The Oslo Conspiracy

by Asle Skredderberget

  “Yes. Well. I work with him.…”

  “Are you Milo?” she asked.

  “That’s me.”

  “I almost guessed that,” she said, letting her eyes glide from his head down across the open topcoat, tie and shoes. “So come on in!”

  She opened the door and invited him in.

  He remained standing in the foyer and waited until she had locked the door.

  She was short and round, and dressed in comfortable—but not very elegant—running pants. She had on a white T-shirt, and creeping up her arms to her shoulders were tattoos in various styles. One ear was pierced with a little spike, and her hair was cut short and blue on one side.

  “I just put some rolls in the oven,” she said, both sounding and looking like the housewife from hell.

  Milo was still not sure if he had come to the right place.

  “I’m Grete, by the way,” she said, extending her hand.

  He took it and reeled off “A pleasure.”

  “I live with Temoor,” she explained.

  “Oh yes, I didn’t know—”

  “That he was living with someone, no.” She laughed so that her breasts and belly shook. “No, I can imagine that. But I know who you are,” she said.

  “Is that good or bad?”

  She measured him with her eyes again.

  “To put it that way, you’re the only one of his colleagues I’ve heard about. And met. Take it as a compliment,” she said, brushing past him and into the kitchen.

  He followed, and continued into the living room.

  He had half expected to find it full of computer equipment and cables, but instead it was a motley mixture of ugly and old. An inherited couch, a coffee table from a flea market.

  But the rolls smelled divine.

  Out of the one door came Temoor, also in a T-shirt and running pants.

  “Milo, what the hell—”

  Then Grete came padding in with a plate of rolls.

  “Is that any way to greet a guest, Temoor?”

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  Once again it was Grete who spoke up.

  “He’s here to see how you’re doing. Isn’t that nice?”

  Temoor snorted.

  “Milo is here because he needs something, and it can’t wait until tomorrow. You can bet your ass on that. Isn’t that right, Milo?”

  “No, I just wanted to visit my favorite coworker,” he replied.

  “Sure.”

  “Temoor! Give up! Now let’s have some rolls and tea,” she said.

  They sat down, and Milo got their story. How they met at Blitz. Love at first protest march.

  “Didn’t think you had time for a girlfriend. You’re always at work,” said Milo.

  “Nonsense. You’re the one who’s never there. You’re always out somewhere. But since I’m always there when you come back, you think I’m always there,” Temoor answered reproachfully.

  “But you do work quite a bit even so,” said Grete.

  She turned toward Milo.

  “I’m a nurse’s aide and work a lot of nights. Then I sleep during the day and I’m gone at night. So he can actually work as much as he wants,” she explained.

  They sat and chatted a little more before she left them in peace to talk about work.

  “I just wondered whether you’ve found anything on the hard drive you were going to look at? And if you could check it against a couple of names I have here?”

  Milo gave him a paper with the name of the Italian ex-boyfriend and the professor Ingrid Tollefsen had as an adviser in Rome.

  Temoor got up.

  “Come with me,” he said, and went into a little guest room filled to the brim with computer equipment, cables, game consoles and a guest bed covered with cardboard boxes.

  He sat down at one of the machines while he looked at Milo’s paper. A short time later the printer started working. He got up and retrieved the printouts.

  “I didn’t find anything right away on the ex-boyfriend, but here’s an e-mail exchange with the professor,” he said, giving him the papers.

  “Thanks a lot,” said Milo.

  They had nothing else to talk about, so Milo stuck his head into the kitchen.

  “I’m leaving now. Thanks for the rolls and tea. It was nice to meet you, Grete.”

  She smiled warmly back.

  “It was nice to finally meet you, Milo.”

  At the front door he turned toward Temoor.

  “Get well soon! And thanks again for the help.”

  Temoor nodded curtly.

  “And Grete seems really nice. Can’t get over that you haven’t said anything.”

  The look from Temoor said, This stays between us, but his voice said, “Thanks for stopping by.”

  * * *

  He drove straight to the police station where Sørensen was writing a report and refining his arguments for more resources.

  “Sit yourself down, Milo,” he said as he finished the sentence.

  “How did the press briefing go yesterday?” asked Milo.

  “Good enough. I did as they said. Stood stiff as a post, stared the journalist in the eyes and answered as briefly as I could.”

  He came around the desk and served coffee from the worn-out coffee percolator into the even more worn coffee mug that read O LD’S EST D D.

  “By the way, I had a talk with Sigurd Tollefsen a little while ago. He knew nothing about his daughter going on leave for two months,” he said.

  “Didn’t know? Are you sure he’s telling the truth?” Milo asked skeptically.

  Sørensen waved the objection away with an unlit cigarette.

  “He’s not lying. He’s not the type,” he said, taking out his lighter. He fired up a cigarette and went over to the window to blow out the smoke. “Families have secrets. That’s just the way it is. Yours no doubt has secrets too.”

  Milo shrugged his shoulders and took out the printout he had just received from Temoor.

  “What do you think about this e-mail exchange?”

  Sørensen took it and read the brief text.

  From: Salvatore, Chiara

  Subject: Re: Re: Arrival?

  To: Tollefsen, Ingrid

  Oops, of course.

  Regardless, looking forward to seeing you again.

  Have a safe trip,

  Chiara.

  From: Tollefsen, Ingrid

  Subject: Re: Arrival?

  To: Salvatore, Chiara

  Hi Chiara,

  I would prefer that you use my personal e-mail (ingtoll@me.com).

  Ingrid

  P.S. I arrive in the morning. I’ll call you from the hotel.

  From: Salvatore, Chiara

  Subject: Arrival?

  To: Tollefsen, Ingrid

  So nice to talk with you again, Ingrid.

  And of course I have time to see you. By the way, Lucca asked about you too. Let’s have dinner together one of those evenings!

  When are you arriving? Just so I manage to clear a space in my calendar and take time off (here in New York people almost never take time off!)

  Hugs from

  Chiara

  Sørensen frowned.

  “Chiara Salvatore was Ingrid Tollefsen’s adviser when she studied in Rome,” Milo explained.

  “But she’s in New York?”

  “Looks that way. I’ll have to tell Benedetti in Rome. He’s trying to get an appointment with her. But what about the e-mail?”

  Sørensen read it again.

  “I react to three things. First: Ingrid Tollefsen asks her not to use her work e-mail. Second: She called and asked to speak with her. I don’t know what else she was going to do in New York, but if that was the only reason she went there, we have to talk with this Chiara Salvatore pretty damn soon.”

  “And the third?” asked Milo.

  “Who the hell is Lucca?”

  Milo took back the printout.

  “I don’t know. But we’ll find out. Right n
ow there is suddenly a lot that points toward the U.S. We have the attorneys at Forum besides, waving legal clauses.”

  “You’ll have to ask that Benedetti when he can get a flight over the pond,” said Sørensen.

  Milo thought about what the Italian policeman had said in Rome. About how he had cases thrown at him, but not resources. The question was whether he would get a green light from his superiors for a New York trip. Milo knew in any case that he wouldn’t have the patience to wait very long for the Italian police to prioritize it. If it dragged out, Milo was going to step in. He had no such resource problems.

  He thought about the e-mail from his cousin Corrado and the American attorney. He had no desire to mention it to Sørensen. But that and the leads in the case that pointed in the direction of New York were bouncing around in the back of his head. The Italian professor in New York. Ingrid Tollefsen, who had flown from Oslo to New York to meet her, and then to Rome. Where she was killed.

  “I’ll ask him. This Professor Salvatore may be one of the last persons who talked with her before she was killed in Rome.”

  Sørensen nodded thoughtfully.

  “But we still have leads to follow up on here in Oslo.”

  “I know. I can’t let go of what that journalist said about Ingrid being dissatisfied with her job. Maybe she was thinking about quitting. The question is why?” said Milo.

  As if on signal, his cell phone rang. He looked at the display, which showed TEMOOR MOBILE and answered.

  “Milo.”

  “Temoor here. It’s in use.”

  “What is?”

  “Her cell phone.”

  “Where?”

  “Blindern. Five minutes ago. But I’m guessing it’s in motion. I’ll call you when I get anything else,” he said and hung up.

  Milo looked at Sørensen.

  “Ready to move out?”

  17

  They spun out of the parking space, made their way through Gamlebyen and out onto Mosseveien in the bus lane past all the traffic. Sørensen drummed his fingertips on his thigh, now and then leaning over and looking at the speedometer.

  “So you couldn’t find a smaller car than this,” he said while demonstratively trying to stretch his legs in the little Fiat.

  Milo responded by pressing harder on the gas pedal. The 160 horsepower moved the small car with a powerful lurch, and the chief inspector’s head hit the neck support.

  “What the he—”

  “I can pass anyone in this thing.”

  “Yes, I realize that,” said Sørensen and fell silent.

  Milo’s phone rang again, and he took it on speakerphone.

  “Temoor here. New signal from Oslo S, and now most recently a little southeast. Do you want me to—”

  “We’re already on our way,” Milo interrupted.

  “But you don’t know where these people are going!”

  “A thousand kroner that he’s sitting on the Ski train now and getting off at Kolbotn station,” said Sørensen.

  “Okay, fine. I’ll report if there’s more activity,” said Temoor.

  They passed Sjursøya and had to slow down when the bus lane disappeared at Ulvøya. South of Nordstrand the traffic thinned out again, and when there were two lanes at Fiskevollbukta, Milo pushed the car for all it was worth.

  Before the exit at Mastemyr the car was up to 170 km an hour, and Sørensen did not say a word.

  Milo followed the signs to Kolbotn just like last evening, but drove all the way to the shopping center this time. They stopped and jumped out of the car just in time to see the Ski train leave the platform.

  “Damn it, we’re too late,” said Sørensen.

  “No, look, people are trickling out of the station area now,” Milo said, pointing.

  From the station there were basically two ways to go. Either away from Milo and Sørensen toward the old shopping center and Skiveien, or toward the new one. The same direction as Ingieråsen School.

  “He’s going this way. For sure,” said Milo.

  The train commuters came steadily closer and there seemed to be more of them all the time. Men on their way home from their bank jobs. Teenagers going to school in Oslo. Students.

  “But who are we looking for?” Sørensen asked, irritated.

  Milo scanned the crowd. At first he had only been focused on arriving before the train did. Now he felt the possibility gradually slipping away as the people came closer and started to disperse in various directions.

  Suddenly he had an idea.

  He fished out his cell phone and entered the number to Ingrid Tollefsen’s cell phone as he spied out over the crowd. The closest ones, the most eager to get home for dinner, were now only a few meters away. The slowest were about fifty meters back.

  Toward the back he saw a young man in dark clothing stop. Milo did not see his face because of the hood that covered it, but could see him take a cell phone out of his pocket and stop to look at it.

  Milo felt his heart pounding and let it ring. No voice mail took the call. He could see the young boy stand and look down at his cell phone. Slowly he raised it to his ear.

  Milo heard the ring tone stop and a faint “hello.”

  Bingo! he thought contentedly and began to walk toward the boy.

  “Hi, I’m trying to get hold of Ingrid Tollefsen,” he said into the phone.

  But the other did not answer.

  “Hello! Do you hear me?” Milo said louder.

  Then the boy raised the hood and looked around. It took him a moment to catch sight of the two men in topcoats coming toward him. One with a phone at his ear.

  Milo saw the boy turn and run back toward the train underpass.

  “Damn it! Come on, Sørensen, that’s him!”

  Milo ran after, unbuttoning his topcoat to get free arm movement. He sprinted into the tunnel and came out on the other side, where he was met by a steep stairway. The boy was nowhere to be seen. Milo powered up the steps, already feeling his pulse beating too hard from such an explosive transition from stationary to full use of his leg muscles.

  At the top of the stairs he saw the boy disappear up toward the old shopping center, and he set out after him. Sørensen hadn’t yet reached the bottom of the stairs.

  Milo hurried as fast as he could, and the distance narrowed. But the boy was fast. At the shopping center he disappeared down the stairs behind the building.

  Milo could see him looking around in confusion, uncertain which direction to take. He was on his way across the parking lot, and Milo was in the middle of the stairs, which he descended in long leaps. The distance was barely thirty meters when a car suddenly started up in reverse. The boy saw it too late and tried to jump out of the way, but the car struck him and knocked him down.

  He screamed, before getting to his feet. An older man got out of the car, but the boy limped off. Milo quickly followed.

  The boy limped off in the direction of the train tracks and threw the sack over the fence. While he howled in pain after the collision and the blow he had taken, he started to climb and threw himself over the fence just as Milo arrived.

  “Stop!” he shouted, but the boy didn’t listen and hobbled off toward the rails.

  Milo climbed over the fence, but he was heavier than the boy, and it swayed severely. As he leaned over, his topcoat got stuck. He quickly freed himself, but that gave the boy a new head start as he limped across the tracks.

  Milo ran toward him, but stopped abruptly in front of the tracks at the sound of a loud signal. He looked to the side and saw a freight train come thundering toward him. It roared past, and Milo felt the draft tear at his clothes and hair.

  “Fuck!” he shouted while he saw the boy disappear down toward the road. He could see that he was starting up the mesh fence out toward the road.

  Milo sprinted across the tracks, jumped down the slope and threw himself against the fence with all his strength. The boy was almost at the top, but had to stop when it started to sway.

  “You
can just forget about getting away from me!” Milo shouted, throwing himself against the fence again.

  The forceful movement made it impossible for the boy to climb further, and instead he clung to the fence as best he could. Then his one leg lost footing, and he fell to the ground with a shriek.

  Milo was over him immediately, tore off the hood, and stared down at a girl who could be anywhere from fifteen to twenty-five years old.

  18

  The queue at the emergency room was longer than Milo could bear, so he took her to the Volvat private clinic for an examination, where they determined that nothing was broken. She was only badly bruised.

  After that it was down to the police station and a very impatient chief inspector.

  “Who are you? Why do you have Ingrid Tollefsen’s phone? When did you last see her? Did you know her brother? And why the hell do you run away when the police want to talk with you?!”

  Sørensen spit out the stream of questions while he paced back and forth in the room.

  “I didn’t know you were policemen,” the girl said quietly, looking down at the floor.

  She spoke good Norwegian, but not without an accent that revealed she was not a native speaker.

  “What did you say?! Take off that fuckin’ hood so we can hear you,” said Sørensen, pulling it back.

  She shrank even more. As if the hood protected her.

  “I said that I didn’t know you were policemen.”

  “Who the hell did you think we were? Jehovah’s Witnesses?”

  She did not reply, and Milo sat down right across from her. He tried to make eye contact, but her gaze wandered. She was skinny, dressed in worn jeans with a checked shirt under the hooded sweatshirt. Her clothing was youthful, but there was nothing about it that suggested fashion awareness. On the contrary, there was something thrifty about her, as if the clothes were inherited. Or given to her. The pants were a few sizes too big, and the sweatshirt was dirty and faded.

  “Let’s take one question at a time,” Milo said calmly. “What’s your name?”

  She cast a quick glance at him, but did not answer.

  Sørensen took his snuffbox from the jacket that was tossed over a chair. He inserted two pouches before turning toward them.

  “Okay, here’s the situation: You have the cell phone of someone who was killed. I hope for your sake you have a good explanation for that.”

  This time she kept her eyes on Milo.