The Oslo Conspiracy

by Asle Skredderberget

  “I’ve heard of cortisone.”

  “It’s used for a lot of things, but especially for prevention of bone brittleness, or what’s called osteoporosis,” the head of Forum continued. “NorMed got its breakthrough with cortisone products in both capsule and liquid form, and in a few years got a reputation as one of the world’s leading research environments in just osteoporosis. And not long afterward the Americans were knocking on the door.”

  “Why did the owners decide to sell the company?”

  Sørensen resembled a journalist as he sat taking notes on his pad and interjecting questions. He had the same impatience. The same antipathy for authority.

  “Because, in the pharmaceutical industry, the laws of big numbers rule. The bigger you are, the more you have for research, development, sales and distribution. In practice we were sitting on a gold mine, but lacked the infrastructure to make the gold known and transported out into society,” Veivåg answered.

  “What was the company worth when you sold it?” asked Milo.

  “About eight billion kroner,” the director answered.

  The coffee carafe made its way around the table while Veivåg continued talking.

  “It’s really quite incredible, but from 1890 to 1905 a number of pharmaceutical companies popped up in Kristiania, and a few down in Vestfold. And in the course of a century several of them became global leaders and spearheads in some of the world’s biggest companies.”

  “Spearhead? Aren’t you just a subsidiary that has to make what the Americans tell you to?”

  The way Sørensen pronounced “the Americans” made it apparent that these were not his favorite people, and that this was connected to a political stance he had adopted sometime in the 1970s. And which he had maintained since.

  Thomas Veivåg shook his head slightly.

  “Forum Healthcare has actually invested large amounts to develop the Norwegian entity. We have an R-and-D department that—”

  “R and D?”

  The chief inspector looked inquisitively at him.

  “Research and development,” Veivåg explained.

  “Okay.”

  “We have a research and development department with thirty employees, and our research director is head of departments for several European countries besides. So then, our owners have control, but we don’t feel like a subsidiary,” said Veivåg.

  “And what did Ingrid Tollefsen do here?” Sørensen asked.

  “She worked in the R-and-D department.”

  Tollefsen had been a student at NTNU in Trondheim at the biotechnology institute, as well as an exchange student at Università degli Studi di Roma and their Pharmaceutical Biotechnology Center.

  “She studied in Rome? When was this?” Milo interrupted, glancing at Sørensen.

  If she had lived in Rome, she had a social circle there, which meant that the investigation must be expanded. Commissario Benedetti would be notified as soon as the meeting with Forum was over.

  “She spent her last year as a student down there. And then she had an internship in the World Health Organization too, when they still had a Rome office. Then she started with us, about three years ago now. So it must be almost four or five years since she lived there,” said Veivåg.

  “What kind of conference was she attending in Rome last week?” Sørensen asked.

  “You should really talk with her immediate supervisor, Anders Wilhelmsen, about that. I thought I would show you around afterward, show you her workplace and introduce you to him. But from what I know, it was a conference on molecular research,” Veivåg answered.

  Milo thought about the white slip of paper in the pillbox they had found.

  “Does ‘verba’ mean anything to you?”

  They looked at each other and then at Milo.

  “No. Should it?” answered Veivåg.

  “I don’t know. I’m just wondering. Verba something-or-other.”

  Veivåg shook his head.

  “No, it doesn‘t ring any bells.”

  They continued talking a few more minutes before they packed up for a short guided tour. While their cups were placed on the little wheeled cart by the wall, the public relations director ventured a question.

  “What do we say if the media calls us?”

  “Nothing. Nada,” Sørensen answered.

  “But ‘no comment’ never sounds good,” he protested.

  “Say that you are cooperating with the police and contributing the information we need,” said Milo.

  The public relations director nodded seriously.

  Sørensen allowed himself a smile.

  “That’s nice. Cooperation with the police is never wrong,” he said and spit the two snuff pouches out into a wastebasket.

  * * *

  The Research and Development department was separate from the rest of the company, with its marketing people, accountants, secretaries and directors. From reception they went down a stairway and were shown into a cloakroom. For the second time in two days Milo had to put on a white coat, foot protectors and a hairnet. But this time it was to enter a place where they worked to save lives. Not like last time, in Rome, where it was to look at a corpse.

  “This is Anders Wilhelmsen,” said Thomas Veivåg once they were inside and were met by the head of R & D.

  Wilhelmsen filled out the white coat amply. He was the same height as Milo, but twice as wide. His hair was pulled far back, and revealed a high—not to say missing—hairline.

  “Welcome. I’m just sorry it’s under such circumstances.” His handshake was firm and his voice deep.

  “I’m sorry about the loss of a capable employee,” said Sørensen.

  “She was one of the best,” said Wilhelmsen.

  “We understand that. Can you show us around a little and explain what she was working on?”

  The head of R & D nodded and turned around. He started talking, and guided them to the middle of the premises. Around them employees were sitting, bent over microscopes and computer keyboards.

  “I don’t know how much Thomas has told you, but Ingrid worked on various projects directly connected to the development of new products for Forum. We do everything from pure basic research to clinical testing of new products,” Wilhelmsen explained.

  “What was she doing in Rome?” asked Sørensen.

  “Research conference. She wanted to go down there to get updated, and I’m positive about that type of professional replenishment.”

  “How did she fit into the environment here?”

  “Very well. She was highly respected and well liked.”

  “But did anyone notice any changes in her behavior recently?” asked Sørensen.

  Wilhelmsen thought about it.

  “No, not really.”

  “Not really? What do you mean?”

  The head of research made a slight pause and moved his weight over to one leg.

  “When she had been working for us for a year, that thing with her brother happened. Yes, I’m sure you’re familiar with the story. He’d gotten on the wrong track, and … well, it’s just unbelievable that they’re both dead now. Poor family.”

  “How did she take what happened to her brother? Did her behavior change?” Sørensen wanted to know.

  “In the beginning, naturally enough, she was crushed. Who wouldn’t be?” Wilhelmsen replied.

  He forced her to take sick leave the first couple of weeks, but then she came and asked for a leave of absence.

  “Leave of absence?”

  “Yes, she was a very conscientious person. Felt guilty about being on sick leave. So she asked for two months’ unpaid leave.”

  “To do what?”

  “Grieve, I assume. Pull herself together. I don’t really know. I just said okay, and took her off the projects,” said Wilhelmsen. “Two months later she was back, and after that she wasn’t absent a single day.”

  “Where was she for those two months?” asked Milo.

  Wilhelmsen shrugged his shoulders
.

  “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask the family. We had no contact during her leave, and when she was back, we didn’t talk about it either.”

  Both Milo and Sørensen noted key words. The leave of absence was a black hole in Ingrid Tollefsen’s timeline, and they had to know what she had been doing. Two months was a long time. At the same time Milo knew what it was like to grieve. He himself had sought refuge in Italy after his mother’s death, before he came home again, resigned from his stock-analyst job in Bremer Securities and started as a special investigator in Financial Crimes.

  “Okay, what we need now is a complete list of the projects she worked on since she started,” said Sørensen.

  Wilhelmsen looked over at Thomas Veivåg uncertainly. This was obviously a signal for the boss himself to say something, but it was the legal director who cleared his throat and came to the head of R & D’s rescue.

  “Now, the sort of things that go on in this department are subject to strict confidentiality clauses. We are, as I said, listed on the stock exchange, and all information must be handled—” he began, but was interrupted by Sørensen.

  “We know what confidentiality is. But we need to get a complete picture of what she was working on, who she was in contact with, e-mails in and out, reports and so on.”

  “But this is not information we can automatically give out,” the attorney protested.

  “You can’t?”

  “No, unfortunately. I have clear instructions from our attorneys in the U.S. that this must go through them.”

  “Through the U.S.?!”

  Sørensen snorted and tried to make eye contact with Veivåg instead, but the managing director kept his gaze firmly fixed on the attorney who was speaking.

  “Yes. This is also connected with the fact that we are subject to American financial legislation,” the legal director explained.

  Milo took a step toward Sørensen and gave him a look that said, “I’ll fix this.” Turning to the Forum directors he said, “I understand that. I can initiate a case with Financial Crimes, and make contact with your head office and the Securities and Exchange Commission.”

  “What the hell is that?” asked Sørensen.

  “SEC. The American financial regulatory agency,” Milo replied.

  “Initiate a case? Make contact with the SEC? Is that necessary?” Thomas Veivåg asked uncertainly.

  “You want to make this formally correct, and of course we understand that. This is pure routine,” said Milo.

  Veivåg looked at his legal director, who cleared his throat worriedly.

  “I’ll inform our New York office. We will obviously do what we can within the legal framework over there to help you. Perhaps it is not necessary in formal terms to set up a separate case,” he said.

  “Fine. Because if not, we’ll have to say that we don’t perceive that you are cooperating if the media were to call us. And it is going to sound a damned lot worse than if you say ‘no comment,’” said Sørensen, turning and walking toward the exit.

  11

  Milo let himself into the apartment, went upstairs and changed to workout shorts and a T-shirt. He had time for a round with the boxing bag before going out to his father’s for dinner.

  He warmed up with some light punches on the bag while he shook himself loose. The soreness was still there after the struggle with Reeza Hamid a few days earlier but, fortunately, he seemed to have escaped serious injury.

  After a minute or two he switched to direct hits against the bag. Let the force come from his hips while his fists rang against the sack. The chains it was hanging on rattled with every blow that hit, and Milo felt how the force from the blow of his fists against the sack was transmitted up into the aching shoulder. He clenched his teeth and continued, and gradually the warmth spread in his body and the pain in his shoulder was reduced to a murmur.

  He took a little break and shook loose, before picking up the pace. Simply by standing and hitting intensely against the sack for ten or fifteen minutes he worked out most of the muscle groups in his body.

  He finished with a minute of rapid, continuous blows against the sack, and was gasping for air when he was done.

  He still felt his pulse pounding when the phone suddenly rang. It said “Unknown Caller” on the display, and Milo thought immediately of Benedetti.

  “Pronto!” he answered loudly and clearly while he dried the sweat from his forehead with a towel.

  But it was not the Italian detective.

  “Uh, I would like to speak with Emil Cavalli.”

  The voice was a woman’s.

  “That’s me. Who is this?”

  “Hi. My name is Ada Hauge and I’m calling from Klassekampen.”

  “I see, but I’m not interested. I’ll stick with the Saturday subscription, I don’t have time to read the paper during the week,” Milo replied.

  “I’m not trying to sell you a subscription. I’m a journalist.”

  Milo did not reply, but went into the office and sat down heavily in a chair.

  “Hello? Are you still there?” she asked uncertainly.

  “I’m here. What’s this about?”

  “It’s about Ingrid Tollefsen. I understand that you were down in Rome to investigate the case.”

  Milo cursed to himself. He mostly wanted to hang up. Just say to hell with it, but he was too well brought up. At the same time he knew the tactic from other journalists he had been in contact with. When they wanted to confirm information they weren’t sure about, they often asked a question to make it sound like they already knew. He had experienced that when he worked as a stock analyst. Journalists who didn’t ask “Is it true that you are the one working on the acquisition of…” but instead opened with “I hear you’re working with the acquisition of … and have a few questions in that regard.” If you answered that type of question, you were already trapped. Answering with “How do you know that?” only confirmed the information, and often that was what the journalists were after. They simply took a chance.

  What did Ada Hauge know about the murder of Ingrid Tollefsen?

  “I never give statements to the press,” Milo answered.

  With that he neither confirmed nor denied anything.

  “I’m not looking for statements. I’m looking for information.”

  “I’m not the right person.”

  “Listen here, I know that you were in Rome over the weekend.”

  “I didn’t know that Klassekampen had its own crime reporters,” said Milo.

  He tried to change the subject by avoiding confirming anything at all.

  “We don’t. I work on domestic news. The fact is that I had an internship at VG when her brother was killed. Among other things, I covered the court case afterwards.”

  “I see.”

  “And then I became acquainted with Ingrid. We are … were the same age … and yes, we got well acquainted at that time.”

  Milo did not say anything, but let her talk.

  “We stayed in contact. Met for coffee occasionally, and I was going to see her last Friday. She didn’t come. I tried to call her. Over the weekend too, and today. And then I called her father earlier today. He was the one who told me.”

  Milo realized that it was no use denying it.

  “I understand. But, as I said, I don’t want to be interviewed.”

  “And, as I said, I don’t want quotes. I’m looking for information.”

  “It’s Sørensen you have to talk with, he’s the chief inspector.”

  “And I will. When we’ve finished this conversation.”

  Milo stood up and took out the headset for the phone. While he talked, he texted Sørensen.

  “Listen here. There’s nothing I can say about the case. You obviously know that I was in Rome, but I would prefer that you keep my name out of it.”

  “That’s fine, but you have to help me.”

  She was tough, but not unpleasant. Milo felt like he was in negotiations. Give-and-take.

/>   “What do you want to know?”

  “If there is a connection between the killings.”

  “It’s too soon to say anything about that.”

  “But what do you believe?”

  “We don’t believe anything. We investigate. And this is something that we have to find out.”

  “So you’re not ruling out that there may be a connection?”

  “We’re not ruling anything out,” Milo replied.

  He heard her fingers running over the keyboard while they talked, and felt an intense need to finish the call.

  “You’ll have to talk with Sørensen, but I doubt that you’ll get anything out of him,” he said.

  “I doubt that too. But I’m going to write something regardless.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “Why is that? Because it may damage the investigation?”

  Milo did not have time to answer before she continued.

  “It’s only a question of time before it leaks out in the press. The Oslo police are like a sieve. And wouldn’t a sober article from us be better for you than VG disclosing this and rolling out the cannons?”

  “Could be.”

  “And I understand that you don’t want to be bothered by us journalists, but look at it from the bright side.”

  “Which is?”

  “It shouldn’t be difficult to get enough resources for the investigation anyway as long as the media is following the case.”

  She had a point. And he didn’t like it.

  “Can I ask you a question?” he asked.

  “Yes, sure. Fire away.”

  “Why were you going to meet her on Friday?”

  “We got together occasionally. I don’t know … there was a kind of bond between us back then.”

  “How often did you meet?”

  “Well … the last time must have been last spring. So it wasn‘t like we were knocking down each other’s doors exactly.”

  “I understand. Was it you or her who took the initiative to meet this time?”

  Ada Hauge remained silent on the other end. And when she spoke again, some of the professional certainty was gone. She hesitated to answer.

  “It was Ingrid. She sent me a text message.”

  “Did she say anything about what she wanted to talk about?”

  “Nothing specific.”