The Oslo Conspiracy

by Asle Skredderberget

  “Maybe not.”

  “Remember that you are a leader. You’re the type of person who brings people with you. And that means stricter demands are automatically placed on you.”

  “I’m just me. I’m no leader.”

  “You influence people. People reach out to you. I know the type. And that means you have to take care that you don’t use them. That you don’t abuse the trust others show you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “I hear you. And understand you. But I can’t say I like it.”

  25

  The sun was trying to come out, but it blinded instead of warmed. Milo buttoned up his topcoat on the steps outside St. Olav church and took out his sunglasses.

  He looked at his watch. Almost nine. He hadn’t been able to sleep after Anja left, so he got up at seven. An hour later he entered the confessional. He thought it would be a fine way to clear his head before diving into the investigation, but now he was not so sure.

  So it worked out well that he had one more stop to make, giving him time to think. But first he had to go by Sunniva’s, because he had promised to take her along with him.

  * * *

  They parked by Haslum church, taking the stairs down to the cemetery and following the gravel path farther and farther away from the parking lot.

  “Thanks for letting me come along,” said Sunniva.

  She was walking beside him, dressed in a military green parka, knit mittens, and a beret pulled down over her ears.

  “No problem,” Milo replied.

  He was still not used to the thought of having a sister. That the girl, or young woman, by his side had the same father as him. And so the conversation they both tried to have in the car on the way over felt a little strange.

  She tried to catch his eye without succeeding.

  “You seem a little … down. Is it because of me? Or this place?”

  “A little from being here. A little from work. A little from you. A few other things.”

  “Girlfriend problems?”

  “That too.”

  “I understand.”

  They left the path and walked between the gravestones until they were standing in front of the right grave.

  “Here it is,” he said quietly, looking down at the stone with his mother’s name.

  He still did not understand why Sunniva wanted to see her grave.

  They stood in silence a few minutes, and the only sound was the gusts of wind that bent the birch branches.

  “It hurts to lose someone,” she said.

  He could have reacted to the obviously naïve statement, but it seemed sincere from her side.

  “Do you miss her?” she continued.

  He swallowed.

  “It doesn’t go away, no. Doesn’t let go,” he said.

  And perhaps it was the case that he hadn’t let go either. He liked coming out here. Liked the peacefulness in the cemetery and recalling memories. Not from the end, when she was sick and completely beside herself. But memories from before. From the trips, from everyday things, from dinners. Her smile. The hugs. The wet kisses on the cheek that embarrassed him so, but that he almost missed more than anything else. The affectionate nicknames. Amore. Beloved. Caro. Dear. La luce mia. My light.

  “I know what you mean. I lost my grandmother a few years ago. I was with my grandparents a lot when I was growing up. On summer vacations. You know, when Mom worked, and Dad couldn’t … well, you know. When the situation was as it was. Grandmother was like a second mother. And when I think about her now, it’s like”—she turned toward him—”like it tickles my stomach.”

  Milo nodded in recognition.

  “But not in a good way,” he said.

  “Exactly. Like a bad tickle, you know.”

  “I know. And you never know when it will strike,” he said as he started to feel what they were talking about.

  “Exactly,” Sunniva almost whispered.

  “But sometimes it’s not a tickle either. But more like a kind of itch,” said Milo.

  She let out a little snort of laughter, and he looked at her in surprise.

  “It itches because it’s healing,” she said.

  “I see.”

  “That was just something my mother used to say. I always ran around with boys, and came home with scratches and bruises. And when there were scabs, I sat and picked at them. ‘Don’t scratch!’ Mom always said. ‘But it itches so much!’ ‘It itches because it’s healing, Sunniva!’”

  He smiled and she smiled back.

  “Everything that heals, itches, Milo,” she said.

  “Okay, I’ll remember that.” He looked at her sympathetically. “When did your grandmother die?”

  “Two and a half years.”

  “What happened? If you want to talk about it, that is.”

  “It’s fine. She got sick. Alzheimer’s.”

  Milo looked at her.

  “Were you with her when she died?”

  She shook her head slightly.

  “No, but my mother and aunt were there. We took turns sitting with her. But a couple of days before she died, when I was there and she was basically somewhere else the whole time and had completely lost the ability to talk, it was like she woke up, and then she fixed her eyes on me, and then…”

  Milo could hear her take a deep breath down into her stomach before she continued.

  “… then suddenly she smiled at me. Before that some tears ran down her cheek … as if she was saying ‘I am so fond of you, my girl. And I’m so sorry about all this.’”

  Sunniva took a breath, and he could hear her sobbing. He put his arm around her shoulder and stroked her consolingly across her back. He didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything.

  “And do you know what I thought more than once while we were waiting for her to let go, Milo?”

  “No. What?”

  “That I really wanted to talk with you. My big brother, you know,” she said, turning toward him and putting her head against his chest.

  He held her and stroked her calmly across her back, incapable of saying anything. She cried quietly. After a while she straightened up, trying to dry her tears with the wool mittens while she looked at him apologetically.

  “Sorry! That wasn’t the idea. But the tears were just there, right under the surface, I guess. And when I pick at it, then—”

  “It’s fine. Relax,” said Milo. He held her around her shoulders and looked at her encouragingly. “It’s fine,” he repeated.

  She nodded and turned toward the gravestone again. They remained standing shoulder to shoulder.

  “You know, I remember very clearly that I was at your house once,” she said.

  “You were at our house? When?”

  “I must have been eight or so. It was December. I remember that Mom had fallen and had to go to the hospital. She must have called Dad out of desperation.”

  “And he brought you home? While Mama was there?”

  Sunniva nodded and smiled.

  “She was very nice to me. We sat in your kitchen. I remember that she smelled so nice. And then I remember that I got to try a kind of big Christmas cake. I never had anything like it before. Probably something Italian, you know, about so high.”

  She indicated with her hands.

  “Panettone,” he said.

  “Yes!”

  He thought about what might have happened if he had come home while Sunniva was there. Probably nothing. They probably would have just explained that she was the daughter of a friend. And he certainly would have believed them.

  “Do you think they’re better off now? Your mother and my grandmother?”

  He nodded.

  “No one is unhappy in heaven?”

  “No one is unhappy in heaven, Sunniva.”

  26

  On their way back to the car he turned the sound on his phone back on, and saw that several new e-mails had arrived.

  Most of them were unimportant, but the one from the l
egal director at Forum Healthcare Norway caught his interest.

  From: Tangvald, Truls

  Subject: Response from Forum Healthcare Corp.

  To: Cavalli, Milo

  I refer to previous conversations and correspondence with our main office in New York. We promised to get back to you before the weekend.

  It is important for us to express our support for the investigation that is now going on, and our desire to contribute to a reasonable degree.

  At the same time our company is subject to financial legislation in both the USA and Norway, which places strict limitations on what kind of information we can give out. Our legal department in New York is working with the case, but has made it clear that the Norwegian legal entity cannot release information about what projects Ingrid Tollefsen worked on and details about them. Only the parent company in the USA has the authority to do this.

  In the course of the next two weeks however Bradley Finch, Head of Legal Affairs, will go to Oslo, and he has asked me to set up a meeting with you, so that he can turn over as much information as possible.

  I hope you can confirm the desire for such a meeting, so that I can take care of the practical details.

  With kind regards

  Truls Tangvald

  SVP Legal

  Forum Healthcare Norway AS

  Milo cursed to himself. It was obvious that Forum was delaying the request for access, and it was not timely to wait for two weeks for an American executive who in any event would answer that this is confidential information, I am unfortunately unable to give you any details to almost every single question.

  He mostly wanted to fire off a furious e-mail in reply, but knew that, regardless, it was wise to wait until his initial irritation had subsided.

  They got in the car and he took out his headset.

  “I just have to make a quick call,” he said to Sunniva, entering Sørensen’s number.

  He failed to mention that he had hired Lehman as the attorney for Oriana—he would have to shoulder that alone—and instead told him about the e-mail from Forum.

  “I see. So the big boys in New York are making trouble for us? But if I know you, you haven’t thought about giving up,” the chief inspector replied.

  “Absolutely not. It turns out that I have to travel over there on some personal business,” Milo answered.

  “Personal business? In New York?”

  “Family affairs, you might say. Besides, the last time I talked with Benedetti, it didn’t seem like he’d gotten a green light to go over to question the professor that Ingrid saw there. We need to know what they talked about, but he’s sweating the resources,” Milo said.

  “I understand. But we have budgets to stick to ourselves for that matter.”

  “Fuck the budgets, Sørensen! I have my own budget. The clock is ticking, and I can leave now.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, now.”

  “It’s Friday. You won’t get there—”

  “It’s Thursday night over there. The flight takes seven hours. I’ll arrive in the afternoon and have time to talk with the Forum gang before they leave for the weekend.”

  “If you get to meet with them then.”

  “Believe me, I’ll get a meeting with them.”

  Sørensen thought a moment.

  “Okay. I’ll continue here at home. The steroid lead is still our best option. And then you’ll check Ingrid’s movements in New York and pester the Forum lawyers for all it’s worth.”

  “Good. We’ll talk on the phone over the weekend,” Milo replied and hung up.

  Sunniva looked at him with curiosity.

  “Are you going on another trip?”

  “Yes. I have some running around to do, so I’ll have to drop you off at home.”

  “That’s fine. Where are you going?”

  “New York.”

  “Oh, cool!”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  * * *

  He stopped outside the building she lived in, and got a big hug from her. On his way home he called SAS, entered his gold card number and got through in just a few minutes. There was a flight at one thirty that would arrive in New York in the afternoon. He ordered a business-class ticket before dashing into the apartment to pick up his passport and a small bag.

  In the kitchen he found his iPad. First he booked a room at the Waldorf Astoria. Then he sent off a reply to the legal director at Forum.

  From: Cavalli, Milo

  Subject: Re: Response from Forum Healthcare Corp.

  To: Tangvald, Truls

  Thanks for the e-mail.

  We appreciate that your legal director wants to cooperate fully with us, and look forward to meeting him.

  To make the process as efficient as possible, I am taking a flight from Oslo at 1:30 today.

  I will go directly to your main office on Madison Avenue, and will be ready for a meeting as of about 4:00 local time.

  I will count on you taking care of the practical details because I will be sitting on the plane most of the day.

  I also expect that company management will make the right persons available for the meeting in New York, and that we do not need to involve American police authorities.

  Regards

  M Cavalli

  He smiled as he sent it.

  Two minutes later he took off.

  In ten hours he would be in New York. To force the bosses at Forum Healthcare to talk. To meet the professor who had been Ingrid Tollefsen’s adviser several years ago in Rome, and whom she had traveled to visit right before she was killed.

  And to find out what was in the will of the deceased lady friend of his grandfather Antonio Cavalli.

  27

  He was one of the last to board the flight. Business class was about half-full, and he found his seat alongside a light-haired thirty-year-old woman who reeked of finance.

  A sand-colored trench coat lay nonchalantly in her lap, and Milo caught a glimpse of the label: Aquascutum. On the floor was her Prada bag, and around her wrist he saw a light-brown strap and a square watch face framed in gold. It resembled a Cartier. Milo sensed Stockholm girl from far off, and stole yet another look as she moved her phone to her other hand and let her left hand rest in her lap a few seconds. That was all he needed to determine that the watch was a Jaeger-LeCoultre Reverso.

  He looked automatically at his own Panerai—which he had inherited from his grandfather—and noted that he had made the flight with seven minutes to spare.

  While the flight attendant gave him a choice between a glass of juice or champagne and he checked his latest e-mails, he overheard the woman beside him get a little more work done before going off-line for the next seven hours. She spoke English—almost fluently—but with a Swedish accent.

  “They are absolutely interested, so I am leaving to meet the executive group and the majority owners in Hoffman now. I expect a quick meeting in the afternoon in New York, and then I’m guessing that Monday will be included too. Back at the office on Tuesday afternoon,” he heard her say.

  After the call she tapped on her BlackBerry, while Milo finished the juice and thought about how good it was to no longer be part of the finance merry-go-round. He felt more like a speck of dust in the carousel machinery, a role he was more comfortable with.

  The flight began to taxi out, and the woman beside him was in a hurry to gather things into her bag. Milo got up and opened the overhead compartment.

  “I can put that up for you,” he said, holding out his arm.

  “Thanks,” she said with a stressed smile.

  He closed the bin and sat down again. From the corner of his eye he noticed that she was studying him.

  “Are you ready for New York?” she asked.

  The question surprised him. Snobs from Stockholm did not usually talk with strangers, especially not Norwegians.

  “Yes, but I’m not sure whether New York is ready for me,” he answered.

  “Kathrin,” she said, giving hi
m her hand.

  “Milo,” he said, squeezing it gently.

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later they were in the air, and the flight attendant came with snacks and beverages before dinner. Both took sodas.

  “I’d rather have a glass of wine with the meal,” said Kathrin.

  Her voice was melodious, and the aroma of her springlike perfume made its way to his nose.

  The flight had taken off in a southerly direction and passed Oslo before the captain turned the nose westward. Kathrin had been looking out the window the whole time. Now she leaned back in her seat while she brought up the footrest and found a comfortable position.

  “Oslo is just so nice,” she said.

  She said it with longing in her voice, not the way an Oslo resident would have said it. Someone who lived in Oslo would have had their eyes firmly fixed on her destination.

  “It is a nice city. You’re from Stockholm, right?” he asked.

  She smiled.

  “Is it that obvious?”

  He picked up her cashmere scarf, which had slid down on the floor.

  “Yes, I´m afraid so,” he answered.

  “Damn it! You, then? You sound completely Norwegian, but you don’t look like it. And Milo is not exactly typically Norwegian.”

  “Norwegian-Italian. Emil in Norwegian. Emilio in Italian. Milo among friends.”

  “Ah, now I understand. Where in Italy is your family from? I really love going there.”

  They chatted about places they had been and meals they had eaten. And when the flight attendants came with food, they both selected beef and the Italian red wine.

  “But what kind of work do you do, Milo?”

  “I’m a policeman.”

  Her fork stopped midway to her mouth, and she leaned away from him to get a better view.

  “I see. My father was a policeman too. He’s retired now. I don’t think he ever traveled in business class,” she said.

  “But I do,” he answered.

  Now he understood why she was so accommodating and had taken the initiative to talk with him. She did not come from old money. She was a Stockholm girl who’d grown up in a working-class family, and the expensive clothes and bag she had paid for herself.

  What he had overheard of both content and tone of voice in the phone call before departure revealed a number of years working in England.