‘You have to open a window,’ he whispered in a drowsy voice.
‘Have done.’
‘Good,’ he said, observing Matilde’s attractive face in the light from the door that was still ajar. Her eyes reflected the light and took on a reddish hue from the glow of the cigarette when she inhaled.
‘You look French.’
‘Then she lit a cigarette,’ she whispered in English.
‘I noticed.’
‘Don’t let this put you off,’ she said.
‘Is this where I say “You want an apple?”’
She lay down. ‘Take the cigarette,’ she whispered.
He took it from her mouth.
‘Stub it out,’ she said and held out the ashtray.
He did as she said.
65
Otis Taylor was on the stereo. The trumpet solo on the recording of ‘Hey Joe’. Behind the music he could hear Matilde having a shower.
He turned up the volume. He loved this version: fiddle, guitars and brass.
When the song was over he switched off the stereo. The tap was running again in the bathroom. Teeth were being cleaned. The door opened.
‘Why did you switch it off?’
‘So that I can hear you better. Besides, it’s late.’
She smiled. ‘That guy.’
She stood in the doorway drying her hair.
‘Which guy?’
‘Snorre Norheim. The one who went to your office and said Guri couldn’t have died a natural death.’
‘What about him?’
‘You said he was in the military.’
‘It was on his business card – colonel.’
‘I talked to Harry,’ she said.
‘Harry?’
‘The guy whose friend landed on his head and who destroyed the post-box stand.’
‘Ah, right.’
‘Harry says Snorre Norheim’s a veteran. He served in Iraq.’
She came in and spread the towel over the pillow. The mattress moved as she slipped under the duvet. ‘MNF,’ she said. ‘Multi-National Force – a Norwegian contingent in a multi-national force in Iraq. I asked Harry to check. The Norheim guy was on lots of missions in Afghanistan and Iraq apparently. Among others, in Basra in 2004. That’s why I thought of Aisha and Guri, and the story of the sister.’
‘It’s possible. In fact, it’s possible you’re on to something.’
‘Fine,’ Matilde said and switched off the light. The darkness was impenetrable.
Her mouth tasted of toothpaste. ‘Are you coming to the funeral?’ she whispered.
‘When is it?’
‘They haven’t decided on the day yet.’
‘Gotcha.’ He sat up.
‘What is it?’ Matilde sat up as well.
He had remembered the face. Of the man who had been following him. He had seen him at the refugee centre. It was the man they’d met first. Guri had called him Shamal.
66
The middle classes start their working day, if they have one, at nine, he thought next morning, as he tiptoed out of the bathroom, so as not to wake Matilde. The working classes usually start at seven. If you are on the defence staff, you probably have the authority to start whenever you like. He brewed himself a cup of coffee in the kitchen and wrote her a Post-it. Stuck it to the mirror in the bathroom to be sure she would find it. It was a quarter past six. He cast a final glance into the bedroom. She was as sound asleep as before.
He walked out to the car and drove off. Keeping an eye on the rear-view mirror, though he doubted that anyone would actually be following him; he performed a little manoeuvre to check. Entered the motorway, came off again almost immediately – towards Manglerud, alone, as far as he could make out, went along Plogveien, Enebakkveien and into Sandstuveien to get back onto the E6, with no traffic behind him, then headed west.
Perhaps Colonel Snorre Norheim follows a duty roster. But his wife doesn’t necessarily, he mused, as he parked his car under a maple tree in Stabekk. It was ten minutes to seven.
Snorre Norheim lived in a house set back from the road, detached and clad with vertical red panels. The pitched roof was covered with black glass tiles. The acute angle gave the house height and a distinctive appearance. A set of steps built with impregnated wood led to the front door. A dormer window protruding from the roof revealed that the house had two storeys. This was a house and garden at its ease, surrounded by a mellow Oslo West End aura, which suggested that it must have been built during the inter-war years or even earlier, when Bærum was more a country village than a suburb of the capital. Between the house and the road stood a broad, more recently constructed garage with two doors.
The paterfamilias himself was the first to emerge. Today Snorre Norheim was wearing a green uniform with military insignia and a sharp crease in his trousers. At almost half past seven he strode energetically down the steps and opened one garage door. A minute later he reversed out in a small electric car. The single-seater was so small it looked as though he had put it on over his uniform. Without closing the garage door he set off for the motorway.
Another half hour passed before the two children came out. Two girls. They were probably eight to ten years old and wore shorts and jumpers. One had a bow in her hair. They played hopscotch down the drive and tied a French-skipping rope to a tree beside the garage. One stood with the rope around her ankles. The other jumped, still wearing her satchel. When she made a mistake they swapped positions.
After another twenty minutes the door opened again. A slim, dark-haired woman rushed down the steps and over to the double garage. She was wearing jeans and a white blouse. She called the girls, who carried on skipping. There was a little disagreement about whose turn it was and what was fair.
The woman reversed a slightly larger family car from the garage. A Nissan Qashqai. She opened a rear door from inside and called again.
The girls sauntered to the car and scrambled in. Afterwards the mother jumped out and closed the garage doors. The car then rolled down the drive and sped away.
67
He followed her. It wasn’t a long journey. The car went towards Bekkestua, along Gamle Ringeriksvei and across the railway tracks. She drove into a car park belonging to Stabekk School – two older brick buildings in front of park-like outdoor facilities. The girls were probably pupils here. Perhaps their mother worked at the school, too. Not improbable, he thought. It was such a short distance to the school the girls ought to be able to walk it alone. Going with Mama could be a practical solution. But he might be wrong. She might of course work elsewhere. He sat back to wait. The minutes dragged. There was no sign of the woman. And her car was still parked in the line of cars reserved for staff.
He took out his phone, went online and found the school website. The staff page. Found her under the heading ‘Teaching Staff’. Her name was Alicia Norheim. So that was what she looked like close up. A dark-skinned donna with straight hair, large brown eyes, full lips and a pronounced mole on her right cheek.
Alicia was a new name in this case. Nevertheless, he took the photograph of Sheyma Bashur from the glove compartment to compare. Alicia Norheim’s cheeks weren’t as round. But his eyes were drawn automatically to the mole on Sheyma’s cheek, and then moved to her eyes and mouth, as though these attractive features were only waiting to make their entrance.
If Alicia Norheim and Sheyma Bashur were one and the same person, that would explain how Snorre Norheim could know what he did. But it didn’t explain why Norheim wanted to hire him to investigate Guri Sekkelsten’s death.
He studied the pictures again. The similarity between the two faces was clearer now. Alicia Norheim was Sheyma Bashur.
Had she contacted the police? She should have done. She was sitting on important information in a murder case. She was one of the last people to see Fredrik Andersen alive.
He sat looking at the photographs, unsure what to do next.
He made a decision and searched for the school telephone number
on the net.
He waited until he heard the school bell ring and saw the pupils streaming out. Gave her two minutes to reach the staff room. Called. There was a switchboard. Asked to speak to Alicia Norheim.
‘Just a moment.’
There were only two rings.
‘Alicia Norheim here.’
Her voice was pleasantly soft with hardly any accent.
‘I believe your real name is Sheyma?’
A shot in the dark. But had he hit bullseye or not?
No answer. For a long time. He could hear her breathing. ‘Hello,’ he said.
‘Who is this?’ said the voice, which was no longer pleasantly soft. But nervous now. ‘Who is this? Who are you?’
For a few seconds he deliberated. Aisha had been deported. Guri Sekkelsten was dead. He no longer had an assignment that had any connection with Sheyma Bashur – he just wanted to satisfy his curiosity.
‘My name’s Frølich. I’m a private investigator. I’m sorry to bother you with this, but some time ago I was commissioned to locate a woman by the name of Sheyma Bashur.’
He paused.
‘You’re Sheyma Bashur,’ he said.
He could hear her breathing.
‘I’d like you to contact the police,’ he said. ‘You were one of the last people to see Fredrik Andersen alive. I can give you the phone number of…’
He paused. The dialling tone told him that she had already rung off.
He stared at the school. Should he call her again?
No. He had said what it was right to say.
The break was over and the small kids were trudging back in. Children in short trousers and summer dresses.
There was no point pressing Alicia Norheim any further. He was no longer employed by either Aisha or Guri. But he could give Alicia a few days. Sooner or later he would have to tell Gunnarstranda about her. But it would be best if she contacted the police herself. In that way, he would be kept out of it.
He switched on the ignition and drove off – towards Elvestad.
68
A good hour later he pulled into the car park in Elvestad where he and Matilde had found a place next to Guri’s Volvo not so many days ago.
He was met by a group of sweaty, laughing African-looking men who had just finished the morning session on the sports pitch.
He went in and met a dark, young girl in reception. He asked to speak to someone in management.
The girl lifted a telephone receiver and rang.
She put it down and explained where the office was.
A tall, slim woman in her late thirties was waiting for him in a doorway at the end of the corridor. Her hair was dark and cut short. She was wearing a knee-length skirt and a light, white woollen cardigan over a beige top.
They shook hands.
Inside the office she had photographs of a man and children on the desk. On the wall behind the desk hung stick drawings with titles like ‘To Mama’ and ‘The nicest mum in the world’. She had dimples in both cheeks and as she took a seat behind the desk she said she had already spoken to the police.
He told her he was a private investigator.
He stood with his hands behind his back and felt a little like a constable when he said that he had known the late Guri Sekkelsten, which was the truth. He had been doing a job for her, and in that connection he had been to the refugee centre almost a week before. He had met a man called Shamal and now he would like to talk to him again.
The woman behind the desk was taken aback.
‘A man with a little ring in one ear and combed-back hair,’ he said.
‘Yes, I know who Shamal is. It’s just that he no longer works here.’
‘So where is he?’
She shrugged. ‘As we said to the other lady, Shamal’s packed his things and gone.’
‘The other lady?’
69
‘A woman was here asking after him.’
‘Who?’
‘She didn’t say her name. She just asked after Shamal.’
‘Ethnically Norwegian?’
‘I’m not sure, but she spoke Norwegian anyway. Dark-skinned, maybe thirty-five? Sorry, but I didn’t ask where she came from.’
‘Did she have a mole here?’ He pointed to his right cheek.
‘Yes, in fact she did. Why do you ask?’
Frølich chose to ignore her question for the moment. ‘But if I were to have any chance of finding Shamal, where should I look?’
She sent him a winning smile. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have the slightest idea.’
She took a deep breath and eyed him as if considering whether to betray a secret.
‘Yes?’ he said.
‘I might not be playing by the book to say this, but I think I know why he took flight. You see, not so long ago, he had his final appeal turned down. He could be deported at any moment.’
Took flight, he thought. Shamal was a case for Bjørn Thyness.
‘Where do you think he’s hiding?’
‘As I said, I’ve no idea.’
‘In Oslo? He might have friends among other immigrants.’
‘I’d assume so, but I don’t know.’
‘Is anyone in the centre close to him? Anyone I can talk to who might be able to give me a clue as to where he’s hiding?’
‘I shouldn’t build up your hopes on that front. If Guri had still been here, I would’ve said you should talk to her. They worked together quite a bit.’
She stared into the middle distance. Serious now, and affected.
‘Guri was very well liked and good at her job. What happened is a great loss, not only for us, but for everyone who knew her.’
He nodded.
‘Tragic. That’s the only word for it. Absolutely tragic.’
‘What kind of relationship did Guri and Shamal have?’
‘A good one. They liked each other and worked well together. They had conversation groups and some activity training.’
‘Were they lovers?’
She smiled again. ‘No,’ she said, as though what he asked was foolish. ‘I don’t think so.’ She considered the question for a few seconds. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘if they did, I didn’t know anything about it. I don’t think so, though.’
He made a move to leave.
She coughed.
He stopped.
‘That would be a breach of all our ethical principles,’ she said.
‘What would be?’
‘Starting a relationship with a refugee. Guri wasn’t the type.’
His question had clearly given her food for thought. But he chose not to pursue the topic. ‘Have you tried to locate him?’
‘We don’t have the resources.’
‘Surely you’ve tried ringing him though?’
‘Yes, we have.’
‘You have his phone number?’
She leaned back and examined him more closely. ‘What’s this actually about?’
He pulled the visitor’s chair over and sat down. ‘If only I knew,’ he said glumly.
‘Knew what?’
‘What this was about. You had a woman here called Aisha. She wanted to be reunited with a sister.’
She nodded. There was a pile of letters on her desk. Addressed to an Anne Kari.
‘Guri and Shamal, together, hired me to find Aisha’s sister.’
She raised both eyebrows in astonishment.
‘You didn’t know?’
She shook her head.
‘I think I’ve found her sister. But it’s too late. From what I understand Aisha has been deported.’
Anne Kari nodded.
‘Guri Sekkelsten’s dead and I want to close the case. So I’d like to be able to contact Shamal, who helped and was involved.’
‘You say you think you’ve found the sister?’
It was his turn to nod.
‘Another tragic story with a tragic outcome,’ she said. ‘That’s what we deal with in this business. Tragedies.’
She got
up. ‘I’ve got Shamal’s phone number, the one we used when he was here. But no one picks up. It’s probably a pay-as-you-go phone. I suppose he’s changed the number or the SIM card or whatever they’re called.’
‘A phone number will be somewhere to start,’ he said and watched as she took a ring-file from a cabinet behind the desk, leafed through and jotted down a number.
He took the note, thanked her, shook her hand and said goodbye.
The bird’s flown, he thought, as he padded through the main entrance to his car.
Shamal had gone. Taken flight.
So why did the guy spend a whole day tailing me?
He sat for a while in his car before starting up. Going over what happened the day he had been here. Shamal and Guri saying hi as they came in. A little later Guri called Shamal over.
And what happened afterwards?
Aisha was forcibly deported. Guri Sekkelsten died. Shamal left the centre and started stalking him. Why?
70
It was afternoon when, once again, he left his car in the multi-storey car park by Spektrum, the indoor arena. He was hungry. Considered checking what was today’s menu at Dovrehallen, but chose fast food instead. Went to Grand Pizza in Grønland and bought a kebab in pitta bread. He grabbed a plastic fork and set to, straightaway in the street. Stood looking at a man without a head on a stool outside Teddys Softbar, playing guitar. The hat above the collar was floating in the air. At first, it was quite an impressive stunt, even if you realised the man must have hidden his head in his shirt. A lot of fuss for a relatively unprofitable act though, Frølich noticed, when he looked at the few coins there were in the guitar case on the ground. Private investigation was not the only industry where you had to toil for your supper. The hipsters sitting outside Teddys weren’t impressed, either. They shouted to each other to be heard over the guitar. Frank ate his kebab and tried to make up his mind whether headless guitar-playing was an art it was worth rewarding or not. No, he concluded, there were limits. Turning to walk on, he looked up to the right. There was a light on in the window above the dentist’s.
That was his office.
Sister Page 17
