Fredrik Andersen lived in a west-facing detached house with a garden. The house didn’t have a view of the sea, though he could probably still bask in the long sunsets he’d get up here. It was a yellow building slightly set back from the road, typically functional – no doubt with a square living area, flat roof and small windows.
He parked by the fence, walked through a low, wrought-iron gate and onto a tarmac path to a double garage and a set of steps leading up to a teak front door. He rang the bell. Heard some noise inside, but no one opened the door. He rang again. Walked back down the steps and looked up. He saw a curtain twitch on the floor above and the outline of someone backing away. He rang again. No reaction. Well, sooner or later the person would come out or someone else would go in. He decided to wait. Walked back to the gate, closed it behind him and got into his car.
Time passed interminably slowly. Nothing happened around the house. But eventually a car did appear. A Toyota RAV4 with darkened windows. The car drove up at a crawl, braked by the entrance to Andersen’s house and stood idling for a long time.
He watched the car in his side mirror, but resisted the desire to get out and ask what the problem was. He glanced over at the house. The same curtain twitched. As though the fluttering material was a sign, the car moved off, indicated right onto Solveien and disappeared.
He made a note of the registration number and went back to his mobile and social media.
Then the door opened.
An elderly woman came out. She turned, rattled a bunch of keys, locked the door and carefully walked down the steps.
Her grey hair was fastened in a bun at the back. She walked with a stoop and wore light-blue trousers and a grey jacket. Over her arm she carried a handbag.
She made for the gate, opened it and walked out.
Here, she turned back to the house. She waved to someone inside, turned and continued down the road, away from Frølich’s car.
And who might she be? Frank wondered. A house help? Andersen’s grandmother or a tenant?
He looked in the mirror at the figure toddling into the distance. Took a decision and got out of the car. He went after her.
She shot a glance over her shoulder when she heard his footsteps.
‘Yes?’ she asked, and stopped. She had a body that age refused to straighten. Her pale face was wrinkled, and the eyes that met his were ones that had seen most things.
‘My name’s Frølich,’ he said. ‘Frank Frølich. I was hoping to talk to Fredrik Andersen. I rang the bell.’
She eyed him in silence.
He nodded towards the house. ‘But no one answered the door.’
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I probably didn’t hear. That’s how it is with age. Getting old is a tragedy. One thing is you don’t hear so well. Fredrik won’t be home until late tonight. His days are busy.’
Then she turned away from him and carried on.
He walked back to the car. Got in. What should he do? Wait or do something more sensible?
He chose to stay. After a long wait he could see in the side mirror that the car was on its way back. The same Toyota that stopped and waited with the engine idling. The minutes dragged by.
Now he concentrated on the first-floor window. At last the curtain twitched. He could no longer control his curiosity. He opened the car door, got out and walked towards the Toyota, which revved up and drove off so suddenly that he had to jump to the side to avoid being knocked down. An instinct made him get in his own car and drive after it, onto Solveien, left onto Kongsveien, over the tramlines and straight on.
Frank was doing 110 km/h without gaining any ground on the Toyota. It wasn’t much slower down Mount Ekeberg. The tyres screeched on the bends. He registered oncoming cyclists as shadows.
What am I doing? he asked himself, and slowed down. He let the Toyota go.
At that moment his phone rang. A number he didn’t recognise appeared on the display. He put the phone to his ear.
‘Hi, this is Guri. I was with you and Matilde at the refugee centre. Matilde asked me to call you.’
‘Hi, Guri,’ he said, and looked around. He was in Gamlebyen. He pulled into the kerb.
She was wondering how things were going. Had he started his investigation?
Yes, he had.
‘Just wanted to know,’ she said. ‘Matilde said you wanted to talk to Aisha again. I’m not sure if that’ll be possible. The police came last night. They moved Aisha and some other women to the centre in Trandum – the prison, that is. It means she could be deported at any moment. We’re pretty desperate. The immigration police are bloody Nazis. They put her in a security cell without letting her talk to her solicitor. They claim she’s lying about her age and bluffing about her health. She only found out at five o’clock in the morning that her appeal against being rejected asylum had been turned down. One of the Nazi bastards told her. Her solicitor knows nothing. So she has no information about what rights she has. Then it was off to Trandum. Her solicitor has only been informed just now that she’s in a cell. If I wasn’t so angry, I’d be ashamed of my own country. We’re behaving almost worse than the regime she escaped from.’
Frank didn’t know how to answer. He had heard similar stories before. However, the police were only the musicians in this concert; after all, they had a job to do, even if it was a shit one.
‘I’ve had confirmation that her sister is in Norway,’ he said.
‘What?’
The joy in Guri’s voice immediately made him regret what he had said.
‘Tell me more,’ she shouted down the phone. ‘No, wait,’ she added. ‘Where are you?’
He craned his neck. ‘In Oslo, by Ruinparken, in Konows gate.’
‘I’m outside Sentrum police station,’ she said. ‘In Hammersborggata. Shall we meet for a coffee?’
15
Twenty minutes later he found Guri at one of the tables in a café bar in Byporten. She was drinking from a cup that looked more like a soup bowl. Her blonde hair billowed becomingly around her face. She was not unlike Agnetha of Abba fame.
He took a seat and told her the little information he had. He hadn’t got a lead from visiting Oslo’s hotels, but someone must have reacted and informed the central actors in this drama that he was looking for Sheyma – because a writer had come to his office and confirmed that Sheyma was alive, but in hiding.
‘It seems as though she has taken precautions so that she can’t be traced.’
Guri put the cup down on the table. ‘What writer?’
‘You gave me this job. You have to let me do it. I can’t have any interference from my client. That’s not how this works.’
‘But this means everything to Aisha. We can contact the Foreign Office and tell them she really does have a sister in the country and that their rejection of a family reunion is based on false premises. It means she and her sister can be reunited.’
‘Give me a bit more time.’
‘But this is urgent. Aisha’s in Trandum Prison. She might be on her way out of the country now, at this very minute.’
‘You’ll have to get her solicitor to enter another appeal against the rejection or find some ploy. We need more time.’
‘That’s no good. She’s used up all the appeals.’
They sat looking at each other in silence for a few seconds. Until he decided to ask what had been on his mind for the last twenty-four hours:
‘There’s something I’m wondering about, Guri. Why are you so committed to this woman?’
Guri was clearly unsettled by this question. She lowered her gaze and fidgeted with her coffee cup on the table.
No answer was forthcoming, and he suddenly felt embarrassed as well. ‘I mean, there are lots of people in distress,’ he said. ‘You work with so many people in this situation every day. I’m sure all of them have a tragic story behind them. Have you set up any other investigations?’
‘No.’
He waited for her to carry on. She still seemed ill at ease.
In the end she raised her head and met his gaze. ‘You saw her. You saw how unbelievably helpless Aisha is.’
She searched for more to say. But was apparently unable to find anything else.
She was right, Frank thought. Aisha was incredibly helpless. But could that be the whole answer? He wasn’t convinced it was.
‘There’s so much at stake now,’ Guri said. ‘They’re on the point of kicking her out. If that happens, she’ll die. I know she will. I can feel it in my bones. And now we know her sister’s alive and living in Norway. The finishing line’s in sight. Don’t you understand what that means?’
She gripped his forearm in her agitation. Then she looked down at her hand and let go.
‘Yes, I do,’ Frank said. ‘But Sheyma’s in hiding and doesn’t want to be found by anyone. I was following this up when you rang. Let me carry on with my work, let me finish the job.’
‘Surely you can tell me which writer told you about her? I’m just curious.’
‘His name’s Fredrik Andersen.’
When she raised both eyebrows in enquiry they took on the form of outspread bird wings. ‘Who’s that?’
‘He writes books. That’s all I know.’
Suddenly he had a sense that sitting and chatting here with Guri was wasting valuable time. ‘Now I’ll carry on from where I left off when you rang. You’ll be hearing from me.’
He stood up. She followed suit.
‘Frank.’
He turned towards her.
‘Thank you very much,’ she said, stood on the tips of her toes and gave him a hug. Then she headed in the direction of the railway lines.
He stood watching her. A breath of fresh air, a blonde woman full of well-meant commitment and solidarity with her fellow creatures. Someone to cherish.
As though she could feel the energy of these thoughts she turned right round, waved to him again and walked backwards for a few metres, smiling, then disappeared around the corner.
Frank thought about the meeting with Fredrik Andersen in his office. One thing at any rate was certain: Andersen was way off target with his conspiracies and Frank could feel nothing but irritation at not being able to get in touch with the guy to return the money.
16
He made his way back to his office. Logged onto the net and checked the registration number of the car he had seen outside Andersen’s house.
The Toyota belonged to an ex-colleague: Bjørn Thyness.
So the police were carrying out surveillance on Andersen. Or at least Thyness was. But why? He knew Bjørn a little. It wouldn’t hurt to ask. He had Bjørn’s number on his phone.
He plugged his mobile in to charge and rang Thyness.
‘Hello.’
‘Frank Frølich here.’
‘Hi.’
‘I saw your car in Holtet a couple of hours ago.’
‘Oh, you did, did you?’
‘Did you see me?’
Bjørn didn’t answer at once. And when he did it was in a measured tone.
‘What is it you actually want?’
‘You were outside the house of a guy called Fredrik Andersen. I was just wondering if you have a case on the go involving him. You see, Andersen’s part of one I’m working on.’
He stopped there. Waited with his ear to the phone. But Bjørn didn’t answer. The phone was dead. Had he rung off?
He called again. A message said the phone had been switched off.
He sat back, thinking. Even when they had been working together Bjørn and he hadn’t been good friends. The fact was that he had once shared a bed with Gøril, Bjørn’s partner. It had been a passionate but extremely short relationship and had all happened a long time before Gøril and Bjørn got together.
Nevertheless he wondered if that could be the reason for Bjørn’s dismissive attitude. Had the guy been walking around for years nourishing a sense of slighted manhood?
There was no point speculating.
Instead he took his phone and rang Andersen. Once again he went through to voicemail. He left a message:
‘Hi, Frølich here again. I’ve rung you several times now and I’ve been to your house, all without success. It’s important we talk. You can call me whenever.’
17
He sat for a while longer, pondering what to do. And concluded he would have to leave the writer in peace. Sooner or later Fredrik Andersen would come to his senses and contact him. He got to his feet, went to the window and peered out, bereft of ideas as to his next step. The phone on the desk rang. He shuffled over and picked it up.
It was Matilde. She was excited. Guri had been talking to her. ‘I knew you’d crack it,’ she shouted down the phone. ‘I knew it!’
‘I haven’t cracked it yet,’ he answered and regretted telling Guri everything. Now the cat was out of the bag it would be hopeless trying to put it back in.
Matilde asked where he was.
‘At the office.’
‘Have you got any time?’
If there was one thing he had enough of, it was time.
‘I can be with you in ten minutes,’ she said. ‘In the T-bird. Would be good if you could meet me outside. It’s hard to find parking spots there.’
After ringing off he stood deliberating. He had rung Andersen several times. He had been to his house. He had waited for ages without catching a glimpse of him. Aisha’s case was urgent, yes. But he wouldn’t get any further unless Andersen decided to call him.
He went outside. He didn’t have to wait long on the pavement before the turquoise convertible floated up in front of a tram. The car stopped. The tram had to stop, too. The tram driver clearly wasn’t best pleased. She splayed a palm in desperation, tapped her forehead at him, then gestured with her arms to Frølich, as though he were sitting behind the wheel and could move the car. The tram driver hooted his horn.
A man with a shaven head clambered out of the passenger seat. He was wearing a T-shirt and military fatigues.
‘This is Harry,’ Matilde said.
Harry and Frank shook hands.
The tram driver leaned on the horn. Matilde took no notice.
‘Harry’s got an appointment with his psychiatrist,’ she said. ‘Good luck,’ she said to Harry and squeezed his hand.
Harry set off down Storgata.
Frank got in and looked around at the rear seat.
‘Where’s the dog?’
‘At my mother’s. She’s helping me out.’
She pushed the automatic gear lever and moved off. ‘Harry’s an Afghanistan war veteran,’ she said. ‘He freaked out, but I’m not sure if that happened over there or afterwards – him losing it, I mean. Harry and his comrades were in a column making for Meymaneh, and a vehicle in front of them was blown up by a landmine. Metal and rags and body parts rained down over them. It was his best friend. And Harry was jumpy enough before, sitting there with his machine gun, scouring the mountainsides for armed Taliban and ISIS loonies and God knows what. Then there’s a bang and he has bits of his best friend falling on his head, right. So that’s probably the reason, the shock, I think. But maybe he didn’t go properly crazy until he came home. They had moved his post box. Bit special. Nothing ever happens in the tiny village of Ise, does it. He was stationed in Afghanistan for years and years. And when he returned home everything was as it had been. The same woman with curlers in her hair looking out of the window and checking to see who came out of the shop, and the local paper dropping into his post box. He had his on a metal stand, like a lot of the neighbours. And the pole had always been on the right-hand side of the path, for him coming out, that is, past the bus stop. But then along came the Highways Agency and moved the post box to the other side of the road, by the actual bus stop. They did this so that the postwoman would be able to park without being run over by a juggernaut or suchlike as she put the post in the boxes. But Harry hadn’t realised that. The safety argument, I mean. He had been in Afghanistan and was suffering from PTSS. When he came home and had to search for the
post box he lost it completely, mounted a pallet fork on his tractor, lifted all the post boxes and stands and tipped them in the river. All the bills and love letters and short lyrical poems, etc, floating downstream. That was when he started to attend therapy classes. What are you thinking about?’
‘I was thinking post should go into digital boxes,’ he said.
‘Harry wouldn’t have been able to destroy that,’ Matilde said. ‘He would’ve wrecked the computer instead.’
They passed the bus terminal and she queued to go onto the E6 towards Bjørvika.
‘Where are we going?’ he asked.
‘Thought we could go to yours,’ Matilde said with a grin. ‘We’ll find something or other to do.’
18
It wasn’t yet morning when she shook him awake. ‘A bell’s ringing,’ she said. ‘And it won’t stop.’
With that he realised what the annoying racket was and opened his eyes. She was right. The doorbell was ringing.
Matilde wasn’t ready for this noise. She buried herself deeper under the duvet.
He sat up. Swung his legs to the floor. Stood up. Teetered. Walked around the bed. No clothes. The bell rang again. Now whoever it was wasn’t taking their finger off the bell.
He opened the bedroom door and stumbled through the sitting room to the intercom in the hall. ‘Hello?’
‘It’s me.’
He recognised the voice. But hearing it confused him. Besides, he was thirsty. Strangely enough, his voice carried when he spoke.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Let me in.’
He pressed the intercom buzzer. Heard the front door open in the receiver. Hung up.
He walked into the kitchen and drank two glasses of water in quick succession.
‘What’s going on?’ Matilde stood in the bedroom doorway with the duvet wrapped around her body. ‘Who was it?’
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