The Fourth Man

by K. O. Dahl

  ‘I hadn’t opened it for days. The crux is what you can read between the lines. These terrible people etc etc. Reidun Vestli didn’t find any romantic millpond. She took recourse to a bottle of pills because …’

  ‘I can read too,’ Gunnarstranda interrupted. ‘But all this just sounds like a radio play.’ He put his glasses back on his nose and read aloud: ‘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 — these terrible people …’ He lowered his glasses. ‘I’ve never read such dross.’

  Frølich didn’t know what to answer.

  Gunnarstranda said: ‘If this lady was beaten up so badly she told her attackers where Elisabeth was, and then, on top of that, sent a letter through the post to a policeman, why on earth would she not say who was responsible so that they would be punished?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ Frølich said lamely. ‘But I would assume out of loyalty to Elisabeth.’

  ‘Loyalty? Elisabeth Faremo was dead when Vestli wrote this.’

  ‘I have no cause to doubt the authenticity of the letter. The opening sentences, about the salutation. That’s like listening to her speak. Reidun Vestli killed herself, and no one, not even you, can make me believe anything different. It’s true there isn’t much information of any value in the letter, but, in my opinion, it is genuine. Now you’ve got Rognstad. I’m sure he’s partly responsible for Reidun Vestli’s death.’

  ‘Reidun Vestli is no longer able to testify against Rognstad. But — if you’re right about the letter and it is genuine – why send it to you?’

  ‘I thought it may have been something as basic as a need to communicate to someone the cause …’

  ‘What cause?’

  ‘What caused her to take her life.’

  ‘So your version of events is that someone — possibly Vidar Ballo and/or Jim Rognstad searching for Elisabeth Faremo — beat the information out of Reidun Vestli and this someone made their way to the chalet, killed Elisabeth Faremo and set fire to the chalet? This had such a dreadful effect on Reidun Vestli that she took a load of pills and died?’

  ‘Yes. I think Vidar Ballo and Jim Rognstad beat up Reidun Vestli to find out where Elisabeth was. I think they succeeded. I think the fire was intended to cover up Elisabeth’s murder.’

  ‘But why did they kill Elisabeth Faremo?’

  ‘They wanted the key to the safety-deposit box, but she’d left it in my flat.’

  ‘So they bumped off Jonny Faremo, gave Reidun Vestli a pasting and saw off Elisabeth Faremo to get their paws on the briefcase with the money?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The two of them? Rognstad and Ballo?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There are two things that bother me, Frølich,’ drawled Gunnarstranda. He opened the car door and put one foot on the ground. Then he got out, buttoned up his coat and lit a cigarette before leaning into the car to say: ‘First of all, if these two are such bosom buddies, as you claim, why did only one of them steal the key from you and why did only one of them turn up to take the bloody money?’

  Frølich shook his head. ‘We’ve talked before about an unidentified fourth man, haven’t we?’

  ‘Unidentified or not, Frølich, you’ve got to wake up. If you’re well enough to sleuth in Askim, you’re well enough to sit at your work desk.’ He stood smoking and gazing thoughtfully at the sky.

  Frølich was the first to break the silence. He said: ‘What shall we do with the letter?’

  ‘We?’ Gunnarstranda shook his head in desperation. ‘I’m going to do what you should have done a long time ago. I’m going to give Kripos a copy of this suicide letter so we can see whether it is enough to revise assumptions about how the fire started. If they do that, someone may ask Jim Rognstad where he was when the chalet burned down. But I won’t be enormously surprised if he coughs up an alibi.’

  ‘What was the second thing?’ Frølich wondered.

  ‘Second?’

  ‘You said there were two things bothering you.’

  ‘Yes. It was your version of events. If Rognstad and Ballo beat up Reidun Vestli to find out where Elisabeth was hiding, why did they do it after the chalet burned down?’

  Neither of them said anything for a long while.

  Frølich broke the silence. ‘You’re sure?’ he asked.

  ‘At least she was found after the chalet burned down.’

  ‘So you aren’t sure?’

  ‘I’m just myself, Frølich. Theoretically speaking, maybe it was possible for Rognstad to beat up Vestli, drive to Valdres, kill Elisabeth Faremo and set the chalet on fire before Vestli was found, but to have managed all that he must have been out of bloody breath. And then there is the phrasing: terrible people. The anonymity of it reminds me of Hamlet: he could smell when there was something rotten in the state of Denmark.’

  28

  Inspector Gunnarstranda sat inert on his swivel chair, staring at the office wall lost in thought. He was still tormented by the death of his fish. It had lain at the bottom of the fish bowl, on the stones and the sand, dead. This sight had destroyed his perception of how fish died. He had always imagined that fish lay on the surface of the water when they died, that they didn’t sink to the bottom. But Kalfatrus had been dead, that much was obvious. No movements of the mouth and no reaction when he took it out with the fish slice. It was also somewhat macabre: his goldfish lying on a fish slice, almost like a piece of fish cooked to perfection and ready to serve. But what tormented him now was the way it had been despatched. He had thrown the fish in the bin, something which — given his period of reflection, doubts and remorse — he considered an unworthy mode of valediction for a companion of many years’ standing. This thought tormented him. However, on the other hand, burying the fish would have been ludicrous. The alternative would have been to throw it down the toilet. Caught between these two courses of action he had felt the solution was obvious and he had thrown the fish in the dustbin on the way to work. The dubious ethical dimensions of his action played on his mind nevertheless; he couldn’t concentrate at work, he went off into reveries, and so when the telephone rang it was like being woken up by a furious alarm clock. He jumped and snatched at the receiver: ‘Please be brief’.

  Nothing at the other end.

  ‘Hello,’ Gunnarstranda yelled impatiently.

  ‘This is Inge Narvesen speaking.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I would like to express my gratitude to you for …’

  Gunnarstranda interrupted him. ‘Ring Verdens Gang and tell them. I’m just doing my job.’

  ‘On the other hand …’

  ‘There is no other hand. Goodbye.’

  ‘Just wait a moment, will you!’

  ‘Narvesen, I’m very busy.’

  ‘I’m a busy man, too, for Christ’s sake. Do you suppose I’m ringing to pass the time?’

  ‘Well, come on, get to the point.’

  ‘I’m grateful to have the money back – even though I lost six years’ worth of interest, five hundred thousand kroner.’ This was said with a chuckle.

  ‘I thought we’d finished talking about the money,’ Gunnarstranda snapped.

  ‘I just wanted to make sure that the matter was closed.’

  Open sesame. For the first time Gunnarstranda started to get interested in the conversation. His fingers scrabbled around for cigarettes. He knew he wouldn’t smoke the cigarette he found, but this was special. His nervous fingers fidgeted with the cigarette while he pondered and waited for the man’s next words: the bastard had got half a million back and was wasting valuable time stamping down the earth over a hole which had already been filled. What Inge Narvesen had just done was to switch on a blue lamp in Gunnarstranda’s head, a lamp that flashed a clear message: Find a spade and start digging!

  Narvesen must have sensed this instantly, though. His voice said: ‘Well, I’m wasting your t
ime. I have my money back and the culprits have been arrested.’

  ‘So why are you ringing?’

  ‘As I said, to …’

  ‘I heard you. To make sure the matter was closed. Why?’

  Narvesen’s silence lasted exactly two seconds too long. He said: ‘You misunderstand. As I pointed out at the beginning, I wanted to express my sincere gratitude …’

  ‘I heard that too. So it doesn’t matter to you that the case has not been closed?’

  Two seconds too long once again. ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘The case has never been reopened. The money turned up as a result of an investigation into a completely new matter. A murder enquiry. And the investigation is in full swing.’

  ‘Right.’

  Gunnarstranda was quiet.

  Inge Narvesen was quiet.

  Gunnarstranda was beginning to enjoy himself. ‘Nice to talk to you,’ he said softly and put down the receiver.

  He sat, deep in thought.

  The door opened and Lena Stigersand came in.

  ‘I’d like you to do me a favour,’ Gunnarstranda said. ‘Check all the airline passenger lists for Merethe Sandmo. According to a colleague she was supposed to have caught a plane to Athens a few days ago. Go back two weeks. Don’t limit the search to Athens.’

  Lena Stigersand gave a deep sigh. ‘And what about you?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m going to have a chat with Chicken Brains Sørlie and tell him that Inge Narvesen is feverishly trying to protect his house of cards against winds and wearisome ground tremors,’ Gunnarstranda said with a grin.

  There was a soft tap at the door. Yttergjerde poked his head round. ‘Am I disturbing you?’

  ‘No more than you usually do,’ Gunnarstranda said cheerfully.

  ‘Do you know a solicitor by the name of Birgitte Bergum?’

  ‘Had I known her, I would have felt obliged to call her Bibbi, and I would never call anyone Bibbi, least of all a fifty-year-old blonde who does interviews for weeklies and talks about her liposuction experiences.’

  Lena Stigersand’s head shot up: ‘I didn’t know you read weekly magazines, Gunnarstranda.’

  ‘Just as it is impossible to find perfection on earth, it is impossible to comprehend what Norwegian culture correspondents find fit to communicate to the silent majority.’

  ‘Do I detect prejudice against journalists or liposucted blondes?’

  ‘Just general stupidity. What do you think of a person who imperiously proclaims that life is too short not to surround yourself with beautiful objects?’

  Yttergjerde and Lena Stigersand exchanged glances: ‘What passion!’

  ‘Let’s get down to business!’

  ‘Birgitte Bergum is defending Rognstad,’ Yttergjerde said.

  ‘You talk to her. I don’t feel up to it.’

  ‘I have done. She says Rognstad wants to plea bargain. Rognstad wants to get something off his chest. This Bibbi babe is simply acting as a mediator.’

  Gunnastranda started putting on his coat.

  Lena Stigersand plucked up courage and asked him straight out: ‘What’s wrong with surrounding yourself with beautiful objects?’

  ‘Does it really interest you what other people care about?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What Birgitte Bergum cares about?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who interests you, for example?’

  ‘You, for example,’ Lena Stigersand said.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Gunnarstranda gave her a long searching look. ‘Personally,’ he said stiffly, ‘I spend all my time keeping myself healthy and well by avoiding keep-fit classes, moderation, courses on how to give up smoking, new diets and a good night’s sleep.

  Yttergjerde said: ‘I’ve thought of something.’

  The other two turned to him.

  ‘If Rognstad knows something … no, forget it.’

  ‘What were you thinking?’ Gunnarstranda insisted.

  ‘Forget it. It might not be anything. I mean Rognstad is in custody and now he wants to get off the hook. He could just say anything.’

  ‘But you were thinking of something.’

  ‘I was thinking the only thing that has happened since he knocked Frank down is that he’s been arrested – that he’s on his own. I mean, Ballo didn’t turn up at the bank. Perhaps Ballo …’

  ‘Yes?’

  Yttergjerde shrugged. ‘Not sure. We don’t know what Rognstad’s pitch is going to be anyway, do we?’

  Gunnarstranda mused. ‘There’s something in that,’ he said. ‘Ballo has gone. Merethe Sandmo has gone.’ He looked at Lena Stigersand. ‘Check for Ballo’s name on the airline flight lists too.’ Then Gunnarstranda walked back to his desk with slow, deliberate steps. He sat down, reached for the phone and tapped in a number.

  The other two stared at each other. Lena Stigersand hunched her shoulders forward as Gunnarstranda asked to speak to the bank manager.

  They exchanged further glances when they heard the question he asked: ‘Could you find out from your employees whether there has been a documented visit to this safety-deposit box over the last three months? Yes, please, ring me back.’

  29

  Frank Frølich was in his car reading the report on the 1998 Narvesen burglary. The great mystery, he thought, putting down the papers and starting the engine to keep warm. A break-in. Five hundred thousand kroner in a small safe. The thieves hadn’t managed to open the safe in the house, so they took it with them. They stole the safe from a house in Ulvøya. What had struck him at the time was how clean the whole job had been: nothing else stolen, no silver, no jewellery, not a scratch on the Bang & Olufsen hi-fi, no fancy ornaments touched, no vandalism, no tagging, no crapping in jam jars or thieves’ other original calling cards. Only the safe was spirited away, containing half a million NOK. Serious enough or unusual enough for the investigating team – himself included – to form alternative hypotheses, such as Narvesen making up the whole thing for a potential insurance payout. But since there were no specific items in the safe, the contents were not insured. There was only cash in it, and Ilijaz Zupac had been identified coming out of the house that night – as one of a group of many. And where had Narvesen been that night? Far away. He had been on holiday — according to the report —on the Mauritius islands.

  He called to mind his thoughts in 1998. First of all, the break-in had to be genuine. As luck would have it, a vigilant neighbour had been alerted by the unusual activity in Narvesen’s garden and his house, which she knew to be empty. She had called the police, who arrived too late. Later, from the files of photos, she pointed out Zupac as one of the men she saw getting in the car which drove away. Frank Frølich had thought at the time that the burglary must have been an inside job. Someone must have known about the money, someone must have known where the safe was and the same person must have known Narvesen was away, thus the coast was clear. However, the arrested man, Zupac, hadn’t uttered a word, neither about the robbery nor about his accomplices.

  Frank Frølich took a decision: he put the car into gear and drove off. It was a dark December afternoon. Cloud cover over the Ekeberg Ridge resembled a heap of discarded oily rags. He took Mosseveien to Ulvøya, not knowing whether Narvesen would be at home or what he could say to the man.

  Driving across Ulvøya bridge, he passed an elderly man in a beret and a woollen coat fishing from the bridge. That, Frølich reckoned, could be one approach – cast a line into the water and just stand in the cold with your mind in observer mode.

  Frølich swung into Måkeveien, braked and parked behind a Porsche Carrera. He surveyed the sleek car, thinking: If this car belongs to Narvesen, he’s a bigger buffoon than I took him for. The house behind the fence was large and detached, post-war, with a huge injection of cash at a later point. He opened the wrought-iron gate, walked up to Narvesen’s front door and rang the bell. Loud barking from inside. A woman’s voice shouted something. Next there was the sound of cl
aws on the parquet flooring. The door opened. A woman in her thirties with long, raven-black hair, an oriental appearance and a smile worthy of a film extra in Hollywood. She had a distinctive three-centimetre-long scar running from her chin to her cheek. It did not mar her face in any way; it was the kind of mark which invited you to look twice, which lent her appearance a touch of mystery, even of mysticism. The dog she was restraining was a delicate-looking, lean English setter. It wagged its tail and wanted all the attention.

  ‘Yes?’ the woman said, and to the dog: ‘Come on, now. You’ve said hello, you can relax now. Come on, in you go!’ She grabbed the dog’s collar and lifted it more than pushed it behind the wide door, which she closed afterwards. ‘Yes?’ she repeated in a friendly voice. ‘How can I help?’

  Frank Frølich thought she matched the Porsche. He said, and it was the truth: ‘I’m a policeman. I once investigated a burglary here, about six years ago.’

  ‘Inge isn’t at home right now.’

  ‘That’s a shame.’

  The dog was growling behind the door. Its paws were scratching.

  She smiled again. The little scar at the corner of her mouth retreated inside a dimple. ‘He’s only being playful. What did you do to yourself?’

  Frølich fingered the contusions on his face and said: ‘Accident at work. When will he be back?’

  ‘At about eight.’

  They stood looking at each other. She made a gesture to conclude the conversation and go into the house.

  ‘Are you his partner or …?’

  ‘Partner,’ she nodded. She stretched out a slim hand: ‘Emilie.’

  ‘Frank Frølich.’

  He didn’t mention the reason for his visit. She was only wearing light clothes, her legs bare, sandals. She must have been freezing standing there like that.

  As if she had read his thoughts, she gave a little shiver. ‘Shame he wasn’t in since you’ve made the effort.’ She lowered her gaze. ‘Is there a message, a telephone number – ?’

  ‘No, no,’ Frank Frølich and went straight to the point. ‘The money that was taken at that time has reappeared, but he knows all about that. I just had a few questions. Do you know anything about the matter?’