time you might’ve considered yourself a good policeman. But on this pitch, in this game, you’re an amateur. You know nothing, Frølich.’
‘How come this woman’s identity is so secret if she’s going to be in your book?’
‘I anonymise all my cases.’
Andersen picked up his shoulder bag from the floor, opened it and placed an envelope on the table. ‘Have you got a pen?’
Frølich walked the swivel chair, and himself, back to the desk. Opened the top drawer and rooted for a pen. Considered making a witticism about writers who had nothing to write with, but thought better of it. In the drawer was a blue Bic. He tried it out on the margin of an old newspaper that lay on the desk.
‘Here you are.’
Fredrik Andersen took the biro and scribbled something on the envelope. Then he made for the door, leaving the envelope where it was.
‘And what’s that?’ Frank asked.
‘An advance,’ Andersen said. ‘I’m hiring you to find out what your client’s actual agenda is. You’ll get double that when the job’s done.’
With that he was gone.
13
Frank looked down at the envelope. Picked it up. It had once been addressed to Fredrik Andersen. Under the address Andersen had written a telephone number.
He opened the envelope. There was a little wad of blue notes inside.
‘Hey, wait.’
He got up, crossed the floor and tore open the door. Fredrik Andersen was nowhere to be seen. Frank strode down the corridor, holding the envelope in his hand. The lift was on its way down. He broke into a run. And reached the bottom at the same time as the lift.
A heavily made-up woman came out. Where was the writer? Outside, Storgata was packed with people. He stepped onto the pavement and looked in both directions. No Fredrik Andersen.
He turned and took the steps up to the reception desk on the first floor. No writer there. He carried on up to the second. Walked back to the office and stopped inside the door.
He opened the envelope and counted the notes.
Twenty thousand kroner. That was the fee for a lot of hours’ work. It covered the rent for his home and office for quite a while. But he wasn’t going to take this man’s assignment. What sort of a person was he actually? Giving him money to conspire against his client? The whole thing was ridiculous.
He took a deep breath and picked up his phone. Keyed in the number the writer had scribbled on the envelope. The phone rang four times before the voicemail kicked in.
‘Hi, this is Fredrik. I’m busy at the moment. Just leave a message and I’ll consider getting back to you.’
The answer tone peeped.
‘This is Frølich. I’m not taking the assignment in this way. We don’t have an agreement. You can come back and collect the money.’
Then he ended the call. Put the phone down on the desk. Stared at it. This wasn’t right. He shouldn’t be dependent on people calling back.
He raised his head and looked out. In the offices behind the glass wall on the opposite side of the street sat a line of successful young people in front of their screens, deep in concentration. They were links in some value chain. As for himself, he felt like an idiot. An angry idiot, but one who didn’t intend to let Fredrik Andersen get away with this easily. After all, Andersen was the person who knew where Aisha’s sister was. The smart move now would be to have another chat with the writer. He grabbed his phone and rang again. And once more reached Andersen’s voicemail.
‘You don’t need to come here to collect the money,’ he said. ‘I’ll go to yours. Now.’
14
The writer’s address was on the envelope. He stuffed the banknotes into his pocket, took the key of his Mini Cooper and left. The car was in Spektrum multi-storey car park in Christian Krohgs gate. In the streets the air was warm, a breath of summer. Two pencil-thin boys in hoodies and drop-crotch pants skated past. One performed a jump onto the pavement, rotated the skateboard and landed back on it. The second boy cheered and almost fell flat on his face.
Frank had already begun to sweat, so he was happy to feel the cool air in the car park. From here it wasn’t far to Gamlebyen and up the mountainside to Holtet, an attractive area with fruit trees, birches wrapped in green veils of leaves, spiraea bushes and other bourgeois idylls along the picket fences.
Sister Page 4
