Sohlberg and the Missing Schoolboy: an Inspector Sohlberg mystery (Inspector Sohlberg Mysteries)

by Amundsen, Jens

  “The National Police Commissioner of the National Police Directorate is pleased to announce that the Commissioner is, effective immediately, assigning and loaning Police Chief Inspector Harald Sohlberg of the Oslo Police Regional District to Interpol at the request of the General Secretary of Interpol.

  “Herr Sohlberg will serve as a senior Interpol Adviser for an indefinite period of time on critical international law enforcement matters that directly affect Norway and Europe. Furthermore, pursuant to long-standing arrangements with Interpol, Herr Sohlberg will continue in his capacity as a Police Chief Inspector for the Oslo Police Regional District and continue reporting to Commissioner Ivar Thorsen of the Oslo Police Regional District.”

  Of course the government’s official press release failed to disclose that Thorsen moved Sohlberg to Interpol after Sohlberg exposed scandalous judicial corruption in Norway’s Supreme Court. The humiliating exile still rankled Sohlberg even though it had taken place 15 years ago on the very day that Sohlberg was celebrating his fifth year as a highly respected Chief Inspector.

  Sohlberg cursed. He left his father’s cabin to take a long walk on Ulvøya Island before he got angry enough to punch a hole through his father’s desk.

  ~ ~ ~

  A few miles away another man was about to receive another troubling communication. The man turned on the laptop computer and waited. He was in for a long long night and it was not just because of the midsummer Sankthansaften celebrations. He did not look forward to the midnight sun which would serve as a constant reminder that his personal life was one of extremes. Oslo provided 18 hours of daylight in the summer and 6 hours of daylight in the winter and those unbalanced extremes were no different than those in his heart and soul. He felt that he was losing his grip on reality.

  The spy software SILENT KEYLOGGER finally loaded and asked him for his password.

  You are?

  He typed in *******.

  The man felt sick when he read the latest entries that the key logging software had picked up from the desktop computer in the small bedroom down the hallway. Waves of nausea rolled over him. And yet he was grateful for the keyboard monitoring software that he had bought at a computer store and covertly installed into a laptop at his home. The software accurately and secretly recorded every single keyboard stroke that anyone made on the computer that he wanted to spy on.

  What does a man do when he is betrayed on every single possible level of a relationship?

  The question disturbed him more than the answer or answers. The question inevitably raised the question of how he had allowed himself to be trapped in such a sick and false relationship. Twisted and putrid would not begin to describe the mess he had gotten himself into so stupidly and recklessly. The worst part of his troubles was that he still could not believe that someone as intelligent and educated as himself could be so thoroughly duped.

  A door opened and closed somewhere in his house. Footsteps got closer. He quickly exited the spyware and clicked on his favorite game of solitaire.

  “Hei,” she said after opening the door, “what are you doing?”

  “Nothing. Just my solitaire.”

  Lie upon lie.

  ~ ~ ~

  Harald Sohlberg hurried away from his parent’s home. He had been looking forward to his three week summer vacation until the phone call from Ivar Thorsen. He turned and looked fondly at his ancestral home.

  The older Sohlbergs had insisted that he and his wife stay at their home on Fiskekroken or Fish Hook Drive in Ulvøya Island. His parents now spent most of the year living in the United States of America with his younger brother the petroleum engineer who lived in Houston Texas working for British Petroleum. His parent’s generosity in providing free lodging at Fiskekroken meant that Interpol would save a fortune in hotel bills because Oslo was far more expensive than insanely overpriced cities like Tokyo and London and Moscow.

  A block away Sohlberg walked past the grand old home where Thorsen had grown up while his mother worked as a maid for the bank executive. In the distance he saw a swimming pool through the trees and wondered if the banker or his wife or his son still lived there.

  Sohlberg looked with suspicion at Ulvøya’s attractive gardens and beaches. He knew how well the lovely yards and shores would temporarily trick residents into forgetting during the summer months that they lived in sub-Arctic Norway where six months from now they’d be in the dark in sub-freezing weather.

  “And yet . . . so pretty,” he said softly to himself.

  The round island of Ulvøya—measuring just one mile across—is one of the many charming islands in the Oslofjord. The island is conveniently located five miles southeast of downtown Oslo and on that glorious summer day the sun-drenched views of the city and the Oslofjord reminded Sohlberg of the Pacific Northwest in the USA. Sohlberg and his wife lived in the Seattle suburb of Silverdale among the pines and waters of Puget Sound in the State of Washington.

  “Hei!” he said warmly to joggers and pedestrians who threw him cold looks. He was no longer used to the curt and reserved nod that Norwegians traditionally give to strangers. Most Norwegians use the same greeting for neighbors and others whom they have know for decades without ever speaking one single word of acknowledgment or greeting.

  He blushed at the thought of acting like a tourist in his own country.

  Sohlberg wondered if he would ever fit in his homeland. He felt like an alien among his own people. Without a doubt he and Fru Sohlberg had changed a lot by living abroad for so long: four years at Lyon in France; four at New York City; two at Salt Lake City in Utah; and, ten at Vancouver in Canada and Seattle in the USA. Change had also arrived at Fiskekroken which was now packed with homes in what had once been farm fields and forests and fisherman’s cabins.

  He marveled at how Ulvøya Island had transformed itself since 1975 when his family had moved into their new home which was one of the first modern homes built on the island. Enchanting Ulvøya was now crammed with homes. Sohlberg fondly and sadly remembered the heavily-forested island from his childhood. He certainly did not expect to find the island so grossly overbuilt with homes.

  He walked west on Fiskekroken and was shocked to see so many new homes on the narrow street without sidewalks. Sohlberg could see downtown Oslo between the homes although the larger northern islands of Malmøya and Ormøya sometimes blocked views of the city skyline. He turned into Måkeveien which circled the island.

  At the corner with Vargveien he stopped. He looked up the gentle hill and stared at the house where his life had taken a turn for the worse when he was three years out of law school. The pretty blue house on Vargveien reminded him of the great painter Gauguin who had suffered so much in Tahiti in the Maison du Jouir or House of Pleasure. This Norwegian house of pleasure had also turned into a house of pain.

  “Harald?”

  A matronly woman stood by a hedge. She looked vaguely familiar. He thought a few seconds and said the first name that came to him:

  “Fru Fredriksen.”

  “My . . . you’ve gotten very formal Harald.”

  He instantly realized his mistake but he did not let on to having confused the daughter for the mother. Instead he smiled and said:

  “Margerete . . . one has to be formal in my line of work.”

  How she had changed! The sexy and thin high school vixen Margerete was now a thick-set grandmother with a square and solid body. He vaguely remembered that a few years ago his mother had told him that Margerete had gone through several unhappy marriages before moving back to live on Ulvøya Island with her parents. He wondered if he also looked as old and worn with his bald spot and thinning hair which he kept very short to hide his baldness and age.

  “Come now Harald. Is that how you treat an old friend from high school?”

  “Of course not Margerete. How are your parents . . . your mother?”

  “Gone.”

  “Traveling?”

  “No. Dead.”

  “I . . . I’m sorr
y to hear that. I really am.” He wondered why his mother had not told him. After all his mother had been good friends with Fru Fredriksen who had been his math teacher in the 9th grade. Sohlberg had always suspected that the two women had conspired to act as matchmakers between him and the youngest of the four lovely Fredericksen daughters. But he had little in common with the extroverted Margerete.

  “Harald. I’ve wanted to tell you in person after all these years that I’m sorry I did not come to Karoline’s funeral. I should have. . . .”

  Memories flooded and overwhelmed him. His first wife Karoline. Happy times. Three years married. Mountain climbing every summer in Romsdalen valley which is Norway’s Yosemite valley.

  Then Karoline suddenly gone.

  The sickening shisssh of the rope going through the carabiner on her harness.

  Falling.

  Down down down.

  Looking straight into his eyes without any surprise or any screaming.

  Dead.

  An accident.

  For unknown reasons Karoline Sohlberg did not properly tie herself into the rope although she was an experienced climber who had summited Eiger and Mt. Blanc and the Matterhorn. She fell when they had almost reached the summit of the North Face Trollveggen (Troll Wall) of Trollryggen Peak—the tallest vertical cliff in Europe at 3600 feet.

  “I . . . I have to go.”

  “Come inside with me Harald and talk. We’ll have something to drink.”

  “No!” he said too loudly before lowering his voice. “No thanks. I have to go.”

  ~ ~ ~

  After 20 minutes of solitaire the man switched to play online poker. He quit a short time later when he realized he could not play well.

  He whispered, “What shall I do?”

  He weighed his options. They ranged from bad to worse. None attracted him. None promised an attractive outcome. He could always strangle her right then and there and dispose of her body in the wood chipper. Maybe he’d slice her lying tongue off before choking her to death. Perhaps before torturing her he would have to sneak up on her from behind and knock her sweet precious head into unconsciousness. He would have to surprise her and disable her because she had once been rather muscular and fit as a bodybuilder. He couldn’t risk her using her athletic skills to somehow escape him.

  Had she taken steroids to win competitions?

  The drugs might still be in her body. They could endow her with extra-manly strength. So he might just have to shoot her in the head or bash in her skull from behind. On the other hand a stun gun would perfectly disable her with a jolt of 3 million volts. That would shut up her lying devious mouth.

  The door opened. She said:

  “Honey . . . it’s time. Are you coming?”

  He nodded.

  “Honey,” she said, “I really want to work out hard today. Get rid of the stress. You mind if we stay an extra hour at the gym?”

  “Of course not,” he lied. He was desperate if not dying inside. He wanted to be at home to hear any news on the television or radio about breaking developments in the case.

  “You know something,” she said with a bright smile, “I’ve been thinking that maybe I’ll go back to competition.”

  That was another lie. He knew from eavesdropping on her phone calls that she had permanently quit bodybuilding after placing third in the “Women Over 35 Years Old" category in the Norge Austlandet (Eastern Norway) cup of bodybuilding. She always quit if she did not immediately succeed.

  He forced himself to be pleasant and said:

  “Have you really thought about that my sweet?”

  “Honey you know as well as I do that I need to lose weight. I’ve even been thinking of going back to teach. I heard that a teacher position is opening up at Grindbakken Skole.”

  Grindbakken Skole . . . the scene of the crime.

  No.

  No way!

  He could not let her work at the scene of the crime. He would not let her. Never.

  Just what is she thinking when she talks about going to teach at Grindbakken?

  Or is she just taunting me . . . mocking me?

  Her teaching! More lies and grand deceptions. For years she told anyone who’d listen that she planned on becoming a school principal and then a school district superintendent. He had fallen for that lie until it finally dawned on him that she had a bachelor's and a master's degree in education and yet she had never had a full-time teaching job other than working a couple of lowly part-time substitute teacher jobs. She couldn’t even hold those jobs for more than a few months before pissing everyone off with her hyper-controlling nature and delusions of grandeur and competence.

  He racked his mind trying to remember the type of full-time jobs that she had held after she lost the part-time substitute teacher gigs.

  Where oh where did the crazy broad work at?

  A one year gig at the McDonald’s near Oslo University Hospital.

  Yes. That was her job with a master’s degree in education—Assistant Manager of the McDonald’s hamburger-flipping outlet at Torgny Segerstedts Vei 11. She had even been named “Assistant Manager of the Month” for having the best sales for the drive-thru in the afternoon.

  How special of the Little Frøken Genius.

  “Honey,” she screeched, “go get our bags and I’ll see you in the driveway. Chop chop! We’re running late. Don’t forget to make sure that my deodorant is in my bag. Last time you forgot to check.”

  “Yes my sweet.”

  She flew down the stairs. He waited briefly for her to get out of the house because her cloud of cheap drugstore perfume gagged him. She blew the car horn twice to rush him.

  “How stupid of me winding up with her in my bed and my house,” he whispered to himself. “But Little Miss Genius is always one or two steps ahead of me.”

  In hindsight he should have known better than to sleep around with a McDonald’s Assistant Manager of the Month especially when he was a highly-educated man with an enviable high-paying job that most Norwegians could only dream about. He should have known that she saw him as the ultimate meal ticket and that she would never stop pursuing him until she had a marriage ring on her hand and their baby in a crib.

  “How very stupid of me,” he said under his breath now that he had finally come to realize that he could not divorce her. Never. Otherwise she would tell the world about the molestation.

  Little Frøken Blackmailer. Yes. . . the molestation would be an interesting topic for her to bring up with the courts and the media and the police.

  Wouldn’t it?

  She has me cornered!

  He wondered why he had told her about the molestation in the first place.

  Why did I?

  “Coming!” he yelled when she blew the car horn repeatedly.

  He did not look forward to spending the endless light-filled summer nights under the midnattsol with her. He could not stand being near her or hearing her or seeing her or smelling her. And yet she had trapped him in a loveless marriage built on lies and discontent. A cage with no escape.

  When will this torture end?

  How will I end it?

  He had absolutely no guarantee whatsoever that an end was in sight. There was no sunset in the horizon for his troubles. He probably would not even have the pleasure of torturing and killing her because she surely had her blackmailer’s information conveniently tucked away somewhere—ready to be released by someone in case of her death or grievous injury to her person.

  That’s it.

  I have to find out if she has any blackmail information on me hidden away somewhere . . . ready to be released if she croaks or winds up badly injured.

  If she doesn’t have that insurance then I’m going to literally rip her to pieces.

  ~ ~ ~

  The Otterstads sent their oldest son Leif to pick up the Sohlbergs at exactly 8:00 P.M. in one of the Otterstad’s motorboats. As usual the boat was a Bénéteau from France where the 120-year-old company kept Mathias Otterstad on
a short waiting list for new powerboats like the Antares 42 model.

  “Wow,” said Fru Sohlberg to her husband when the breathtaking 49-foot Bénéteau Monte Carlo 47 model docked in front of the Sohlberg pier.

  “She’s a beaut . . . ain’t she?” said 22-year-old Leif Otterstad while he helped Fru Sohlberg come on board. “So are you Fru Sohlberg!”

  Both Sohlbergs laughed.

  “I’m serious,” said Leif. “Fru Sohlberg is a good-looking woman.”