by K. O. Dahl
‘Have you seen this woman?’
Frølich pushed a photograph of Elisabeth Faremo across the table.
Langås craned his head to look, wordless.
‘I take your silence to mean that you’ve seen this woman before.’
Langås nodded.
‘Where and when?’
‘At Easter. She went to the weekend chalet with Reidun.’
‘Where’s the chalet?’
‘In Valdres, Vestre Slidre.’
Frølich held back in the hope that he would be more forthcoming. Langås leaned forwards and said: ‘Is this your woman? Did she leave you for Reidun? Are you jealous? How am I to know it wasn’t you who broke in and beat her up?’
‘It wasn’t me. But yes, I have occasionally been jealous of your ex-wife. She was having a relationship with Elisabeth at the same time as I was. That isn’t why I came here though. The fact is I’m fond of this woman and have reason to believe she’s in serious trouble. For that reason she has gone to ground. I think the serious trouble has something to do with your ex-wife being taken to Ullevål hospital.’
Langås rolled his wrist and squinted at his watch – a macho job: classic diver watch meets James Bond.
Frølich pointed to the photograph. ‘My motive for talking to you is to find this woman, and help her out of her predicament. I’ve tried to talk to your ex-wife. Other policemen have also tried. She refuses to answer any questions. That means that your ex may also have got caught up in the mess. I’m only asking you to …’
‘I have to go,’ Langås said. ‘Whatever Reidun is caught up in, it has nothing to do with me. I’m happily married, Frølich. And I’ll be quite open with you. In fact, one of the reasons we got divorced when we did was Reidun’s predilections. We married too young. We grew apart, intellectually and … well … in other areas. That meant that Reidun and I have almost nothing in common, not even children. And we were miles apart when we divided all our possessions. In fact, one of the things at the time that created bad blood between us was the chalet I was talking about. It’s been in my family for two generations and was built by my grandfather. But she was downright dishonest and grabbed it when we got divorced. I was very depressed at that point and incapable of standing up for myself. For sentimental reasons, I’ve bought another chalet not so far from the one she cheated me out of. This is where I most often meet her. We occasionally bump into each other when we go skiing at Easter.’ He tapped a finger on Elisabeth Faremo’s picture. ‘I saw this woman when I was out skiing. They were resting alongside the piste on a slope and I chatted to them for maybe three minutes perhaps, maybe five – to be polite. Not long enough to ask her name. I assumed she was having problems because she was young, probably half Reidun’s age. That’s all I know, all I can say. If you would excuse me now?’ He stood up, flipped open the clasp of his fancy watch and closed it again, like a secondary schoolteacher rattling his keys.
‘Thank you,’ Frølich said, realizing why Langås was fidgeting with his watch: he wanted to avoid shaking hands.
18
She was ensconced in a chair by the window. Staring out. Her back appeared narrow and lonely in the white dressing gown. Her brown hair was brushed. In the window Gunnarstranda saw his own reflection – and the profile of her face.
He stood like that without saying anything.
‘I know who you are,’ she said. The voice was quiet and concentrated.
He met her eyes in the transparent mirror. ‘May I buy you a cup of coffee?’ he asked and added: ‘If you’re strong enough to go down to the café.’
Finally, she turned round. ‘Do you think this face is fit for a café?’
He didn’t answer.
‘What do you want?’ She was forced to talk out of the corner of her mouth. The skin around her eyes was covered with red and blue contusions.
‘I wanted to know how you were. It looked pretty bad … in your house,’ he hastened to add. ‘Can you remember any of what happened?’
‘I remember the ambulance. Just a vague recollection.’
‘Have you any idea how much time passed between the ambulance coming and …?’
‘No.’
Gunnarstranda involuntarily put out a hand as she stood up. He wanted to support her, but she rejected his approach and hobbled off towards one of the low coffee tables by the wall. He sat down at the other side.
‘It looks worse than it is,’ she said.
‘Did you see him?’
The question disconcerted her for a second. She lowered her gaze.
He waited.
‘Who?’ she asked finally.
‘I won’t force you to answer. Instead, I’ll say how I interpret your silence and your attitude. Either you saw your attacker and you’re frightened of reprisals if you describe him to me or you saw him but you don’t wish to see him punished.’
She was silent.
A nurse in a white uniform appeared at the door. She came into the room and asked if everything was all right.
Gunnarstranda gestured towards Reidun Vestli. ‘You’ll have to ask her.’
Reidun Vestli regarded the nurse with a distant look. ‘Yes, everything’s fine. Could I have something to drink, though?’
They sat in silence watching the nurse go to the unit in the corner, take out a bottle of mineral water, thoroughly rinse a glass in cold water and then return with light steps. She handed a glass with a straw to Reidun Vestli. They watched the nurse cross the room and leave.
‘How did he get in?’
‘Through the door. How else?’
‘He rang the doorbell?’
She was silent.
‘Or was he waiting for you when you came back from shopping?’
She was still silent.
‘Do you want to report him?’
She shook her head slowly.
‘Why not?’
No reaction.
Gunnarstranda leaned forwards. ‘Who hit you?’ he asked doggedly.
Reidun Vestli didn’t answer.
‘Can you describe the person?’
She put down her glass on the table. She made rings with the bottom of the glass. The silence persisted. A large clock on the wall clicked as the minute hand moved on.
‘I think,’ Gunnarstranda said finally, ‘that the person who did this to you is extremely desperate. If you don’t wish to say who he is, or describe him, I’d like you to tell me what he wanted – apart from causing you injury. It’s imperative that we have this man under lock and key, imperative for us, for you and particularly for Elisabeth Faremo.’
The name threw a switch in Reidun Vestli’s consciousness. She slowly raised her head; her eyes were focused on something far away. ‘I want you to go,’ she said.
Gunnarstranda produced a photograph of Vidar Ballo. ‘Was this the man who gave you the beating?’
Reidun Vestli looked at the picture without saying a word.
Gunnarstranda took out another picture. This time it was Jim Rognstad, a prison photograph, a front and a profile.
Reidun Vestli was quiet.
Gunnarstranda showed her a photograph of Frølich.
No discernible twitch on Reidun Vestli’s face.
The policeman pulled out a newspaper cutting about her ex-husband – Langås the investor.
No reaction this time, either.
‘Anyone else?’ the policeman asked softly.
Reidun Vestli peered up.
Gunnarstranda leaned back in the chair and said: ‘Was it someone you didn’t see a photo of?’
Reidun shouted in a hoarse voice: ‘Nurse, sister, hello! I can’t take any more.’
Gunnarstranda stood up. ‘Just one minor thing before I go,’ he said before putting back the pictures in his inside jacket pocket. ‘You and your husband both had an interest in a chalet in Valdres, but who is actually the owner?’
The door opened. A nurse came in. ‘I’m going now,’ Gunnarstranda said to reassure her.
‘Wait!’ Reidun Vestli looked at him with a troubled expression on her face.
The nurse left, closing the door behind her.
Reidun Vestli was breathing heavily. ‘Why do you want to know?’
Gunnarstranda thought this over. Eventually he said: ‘For several reasons actually, but let’s start with the insurance premium. I’m wondering who gets the payout if anything should happen – something unforeseen.’
‘What are you trying to say?’ she whispered.
‘You’re going to be discharged today, aren’t you?’ Gunnarstranda asked. ‘Shall I drive you home so we can talk about it?’
She nodded slowly.
‘We can call the nurse then,’ Gunnarstranda said.
19
When Gunnarstranda came into the office, he just managed to nod to Yttergjerde and wrestle off his coat before the telephone began to ring. He picked up the receiver and barked into it as usual: ‘Please be brief.’
‘Frølich here.’
‘Good morning. Up early and no weeping?’
‘I talked to Langås yesterday, Reidun Vestli’s ex-husband.’
‘You’re not letting go, then?’
‘He said something about a chalet. Elisabeth had stayed with Reidun Vestli in a chalet in Valdres.’
‘So?’
‘I thought I was supposed to play with an open hand, as you requested. I intend to go there now and find out whether Elisabeth is hiding in the chalet. She might be. I think …’
‘I know about the chalet,’ Gunnarstranda said, immediately regretting his interruption. The line went quiet and he knew he would have to bring the silence to an end. He said: ‘It was in Vestre Slidre.’
‘It was?’
‘It burned down a few days ago.’
‘Burned?’
‘I happened to be in the area by chance.’
‘And which chance was that?’
Gunnarstranda stretched back in his chair. He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and stuck it between his lips. He was silent.
‘Hello,’ Frølich yelled impatiently. ‘Are you there?’
‘Frank Frølich, have you got a chair to hand?’
‘Out with it! Tell me!’
‘Perhaps you’d better sit down. I received a report yesterday, addressed to the Institute of Forensic Medicine, and I wouldn’t have taken any notice, had it not been for the land registry document. A property burned to the ground, a chalet belonging to Reidun Vestli. The Nord-Aural police report talks about finding long bones in the ashes of the chalet.’
Silence again.
‘Long bones, Frølich. Do you know what that means?’
‘It doesn’t have to be her.’
‘Of course not.’
Silence again.
‘But Reidun Vestli’s chalet burned down a few days ago. What is special about this is that someone was in the chalet at the time of the fire. If Reidun Vestli hadn’t lent the chalet to Elisabeth Faremo, it might have been a thief who broke in, went to sleep with a fag in his mouth and caused the fire. But that’s not what we thought, is it? We both thought there was a chance she might have let Elisabeth use the chalet, didn’t we?’
Frølich’s voice, clearly strained: ‘How are you going to approach this case?’
‘Standard procedure. Look for DNA to establish the identity of the remains.’
‘How?’
‘We’ve been to the Faremo flat.’
‘Find anything?’
‘A hairbrush. On her bed. I’ve requested a DNA profile and I’ll match it with that of the bones in the chalet.’
This time there was a longer pause before Frølich’s question: ‘When are you expecting an answer?’
‘Any time now.’
After Gunnarstranda had put down the receiver he sat looking glumly at the telephone. Yttergjerde turned to him. ‘How did he take it?’
Gunnarstranda lounged back and said: ‘How do you think he took it?’
20
That night Frank Frølich didn’t sleep. The duvet was drenched with sweat, as if he’d had a fever. When he tried to get out of bed, his legs almost gave way. His head was buzzing. He was thinking: I have to go there, have to find the chalet. He had no idea where it was, no idea where he should start searching. Yet he couldn’t just lie there doing nothing.
He had to find out where the chalet was. There was only one person he could ask.
So he got dressed and left the house. It was freezing, although he didn’t feel the cold. The ice on the car windscreen was as hard as the road surface. He found a scraper, but it had no purchase. He banged on the ice with his fist, hammered away, but that didn’t help. In no time at all he was out of breath and tired, to no effect. He got into the car, started it up and put the defroster on full. He waited apathetically behind the wheel until the ice had melted. Then he drove off. He went through the city to Vækerø and took a right turning into Vækerøveien.
He parked alongside one of the many picket fences. Oslo West lay in the dark, apart from the odd lamp posts casting yellow-grey cones of light between the terraced houses. After getting out of his car, he went over to Reidun Vestli’s house. It was night, but he couldn’t care less. He regarded his hands for a few seconds. They were shaking. Would it be right or wrong to talk to her now? He had no idea and continued on his way, passing a couple of cars with iced-up windows. Shortly afterwards he banged the door knocker. Nothing happened. He listened, but couldn’t hear any sounds inside. Went back down the steps and walked slowly around the house. The night frost had scattered crystals of ice over the soil in the flower beds. He retreated and stood back a few metres, studying the house. It was the last in the row. He walked back onto the frozen lawn, leaving clear footprints in the hoar frost. He went to the veranda – it was poorly maintained, a kind of decking made with pressure-impregnated wood. The railing had been put together with stained slats which were going rotten. A couple of withered potted plants had been shoved into the corner. In the centre of the veranda there was a green pot half full of sand and old cigarette ends. Long bones in the ashes. He walked to the window and spied through a crack between the curtains. Came face to face with two white feet sticking up in the air. The nail of one big toe was varnished. He knocked on the door. No reaction. The feet didn’t move. He tried the veranda door. It was unlocked.
She was lying on her back with her mouth in a rigid grimace, her eyes staring up and behind her as if trying to catch eye contact with someone residing in the wall. She was dead. He didn’t need any doctor or forensic scientist to confirm that side of the matter. But he did feel tired all of a sudden. Who will mourn you? he thought and felt the nausea rising. Long bones in the ashes of the fire. Sleeping pills scattered around the upturned glass on the bedside table. Some had fallen on the floor; some were in the pool of vomit on the pillow. Cause of death: poisoning or suffocation as a result of vomit produced by the body’s reaction to poisoning. The odds? 1: 2. He guessed suffocation. However, the nausea he felt could not be attributed to her, to the stench of the dead body, the stench of dried vomit or the stench of stale air and old cigarettes. Nausea was his body’s reaction to this universe of death, of mutilation; the absence of grief, the absence of normality. Where was Elisabeth’s grief when she lost her brother? He sank back against the wall. Who will grieve over you? he thought again, contemplating the pitiful feet protruding from under the blanket. Your ex-husband? Who will presumably hate you more now that the chalet you quarrelled over has burned down.
He wanted to be sick. Long bones. He slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor. Breathed in deeply. Where was the suicide note? No envelope, no shaky writing on a piece of paper, no indication of any leave-taking in the immediate vicinity. He cast a glance at the computer. It was switched off. But Gunnarstranda was bound to seize it. Nausea was rising in him again, but this time it was a reaction to himself. His own pitiful condition. Long bones. Here he was, next to a corpse and fearing for the life of another. And what if it
was Elisabeth who had died in the fire? Could that explain why Reidun Vestli would kill herself? He swallowed his queasiness, stood up, went out onto the veranda and gulped lungfuls of fresh air. Supporting himself on the rotten railing, he sat down on the edge of the veranda and phoned Gunnarstranda.
PART THREE
The Key
21
Frank Frølich sat up in his all too spacious double bed, looking at the pillow and duvet beside him. No one had been there since Elisabeth – the night she vanished and Arnfinn Haga was murdered in Loenga. The bedding had not been changed; the creases in the sheet had been made by her body. She had left behind one single black hair, a line winding over the crumpled pillow like a path across mountainous terrain on a map. Next to the bed, on the bedside table, there was an empty wine bottle with a candle stump in the top. A makeshift light – her work, one night when there was a power cut. Afterwards the flickering light had cast dramatic shadows of their bodies on the wall.
This reminiscence could equally well have emanated from a book he had read, or a film he had seen a long time ago. The drawer in the bedside table on her side was not properly closed. Naked, he got up and walked around the bed. No earrings, no rings left behind on the table top. He was about to close the drawer properly when he spotted something. He pulled out the drawer. It was a book. Poetry. Her book. The one she often had her nose in. For a brief instant he saw himself coming into the bedroom from the bathroom: Elisabeth naked on the bed, her chin supported by her arms; she looked up at him and closed the book.
Her book. The images were no longer faded. It was like holding a fragment of Elisabeth between his hands. He perched on the bed, excited by his discovery.
He opened the book with trembling hands. There was a bookmark. The sight of it caused a shiver to run down his spine. It was an embroidered bookmark – delicate – white silk with black designs embroidered in tiny stitches. The image the signs formed gave him a shock. It was the same motif as Elisabeth’s tattoo. He moved the bookmark to one side and read: