Snorre Norheim was a man who attacked people with a baseball bat if they rang his wife. He could have turned up at Andersen’s house after the meeting between Andersen, his wife and Guri.
A dark-haired woman had asked after Shamal the day he disappeared from the refugee centre.
Sheyma Bashur. Everything had started with her.
He took out Snorre Norheim’s business card. Flicked it between his fingers as he wondered whether to ring. Eventually he made a decision. He did actually have some news to pass onto his client.
He tapped in Norheim’s number. The phone rang only twice before he answered.
‘Frølich here.’
‘One moment.’
He could hear Norheim putting a hand over the phone and talking to someone. He heard a door close.
‘Good, Frølich. What have you got for me?’
‘I’ve found the person who used to stay at Guri Sekkelsten’s. His name’s Shamal. I don’t know the surname. He’s an illegal immigrant.’
There was a silence at the other end.
‘Are you there?’
‘I am,’ Norheim said. ‘Where is this Shamal?’
‘He says he can’t testify on anything to do with Guri Sekkelsten’s death. He left the house before she got there that night. I believe him.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he has a witness. Shamal doesn’t want to hand himself into the police, either, because he would risk being deported. I understand his position. Guri Sekkelsten’s death is officially suicide and suspicious circumstances have been ruled out. Shamal’s testimony would do nothing to change that. So I consider your assignment completed.’
‘Not so fast, Frølich. I want to know where he is.’
‘Why?’
‘I’d like to talk to him personally.’
‘Why?’
‘I can’t see that that’s any of your business.’
‘Then I can’t help you. Good night.’
‘Wait.’
He put the phone to his ear again. ‘Yes?’
‘It would mean a lot to me to talk to him. Can you bring him along to meet me?’
‘You have to be clearer. Why do you want to meet him?’
‘I’ll tell you when you bring him along.’
Frank Frølich went quiet.
‘Have we an agreement, Frølich?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘When you’re ready to tell me why you want to meet him, we might have an agreement.’
Silence.
He counted the seconds. He cleared his throat. ‘So we don’t have an agreement. Goodbye.’
‘Wait.’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s my wife who wants to meet him. They know each other.’
Frølich waited for him to carry on. But he didn’t. ‘So you have no interest in this?’
‘No, but it’s very important for Alicia to meet this man.’
‘Why?’
‘I’ve already said too much, Frølich. Will you come?’
‘Where do you want to meet?’
‘Could you bring him to the fortress, in Akershus?’
‘Why there?’
‘It’s discreet.’
‘The fortress is a tourist trap. It’s not at all discreet.’
‘Not if you come now.’
‘Now? It’s almost midnight. That’s out of the question.’
‘How much time do you need?’
‘Why can’t you meet him tomorrow? We can meet in a café.’
‘I’d like this to be discreet, Frølich. You have to be present.’
‘Who else will be there?’
‘It’ll just be you, Alicia and Shamal.’
‘Not you?’
‘We have small children. One of us has to stay here.’
Frank deliberated.
‘What’s it going to be?’
‘I’ll see what Shamal’s willing to do. It’ll take two or three hours. It’s quite a drive.’
‘That’s fine. Alicia will make sure the door at the Kontrasjæret entrance is open. I work there. I’ll give her the key. Meet inside the fortress, by the benches on the west-facing wall.’
Frølich looked at his reflection in the window and nodded.
‘If Shamal won’t do it, you’ll hear from me within the hour.’
38
He stood by the window with the phone in his hand. The man who couldn’t bear strangers calling his wife was insisting on a meeting between her and Shamal at a deserted place after midnight – the stench reached his nostrils all the way through the ether.
If anyone showed up at Akershus fortress it would be Snorre Norheim. In other words, Norheim was lying.
He went to the Yellow Pages, found Guri Sekkelsten’s aunt’s number and called her.
She took a long time to answer.
‘It’s me, Frølich. It was nice to meet you.’
‘You too, Frølich.’
‘My apologies for calling so late.’
‘I never go to bed before two, Frølich. The first two hours after midnight are the best in the whole day.’
‘In terms of the light, do you mean?’
‘In all ways, Frølich.’
‘Can I talk to Shamal?’
‘Just a moment.’
He could hear the shuffle of feet. A silence lasted until he could hear lighter footsteps on the stairs.
‘Hello.’
‘Hello, Shamal.’
‘Yes?’
‘This is Frank Frølich here. I’ve found Sheyma.’
Silence.
‘Shall we go to see her together?’
The silence persisted. So he repeated the question:
‘Shall we go to see her together?’
‘OK.’
‘Can you get into Oslo? Now?’
‘Just say where we’re meeting. I’ll be there.’
‘We’re meeting at Akershus Fortress.’
‘Why there?’
‘We’re meeting a man who knows where she is. Sheyma. He’ll take us to her.’
‘Who is this man?’
‘A military man. He works there, at the fortress. He has a key and will open up for us.’
‘What’s his name?’
Frank Frølich hesitated. He had passed on the name of a client before. That had been an error. This time he wanted to see the effect of the name. He said:
‘The man’s name is Snorre Norheim.’
‘Can you spell it for me?’
Frank regarded his pale face in the window reflection as he spelt the name. ‘When can you be in Oslo?’
‘In two hours.’
‘Akershus Fortress. The entrance at the top of Rådhusgata, in the area known as Kontrasjæret. Do you know where that is?’
‘I’ll find it.’
‘We’ll meet there.’
39
He rang off. Went into the bedroom to find a clean jumper. The bag Matilde had taken with her to Tingvoll was still on the floor. Her dress hung over the back of the chair by the window. For a few seconds he stood gazing at her things, thinking it was a good sign they were still here. He went to the cupboard, found a jumper, went into the bathroom and washed his face. Turned and looked at the washing machine. There were clothes in it. He opened the door. Matilde’s clothes.
Should he ring her?
Presumably she was waiting for a call, an explanation, apologies, a confession.
This was a dreadful position he had put them both in. That had to be why she wasn’t getting in touch. Because she didn’t want to initiate the mortification they would both have to go through when she made her accusation. Naturally, she would think he could have done things differently, that he could have avoided this situation without much effort. She was right, of course. But he couldn’t be the one to start this humiliation, either; he couldn’t bring himself to contact her. Not now.
He set off in his car too early. So he drove aimlessly around the city centre,
feeling an old longing: for a life without duty, without responsibility and without a sense of guilt. For a state of being in which getting plastered in some dive and exchanging vacuities with people as pathetic as himself was a matter of course.
He also feared what he might have set in motion by agreeing to this meeting between Norheim and Shamal in the middle of the night. But he couldn’t speculate about the outcome. It felt risky. He couldn’t even be bothered to try and predict Snorre Norheim’s or Shamal’s emotional states. He had enough on his plate with his own. He drove through the city centre for perhaps the third time. Stopped at the lights in Dronning Eufemias gate, thinking about Travis Bickle, who took a job as a New York taxi driver to cope with chronic insomnia at night. It was a tempting thought. A lifestyle without obligations. You appear when other people are having breaks. Spend your time transporting strangers from one stage in their lives to another. When he parked in Kongens gate more than two hours had passed. But he didn’t see anything of Shamal as he trudged up towards Kontrasjæret. His phone was exhibiting no signs of life. He checked the display. No one had rung.
He waited at the lights, opposite the fountain with the sculpture of Christian IV’s glove. A Slavic-looking prostitute jumped out of a car and raised an eyebrow at him. He shook his head.
The lights changed from green to red to green and back again. People drifted past, young people on their way to the next watering hole. It was a summer’s night and, despite a light shower, quite warm.
The Slavic-looking woman had positioned herself by the lights between Rådhus gata and Nedre Slottsgate. She was wearing a kind of corset over a mini-skirt and black boots with high heels. They reached up over her knees and reminded him of the fairy tale Puss in Boots. She teetered into the street whenever a car passed. Again she turned to him. He left before she had a chance to make any further advances.
As Shamal had decided to absent himself, he would have to go in alone.
Akershus Fortress was immense. There were museums inside, office complexes for the defence staff and cobblestone paths between high walls for the tourists and the fortress kitsch, such as batteries of cannons and places of execution.
He passed Café Skansen and continued down the lawn to Myntgata. Here he stopped and listened. There was total silence. A low wrought-iron gate to the right was locked. In front, the cobblestone pavement led to the entrance in the fortress wall. The entrance consisted of double wooden doors under an arch. The doors seemed closed and locked. He walked up and discovered that one was ajar. The hinges screamed as he shoved it open and slipped inside.
The air was saturated with damp mist. But the cobblestones here, behind the walls, didn’t seem unsafe. He was alone as he continued up the rampart with the batteries of cannons and a view of the west. Here, he stopped to gaze across Piper Bay and the harbour. The light summer night was at its darkest. The office buildings in Aker Brygge were reflected in the harbour waters. In a few hours the day’s first trams would be gliding across the City Hall square. A random selection of people, ignorant of the hopes, pain and defeats of others would be passing one another, people who would have their own problems to contend with, who would allow their fellow creatures to go in peace, thereby demonstrating that most of the time humanity is tranquil.
He sat down on a bench, prepared to wait.
Shamal wasn’t coming. Nor was Snorre Norheim, nor was his wife.
They weren’t co-operating, and he had no idea why, only that there was reason for concern.
After twenty minutes had passed, he was fed up with waiting and walked back to the double wooden doors under the arch. He stopped and pulled at one door. It was locked.
40
He turned away from the door to find another exit. And jumped as a shadow slid out from behind a wall.
‘You scared me.’
‘Why are you alone?’ Snorre Norheim said.
‘Why are you here and not your wife?’
Norheim didn’t answer.
‘I assume Shamal’s on his way. We arranged to meet here.’
Norheim still didn’t say anything.
‘He might be waiting outside. You’ve got the key. You can open the door and have a look.’
Norheim still didn’t say anything.
‘What do you want from him?’
Still no response from Norheim. Nor was it possible to read anything in his eyes. The colonel must have locked the door for a particular purpose, he thought. What purpose could that be? Shamal wouldn’t be coming in now. But then he understood: no one would be leaving, either. This realisation caused beads of sweat to form.
‘Do you know what I think?’ Frank said. ‘I think it means a hell of a lot for you and your wife to keep her real identity hidden. It meant so much that you killed Fredrik Andersen.’
Norheim looked back as blankly as before.
‘And afterwards you killed Guri Sekkelsten because she could testify against you.’
‘You’re an amateur, Frølich. You don’t have the slightest idea what you’ve let yourself into. You know nothing.’
‘I know you served in Basra in 2004. Was that where you met your wife?’
Norheim didn’t answer.
‘I know she’s changed her name and I know there’ll be a no-holds-barred response if someone finds out who she really is.’
‘You think you know, but you don’t have a clue. You’re way off the mark.’
The silence was broken by a phone. One of Norheim’s pockets rang. He moved, took out the phone, looked at the display and answered.
He backed away a few steps to speak undisturbed. It was a short conversation. He turned to Frølich with the phone in his hand.
‘Did you give Shamal my address?’
‘No.’
Norheim stuffed the phone in his pocket. ‘Did you mention my name?’
‘Of course. You wanted to meet him.’
‘Idiot. He’s found the address. He’s outside there now.’
‘So what?’ Frølich grinned. ‘It’ll be a meeting between your wife and him. That’s what you said. She’s the one who wanted to meet him.’
‘You bloody cretin,’ Norheim whispered. ‘You fucking amateur. The man’s her brother. He’s spent half his life trying to trace her.’
Norheim crouched down to take something from the ground.
Frank recognised the form of the object a little too late. He was about to retreat as Norheim straightened up and rotated his upper body.
He knew it was the baseball bat even if he didn’t see it. All he saw was stars in front of his eyes as something very hard hit him in the temple.
41
He lifted his hand and touched the left-hand side of his head with his forefinger. The bump was big and sore.
The ground was damp, but it wasn’t rain. The seat of his trousers, however, was wet and the back of his jacket was becoming just as wet. He might have been out for an hour. Or maybe two minutes or just seconds. He had no idea. He staggered to his knees. His head felt like a rusty can. Bits chafed against each other, and it hurt.
He struggled up and tried to collect himself. Slowly sound returned. He could hear the town. A vague drone. The pain increased. He felt faint, but managed to stay on his feet. He swallowed a wave of nausea. Grabbed the handles of the doors. He shook them hard several times. But the doors were still locked. Norheim must have known another way out.
The throbbing in his head was worse.
Should he try to find the other exit?
He looked around. Some steps beside the door led up to the top of the wall. The staircase was closed off with a black chain. He stepped over the chain and took the steps up the wall, which was topped with slate. There were a few metres down to the lawn below. Maybe five or six. He was one metre ninety. Add on half a metre for his arms, he thought. I’d survive a fall of two metres. Maybe three.
What was the risk? A broken leg? Anyway, it was too late for regrets now. He was already hanging by his fingers. With the wall p
ressed against his stomach and face. He made himself as long as he could. And let go. His face scraped against the wall and his jumper was pulled up by the friction.
He fell to the ground.
Which did nothing for the pain in his head. The idea of standing up wasn’t exactly tempting. So he lay back on the lawn for a few more seconds, feeling his body to see if anything was broken. The grass was wet. He lifted first one leg and then the other. Rolled onto his side and sat up.
Someone was speaking.
A young couple were standing on the corner of Myntgata with their arms entwined around each other. He got to his feet and staggered towards them. They backed away. He carried on past them, towards Rådhusgata. Trying to focus. Keeping to the pavement. It was difficult. A taxi driver hooted his horn as he tottered into the road. Frank didn’t turn around, but rushed on and crossed into Kongens gate, where he had parked his car.
He had to concentrate to prevent seeing double. Unlocked his car with the remote. Opened the door and plumped down on the seat. Checked his appearance in the mirror. It wouldn’t inspire much confidence. Wan with a red smear across his forehead and temple. Probably he had concussion. The pain suggested that. Well, the remedy was to stay awake. He should be able to manage that. He put the gear-lever in first and went to pull out, but braked as the sound of a horn resounded inside the car. It was a taxi coming from behind. It swerved and the driver gave him the finger as he passed.
Frank breathed out. Looked in the mirror. All clear.
42
He parked his car under the same tree as on the previous occasion, but this time behind another car: Shamal’s old Opel. He switched off the ignition, but sat for a few seconds taking in the house. The lights were lit on the ground floor. The dormer window on the first floor was dark. The front door didn’t appear to be closed properly.
The most striking feature of this scene was the car in front of the garage. Frank had seen it before when Alicia Norheim drove the children to school. It was unoccupied, but the headlights were on and the engine was idling.
Sister Page 28
