The Oslo Conspiracy

by Asle Skredderberget

  “It must have been somewhat of a surprise?”

  “You bet.”

  “How does it feel?”

  “As if I’ve been betrayed. As if Mama was betrayed.”

  “And she was, too.”

  “Yes. He says she knew about it, but it must have been a great sorrow for her. He brought her here to Norway … and I always think that she must have felt so isolated. Even if we’ve been able to talk about her suicide, I can’t get rid of the feeling that he betrayed her.”

  “I understand. But you know that things are often more complicated than they appear. And the fact that he is now telling you … that you get to meet your sister … could that perhaps be an outstretched hand from him?”

  “Maybe so. I know in any event what Mama would have said.”

  “What would she have said?”

  “Devi essere pieno di amore. She always said that to me.”

  “Full of love, right?”

  “Yes. ‘You must be full of love.’”

  “That’s beautifully stated.”

  “She truly believed in love. For everyone, really. She is the most generous person I’ve ever known.”

  “It sounds like she was a lovely person, my son.”

  (Pause.)

  “And if she knew about your father’s daughter and stayed anyway, isn’t there a kind of forgiveness in that?”

  “Well, yes. Certainly. But it wasn’t like she could just leave. Your type doesn’t exactly advocate divorce.”

  “We are probably more advocates of forgiveness.”

  “Yeah, I guess you are.”

  (Pause.)

  “Do you still think a lot about your mother?”

  “Almost every day. Not as strongly every time, but I can’t free myself from the thought that it was very difficult for her at the end. And it’s in the back of my mind that she was sick. That she had a mental illness. And diseases can be hereditary.”

  “But you aren’t your mother. You are a separate individual, with your own characteristics and circumstances.”

  “I know that.”

  “I understand if this is difficult to talk about for you, my son, but sickness has always been a trial for us humans. You feel your own limitations. Your impotence. And, inevitably, you are forced to think about your finitude.”

  “Finitude?”

  “Your mortality. That our lives too have an end.”

  “Thanks for the encouragement, Father.”

  “But sickness also has another side, my son.”

  “Yes?”

  “It can also bring with it a new form of … shall I say … maturity.”

  “In what way?”

  “It can get people to see things more clearly, peel away what is unimportant. It can get you to distinguish between what is essential in your life—and what is unessential.”

  “Maybe so.”

  “And it can get the person to come closer to God. By turning to Him.”

  “I guess it’s just as common that it leads to the opposite, that you turn away from God.”

  “That can happen too. You’re right about that. There are probably many who need someone to blame. But you are still sitting here. That means you haven’t turned away. There is a possibility of seeking refuge in Him—and His word.”

  “What you said about distinguishing between what is essential and not … I understand what you mean.”

  (Pause.)

  “I have a girlfriend in Italy. We’ve been together for a while.”

  “I seem to remember you mentioned her, yes.”

  “She’s impatient.”

  “In what way?”

  “We live in separate cities, in separate countries. She doesn’t think we see each other often enough.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “Until now I think it’s been fine.”

  “Until now?”

  “Yes. It’s been good for us. And free.”

  “Ah, freedom, yes. Which you young people prize so highly.”

  “Well, Father, you yourself have chosen a life without a partner. There is a form of freedom in that.”

  “Maybe so. Or else you might say that God is my life partner. What I have devoted my life to—”

  “Don’t say you didn’t choose the solution that suited you best, and you alone.”

  “This is not about me, my son. Obviously, in the end, one should choose the solution that is best for oneself—”

  “Exactly.”

  “But one also has a responsibility for those around us. Does she love you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you love her?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Well, regardless of what you decide, you must take the feelings of both into consideration.”

  “I know. It’s just that I’ve always thought that I have plenty of time, but now she’s beginning to demand answers. And it’s not just the thing with Mama that reminds me of … my finitude, to use your words. In my job I am constantly reminded of … last weekend I was in Rome to bring home a Norwegian girl. She was killed … and when I saw her lying lifeless on the metal bench at the medical examiner…”

  “I understand.”

  “She was my age.”

  “So you are investigating her murder?”

  “Yes, I’m part of the team.”

  “So you are investigating a murder while you still are not through processing your mother’s death. At the same time you have just found out that you have a half sister, and you must decide what to do with regard to your sweetheart?”

  “It sounds like a soap opera when you put it that way.”

  “Life is like a soap opera. You wouldn’t believe all the stories I’ve heard sitting here. But I understand that it can be tough for you.”

  “I’ll handle it.”

  “I don’t doubt that.”

  (Pause.)

  “Shall we pray together, my son?”

  “Do you think I need that?”

  “I think we both need that.”

  14

  “I called Benedetti in Rome. He’s checking Ingrid Tollefsen’s circle of acquaintances down there. I’ll call him again later today.”

  Milo talked while Sørensen studied a pouch of snuff before putting it under his lip. On the table a copy of Klassekampen was open to the article by Ada Hauge. She was right when she said she would write a sober article, but nonetheless it had triggered an avalanche of phone calls from other journalists. Sørensen had finally reacted by turning off the phone.

  “Can’t bear those monkeys right now,” he said.

  Alongside the newspaper was the printout of the telephone log for Ingrid Tollefsen.

  “I also sent a copy of her work hard drive to the computer team at Financial Crimes, and I’ve sent off an inquiry to the attorneys at the Forum head office in New York. I’ll follow up in the course of the day,” said Milo.

  Sørensen got up and paced around the room.

  “It’s the motive we’re struggling with. Just like with the little brother. Why the hell shoot a fifteen-year-old boy in the back and head? And who strolls into Ingrid Tollefsen’s hotel room, drugs her, strangles her and removes all traces?”

  Milo shrugged his shoulders.

  “I don’t know. Should we view the cases under one or as two separate investigations?” he asked.

  “Officially, there’s only the one. The case with the brother was closed. We weren’t able to get good enough evidence that time. But, unofficially, we have to see whether there’s a connection,” answered Sørensen.

  “What do you think? Is there a connection?”

  “I feel it in my bones that there’s some link or other. That’s not to say that she was killed because her brother was killed. But I don’t believe in coincidences. I believe in a series of events,” Sørensen said.

  He was interrupted by the door opening. Assistant Chief of Police Agathe Rodin came in followed by a young man Milo had not seen before.

  �
�We’re forced to hold a short press briefing, Sørensen,” said Rodin.

  She was in uniform and wore her three stars with a straight back and a proud expression.

  “We can’t prioritize that now. We have a pile of—”

  “It will only take fifteen minutes,” she interrupted, snatching a folder out of the hands of the young man following on her heels.

  “Magnus is from the public relations department, and he’s written a short press release.”

  The young man cleared his throat quietly, and took a step forward.

  “It’s very short and sweet, actually. We confirm the identity, say that the investigation is in full swing and avoid making speculations,” he said.

  Sørensen looked down his nose at it.

  “Can’t you just send it out? So we don’t have to waste time?” he said.

  Magnus smiled indulgently.

  “For the newspapers that’s fine, but the broadcast media don’t like to read from press releases. They need to have people on the TV screen talking right into the microphone.”

  “What a fucking circus!”

  Agathe Rodin straightened up another notch.

  “Yes, I know, but that’s how it is now. By the way, has it been awhile since you had media training?”

  Sørensen looked at her with annoyance.

  “I don’t think so. There must have been a meeting last year—”

  “—that you didn’t show up for. Magnus will run a quick round with you now. We have less than an hour.”

  She waved her hand in the direction of the public relations adviser, who ran out into the corridor and came back with a small video camera.

  Sørensen sighed audibly and scratched his head. Milo wisely kept quiet.

  “I’ve made a Q and A that you can look at while I set up,” said Magnus, holding out a sheet of paper.

  “Q and A?”

  “Questions and answers. The questions we think you might get, and how you should answer.”

  “You don’t need to tell me how to answer,” said Sørensen without taking the paper.

  “Oh well. Then let’s go, okay?” asked Magnus.

  Sørensen grunted something in response and placed himself in front of the camera. First with his arms hanging down, then folded in front of his stomach and, finally, behind his back. Like a little general.

  The public relations adviser started the camera and began the questioning.

  “What can you say about the investigation?”

  “We are investigating this case broadly and cooperating with the Italian police,” Sørensen answered.

  “What do you know about the cause of death?”

  “We don’t wish to release details about that.”

  “Does this mean that you know the cause of death, or not?”

  Sørensen rocked a little back and forth on the soles of his feet.

  “I don’t want to comment on that.”

  “But what theories are you working from?”

  “We are working in several directions and investigating broadly.”

  “Can there be a connection between the murder of Ingrid Tollefsen and the murder of her brother, Tormod Tollefsen, a few years ago?”

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

  “But you’re not ruling it out?”

  “We are not ruling anything out.”

  Agathe Rodin took a step forward.

  “That will do,” she said.

  She looked at Sørensen, and then at Magnus.

  “That answer only invites speculation, wouldn’t you say, Magnus?”

  The public relations adviser nodded.

  “The lead-in will be that the police are not ruling out a connection, and thereby you trigger an avalanche of speculations.”

  “But it’s true. Should I lie, then?” said Sørensen.

  “Of course you shouldn’t lie. But you don’t need to say everything that’s true,” Rodin replied.

  “But damn it, it says in the paper today that we aren’t ruling out a connection,” said Sørensen, pointing at Klassekampen.

  “But what they write is their own responsibility. We mustn’t confirm it. You should simply repeat that this is not something you want to speculate about, and that the investigation will have to show what happened,” said Magnus.

  “One more time,” said Rodin, stepping back.

  “A few things, Sørensen. You have a tendency to look into the camera instead of looking at the interviewer, and you’re also a little restless and rocking on the balls of your feet. Both things make you seem uncertain. The way TV is, no one remembers what you say, only how you say it. If you look comfortable and secure. Or nervous. It’s quite merciless, seen that way,” said Magnus.

  “This is a lot of nonsense. That’s what it is.”

  “If you just lean your weight over on one leg, your upper body will automatically stay still. Then you won’t wobble. And then keep your line of sight toward the interviewer.”

  “Hmpf.”

  “What?”

  “Fine!”

  They ran through the same questions, and came back to the question about the connection between the murders.

  “So, in any event, you’re not ruling out a connection?” Magnus asked in his best journalistic voice.

  “We don’t wish to speculate about that. The investigation will have to take its course and show what actually happened,” Sørensen answered dutifully.

  Rodin nodded contentedly, but Magnus was not done.

  “But are you the right person to lead this investigation, considering that you didn’t succeed in the investigation of the murder of the brother?”

  An irritated frown appeared on Sørensen’s forehead.

  “What kind of idiotic question is that?”

  “It may come up, and then it’s a good idea to practice for it. We can’t control the questions from the journalists, and they aren’t especially concerned about being polite,” said Magnus.

  Sørensen looked at Rodin, who smiled back. A smile from a boss to an underling that said, Be damned sure to do as you’re asked.

  “Just answer the question,” she said.

  The question was repeated, and Magnus shoved the microphone uncomfortably close to Sørensen, who answered by casting an irritated glance down at it before saying, “In my book, we solved that case. We found the perpetrators, but didn’t get them convicted,” he bellowed.

  “Under no circumstances will you say that. Then we’ll have a lawsuit against us at once, and then you won’t have any time for the investigation,” the assistant chief of police exclaimed.

  “So what the hell should I say?”

  Magnus cleared his throat cautiously.

  “I’ve put a suggestion in the Q and A,” he said, holding out the paper.

  “Let’s see, then!” said Sørensen, snatching it.

  He skimmed it quickly and mumbled something incomprehensible before he said, “Fine. Let’s take it one more time.”

  “But are you really the right man to lead this investigation, since you failed in the investigation of the murder of the brother?” Magnus asked.

  Once again he shoved the microphone dangerously close to the chief inspector. But this time Sørensen did not turn away. He held his gaze, and answered in a calm voice.

  “I’m doing the job I was assigned to do, so that’s a question you will have to ask my superiors. The important thing now is that we put our available resources into the investigation so that we can clear up this homicide.”

  Rodin clapped her hands.

  “Good! That will do it.” She looked at the clock. “The briefing begins in forty minutes. Come down fifteen minutes ahead, then we’ll talk through this one more time,” she said and marched out of the room.

  Magnus quickly packed up the camera, nodded to both of them and disappeared after the assistant chief of police.

  Sørensen went straight to his desk and took out the snuffbox. He shoved in two pouches before
turning toward Milo.

  “And what are you sitting and smiling about?”

  Milo shook his head.

  “Nothing. That was very … educational,” he answered.

  “Certainly,” Sørensen said drily. He sat down heavily. “I’ve been promised more resources, but I still need your help.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “I know you have plenty to do over at Financial Crimes, but I hope you don´t mind.”

  “It’s pretty quiet now,” Milo replied.

  “Good. Then you’ll continue checking several of the things we’ve talked about.”

  He made a theatrical pause.

  “And then I´ll get to join the circus downstairs.”

  15

  Milo parked in the Sentrum parking garage, and two minutes later he was walking through the passageway into the offices of Financial Crimes.

  Astrid was enthroned in reception, and he tossed out a “Ciao, bella” to her on his way to his office among the others on the money-laundering team.

  He turned on the computer and checked his e-mail. Then he took out the printout of the telephone log to Ingrid Tollefsen. He browsed to the last page. The last call to her was from an Italian number. He made a note to e-mail it to Commissario Benedetti. There were no other incoming calls that day, but she had made two other calls the day she died. In the morning she called two Norwegian numbers in succession. He browsed through the papers. She called both numbers at regular intervals, one more often than the other.

  He got up, taking the papers with him. On his way he picked up two cups of coffee before he knocked on Temoor’s door.

  “Just a moment.”

  Temoor was sitting with his back to him. The slender fingers were pounding on the keyboard.

  Milo took a step into the room and encountered the aroma of overtime. In this case, a mixture of sweat and Red Bull.

  Temoor Torgersen was Financial Crimes’ constantly working and consistently communist computer expert. He turned toward Milo and automatically extended his hand for one of the coffee cups.

  “I really hope you’re not coming to harp about the hard disk already? Even you aren’t that impatient, Milo.”

  He rolled back to his place and continued keyboarding.

  “No, I thought we could do something together for a few minutes,” said Milo to his back.

  “So you have more work with you?”