Sister
Page 21
10
Frank wanted to protest, but the gynaecologist was already up and winding his way between tables. He stopped, bent at the hip, stood with his upper body at right angles and whispered something in the ear of a woman sitting at a table closer to the stairs. She was in her early forties and wore a cream-coloured dress, white gloves and an equally cream-coloured hat on her head. She stood up. The gynaecologist held his hands around her waist and guided her to the table.
‘Here, take my chair,’ he said.
The woman sat down. A wave of perfume wafted across the table.
Nine-Beate gasped. ‘Bright Crystal. That’s top of my list!’
Rita Torgersen shook her head. ‘Troi L’impératrice. I take turns. Well, you may be right,’ she said, reading Nini-Beate’s sceptical eyes. ‘It could be Versace this evening.’
The head waitress came with an extra chair for the gynaecologist, who sat at the end of the table and introduced everyone.
‘What would you like?’ he said to Rita Torgersen.
‘Nothing, my kind friend,’ she said. ‘I have to be quick.’ Then she settled her eyes on Frølich: ‘I hear you’re an investigator and knew Fredrik Andersen.’
Frank Frølich nodded.
‘So what do you think?’ she said.
‘About what?’
‘About the murder of Andersen.’
Nini-Beate broke in. ‘He’s investigating to see if there are any links with the Sea Breeze catastrophe.’
Rita Torgersen looked at him without saying a word.
Frølich felt a need to explain. ‘Andersen wrote a book.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘I knew Fredrik.’
‘So what do you think?’ Frølich asked.
A waiter came, poured wine and removed the empty plates from the table.
Rita Torgersen rested her forearms on the table cloth and leaned forward. ‘I think Fredrik realised he was tilting at windmills and took the consequences. The Norwegian public will forget the Sea Breeze. Why can I say that? Well, the catastrophe took place in 1988. The years pass. Criticism rains down on the police. There are no fewer than four calls for a new investigation. Every single time the call is rejected, in a classically arrogant way. Conspiracy theories abound. Rumours abound that the fire was a giant insurance scam and so on. The police and the DPP have to take all this criticism for years unabated. Then comes the twenty-second of July 2011 – one solitary right-wing terrorist manages to blow up the government quarter, then shoots down sixty-nine youths on Utøya, the police powerless to do anything to stop it. They are seen to be a collection of incapable boneheads. And then, after all this humiliation, along comes Fredrik with his book. He rattles on – once again – about how incompetent the Norwegian police can be. The Sea Breeze. Arson and murder. One hundred and fifty-nine people killed and an investigation that didn’t bear scrutiny. A police force that accuses one of the victims of being behind the mass murder, without a scrap of evidence. In other words, Fredrik succeeded once again in dragging the police through the mire. You can understand that the main actors in the police were furious. It was obvious what would happen when the police were finally ordered to investigate the case afresh.’
‘What did you think would happen?’
‘They would tell all and sundry that they had not failed when the crime took place.’
This answer surprised him. He hadn’t expected that an important politician would be so outspoken in her assessment of the police role in this case.
‘And Stortinget appointed a committee to investigate,’ he said.
‘Yes, and I know the committee struggled to find candidates for the inquiry. In the end they managed to round up some public employees and a few from the civil service. Not even my grandmother’s dog would’ve trusted such a gang of system-loyal toadies. The chairman alone is a huge joke. I know him. Ole Franzen, a judge at Nordmøre district court.’
She looked at the gynaecologist. ‘He’s from Kristiansund, so you know what I mean.’
Frank Frølich didn’t understand.
‘Ålesund, Molde and Kristiansund,’ the gynaecologist explained. ‘There’s a bit of rivalry between them.’
‘Aha.’
‘When the committee was finally ready,’ Rita Torgersen continued, ‘they got hold of two retired Kripos detectives to report back. These guys were pals with the officers who’d investigated the case in 1988 and were also chums with the officers who’d cleared the force in the following round. These two started their work by establishing that everything the police had done so far was correct. The committee ordered reports from experts. But if they were unlucky and received a report criticising the police version of the tragedy, they immediately ordered a counter-report – even before they’d started to tremble in their shoes. So when the committee finally presented its report, it was fundamentally a carbon copy of the police’s own review. But this carbon copy would be difficult to serve up without the right garnishes. Everyone knew that. The committee decided to present the report inside Stortinget. So my old friend from Kristiansund was able, without fear of contradiction, to refer to the mass murder as an “accident”. He proclaimed physical laws that didn’t exist. Newton and Galileo would’ve been on their backs, laughing hysterically if they’d heard him. But this wasn’t Newton and Galileo’s arena, if you know what I mean. The Sea Breeze had become political. The Norwegian media didn’t see this as street theatre. They didn’t even see an emperor without clothes; the media saw a clean-shaven gentleman in nice clothes who spoke in the Norwegian Parliament. The reaction from the press is bound to be a subject for a research project at some point in the future. You’ve heard of self-fulfilling prophecies, I’m sure. We’re talking here about a session that summarised two police investigations and one parliamentary inquiry as well. The prophecy was simple enough: there in parliament, the conclusion would be perceived of as the truth, regardless of what was said. So the collected press would report on the speech as though they had heard God’s voice in the wilderness. This was how the sea tragedy was downgraded from being a national trauma to a private affair of the bereaved. The press’s summary was that there had been no limit to the state’s exertions to fulfil the wishes and needs of the survivors and bereaved. And now the cup was full. Even the tabloid leaders declared that now the survivors and bereaved should shut up and be happy. No one who observed this could do anything about it – Fredrik Andersen included. He realised the general public could live without the case of the Sea Breeze being resolved, in the same way that the USA had accepted the unsolved murder of Kennedy and Sweden was fine with the unsolved murder of Olof Palme.’
Frank Frølich was still impressed. Nevertheless he had to ask: ‘But where are you in all this?’
‘Me?’
Frølich nodded. ‘You have your analysis. You’re a politician. You have power. What are you doing about this case?’
‘Nothing.’
He remained quiet.
‘As you yourself said, I’m a politician. I’ve come to the same realisation as Fredrik Andersen. Screaming and shouting about the Sea Breeze is a lost cause now. If you’ve been cheeky enough to tape this conversation, there’s no point. When I leave this table, I’ll have forgotten I met you. This evening doesn’t exist in my memory any longer.’ She looked up, in mock confusion: ‘What, me? Don’t know him from Adam, guv.’
Matilde grinned.
Frank felt a need for more clarity though. He said: ‘You say this is a lost cause now. When will something happen?’
‘I don’t know. Something may happen. Something will happen. You just have to wait.’
‘You want to wait, but you don’t know what you’re waiting for, do you?’
‘At school you might’ve learnt what Bismarck said: “Anyone who sees how sausages and politics are made will never have a good night’s sleep again.” My experience is a little different. Politics is to a large extent all about timing – waiting for the right time and the right place.’
Rita Torgersen glanced over her shoulder.
Frølich raised both eyebrows.
‘I was just wondering who you were talking to,’ she said.
Matilde grinned.
‘There are those who believe that Fredrik Andersen was killed because of the book he wrote about the Sea Breeze,’ Frølich said.
She shook her head. ‘That’s rubbish anyhow.’
‘Why are you so sure of that?’
‘Today the Sea Breeze can best be compared with the trial in Kafka’s world or the inheritance running through Bleak House by Dickens. You almost need a degree in economics and marine engineering to keep the distinct threads apart. What Fredrik Andersen wrote or didn’t write about the Sea Breeze is of absolutely no significance.’
She got up. ‘Please excuse me,’ she said. ‘But I have a date and he’s waiting.’
The gynaecologist stood up at once. He grabbed her arm and gave her a hug that could only be characterised as warm.
‘Of course, Rita.’
He stayed on his feet and watched her for a few seconds admiringly. ‘Fantastic woman,’ the gynaecologist said. ‘Fantastic patient.’
11
He woke up early the next morning and looked straight into the face of Nini-Beate. Her face was four times bigger than the previous evening. She smiled with tense jaw muscles and had both nipples pierced. He closed his eyes and opened them again – reassured. She was on a poster he hadn’t noticed when they went to bed the night before.
He lay back and thought about the conversation with Rita Torgersen, the Stortinget politician who insisted that the Sea Breeze was a lost cause.
What would Jørgen Svinland be able to achieve, he thought, if he was able to locate Fredrik Andersen’s mysterious eyewitness – Ole Berg. What difference would one eyewitness report make, one way or the other? Would it create a stir at all?
If it turned out that Oda Borgersrud was indeed the mysterious Ole Berg, and if he managed to get the woman to talk, so what?
There’s no so what, he thought immediately afterwards. You’ve taken on a job for Jørgen Svinland. The job is to locate a person. You have to find her, clarify whether she might be Andersen’s source and then write a report. The job stops there.
Or would it?
He wasn’t ready to answer that question at this juncture.
He let Matilde sleep. Fetched his rucksack and opened the laptop he had brought with him. Sat on the sofa with it on his knees. Googled the judge Rita Torgersen had mentioned.
There were lots of hits. But it was interesting that many of the hits were recent and referred to the Sea Breeze.
He set about isolating the older hits. There were barely any. An early hit was a photograph of a family meeting in Surnadal. It was a picture of a big group of people in a farmyard. Several of them were wearing national dress. Another hit was a ten-year-old public document. It concerned Ole Franzen’s appointment to the post of judge. There was a hit from Facebook that was just as old. The local community wished him luck with his new job. There was also, more recently, an open letter in the press in which the judge informed local politicians that there was a danger of queues forming at the law court. In other words, Frank Frølich calculated, feeling that he had drawn on his deepest prejudices: Ole Franzen had come from nowhere. He was a judge with an unmerited promotion brought in to lead a parliamentary inquiry. The Sea Breeze had placed Ole Franzen at the centre of the media frenzy for one day – the one day when the committee published its report. However, there were hundreds of hits about this one occasion. Photographs of the judge, Ole Franzen, who read the committee’s conclusions in Stortinget, and various newspapers’ reports of the review. In Norway, Denmark and Sweden.
Could it be so simple?
A state-employed drudge is appointed in a government meeting. He sees his golden chance. Swims with the tide. Cheers on the strongest, and afterwards waits like an obedient poodle for a titbit from the bosses.
Could it really be so simple?
Frank Frølich had worked for the police himself. He knew the organisational structure inside out, for better or worse. He had no problems with prejudging this case. The committee’s servile attitude could actually be ascribed to arse-licking and good old-fashioned cowardice. An obvious question was whether it was conceivable that an unknown judge, with no career to speak of, with no profile, could be promoted and stand in the breach to reprimand firstly Oslo Police District – the biggest and the most influential in the whole country – and secondly Norway’s DPP – the judge’s most senior boss and possible model – in a public report. Conceivable? Feasible?
Irrespective of whether the committee’s servility was down to cowardice or partisan obedience, the system, which the committee had tried to satisfy, hadn’t yet rewarded the chairman. Franzen was still a judge in Nordmøre.
Had he perhaps had time to turn bitter?
Frank continued to search. It turned out that the Nordmøre law court was in Kristiansund. That wasn’t far away. It would be possible to pay him a call now that he was up here.
But it wasn’t long until Guri’s funeral. If he wanted to visit the judge he would have to be quick. Could he fit in a call today?
12
He lifted his head from the screen. Glanced at Matilde, who was still sound asleep. Why was he so preoccupied by this? Why not just accept that the judge was sitting on the key to what happened that night in 1988?
He pondered the question. Was there an answer? At least there were photographs. The ones he had seen at Bernt Weddevåg’s. A man weighing ninety kilos burned down to nothing. A woman with a shrunken skull and charred body in a cabin where there hadn’t been a single flame.
The Gordian knot in this case was the extreme injuries suffered by the victims. The investigators had deftly skirted the issue of the inexplicable devastation. Could this kind of inquiry be deemed satisfactory?
If he was going to talk to the judge, he had better be well prepared.
But was he primarily interested in satisfying his own curiosity or making progress with his work? He didn’t know. Nor was he sure he wanted to know the answer to his question.
At any rate it wouldn’t hurt to read up a bit more.
He went through his rucksack, looking for the memory stick containing Andersen’s research material. Plugged in his laptop and began to scour the documents.
Matilde woke up an hour later.
He rubbed his eyes and packed away his laptop.
Matilde went to the veranda door, let Petter out and stood looking at the sky and the sea. She established that the good weather was over.
And she was right. The clouds were thick and grey and were shifting towards an ominously black band on the horizon.
They set the table for breakfast. They had the kitchen to themselves, brewed coffee and ate rolled oats with kefir as they stared across the sea and spoke in low voices so as not to wake their hosts.
‘We said goodbye to them last night, didn’t we,’ Matilde said. ‘Besides, they like to sleep in when they’re on holiday. Who doesn’t?’
The dogs wanted to be fed. Petter was obedient and lay on the floor, waiting. Doris was more demanding. She started barking.
Frank picked up Doris in his hand and gently tossed her out onto the veranda. She turned around and stood in front of the glass door with a shocked expression in her eyes.
He filled the Thermos with coffee.
It had just turned nine when they cruised out of Ålesund, heading for the ferry terminal at Vestnes. Matilde left the folding top on and the first raindrops pitter-pattered on the windscreen. This was a trip when the windscreen wipers would provide the music for the day.
They were in a silent, pensive mood, both of them.
‘W
hat are you thinking about?’
‘What the politician woman we met yesterday said. What are you thinking about?’
‘My new brother.’
From a distance they could see the ferry waiting with open doors as they drove along the E39 to the quay. By the time they arrived, the boat had left. But they were at the front of the queue and would get a place on the next one.
Matilde seemed tense. She said: ‘I’m dreading this.’
Frank said that was understandable.
‘Will you come in with me?’
That was up to her.
She asked him what he thought was best.
‘As you’ve asked, I think I’d meet him alone first,’ he said. ‘Anything can happen. But it’s an important moment and actually quite private. I guess you’ll sense if you want to have someone around you or not. But it’ll be a bit late if I’m already with you. It’ll be much easier alone at first. You can just open the door and wave me in if you need to. If you feel it really is best to stay alone with your brother, you can relax and leave me outside.’
‘What will you do if I decide I don’t need you?’
‘The judge Rita Torgersen was talking about lives in Kristiansund. He’s the chairman of the parliamentary committee. It’s not far from Tingvoll.’
Matilde rolled down the side-window and sat smoking as the ferry glided in. The ticket man came over, a middle-aged guy wearing a green reflective vest and a sou’wester on his head. He had braided his beard in such a way that it tapered and stuck out from his chin. While they were waiting for the payment terminal to work he studied the convertible. He said he was a member of NRKK – the Nordmøre and Romsdal veteran car club – and had a sixty-eight Mustang GT, the same model Steve McQueen drives in Bullitt.
Matilde didn’t answer. Usually she would have been keen to contribute to this kind of conversation. They had seen the film together twice and both of them liked the car chases in and out of San Francisco. But now she was staring into the distance without saying a word.