He opened the door and got out.
Apart from the purr of the engine, there was silence. His shoes crunched on the gravel on the way to the front steps. The wood creaked as he walked up.
He had been wrong. The door wasn’t ajar. It had been locked and broken open. The strike plate part of the lock was hanging off and the door frame was splintered where it had been forced. On the mat lay the tool that had been used to break it open: a blue jemmy.
He left the jemmy where it was and pulled the door to. A man’s body lay stretched out on the hall floor, on his back. The head was close to the front door. The feet pointed to the door leading into the house. The body was completely motionless.
He crouched down.
Shamal wasn’t breathing and his face had lost colour and texture. The glassy eyes told Frank that he was beyond any help.
He had been shot. The entry wound was in his chest.
But there was very little blood. The splinters on the floor were as clean as before.
He glanced at the door leading into the house. It was half open. He stood up. The hall wasn’t very spacious. One wall was covered with a kind of in-built wardrobe with clothes hangers and some coats. There were several pairs of shoes on the floor under the coats. Small sizes. Children’s shoes, sandals with straps and small rubber boots. There were photographs of the two girls on the wall beside the front door. The glass in the picture frame was smashed. This is where the bullet had terminated its trajectory, in the panel behind the frame, midway between the girls, who had bows in their hair and were laughing at the photographer and showing their milk teeth.
A voice was speaking softly on the radio somewhere deeper in the house. It was a soft voice, a woman’s, talking about the weather in northern Norway. Showers were expected over Nordland, north of Bodø, the following day.
He retreated, pushed the front door open with his shoulder and backed down the steps. On the gravel he stood trying to assimilate the whole scene again:
The front door is closed, locked. Shamal breaks it down. He goes in, gets so far and no further. A shot rings out. Hitting Shamal in the chest. He falls.
The dead man was lying on his back in the hall with his head against the front door. A body that told its own story. He fell backwards. He had been on his way in and the person who shot him was in the house.
And here, in front of the garage, was the family car with its headlamps on and the engine running.
Someone had been in a hurry, jammed on the brakes and run up the steps and in.
Snorre Norheim.
When was Shamal shot? Before or after Snorre Norheim drove up?
The colonel had a phone. His wife had said Shamal was outside.
Frølich realised he had quite a lot to tell the police when the time came.
43
After ending the phone conversation he looked up at the front steps again.
If he had been working for the police now, he would have waited for back-up.
But he wasn’t. He could follow his own instincts and just be responsible for himself.
He walked towards the steps. Wait, he told himself. Somebody inside has a gun and has already used it once.
He pulled the door open and entered. He stepped over the body and went to the half-open door. Paused. Pushed the door fully open. A living room with a large dining table and a chandelier on the ceiling revealed themselves.
He went in. The radio voice had stopped. A song was playing. Bobby McFerrin’s ‘Don’t Worry, Be Happy’.
The room had been built at an angle, like a big L. A broad staircase led up to the floor above. Here, behind the corner, was the stereo. Two column speakers each side of a TV.
A suite consisting of a leather sofa and two chairs were situated around a low table. In one chair sat Alicia Norheim. She appeared to have dressed to do some exercise, in a short-sleeved cotton top, tights and pink trainers. She was staring vacantly into the distance.
There was no weapon to be seen.
But he couldn’t see her hands. He asked:
‘What happened here?’
She turned her head slowly in his direction. Looked at him. ‘Who are you?’
‘My name’s Frank Frølich. We’ve spoken on the phone.’
She continued to look at him. ‘You should wash your face,’ she said. ‘You’re bleeding.’
He wiped his forehead. Felt his headache throbbing. ‘Your children?’
She stared back as vacantly as before.
‘Where are your children?’
She tossed her head. ‘Upstairs. Snorre’s with them.’
‘Are you alright?’
She shook her head. She reached out an arm. Pressed a button on the stereo. The music stopped.
He ran his eyes over the room. In the window behind her he could make out a tree outside. The light from a street lamp reflected on the paintwork of his car.
A sound made him turn to the stairs leading to the first floor.
On the lowest step stood Snorre Norheim. The colonel’s right arm was hanging down. In it he was holding a gun. It looked like a G17 Frølich himself had used a lot in training.
‘Some people always screw up,’ Norheim said. ‘For example, they come to places they should never have considered setting foot in. You’ve made life hell for us, Frølich. What I’m wondering now is what we’re going to do with you.’
‘You and your wife are responsible for your own actions,’ Frølich answered, looking at his watch. ‘It’s three minutes since I called the police ops switchboard. They’ll be here shortly. We should spend the time talking. What happened?’
‘Talk? To you?’
‘You’re my client. There’s been a murder in your home. You’re very probably holding the murder weapon. I’ll be a witness in this case regardless of what you do. And you have a few minutes to influence my testimony.’
‘Why on earth would I or my wife be interested in that?’
‘It always helps to understand,’ he answered. ‘Insight creates empathy. One of you took a man’s life. I believe my version of our disagreement will carry a certain weight.’
Snorre Norheim regarded him for a few seconds as if he were carrion.
‘It was me,’ Alicia Norheim said. ‘I shot Shamal.’
Snorre Norheim interceded on her behalf. ‘It was self-defence. Alicia was defending herself and our two children against an intruder,’ he continued. ‘I usually keep the gun locked up, but since she’s felt threatened recently she’s had access to the weapons cabinet.’
‘You defended yourself against your brother?’
The colonel answered for her. ‘She defended herself against a man who for years has sworn he’d kill her. And who forced his way into the house.’
They both looked at Alicia Norheim.
‘A long time ago, when you left for Norway, Shamal followed you?’
She nodded.
‘Why?’
‘This is just snooping. It has nothing to do with what happened here,’ Snorre Norheim said. He stuffed the gun into the waistband of his trousers and straightened his belt. ‘But by all means. Sooner or later you’ll want to know anyway. Alicia left Iraq with Werner, one of my best friends and colleagues. Alicia’s father was killed by Saddam many years ago. She and Werner became a couple despite Alicia being promised to an Iraqi widower. The marriage meant a lot to her mother and the rest of the family, economically and socially. The chosen bridegroom was well-off. Alicia and her brothers and sisters would’ve been lifted out of poverty. But Alicia followed her heart. Werner was the man she loved. Werner helped her flee. They came here to Oslo. They were going to get married when she had her residence permit.’
Norheim walked over to the half-open door where the dead man was still lying across the threshold.
‘Don’t touch anything,’ Frølich said.
‘Don’t give me orders in my own house, Frølich.’
‘It was well-meant advice.’
‘Werner died,’ Alici
a Norheim said.
Snorre Norheim turned back to them. ‘Werner just dropped dead,’ he said. ‘In training. We were playing indoor bandy. It was quite incredible. Werner had survived several years of active service in many of the world’s worst conflict zones. Then he comes home and dies in a gym because a blood vessel in his head bursts. In training. The doctors said it was congenital. A defect no one had seen or noticed. He could’ve died when he was ten.’
Snorre Norheim crossed the room and leaned over his wife. ‘Alicia,’ he whispered. ‘Come on, get up.’
She shook her head.
Norheim turned back to Frølich. ‘Werner and Alicia had a year together. I helped with the funeral and the practical side. Language, bureaucracy. All that. We continued to meet after the funeral.’
On the wall, by the staircase to the first floor, hung a clock. The minute hand jumped.
How many minutes had they been talking?
There was no light to be seen through the window. Not a sound to be heard. Alicia sat by the table, still not moving. Frølich said:
‘What do you feel now, really?’
‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘That’s what’s bothering me.’
‘Where does the name Alicia come from?’
‘Choosing your own name is about choosing your own life. When I came to Norway I wanted to be free. And I wanted to choose who I shared my life with and who I loved.’
Snorre Norheim was moved. He swallowed and knelt down beside her and held her hand.
‘So you two got together?’
Alicia nodded. ‘We got married a year after Werner died. My family in the village were informed he’d died. I called my mother and told her. But I regretted it afterwards. Werner’s death made no difference. Shamal had his mission and didn’t give up. The family’s honour had to be “cleansed”.’
‘We knew it was actually possible he might turn up, even though time had passed,’ the colonel said, and rose to his feet. ‘But we thought we could keep a low profile. Alicia had a new identity. She kept away from groups of people from the Middle East. Everything would’ve been fine if you hadn’t screwed things up.’
Frølich shook his head: ‘What would’ve happened at the fortress if you’d got your way tonight? Did you turn up without a weapon? Had you planned to kill us both?’
Norheim didn’t answer.
‘It’s just my good fortune that I survived the whack you gave me.’
Norheim stayed quiet.
Alicia looked at her husband.
‘You said you were only going to talk,’ she said.
‘I was going to talk to Shamal. But this idiot told Shamal my name.’
He turned to Frølich: ‘That’s why Shamal came here instead of meeting at the fortress. That’s why he broke in when Alicia wouldn’t open the door to him. That’s why my wife had to defend herself and our children. That’s why Shamal’s dead. But it could’ve been much worse. It could’ve been Alicia lying there now. And you caused all of this, Frølich. Shamal’s death is your responsibility, one hundred per cent.’
‘If you’d been open with me, I wouldn’t have had any reason to tell Shamal anything.’
‘No,’ Norheim said. ‘This happened because of you.’
‘I acted on the information I had. Which of you two killed Fredrik Andersen?’
Snorre Norheim regarded him with despair, took a deep breath and shook his head in a patronising manner.
But Frølich wasn’t to be side-tracked so easily. ‘Guri Sekkelsten was scared out of her wits when she heard Andersen was dead.’
‘As I said earlier tonight, Frølich, you’re an amateur. Fredrik Andersen was our supporter, one of our best friends. He contacted you at our request.’
‘At my request,’ Alicia Norheim said. ‘I asked him to talk to you because you went to the hotel and asked after me. I realised that Shamal was behind this. He would use you so that you led him to me. I asked Fredrik to visit you and make you see reason. Fredrik got the money from me to pay you. Fredrik said you refused to say anything, but you’d taken the money. So we had hope. But then he was visited by this girl who worked at the refugee centre. She appeared at his office, talking about a sister I’d never had. Then I understood it had gone too far. I understood that I had to talk to her, to find Shamal and confront him before he found me.’
‘Again your responsibility,’ Snorre Norheim said. ‘You told Guri Sekkelsten about Fredrik Andersen. You gave away the name of your client. You broke the most elementary ethical rule.’
‘Fredrik was never my client. He placed a few notes on my desk and refused to take them back.’
‘Listen to yourself,’ Norheim said. ‘You’re trying to wriggle out of your responsibility like some brat in front of the head teacher.’
Frølich ignored him.
‘You and Fredrik Andersen met Guri Sekkelsten the same night,’ he said to Alicia Norheim, who nodded.
‘I described my brother to her. I saw at once by her reaction that she knew Shamal. But she lied to me and said she had no idea who he was. She refused to say anything. So I said I would hold her responsible for the consequences. We didn’t part as friends.’
She looked down.
‘Snorre picked me up after the meeting with Fredrik and the woman,’ Alicia said. ‘We drove home and went to bed, and woke to the news that Fredrik had been killed.’
‘Who killed him?’
44
‘Shamal did,’ Alicia Norheim said. ‘I think Guri Sekkelsten told him about Fredrik and Fredrik knew who I was and where I lived. But I still feel guilty because it was me who got Fredrik to contact you. When Fredrik died I realised that I’d have to find Shamal myself and stop him before he did any more damage. I drove to the refugee centre where the girl worked. I went in and asked after him. They confirmed that he lived there, but said he wasn’t at work. Then I rang the woman, Guri Sekkelsten. I said I’d been to the refugee centre to meet Shamal, but that he wasn’t there. I asked Guri to tell me where Shamal was. Guri said she could take me to him.’
‘You went there, to her place?’ Frølich asked.
Alicia Norheim shook her head. ‘Snorre went instead of me.’
There were now two pairs of eyes boring into Snorre Norheim. He grimaced. ‘Yes, I met Guri Sekkelsten. We drove to her place in her car. But by then the bird had flown.’
‘And you killed her there?’
‘The case has been dropped, Frølich.’
‘But why?’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘You strangled her and made it look like suicide.’
‘She killed herself,’ Snorre Norheim snapped angrily.
‘Snorre,’ Alicia said. He turned to her. She seemed even paler now.
‘It happened after I left her,’ her husband said.
‘You drove away in her car. I met you as you were leaving.’
‘You shut your mouth,’ Norheim said, raising his gun. He held the weapon with two hands, arms outstretched. Legs apart. Shooting position.
Frank Frølich focused on three eyes. One black and two light-blue.
Frank was sweating, still dizzy, feeling that his legs could give way at any moment. Snorre Norheim had years of active service behind him. He was a man who was capable of anything. And one person had already lost his life in this house. How crazy could the man be?
‘What do you say now, eh?’ Norheim said.
‘I found her dead that night. I called her phone. You had it and you took the call. You threatened me. Afterwards you visited me because you wanted to get hold of Shamal. So your idea was to use me to lead you to him. You thought about killing me when I rang your wife at the school where she works. But you held back. You preferred to have me lead you to her brother. I was more use to you alive than dead. I still am.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘You have two small children on the floor above us. What do you think you’ll do to them if you pull the trigger now?’
‘Snorre,’ Alicia Norheim implored.
‘He’s imagining things,’ Norheim repeated. ‘Guri Sekkelsten killed herself. The police say the same.’
Behind Norheim, through the window, Frølich could finally see a blue light flashing. But how far away?
‘You killed her,’ Frølich said.
Two blue and one black eye were still staring at him. ‘You’re a bigger fool than I thought,’ Norheim said.
Frank Frølich blinked sweat from his eyes. His voice failed him, and he cleared his throat.
‘The police’ll be here soon,’ he said. ‘My advice is, do this with as little drama as possible. Remember your children.’
‘Don’t tell me what to do with my children.’
‘Put the gun down now and this will all be fine. Alicia can plead self-defence. Shamal forced his way into the house after swearing that he was going to kill her. Her case is meat and drink to lawyers. She’ll walk free. But if you pull the trigger now, you won’t get away. Then it’s you who’ll be destroying the lives of those that mean most to you.’
The blue flashing lights were much nearer. Reflecting on the wall beside the window.
Norheim’s arm didn’t tremble. Frølich couldn’t do any more. He closed both eyes and waited.
Nothing happened.
Until they heard wheels crunching on the gravel outside. A car came to a halt. Doors slammed.
‘Snorre,’ Alicia said again.
Frank Frølich opened his eyes.
Snorre Norheim lowered his weapon. He secured the safety catch, put the gun on the floor and kicked it in the direction of the corpse. It skidded across the floor and lay still by the door.
Frølich forced himself to keep still. As a police officer he would have run to take the gun and confiscate it at once. But he had felt the whole time that the atmosphere was close to boiling over. He didn’t move.
A man in a red boiler suit appeared in the doorway. He knelt down over the dead man. He confirmed what Frølich had confirmed himself several minutes before. He cast a glance through the doorway at them. Saw the gun on the floor. Turned to another officer in red behind him. The two of them mumbled something. Both backed out.
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