“So be it Herr Svendsen. But you cannot tell me the day of the week when you first saw the white pickup truck.”
“No. But my neighbor can tell you. Go ask her. Herr and Fru Dahl and I have spoken about all the stupid people who park at our dead end. . . . Young people who drink and smoke marijuana . . . and others who come here to do you know what . . . they’ve even left their underwear on the street.
“Disgusting! . . .
“So why don’t you ask her or her husband when that white vehicle first parked here. Her husband saw it when he came home early one afternoon from work. She . . . like me . . . got fed up with the driver coming here in the mornings and afternoons. She even let her dogs out to chase the driver away one or two days ago.”
“We will talk with your neighbor. Now . . . did you see a boy in the car?”
“Boy? I don’t know if it was a boy or girl . . . or an adult. I told you I sometimes saw the driver and a smaller or shorter passenger. Dark shadows . . . that’s all I saw from here with my binoculars.”
“That’s it?”
“I could’ve walked down my driveway to see their faces but I thought they’d just drive away if I got close to them. You see I can’t walk back up my steep driveway . . . what with my knees and hips . . . the arthritis has ruined them.”
“I see.”
“Do you? I don’t think so. Anyway . . . I told you that the driver parked down there almost every day right after school started and then at around one in the afternoon . . . and sometimes at odd hours of the night. The car was there yesterday at nine in the morning for about thirty minutes after school started . . . it came back and parked there for an hour later that afternoon . . . from about twelve thirty to one forty-five. ”
“Mr. Svendsen . . . what school are you talking about?”
“The elementary school . . . the only one nearby . . . Grindbakken skole . . . Pilot Hill School . . . on Måltrostveien.”
“How did you know that the driver came here after school started?”
“Simple. I looked at my watch and wrote down the times on a piece of scrap paper. The driver usually came down here at nine in the morning and at one in the afternoon. You think I am senile . . . but I know when school starts and ends because my neighbors the Dahls have two children in that school . . . she drives to drop them off every morning at school and pick them up every afternoon. Of course it’s not like in the old days when every rich and poor kid walked to school . . . even in winter. Now parents chauffeur the tykes. Ridiculous.”
“Times have changed Mr. Svendsen.”
“Not for the better. Mark my words. Not for the better.”
Chapter 3/Tre
SEPTEMBER 4, OR THREE MONTHS
AFTER THE DAY JUNE 4
Chief Inspector Trygve Nilsen looked forward to spending the weekend with his wife and children at the hytte that he had bought earlier that summer at a foreclosure. He gave a five-minute presentation to his superiors. Then he barely paid any attention to what the other police chief inspectors discussed during their weekly meeting with their boss the Police Commissioner for the Oslo district.
The only words in Trygve Nilsen’s ears during the meeting with other chief inspectors that morning were those of the realtor from the nearby town of Dovre:
“It’s a steal I tell you! A steal! . . . The family put a second and a third mortgage on their farm when Citibank offered them a ‘great way’ to cut down their debt on Citibank credit cards.
“The poor fools believed them.
“Of course that was in the old days before the crash in oh-eight. No way you’d get any Norwegian bankers lending on a second or third mortgage up here in Oppland County. Only real dumb American banks based in London . . . or greedy banks from Spain. That’s Euro-Union craziness for you. Anyway . . . you’re getting a real deal.”
Nilsen looked forward to driving the 200 miles up north to his hyyte and 12-acre farm in his brand new Jaguar XJ. Life was very good after the 2008 financial crash if you had a government job. He had just gotten a huge pay raise and he spent a lot of time at work thinking about all of the additional perks and benefits and promotions that would keep coming his way as a Politiførstebetjent or Police Chief Inspector in the Oslo district.
“Nilsen,” said his boss Ivar Thorsen at the end of the meeting while the conference room emptied out. “A word.”
“Yes sir?”
Nilsen barely listened to his boss because all he could think about was the lovely traditional country cabin in the meadow and its rustic simplicity and how impressive it would look when he added a fresh coat of red paint that coming weekend.
“Nilsen did you hear me?”
“Sorry sir . . . I just have a lot on my plate . . . very difficult investigations sir.”
“As I said . . . there’s one you need to pay close attention to. . . .”
“Yes sir. Which one?”
“The one with the boy.”
“The Karl Haugen boy? Any reason in pArcticular sir?”
“Ja! I was playing bridge yesterday with Politioverbetjent Brudelie . . . Police Superintendent Brudelie. And he told me that. . . .”
“Oh yes . . . how interesting,” said Nilsen from time to time while cringing inside. He hated the constant name-dropping that his boss used to show off about how close he was socially to the top brass in the Norwegian Police Service.
“So Nilsen . . . the long and short of it is that you need to call several press conferences . . . go for maximum coverage in television and radio and newspapers and magazines.”
“Issue the usual press releases? Give the ususal interviews and exclusives and off the record background?”
“Ja. Make sure that you show in big graphs and charts how many officers and how many hours and how many resources we are dedicating to protect the little children at Grindbakken Skole. The school angle always gets parents interested and nervous. They always fall for it. Make big maps and then cross out in color markers all of the areas where your team has searched. You must make absolutely sure that it appears that you and your team are doing a lot of work on the case . . . and spending a lot of money . . . make sure that you put a lot of emphasis on how budget constraints are preventing you and your investigative team from doing everything possible.”
“But why the boy? Any reason in pArcticular sir?”
“Ja. The Minister of Justice wants the Prime Minister and the storting . . . the parliament to approve a nine percent increase to our budget for the coming fiscal year. A cute little boy is after all the perfect poster boy when lobbying for a budget increase for the police.”
“I see.”
“Nilsen . . . do you know those folks at the Ministry of the Environment?”
“No. What about them?”
“They got a twelve percent increase to their budget when they showed pictures and video of those cute seal puppies choking and dying in Russian solvents and pollutants in the Arctic.”
“Don’t worry boss. I know exactly what to do.”
Chapter 4/Fire
MIDSUMMER’S EVE, OR
THE LONGEST DAY OF THE YEAR, OR
1 YEAR AND 19 DAYS AFTER THE DAY,
FRIDAY, JUNE 4
“Where’s my Daddy?”
No one answered Karl Haugen.
The blinding sunshine fell on his eyes. He wondered where he was and why he could not see his father. So much time had passed and yet Karl Haugen felt as if he had last seen his father just a few minutes ago. He had lost track of time.
“Where’s my Daddy?”
Silence.
“I want to see my father!”
~ ~ ~
The Norwegian storting or parliament met in session. The ruling party confidently looked forward to a thorough grilling by the opposition parties on the danger to Norwegian banks from potential defaults on the government debt of poorly managed European Union countries like Spain and Greece.
After receiving recognition to speak Edvard Ruud stood up. He was
the senior member of a small ultra right-wing opposition party that wanted to end immigration and other social engineering projects. Edvard Ruud stood silently for a long time before he said:
“Mister Speaker . . . although high finance and the well-being of international bankers seem to be the primary concern of the Prime Minister and his government . . . can the Prime Minister and his Minister of Justice explain why the government’s police have gotten absolutely no results on finding a Norwegian child who’s been missing now for twelve months. . . . The child is Karl Haugen age seven . . . an innocent boy who mysteriously disappeared from his school in the middle of the day.”
The chamber erupted in shouts and catcalls which did not deter Edvard Ruud.
“Karl Haugen . . . an innocent child and Norwegian citizen is . . . in my opinion . . . far more important than the foreign deadbeat countries that are always seeking bailouts and handouts from Norway and other countries whose citizens work hard and spend wisely.”
The Prime Minister stood up and said, “Does the right honorable member from Namsos actually have a question for me? . . . I lost track of his question in his long speech.”
“Ja. I have three questions. Exactly when and how does your Minister of Justice plan on finding the little boy Karl Haugen and bringing him back home? . . . Are the school children of Norway really safe when the police cannot find a little boy after one entire year of looking for him? . . . Just what has been done to find Karl Haugen with all of the money and manpower that the Justice Minister asked for and got with his latest budget increase?”
~ ~ ~
Oslo Police Commissioner Ivar Thorsen could not believe his luck in getting invited to the exclusive Oustøen Country Club on Ostøya Island about 15 miles southwest of downtown Oslo. His efforts had paid off. His mother had taught him well. She always said, “Hang around rich and powerful people. Then do what the rich and powerful people do.”
“So,” said his boss, “you really play golf?”
“Ja!”
“Really? Alright then. You’re playing with me. Let’s go.”
They teed off and played in the glorious summer weather. His boss was driving the cart to the second hole when his boss suddenly stopped and said:
“We have a problem.”
“I took care of it. No one will ever know.”
“What? You did?”
“You know . . . our last mayor . . . his mistress getting a no-bid contract worth millions.”
“I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about the missing boy.”
“Karl Haugen?”
“Yes. The little shit is causing a lot of trouble.”
“I did what you told me to do . . . to make it appear that we were doing something.”
“That’s no longer good enough. You see . . . unfortunately someone higher up has taken an interest in the case. He wants a final solution . . . he won’t tolerate any longer for us to appear as if we’re doing something.”
The two men played and moved on to the third hole.
“Who is interested?”
“The Minister of Justice and Police,” said his boss as he swung his four iron.
“Oh,” he said somewhat in shock that the boss of his boss’s boss had taken an interest in the boy. He had never heard of a member of cabinet taking an interest in such a matter. Powerful people surely had more important things to care about.
His wise mother had told him many many times, “The powerful only care about what’s good for them. Never forget that.” That’s what his mother had taught him and she knew very well how the world worked.
Penniless his mother had come to Oslo to work at a bank executive’s home as a maid. The poor but pretty peasant girl from a small village near the border with Sweden was no fool. She knew how the world worked and she became very good friends with the bank executive and his wife and their son and she soon got pregnant and very lucky as a single mother with permanent employment. She got lots of benefits and gifts from the bank executive including tuition for her son’s university as well as a tidy retirement sum set aside for when she turned 55.
At the fourth hole his boss knocked the ball in at par and said:
“The Minister wants the situation with the boy resolved as soon as possible . . . no later than December.”
“That’s just six months from now.”
“You have to do it. He’s planning on becoming the next Prime Minister. And that bit of news is utterly and completely confidential. You must tell absolutely no one about it. Understand?”
“Ja. Of course.”
The men played in silence and moved on to the fifth hole.
“What do you want me to do?”
His boss took out a seven iron. “Do whatever it takes.”
“An arrest?”
“Whatever it takes.”
“A confession?”
“Whatever it takes. It’s your department. You’re the Politimeister . . . the Police Commissioner and Chief of the Oslo district!”
Ivar Thorsen was troubled and his game went from mediocre to horrible. His score reached pathetic levels for the next two holes. He felt sick over the situation that his boss had just put him into.
If he failed then he would have to take the blame as well as any unpleasant consequences such as a forced early retirement.
If he got results then someone else would take the credit.
After much thought Thorsen slowly realized that it was okay if he didn’t get any of the credit before the public and the media and the government. This time he didn’t mind someone else taking the credit because the Minister of Justice or his boss or his boss’s boss would surely remember who had gotten things done.
After they teed off for the ninth hole Thorsen said, “I really appreciate you telling me that the Minister is interested.”
“I told you because I want no doubts or timid half-measures from you. This way there’s absolutely no doubt as to what you need to do . . . and what the rewards and consequences will be if you succeed or fail.”
Shivers went up and down Thorsen’s spine. “Any preferences on what I should do or how I should proceed?”
“It’s your department! Just do it.”
Ivar Thorsen couldn’t play at all. He spent a lot of time hacking away in the rough and cursed when he dug himself in deeper at a sand bunker. He finally reached the tee for the ninth hole that offered magnificent views of Oslofjord and the city of Oslo and the low mountains which ring Oslo to the north and west.
His boss played a five iron superbly and he motioned for Thorsen to come over and his boss said in the friendliest voice:
“I’ve noticed over the years that you have switched your hobbies many times.”
“Ja. Why yes I have.”
“Remind me. You started out as a Politireserven . . . on the Police Reserve . . . as a lowly reserve on probation. Right?”
“Oh yes.”
“And then you became a Grade One Politibetjent . . . a Police Constable. Right?”
“Ja.”
“Interesting . . . that’s also when you took up horseback riding as a hobby . . . because that was what your boss liked to do on weekends. Right?”
“Ja,” said Thorsen uncomfortable and unsure where the conversation was going.
“Then you switched hobbies as you went up the ranks to a Grade Two Politibetjent . . . a Police Sergeant . . . and then to a Grade Three Politibetjent . . . a Police Inspector. As I remember from way back then you changed your hobbies to tennis and then to sailing each time that you got a new boss. Correct?”
“Ja. I took lessons for my hobbies. They were fun.”
“Oh I bet they were. And then you got promoted to a Politiførstebetjent . . . a Police Chief Inspector and then to Politioverbetjent . . . Police Superintendent. Right?”
“Ja.”
“And if I remember correctly that’s also when you again switched your hobbies to skiing and then to playing that board game . . . Scrabble. Right?”
“Ja. I love skiing and playing Scrabble.”
“Just like your bosses.”
“I. . . .”
“Then you switched to playing bridge before you became the Oslo Politidistrikt Politimeister . . . the Police Chief for the Oslo district.”
Death on Pilot Hill (An Inspector Harald Sohlberg Mystery) Page 2