“I thought we could spend a little quality time together,” Milo replied.
“Nitwit!” Temoor finished typing and turned around. “What do you have?”
“Two phone numbers I have to check.”
“You can do that yourself, damn it.”
“Yes, maybe, but then I’m going to need help finding out more about the numbers, so we might just as well do that together. You’ll do it in two minutes, I would take thirty.”
Temoor held out his hand and Milo handed him the papers.
“I put a star by the two Norwegian numbers,” he said.
“I figured that out!”
He rolled over to another machine, and let his fingers do the work. Two minutes later he had the answer.
“Sigurd Tollefsen at the one number. Ingrid Tollefsen at the other.”
Milo looked over his shoulder.
“Ingrid Tollefsen? But wasn’t the call made from her phone?”
“And to her phone too.”
“Certain?”
Temoor continued typing.
“Look here. Two numbers registered to Ingrid Tollefsen. The one she called from, and the one she called to.”
“Why did she call herself?”
“No idea. I don’t know that sort of thing. I only work with what—not why.”
“Can you do me another favor?”
“Here it comes, okay. Didn’t I know it,” said Temoor laconically.
“Just look at the number she called to, her own, that is. Is it still active?”
Temoor clicked and pressed, and brought a list up on the screen.
“It’s active, yes.”
“When was the number last in use?”
“Yesterday. One call in, one call out.”
Milo finished his coffee and stared out into space.
“Why did she call her own phone the day she was murdered? And why is the phone still in use more than a week after she died?” he mumbled.
“That’s probably just what you have to find out,” Temoor replied.
* * *
He tied his blue belt around his waist, adjusted his outfit and stepped onto the mat. He was still tender in a few places after the fight with Reeza Hamid and yesterday’s workout, but he needed to clear his head.
Some were doing individual warm-ups, while others chatted and waited for the instructor. Milo looked around the training center and noted that the ancient instinct was still thriving when he saw the female green belt flirting with the only black belt.
A dojo—a training center for martial arts practitioners—is a perfectly organized hierarchy, where the color of the belt decides the placement on the rank scale. And where the women exclusively flirted upward, while the men happily flirted downward.
So far Milo had never experienced a female practitioner, for example, flirting or getting involved with a man with a lower belt. It was as if their instincts forbade it and instead drove them to search closer to the top of the rank, the black belts. As if they were the tribe’s strongest warriors, and in the best position to protect.
He had seen the same in the financial industry when he was part of that carousel. How the men fought for the women’s favor, and where the size of the wallet was decisive. You might smile at it, distance yourself, intellectualize it, this endless cattle show of status symbols. But the fact was that it worked. Milo knew that the big watches, expensive suits, rumbling cars and gold-colored credit cards were in reality nothing other than the black belts of the financial industry.
They lined up in a row in front of the trainer, got on their knees in greeting by placing their palms on the orange mat and bowing their upper bodies forward.
Then there was a light warm-up and sparring with someone with the same belt.
He had often experienced that the solution to a problem came easier if he let his subconscious work in peace. If he tried to push for an answer, it got stuck. Sometimes it was important to think about other things.
And he didn’t know of anything as effective as focusing on getting an opponent made of ninety kilograms of muscle down on the mat and under control as quickly as possible.
He had called Benedetti on his way to the workout, and informed him about the Italian phone number. Benedetti informed him at the same time about the charting of Ingrid Tollefsen’s acquaintances in Rome.
Before he left work, Milo had also arranged to have Tollefsen’s other phone traced. If it was still in use, he had to find out who had it, and where the person in question was.
But all this was shoved to the back of his mind as the six-foot-four training partner came toward him and dished out kicks and blows. Milo made a side move to the right as he quickly marked a kick in the stomach of the other, who bowed forward. Then Milo took a step right toward him, marking a blow against his kidneys before setting his hip against him and throwing him to the mat. The exercise concluded with control holds.
Then it was Milo’s turn. He threw out a kick and followed up with a blow, but his partner moved sideways as he was supposed to. Milo felt the other man´s foot in a controlled kick against his stomach followed by a blow before he was picked up and thrown onto the mat with a thud.
The only thought in his mind as his body rotated in the air was to land in a controlled way.
* * *
He was on his way back to the apartment when Temoor called.
“I’m not done with the hard drive, but I thought you’d want to know that there’s been activity on the phone you asked me to monitor. Brief, to be sure, but enough to find a base station.”
“Brilliant, Temoor! Tell me!”
“It’s a base station at Kolbotn.”
“Kolbotn?”
“Yes. Outside Oslo. That is, southeast of Oslo, but you probably don’t know—”
“I know where Kolbotn is,” Milo interrupted.
“I can’t give you the exact address where the phone is, but the base station is on Liaveien.”
“Thanks a lot. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
But Temoor had already hung up.
Milo looked at his watch. Almost ten o’clock. The training had made him alert, and he knew that at home it would be several hours before he got into bed. He entered Liaveien on the GPS and turned the car around.
Less than twenty-five minutes later he turned off the E18 at Mastemyr and followed the signs and GPS toward Kolbotn. He passed Stabburet and then a big industrial building. The voice on the GPS told him to go to the right in a traffic circle, and then he drove into a small parking lot in front of the post office in Kolbotn. He stopped with the engine running. The place was dead. On the other side of the street was an imposing pyramidlike concrete building, which Milo assumed was the town hall. A little farther away was the Kolbotn shopping center, which must have been developed recently along with the low, modern blocks a little farther away. He remembered that he had played soccer against a team from Kolbotn when he was young, but none of this seemed familiar.
He started to stroll ahead when he caught sight of the sign.
“Ingieråsen School,” it said, and it pointed ahead and to the right.
His heart noticeably skipped a few beats, and he automatically sped up. A small path led him up onto a narrow gravel track. And on the rise was the school.
It was dark and deserted.
He looked around. By one of the entrances, illuminated by an outdoor light, stood a group of boys. He could see the glow of a cigarette being passed around. Suddenly he became aware of a movement along the fence. A girl in dark clothing was walking and kicking pebbles. The only color she was wearing was a pair of bright red Converse sneakers.
Suburban idyll. Smoking teenage boys and solitary teenage girls, thought Milo.
How different it must have been two years earlier. There, on the same gravel track below the Ingieråsen School, Tormod Tollefsen and Asgeir Henriksen had been methodically executed.
And not a single person who lived in the buildings a few dozen meters away had come to
their rescue.
A confused teenager with bad friends. And a teacher who tried to make a difference.
Milo walked once around the school before returning to his car and calling Sørensen. Briefly he told about the tracing of the phone to the close proximity of Ingieråsen School.
“So a cell phone in Ingrid Tollefsen’s name is still in use more than a week after her death. And right in the vicinity of the school where her brother was executed two years ago?” the chief inspector summarized.
“That’s right,” Milo replied.
He heard the sound of a lighter and Sørensen inhaling.
“I don’t like it. I don’t like it one damned bit.”
WEDNESDAY
16
He borrowed one of the interview rooms at Financial Crimes to hold the videoconference.
It looked like an ordinary office, but was sparsely furnished, almost bare, so that there would be no distractions during questioning.
He could not count how many interviews he had conducted since he started in Financial Crimes. The first few times he was an observer, but after training in interview techniques was over, he was responsible for a number of interrogations himself.
He liked it. Liked the game, liked reading the person on the other side of the table. Whether it was the accused or a witness, as a rule the person in question had an agenda. Plus hope and fear. And if he found out what the person hoped for and feared, there was almost no limit to what he could get out of them.
He sat behind the empty desk and turned on the apparatus in front of him. It looked like a TV, but was used for video recordings and videoconferences with the various police districts. But this time it was Rome on the screen. That is, the sound was there, but the picture was missing. He could hear Benedetti fiddling and cursing.
“Porca putana!”
Then there were several voices, and suddenly the back of the Italian detective’s head appeared.
“There. I see you,” said Milo.
Benedetti turned around with a confused look on his face.
“There, yes.”
He sat down at the table and sorted papers while he lit a cigarette.
“Everything okay, Milo?”
“Yes, thanks. And you?”
“Sì sì sì.”
“Okay, what have you got?” Milo asked, taking out his notebook.
“A couple of things that are quite interesting. Maybe not a breakthrough, but there are a few things that must be followed up.”
“Like what?”
“Well, for one thing, we assumed that she came here to Rome from Oslo, but when we double-checked, we found out she came from New York. Did you know that?”
Milo shook his head. New York? No one at Forum Healthcare had mentioned that she was in New York before she went to Rome. What was she doing there?
“The other thing we’re doing now is charting the academic environment she was in, her circle of acquaintances and her work at WHO. I’ve got the name of her adviser for her final thesis. A certain Professore Salvatore. Furthermore, we know that she had a boyfriend here three years ago. Whose name is”—Benedetti browsed in his papers—“Giampiero Donatello.”
Milo made a note: New York. Prof. Salvatore. Giampiero Donatello.
“What about the Italian number she was called from?”
“Phone booth in Trastevere.”
“One that can’t be traced, in other words.”
“Esatto. Exactly.”
At the other end of the video link Benedetti put out his cigarette.
It was Milo’s turn to talk. He went through the past twenty-four hours, and told about the tracing of her cell phone, which showed it was still active.
“You have to find out who is using her phone,” said Benedetti.
“I know. We’re tracking it, and I’ll be notified when it becomes active and moves.”
They were about to conclude the brief update sequence, but Milo had saved one question for last.
“Benedetti, you mentioned something to me that I’ve been wondering about. It has nothing to do with this case, but…”
“What is it, then?”
“You mentioned a shipwreck. That your brother died. When was this?”
“In 1977.”
“And it was a military vessel?”
“Sì. It went down between Tunisia and Sicily.”
“But were there other military vessels that were shipwrecked in the 1970s?”
Benedetti shook his head and lit another cigarette. He blew the smoke toward the screen, and for a few seconds it settled like a veil over the image.
“No. Just the one. It was a national disaster. Over a hundred dead. Why are you asking?”
“Because someone else mentioned that same shipwreck recently.”
“In what connection?” the Italian policeman asked.
“Family matters, I guess you could say.”
“I see.”
“But what really happened? Why did the ship sink?” asked Milo.
“Don’t know.”
“But aren’t you curious?”
Benedetti took a deep drag on the cigarette and blew it out into the room. Then he looked around, as if to assure himself that he was alone.
“For a few years I tried to find out. I worked in Naples at first as a policeman and, among other things, I went to Sicily to talk with the families of several of the victims.”
He had used his free time on his own little investigation, but encountered silence wherever he turned. Which had reinforced the suspicion that it was not an accident, but a criminal act.
“And it’s not difficult to guess who you might suspect, if someone actually blew up the boat,” he added.
“La mafia,” Milo replied.
“Esatto.”
“Do you really think the Mafia was behind it?”
Benedetti shrugged his shoulders.
“I never found out anything. But there were many who didn’t like me asking questions, and finally I was offered a position in Rome. And let me be clear that I judged that more as a warning than as a reward.”
“So you let it go,” Milo observed.
He did not mean it as criticism, but obviously hit a sore spot.
“What the hell should I do? I had nothing to go on. Should I risk my parents losing their other son too?”
“No, I understand.”
Benedetti scratched himself on the chest, while he stared absently out the window of the little meeting room in Rome.
“Of course I wondered what happened. I still find myself thinking about it. But I’m getting older. And I’ve learned and reconciled myself that certain things in life you never find out. You just have to let it go.”
He moved his gaze from the window and toward the camera and Milo.
“And that shipwreck definitely belongs to the category of things you ought to let go.”
* * *
Temoor’s office was empty. Of people anyway. The computers and stack of empty Red Bulls was still there, but the skinny computer nerd’s chair was unoccupied.
Milo could not recall the last time he had seen that, and went over to Astrid in reception.
“I can’t find Temoor. Do you know where he is?”
“Surprise, surprise. He’s sick today.”
“Sick?”
She smiled at him.
“It does happen,” she said.
“Do you have his address?”
“Shouldn’t he be allowed to be absent?”
“Of course. But not when I’m working on a case,” said Milo, adding a smile to show that he was not a hundred-percent serious. Only ninety percent.
She wrote Temoor´s address on a piece of paper, and a few minutes later he was driving out of the garage in the direction of Trosterud. Fifteen minutes later he parked outside an apartment building that was as foreign to him as the mosque on the other side of the highway.
He found his way to the right entrance, noted T. Torgersen as the only Norwegian n
ame on the series of doorbells. Now, to be sure, Torgersen was not his birth name. Temoor was born in the slums of Bangladesh, but came to the Torgersen family as a malnourished three-year-old. Without having talked about it—Temoor never discussed personal matters at work, and it was not Milo’s strong suit to share private details—he understood that growing up in Vestfold had not been rosy. Among spoiled rich kids, somewhat less spoiled upstarts, dropouts and everyday racists, Temoor Torgersen had his ups and downs.
And once he had his degree in hand, he got on the first train to Oslo.
In the capital he had embraced the radical Blitz community, and Blitz embraced him. For several years his days consisted of demonstrations and studies in informatics with the occasional arrest and building occupation. Before he miraculously got a job with a small computer investigation company and was then picked up by Financial Crimes. To be sure, after thorough investigation by the Police Security Service due to his “youthful rebellion,” as the head of Financial Crimes so diplomatically called it.
The lock on the entry door was broken, and the elevator out of order. Milo tackled the stairs. The entry was cold and sterile, and he wondered for a moment if he ought to be worried about Temoor. A door slammed one floor above him, and a young immigrant of indeterminate origin came shuffling down the stairs. The aroma of strongly spiced food struck Milo.
They looked at each other without saying anything.
He continued up to the sixth floor, and found a handwritten paper with the name “Torgersen” taped to one door. He put his ear to it, but did not hear a sound.
He wondered what was awaiting him. Was it true that Temoor was still a practicing anarchist? But only in his own apartment? As a kind of refuge for old Blitzers, where they smoked pot and dreamily discussed the coming revolution?
He rang the doorbell, but heard no sounds from inside. The doorbell obviously did not work. If only he didn’t have to break down the door to find out if there was life inside.
With a clenched fist he pounded three times on the door. Shortly after, a chain rattled and the door was opened by a woman in her late twenties or early thirties.
“Yes?” she said, friendly but inquisitive.
“Hi. I was actually looking for Temoor. Torgersen. But—”
“He’s sick. Is it important?”
The Oslo Conspiracy Page 10