‘I happen to know that this woman was with Fredrik Andersen a few hours before he was murdered. Now she’s dead herself.’
The man straightened up and continued:
‘I’m aware of your connection with Andersen. I’m also aware you used to be a police officer. I wish to hire you regarding this matter.’
What? Him too? Frølich thought. He cleared his throat and said: ‘Hire me to do what?’
‘This woman was young and strong. She cannot have died a natural death. Also, I cannot accept that she took her own life. I’d like to have my suspicions documented – that this woman was murdered.’
‘But why?’
‘That’s my business.’
Actually Frank Frølich didn’t care why people wanted to hire him. But this was special. He sat studying the man whose military background seemed to be coming to the fore with every moment. He had rolled up the sleeves of his sweater to his elbows and revealed two muscular forearms; one wrist was adorned with a paracord bracelet and the other a chunky watch. He held the briefcase in position with his elbow as though it were a uniform cap.
‘For personal reasons you wish to find out if this woman was murdered?’
Frank could hear that the question had come out wrong; his intonation was too sardonic. However, Norheim stared back blankly without answering. The silence hung in the air until Frølich continued:
‘Why don’t you trust the police?’
‘I can’t believe what’s in the newspaper. It’s absurd.’
‘Why do you wish to engage me in particular?’
‘I spoke to Andersen the day before he was murdered. He’d spoken to you. He said he’d hired you. What was more, he’d been contacted by the woman who is now dead. He said he was going to meet this woman later the same evening.’
Frølich heard what the man said, but he was none the wiser. Andersen and this man had a common cause with regard to him. But why? He cleared his throat and said:
‘And why did Andersen tell you this?’
‘That’s my business.’
‘The conversation about me is also your business?’
The man continued to look him in the eye, unmoved. You couldn’t fault his self-assurance. This was a man who was used to being obeyed. But there was also something a little childish about this obstinacy.
‘I may be willing to double your usual fee,’ Norheim said. ‘Find out what happened to this woman. Find out what evidence the police have to draw the conclusions they do. If there’s any other evidence, I’d like you to apprise me of it.’
‘If I took on this job, the fee’s the same as always.’
‘Why wouldn’t you take on this job?’
There was a provocation in the attitude that accompanied the question. As though Norheim were asking in order to challenge him. Frølich wondered: Why wouldn’t he accept the job? Or, to be more precise, why would he? To understand what was happening? To find out what actually lay behind these events? Should he say yes or no to this assignment from this particular man? No, he thought. This was also about Guri Sekkelsten. He was angry that the police had shelved the crime, allowing a young woman to be murdered without performing the thorough investigation that was their civic duty. Or was he angry because the police hadn’t taken his statement seriously. Or was he giving too much credence to his own conspiracy theories? Had he sunk so low that he suspected the shelving of the crime was not only down to poor police work but something else? Some corruption? What were the answers to these questions? He knew the only way to find an answer was to walk into the hornet’s nest and see what made it buzz. And now a man was in his office offering him a fee to do this. That alone was the kind of act that could motivate him to do several investigations.
‘The police are on the case. They’ve reached a conclusion. And you want me to find out things they haven’t managed to clarify?’
Norheim didn’t answer.
‘What if the police evidence stands up?’
‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.’
‘Supposing I took on the job, who would I report to?’
‘Me.’
‘Have you got an email address?’
Norheim took a business card from his briefcase and held it out.
Frølich took the card. Armed Forces’ logo. Akershus Fortress. The man was in the military. He hadn’t been wrong there.
‘I’ll email you a contract, which you accept by signing and returning.’
Norheim nodded briefly, turned on his heel and left.
Frølich sat staring at the door while flicking the man’s card between his fingers.
It was one thing to take on an assignment like this. Quite another to know how to set about it.
53
There was a din outside. The rain was pounding the window and the sill. Frank got up and looked out. People in Storgata were scampering for shelter, under awnings and into covered gateways. One woman was trying to keep her hair dry under her coat. A man was crossing the street with a carrier bag over his head. Frank thought about his car outside the hotel. He would have to go back and get it. May as well wait until the rain stopped.
While he was waiting he took out his phone and rang Matilde, who answered at once. He asked:
‘What are you doing?’
‘I was trying to read a book, but couldn’t. I can’t think about anything except Guri. Whoever did this must’ve made it look as if Guri hanged herself. Do you think she died while they were doing it or was she already dead?’
Frank Frølich had no answer to that question, nor did he know what difference his opinion on the matter would make. But he had to be honest.
‘I don’t know. An autopsy would’ve told us, but there wasn’t one. The case has been closed and the body has been released. That means the next step’s a funeral.’
‘But that’s terrible, isn’t it? Don’t the police want to know what happened?’
‘They say they do know.’
Matilde went quiet.
He coughed.
‘Yes?’ she said.
‘Are we going to see each other soon?’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s one thing I should ask you, but it can wait.’
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Ask away.’
‘I was wondering if Guri ever mentioned the name Snorre Norheim to you.’
‘No.’
‘Sure? You’ve never heard the name, even casually?’
‘Very sure. Who is it?’
‘Tall guy. Slim. Forty, maybe older. Blond crew cut. Blue eyes. Wedding ring. In the armed forces.’
‘No, definitely don’t know him. Why?’
‘He’s upset that she’s dead. He came to my office and wants me to investigate her death.’
‘That’s good though,’ Matilde said. ‘That someone cares so much. What did you say the guy’s name was?’
‘Norheim. Snorre Norheim.’
54
Frank opened his eyes and looked up at the ceiling lamp that never worked. The light in the room stole in through the sitting-room door. So he was at home in his own bedroom. But it wasn’t morning. He had fallen asleep on the bed, on top of the duvet, fully dressed. It had to be late. And the reason he woke up was in his pocket. His hands seemed to have no energy. But the phone wouldn’t stop ringing. In the end, he summoned all his strength to lift his hand. It’s always like this, he thought, when you go to sleep after you’ve been restless. You wake up and you have no idea where you are or why you are there.
He pulled out his phone. Not a number he recognised. He put down the phone and sat up. Rubbed his face and yawned. Finally the phone stopped ringing. He got up from the bed and went into the kitchen. Drank a glass of water. The clock showed it was just after midnight.
He put on a CD. Wanting to hear Johnny Cash and Joe Strummer singing ‘Redemption Song’. It was music that fitted the time of night and his mood perfectly. He heard Johnny Cash sing the first verse and Joe Strummer had almost finis
hed the second when the phone rang again. The same number. This time he answered, but without turning down the music.
‘Jørgen Svinland here.’
Frølich couldn’t place his name at first.
‘Fredrik Andersen’s uncle.’
He turned down the music. ‘Oh, yes, hi,’ he said, and sat down. He yawned.
Svinland was the man who wanted him to find the mysterious Ole Berg, the man with the unknown identity. The whole job had been buried under other events. But he couldn’t say that out loud.
‘I’ve only managed to do a little delving,’ he said, and added: ‘But I have to be honest with you. I think you’re on the wrong track as regards what Fredrik Andersen was doing the night before he died.’
‘Have you found Ole Berg?’
‘Fredrik Andersen wasn’t – as far as I’ve been able to establish – in contact with Ole Berg the night before he was killed. He was with two women, at a restaurant. Both women were connected with a book he was working on.’
There was a silence at the other end.
He could literally feel Svinland’s disappointment streaming through the ether and out of the phone into his ear.
‘As I said, Fredrik Andersen was working on a new book,’ Frølich said. ‘This book was about immigration. I’ve had confirmation that the person Fredrik was with on the last evening he was alive was a source he was going to use to write the book. Fredrik Andersen wasn’t concerned with the Sea Breeze the night he died.’
There was still silence, and it persisted.
‘Are you there?’
‘I’ve become accustomed to disappointment, Frølich. But that doesn’t mean I’m giving up. I know Fredrik was busy trying to bring Ole Berg’s story to public attention. Naturally, I don’t doubt that you’re right when you say Fredrik was with other people on the night in question. But I know he’d established contact with the eyewitness, Ole Berg. I know he was preoccupied with finding out the truth about what happened on the Sea Breeze. I represent an undervalued group of people, Frølich. I’m someone society at large wishes to forget. When Fredrik told me about Ole Berg he sparked hope in me. That spark won’t go out so easily. I’ve lived with disappointment and political cowardice for thirty years. I don’t want to stop fighting now. I want you to keep going. What have you found out so far?’
‘I’m afraid I haven’t found out very much. I’ve focused on establishing what Fredrik was doing in the hours before he died. But I’ve spoken to the first mate on board the Sea Breeze, Rolf Myhre. By the way, do you know someone called Bernt Weddevåg?’
‘I don’t know him, but he was one of Fredrik’s sources for his book. I’m sure about that.’
‘He lives in a cabin on Nakholmen. I’m thinking of talking to him tomorrow.’
‘Did you get the papers?’ Svinland asked.
‘What papers?’
‘A memory stick full of police interviews and so on.’
‘Ah, was that you? Was it in my pigeon hole at the office?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve had a look, yes. But there’s a lot of it, an enormous quantity of documents.’
‘That’s Fredrik’s source material. If he ever wrote anything down about Ole Berg, it’ll be there.’
Frank Frølich gave a deep sigh and hoped Svinland couldn’t hear his despair. Finding the eyewitness from the Sea Breeze was like hunting for a fairy-tale character. Rumpelstiltskin or a dwarf from the Blue Mountains.
‘I feel obliged to say that I’m sure you can invest your money in something more sensible than hiring me. I can put the twenty thousand I received from Fredrik into your account tomorrow. I think you can use the money in far better ways than getting me to locate a person who may or may not be real.’
‘I don’t want that,’ Svinland said. ‘The money must be used to pay for your work. I want you to find Ole Berg, Frølich. I want you to do your best.’
Silence had them in its thrall again.
He didn’t want to argue, at least not with a man in Svinland’s situation.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll do what I can.’
He sat for a few minutes after ringing off, brooding. One man wanted him to investigate Guri Sekkelsten’s death, and another wanted him to find a person who possibly didn’t exist. Which should he prioritise the following morning? He couldn’t decide yet. It was late at night. He was still dog-tired. It was time for a hot shower, something to eat and bed.
55
The ferries that took people to the islands in Oslo fjord left from City Hall wharf. On the pier the queues to the various destinations were channelled and separated by fences. Hardly anyone was getting on board the Gressholmen ferry. The most popular trip was to Langøya, and the queue was wide and long. Kids stood holding fishing rods. Some also had flippers attached to their rucksacks. When the boat came it transpired that it went to all of the islands. The little ferry docked bow first, and people streamed through the gates onto the foredeck and on into the boat. Despite the number of passengers Frank was almost alone on the foredeck as the ferry backed away from the wharf. A mild föhn wind caressed his forehead as a flood of childhood memories of boat trips here in the fjord came back to him: trips to the islands of Hovedøya, Bleikøya and Langøya, which for some reason was always talked about in the plural – Langøyene. He tried to remember if he had ever set foot on Gressholmen. Probably not. If he took a ferry trip on the fjord in those days, it was usually organised by his school. If they had a teacher who wanted to show them the monastery ruins on Hovedøya, they caught the boat and examined the low remains of walls that indicated the position of the monks’ cells around an ancient garden with curious herbs, which probably grew there because the seeds had survived in the ground for hundreds of years. And after a few dips in the sea they would run over the rocks and ogle the beautiful women sunbathing, try to catch their sultry gazes and think about what history and centuries do to people and civilisations, or what a monk might have thought about the sight of such thighs and mounds and crevices. Or they went to buy a hot dog at the kiosk, queued, surrounded by the scents of summer: sun cream, hot skin, the water the frankfurters were boiled in and the saccharine odour of sticky gum.
He turned, leaned back against the railing and watched the passengers – children going swimming, a young couple and a scattering of tourists, recognisable by the cameras most had hanging around their necks.
A couple with a pram were the only ones waiting to come on board when the ferry heaved to at Gressholmen. Frølich and some of the tourists stepped ashore.
He walked up the hill and into the wood. Gunnarstranda, he remembered, had talked about this island a few times with annoyance because the wild rabbits were eating the special flora that grew there. So Gunnarstranda was very excited when the local council had several rabbits shot to retain the biodiversity.
The island was a pure idyll – windless, a veil of birch leaves above green undergrowth.
The Gressholmen inn turned out to be a red, box-shaped house with a line of large windows across the front, under a sign in big, white letters. This is where Tick-Tock Rolf had met the owner and chatted to him.
Frølich entered the light summer restaurant with timber walls, small tables and spindle-back chairs.
The room was empty except for a young girl behind the counter. They served draught beer, wine, shrimps with French bread and aioli, marinated olives and filled baguettes wrapped in clingfilm.
He asked after the owner.
He wasn’t there today. The girl behind the counter didn’t know when he would be back. Could she pass on a message?
‘Never mind,’ he said, ordered a draught beer and sat down at a table outside. His forehead baked in the sun. But he was still the only customer. Chinese lanterns hung from the trees by the terrace. The view was of the factories in Sjursøya and Mosseveien on the mainland. Down on the beach a few children were jumping between rocks, taking photos of one another.
Once his half litre was drunk and as
the owner still hadn’t shown up, he strolled back to the quay. He had to wait for five minutes before the boat arrived. By then he had been joined by one of the tourists who had stepped ashore at the same time as him.
He and the tourist waited patiently as a group of kindergarten children accompanied by three adults came ashore. The children set off at a run and the adults shouted after them.
He boarded the ferry.
The ferry departed.
He went through the salon and up to the sun deck. Here he found a space on a bench and felt the wind ruffle his hair. It was still a lovely day; there wasn’t a cloud in the sky and the gentle föhn wind was blowing the yachts along at a fair pace. The ferry stopped at Lindøya in two places, then set a course for the harbour on the opposite side of the sound. A skerry jeep roared past just before the ferry moored at Nakholmen. The small, low island was full of summer cabins. He followed Matilde’s instructions and located the red cabin with a partly roofed terrace and a gravel path leading down to the water.
There wasn’t a sound. The cabin seemed empty. He was about to turn back when he saw some strands of hair over a fence in front of some decking.
56
He opened the wrought-iron gate to the scream of hinges. The man on the terrace stood up.
He was in his sixties and corresponded to Matilde’s description. There was a slight resemblance to Frank Sinatra. He was lean with an almost spherical head and thin hair teased forward in a charming comb-over. His eyes were kind and brown.
Frank raised an arm in greeting.
The man greeted him back.
‘Are you Bernt Weddevåg?’
‘Who’s asking?’ the man said.
‘Frank Frølich. Private investigator.’
Weddevåg was dressed for summer: sandals, no socks, faded jeans and a T-shirt from the Hard Rock Café in Singapore. He smiled with teeth so white they had to be bleached.
‘When I bought this cabin on the island people said I’d be bored stiff. Since then I’ve made a mockery of that particular prediction. Today, too. Come on up.’
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