The Fourth Man

by K. O. Dahl

  ‘Leave over?’ he asked, briefly.

  Frølich shook his head.

  ‘Wouldn’t it have been more practical to find the body of Reidun Vestli in your capacity as a policeman rather than a tourist?’ Absent-mindedly, Gunnarstranda continued: ‘It’s been playing on my mind. I talked to her about that burned-down chalet of hers and the minute I left she took a stack of pills and passed away. Crazy.’

  ‘It probably wasn’t losing the chalet that drove her to it.’

  ‘You’re thinking about the bones?’

  Frank Frølich nodded. He could feel the sweat trickling from his brow. Talking about Elisabeth as bones was unpleasant.

  ‘The girl must have been special,’ Gunnarstranda said.

  Another nod.

  ‘What have you got there?’ Gunnarstranda asked, gesturing at the papers Frølich had stuffed under his arm.

  ‘A case from six years back. The Snarøya murder.’

  Gunnarstranda took a few moments to reflect. ‘Folkenborg,’ he mumbled. ‘Wasn’t he working at a petrol station?’

  ‘He owned and managed it.’

  ‘Taken hostage, wasn’t he?’

  ‘No. Should have been a straightforward arrest. Folkenborg was shot and killed by the man under arrest. I went with the guy from Sandvika to arrest him. He was working at the garage in Blommenholm. I had the papers for his arrest – a burglary in Ulvøya. When we got there, our man was behind the counter, but he drew a gun from his pocket.’ Frølich flicked through the report. ‘A Colt Python, short barrel. He waved it around, ran through the car wash and into the shed with the grease pit where Folkenborg was changing oil. Neither of us had considered this a dangerous job and neither of us had requisitioned a weapon. We had to stand by and watch the man run in with the shooter in his hand. Then we hung back. Unfortunately for all of us Folkenborg went into action. He probably thought he knew the man and had the situation under control. There was a bang. Folkenborg was hit in the chest. Then the man panicked, threw the revolver away and ran for it – straight into our arms.’

  Gunnarstranda was deep in thought.

  ‘The man who fired the gun was Ilijaz Zupac,’ Frølich said.

  ‘Immigrant?’

  ‘Second generation. Mother and father from the Balkans. Both dead. Zupac is a Norwegian citizen.’

  ‘Why are you digging up this stuff now?’

  Frølich put the papers in a bag and said: ‘Zupac was arrested because he had taken part in a burglary in Ulvøya. A fat cat called Inge Narvesen had his safe stolen. It was in a cupboard in his bedroom and there was half a million kroner in it. Ilijaz Zupac was seen by a neighbour. There were a number of people involved, but Zupac’s appearance gave him away.’

  ‘All right,’ Gunnarstranda said impatiently. ‘But why rake it up now?’

  ‘He was found guilty of aggravated burglary and wilful murder. Even though he wasn’t the only one involved in the burglary, no one else was charged. Zupac kept his mouth shut. I’m interested in witnesses and the investigation itself.’

  ‘Why?’ snarled Gunnarstranda.

  Frølich hesitated.

  Gunnarstranda’s irritation grew and the furrow above his eyes deepened.

  ‘Ilijaz Zupac was living with Elisabeth Faremo when he was charged and sentenced,’ Frølich said quickly.

  They stood staring at each other. Gunnarstranda’s hands fumbled for a cigarette.

  Frølich grinned. ‘I’ve made you curious, haven’t I,’ he mumbled.

  ‘I’m thinking something I’ve thought for a long time,’ Gunnarstranda said slowly.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The relationship between you and the girl was a set-up.’

  There was silence. Which Frølich broke: ‘If you’re right, I don’t understand the logic behind it.’

  ‘But even though you don’t understand the logic, you’re following up this link with Ilijaz Zupac?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The murder of the security guard. In my opinion, this clears up a little problem.’

  ‘Which problem?’

  ‘The fourth robber. Ilijaz wasn’t on his own when he robbed Narvesen’s safe. Ilijaz was Elisabeth’s lover, she was Jonny Faremo’s sister. I would bet a hundred kroner that one of the others was Jonny Faremo. If that’s right, Faremo has worked with other people apart from Ballo and Rognstad one or more times. So it’s no mystery that there were four of them the night the guard was killed on the quay. We have a fourth man involved in the Haga killing, but we don’t have the slightest idea who.’

  ‘If you come back to work, you may have a case now,’ Gunnarstranda said pensively.

  ‘Not so sure about that. I would still be disqualified as long as the trail leads through Elisabeth Faremo.’

  ‘Don’t tinker with this case while you’re on leave.’

  ‘I haven’t done anything else since I’ve been away.’

  Silence again. They could read each other’s thoughts well and neither of them was going to waste words on the obvious. Frank Frølich was breaking all the rules, but he would continue to do so whatever measures Gunnarstranda took to stop him.

  ‘The car has turned up,’ Gunnarstranda said.

  ‘Which car?’

  ‘Jonny Faremo’s Saab, the one we thought had been seen near the Glomma the day he was released.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘The car was abandoned on a deserted logging track near Sollihøgda – a hundred kilometres from Askim. A farmer passing by in his tractor every day finally became irritated enough to ring in.’

  ‘Has it been examined?’

  ‘Kripos are working on it. Now don’t do anything stupid,’ Gunnarstranda said. ‘And keep me posted.’

  Gunnarstranda waited until the door closed behind Frølich before swivelling round to pick up the phone.

  He rang the detective he knew best in Eco-Crime – the Economic and Environmental Crime division: ‘Chicken Brains’ Sørlie. But before Sørlie managed to answer the telephone Gunnarstranda had one of his sporadic coughing fits.

  ‘Is that you?’ Sørlie asked amid the coughing. ‘Are you OK, Gunnarstranda?’

  Gunnarstranda nodded and gasped for air. ‘Just these rotten lungs of mine.’

  ‘Perhaps you should give up smoking?’

  ‘Perhaps sheep should stop bleating?’ Gunnarstranda suggested breathlessly and sat erect again. ‘There was something I wanted to ask you.’

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘Inge Narvesen. Does that name mean anything to you?’

  ‘Businessman.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘I know he’s an art lover.’

  ‘What sort of art?’

  ‘Paintings. He’s spent a lot of money on art. His collection must be a bit like Stenersen museum at its peak, only Narvesen doesn’t go in for modern art much.’

  ‘But what does he live off?’

  ‘He’s a trader on the stock exchange. Buying and selling.’

  ‘Buying and selling?’

  ‘And he’s got POTS of money,’ Sørlie said. ‘Invests a lot in property. The last I heard he’d bought up large areas of the forest Norske Skog had put up for sale. He’s planning to build mini-power stations on a number of the rivers, I believe. That’s pretty popular now as energy is expensive and the authorities don’t give a damn about environmental issues.’

  ‘Nothing illegal, though?’

  ‘Doubt it. He’s an upright sort. Never heard of him being involved in anything disreputable. Has a good reputation at the stock exchange as well.’

  ‘No weaknesses: never touched up young boys, exposed himself to girl guides – ?’

  ‘Inge Narvesen is clean. Believe me.’

  ‘Well, he’s a very unusual person then.’

  ‘If there are any irregularities, they’ll be financial.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Gunnarstranda said, irked. ‘Talk to you later.’

  On entering
the hall of the apartment block, Frank Frølich made straight for the post box. The box was so full you could hardly turn the lock. When he opened the door, a pile of bills fell out. One letter slid across the stone floor. His name and address were written in beautiful looped handwriting. No sender’s address.

  He managed to curb his curiosity in the lift, but impatiently weighed the letter in his hands. Could it be from Elisabeth? He closed his eyes and struggled to think clearly. Long bones. Flames.

  He was perspiring as he opened the lift door. To have a hand free to unlock his front door, he put the letter in his mouth. Once inside, he ripped open the envelope and read:

  The most difficult thing about writing a letter is the salutation, as Elisabeth used to say. She always thought long and hard before she decided what she would write: Hi or Dear, or perhaps nothing at all. The first words of a letter actually said as much as the letter itself, she thought, because they signalled the emotional relationship the writer was communicating to the receiver. For me it was always reassuring to read her letters. She always started them with Dear Reidun. In this way she calmed my nerves enough for me to be able to absorb the message – even though what she had to say on occasion had a bitter taste. She told me about you first in a letter. But I don’t want to get sentimental now, and I assure you that all Elisabeth’s letters to me have been burned. As you see, I have left the salutation out completely this time. It feels right. I haven’t started taking the pills yet. First of all, I want to get this letter out of the way. I don’t know who will find me, nor do I really care. But I am writing to you because I have realized that you are driven by the same passion that I have struggled with. Therefore, I have a tiny hope that you will understand me well enough to fulfil a last wish. I don’t know whether Elisabeth will be able to stand up to these terrible people. I hope she can, but I have no illusions. Nor did I have any illusions when they came here. Elisabeth warned me about them and, arrogant as I so often am, I took no notice, believing I would be able to stand firm. However, I have always had a fear of pain and I couldn’t hold out. Although I knew that revealing her hiding place would lead to what I am doing now, I still couldn’t stand firm. So I told them where she was hiding. Hence I am responsible for whatever might happen to her. My fate is sealed. I hope she will survive, but I have neither the illusions nor the courage to wait for an answer. Should this nightmare end well for Elisabeth, tell her from me: My darling, forgive me. I tried, I really did.

  Reidun

  Frank Frølich slumped into a chair. It was difficult to unravel his feelings. Before he began to read he had supposed the letter would be from Elisabeth. So, to hear Reidun Vestli’s voice in his head was a shock. Forgive me, he thought. These terrible people, he thought. A last wish, he thought, and sat up. He read the letter through again.

  He jumped when the telephone rang and seized the receiver.

  ‘I’ve just had a chat with Sørlie from Eco-Crime about the fat cat who was robbed by Ilijaz Zupac, this Narvesen person,’ Gunnarstranda said.

  He’s beginning to ring a lot now. ‘Oh yes? Did Sørlie come up with anything?’

  ‘Nothing, as usual, except that Narvesen is loaded. He’s a stock market trader, owns a lot of art and has swathes of forestry property in Hedmark.’

  ‘I knew that.’

  Gunnarstranda coughed. ‘But Sørlie has just rung me back. He must have had Narvesen’s name on the brain when he put the phone down. Eco-Crime receives a list issued by banks when there has been a large withdrawal of money. And Inge Narvesen’s name is on it. From Nordea Bank, to be precise.’

  ‘Large withdrawal?’

  ‘Five million.’

  ‘Why does that kind of information go to Eco-Crime?’

  ‘Routine matter. Banks are obliged to report large transactions, cash withdrawals and that sort of thing to intercept potential money laundering.’

  ‘Has Narvesen said what the five million was for?’

  ‘No one has got round to doing anything yet. What is mindboggling is that this withdrawal took place on a very particular day.’

  ‘Which day?’

  ‘The same day Jonny Faremo was released and his sister made off for the woods.’

  Frølich was staring out of the window as a couple of cars on the roundabout several metres below avoided a collision by a hair’s breadth. ‘What do you think?’ he asked. ‘You wouldn’t be talking to me if you didn’t have a theory.’

  ‘There doesn’t have to be any connection at all, but you know how I feel about so-called coincidences.’

  ‘Gunnarstranda’s Coincidence Theorem,’ Frølich said with a tiny smile. ‘There’s no such thing as a coincidence. The word coincidence is a construct to replace and thus conceal the logical explanation of how things happen.’

  ‘You’re recovering, Frølich. When I die you can write my obituary. But if my theory is correct, Narvesen has taken out the money for a reason, and I’m guessing blackmail.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Narvesen has been blackmailed before.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘On a cruise. I looked up Narvesen in the archives. There was some story in 1991. Narvesen was one of the main shareholders in one of the shipping companies who sail American tourists round the Caribbean. It happened right after the fire on the Scandinavian Star. Everyone was talking about security and describing passenger ships as death traps, weren’t they. Someone was trying to blackmail Narvesen for ten million. If he didn’t pay up, information about inadequate security on the cruise liners would be leaked. The blackmailer was a Norwegian ex-captain from one of the cruise liners. The man had been fired for drinking and apparently wanted to get his own back.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He was caught. Got three years.’

  The two cars on the roundabout had caused a bottleneck. Someone honked their horn. Then the traffic started flowing again. A clenched fist shook from one of the car windows and the two cars were soon lost in the traffic.

  Frølich said: ‘If the man was arrested, Narvesen must have gone to the police for help on that occasion. He hasn’t done so this time.’

  ‘That’s clear. But why else would anyone take five million out of the bank?’

  ‘No idea. But if Narvesen is such a whizz-kid in the stock market as you said, he would have been much more sophisticated with regard to money laundering. He could have used a trusted solicitor’s private account or something like that. Simply withdrawing cash suggests honourable intentions or extreme haste.’

  ‘Haste is a word I like,’ Gunnarstranda said. ‘Especially with respect to the day the money was withdrawn.’

  ‘What does Sørlie say?’

  ‘Sørlie considers Narvesen as pure and spotless as a freshly scrubbed baby. And he believes it too. But I’ve never met anyone like that. I think anything is possible. Maybe Narvesen has been posing for photos in a G-string with an apple in his gob.’

  ‘No one is shocked by anything any more.’

  ‘Perhaps he likes little boys and was caught red-handed by his wife’s private detective?’

  ‘He was single at the time,’ Frølich said. ‘And I doubt he’s interested in anything other than women. Regardless of whether he’s married or not, there’s no shortage of single wannabees in Dagens Nœringsliv who spend their time screwing each other and drinking champagne in the breaks. No, sex is too old-fashioned. I would put my money on some financial hanky-panky.’

  ‘The problem is,’ Gunnarstranda said, ‘that Narvesen passes for an honest man – a model businessman for many people, I’ve heard said. At the stock exchange on top of that.’

  ‘There’s no honesty in the Oslo Stock Exchange, and Sørlie should be the first person to know that.’

  ‘Yes, but we’re talking about the part of the honesty spectrum covered by the law. Inge Narvesen is always on the right side of the line – with a good solid margin in between. Though there are not many options open when you have to justify a withdrawal of that kin
d of money.’

  ‘What about kidnapping?’ Frølich said.

  ‘He hasn’t got any children or any valuable racehorses or prizewinning hunting dogs. But I suppose Sørlie will put in a formal enquiry. Then we’ll see what Narvesen comes up with.’

  After putting down the phone, Frank Frølich stood looking into space. He was wondering about Narvesen, about procedures. Sørlie and the formal approach. Tick-tock, he thought with irritation. Tempus fugit. Time drags, everything goes slowly. Nothing happens. He looked at the clock on the wall. Soon it would be one o’clock. Lunchtime for the workers. One thing he did remember from the kerfuffle surrounding the break-in at Narvesen’s in 1998 was an almost surrealistic conversation during the man’s lunch break at his permanent table at the Theatre Café.

  Lunch. Theatre Café. The time.

  It was a long shot. But was there anything else he could do?

  Frølich took the underground to the National Theatre station. From there he quickly crossed Stortingsgata and walked with lowered gaze past the windows where Theatre Café customers sat having their lunch – absorbed in themselves and each other. Turning the corner of Klingenberggata he peered in and spotted Narvesen sitting at his usual table – alone as had always been his wont. He was taking coffee – so he would soon be finished.

  Frølich checked his watch again. It was approaching a quarter to two. He walked around the block and joined the queue of people waiting for the tram outside the National Theatre, opposite the windows of the Theatre Café. There was snow in the air. Tiny, dry snowflakes lifting on the wind and settling like fragments of dust on people’s shoulders and sleeves. He could make out Narvesen’s brown hair through the windows on the opposite side of the street. At two o’clock precisely the man rose and joked with the waitress clearing the table. Good friends, good tips. Frank Frølich waited until Narvesen had moved into the corridor towards the cloakroom. Then he sprinted away from the wall and crossed Stortingsgata. When Narvesen had eased on his winter coat and was on his way through the entrance, Frølich had one foot on the pavement.