The Fourth Man

by K. O. Dahl

  She shook her head. ‘Inge and I go back only two years. You should really talk to him.’

  ‘He was in Mauritius when it happened,’ Frølich said. ‘On holiday. You don’t know if he was travelling alone or if he was with someone, do you?’

  Her facial expression was more strained than friendly now: ‘I know nothing about such things. Sorry.’

  ‘Well, I can come back later,’ Frølich said and left. By the garden gate, he looked back. She hadn’t moved from the spot; she had been staring at him the whole time. The dog behind the door was forgotten. She must have forgotten she was freezing cold too, he thought.

  30

  Gunnarstranda arrived late for their dinner date, as always. They had agreed to meet at Restaurant Sushi in Torggata. Tove loved sushi; didn’t want anything else except sushi — sometimes. The restaurant was tucked away on the first floor of the most ethnic street in Oslo. That was why she preferred to eat here. The food was exactly as it was in Japan. However, unlike in the sushi restaurants in Aker Brygge or Frogner, the guests here were real people – in fact, it was very difficult to spot brokers with a Dow Jones complex or hip-looking youths dreaming of a role as an extra in a commercial.

  He looked at his watch. This was a little competition between them. Ten minutes late. He went up the wooden stairs, through the door on the first floor and looked around. She wasn’t there. He gestured to the head waiter, a Japanese-looking man in black. ‘A window table reserved for seven o‘clock,’ he said, hanging up his coat. This was her game. He had no idea whether she had reserved the table, or under whose name. He knew only one thing: when they ate ethnic food, she would never reserve a table under his name.

  The head waiter consulted the book. ‘Rarsen? Table for four?’

  Gunnarstranda shook his head.

  ‘Table for two? Kar Rinaeus?’

  Gunnarstranda nodded. ‘Carl Linnaeus. Has the lady arrived?’

  ‘Not yet.’ The man picked up two menus and led the way into the room.

  He had hardly sat down and ordered when Tove came through the door. A second later she was by his table, bringing with her a waft of cold winter air.

  ‘Sorry, but I couldn’t find anywhere to park.’

  ‘So you won this time, too.’

  She grinned and took a seat.

  ‘I’ve ordered,’ he said.

  They gazed at each other. She observed him with laughter in her eyes – when she was like this she could always force a self-deprecating slant on life out of him.

  ‘The reference to a botanist … does that mean you’re going to be Helen Keller next time?’ he asked.

  ‘Do I look like Helen Keller?’

  ‘Do I look like Carl Linnaeus?’

  ‘You sound like him sometimes. Apart from that, I thought you would be flattered.’

  The waiter came with the trays of sushi.

  ‘There would be a closer resemblance if you did something about your hair. You could buy a periwig instead of combing your hair like that,’ she said. ‘Periwigs with a pigtail are sexy.’

  ‘I might look more like Linnaeus,’ he said. ‘But I wouldn’t be any sexier.’

  She grinned again.

  ‘Well, you can say who you’re going to be next time.’

  ‘No, you choose.’ She smiled playfully, because she knew he didn’t like games like this.

  ‘Meryl Streep,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you, but I don’t think the head waiter will believe you,’ she said. ‘Anyway, why aren’t you eating? Aren’t you hungry?’

  He looked at the red salmon covering the cylinder of rice he was holding in his hand. The similarity was intimidating. ‘Kalfatrus died yesterday,’ he said, peering up. Big mistake, he reflected.

  Tove was out of control. She was laughing so much she was gasping for air.

  31

  Frank Frølich found Inge Narvesen’s private telephone number on the Internet. When it was eight o’clock, he waited for another half an hour and then rang.

  ‘Emilie speaking.’

  ‘It’s me again. Frølich, the policeman.’

  A hand was placed over the receiver. Mumbling voices in the background. Emilie came back. ‘Inge is a little busy. Can he phone you back?’

  ‘It’ll take two seconds.’

  Hand over the receiver again. More mumbling. Then an irate man’s voice:

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘There were just a couple of things I wanted to ask about the burglary six years ago.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Just a couple of things to clear up.’

  ‘You’re on leave. Whatever you may find unclear is of absolutely no interest to me.’

  ‘It’s simply a matter of clarifying things which may cast light on …’

  ‘It is not. It is a matter of you sneaking around my neighbourhood and harassing a person I care for.’

  ‘Harassing?’

  ‘Asking Emilie questions about things she cannot possibly know. On top of that, you make insinuations.’

  ‘What I’m trying to do is view the burglary in the light of the reappearance of the money.’

  ‘Wrong,’ Narvesen said curtly. ‘And now I think it’s time to bring this conversation to a close.’

  ‘If you would let me finish. The stolen money turned up in the possession of someone who was not investigated at the time of the burglary. It means the burglary can be cleared up now …’

  ‘You’re working in a private capacity without the power to prosecute and this case has been closed.’

  ‘Where do you get that from?’

  ‘Your boss. And, Frølich, let’s not mince words. The sole purpose of this conversation is that you take note of the following: STAY AWAY FROM MY HOUSE.’

  ‘The break-in was too clean a job,’ Frølich persisted. ‘Nothing was stolen, nothing in your house was touched.’

  The line went quiet.

  ‘Someone knew about the money, knew where it was and knew the house was empty. That means someone gave Ilijaz and his gang the information and they struck while you were away.’

  ‘Where do you live, Officer Frølich?’

  ‘Where do I live?’

  He said nothing. Narvesen had put the phone down.

  Frank Frølich stood gaping at the wall. These were not the best terms to part on. But there was no point ringing again.

  As he was going to bed that night he sat down and looked at the pillow beside his own. Elisabeth’s long, black hair contrasted with the whiteness of the pillow. A book of poetry, he thought, a bookmark, a hair. He opened the book at the same place: I forget no one. He took the hair, lifted it up and laid it carefully on the page like a fine bookmark. He thought: long bones in a burned-out chalet. He tried to picture her face. But the image had faded. I’m a sentimental idiot, he thought, and went to the bathroom.

  While he was cleaning his teeth, the doorbell rang.

  He met his own eyes in the mirror, turned off the tap and put down the toothbrush. Checked his watch: it was past midnight.

  The bell rang again.

  He walked into the hall and squinted through the peephole. No one there. He opened the door. No one there. He went to the door leading to the stairwell. He opened this door too. No one there, either.

  He listened but heard nothing.

  He went back to his flat. Probably some young brats ringing the bell and then running off Except for one thing. It’s past midnight. He stared at the button which opened the front door downstairs, but hesitated. Instead he took the intercom phone and said: ‘Hello?’

  Nothing. Just crackling noises.

  He hung up the internal phone, went into the living room and looked out. If anyone was down at the bottom, it would be impossible to see them from up here. Outside, everything seemed normal: parked cars, sporadic traffic on Ring 3 further away. But in the line of parked cars he could see a pair of red lights glowing. An engine was idling.

  It didn’t necessarily mean anything,
but he went into the bedroom anyway and took the binoculars from the cupboard. The car was a Jeep Cherokee, but the registration plate wasn’t visible. And the windows were matt, impenetrable surfaces.

  He put it out of his mind, finished cleaning his teeth and went to lie down. He lay looking at the ceiling until he could feel tiredness gradually catching up with him. He turned off the light and lay on his side.

  Then the telephone rang.

  He opened his eyes, contemplated the dark and listened to the phone ringing endlessly. In the end, he reached out his arm and lifted the receiver. ‘Hello.’

  Silence.

  ‘Hello,’ he said once more.

  There was a crackle until whoever it was at the other end cut the connection.

  32

  He slept badly and was tired when the alarm clock went off. Woke up with one idea on his mind: to get the burning chalet out of his system. To go and see it with his own eyes. He set out early, before seven in the morning, and was in Steinshøgda before eight. On the stretch to Hønefoss, he kept to the speed limit. He didn’t begin to put his foot down until he was driving alongside the river Leira in the Begna valley. Chris Rea was singing ‘The Road to Hell’. The irony of it, he thought, and turned up the volume. Norway’s valleys lay in winter shadow. The sun shone on the mountain peaks. In the Begna valley fir trees towered up like flagpoles on either side of the road. He tried to imagine Elisabeth’s face, body, but could only think about long bones. Someone had set fire to the chalet and to her. Someone had been out there in the night and seen the timber being consumed by the fire, someone had raised an arm in defence against the wall of heat, had heard the window panes exploding in a crescendo of howling flames and the crackle of countless bursting fibres in the timber as the fire enveloped it. Someone had stood there breathing through an open mouth in order not to smell the stench of scorched flesh in the yellow-black smoke from burning roofing felt, books, woollen fabrics and paraffin lamps exploding with showers of sparks into further flames which devoured down duvets, the kitchen interior, a timber store in a shed; flames melting the seat of a biological toilet before it caught fire with all the other chalet furnishings and one single overturned candle. Skin which is scorched black; flesh which melts and catches fire; hair which goes up with one tiny inaudible puff.

  He was sweating. His knuckles on the wheel went white and he had to stop, had to get out. He pulled into a bus lay-by, got out and gasped for air, breathless, as if he had been on a long march with a heavy load on his back. What is happening, what the hell is happening to me?

  He had to go there, to the charred ruins. He wanted to see the remains with his own eyes. He lay across the roof of his car, looking like a prisoner in an American movie. He wanted to retch, but his stomach was empty. A car on the road passed by, two eyes ogled the man by the car in amazement, which made him straighten up and take a deep breath.

  When, eventually, he was able to breathe normally, he got back into his car and drove off. This time he drowned his melancholy in Latin rock: Mana — unplugged. A suitable number of guitar riffs, enough emotions and, since he didn’t speak Spanish, it was absolutely impossible to understand what they were singing about. He drove into Fagernes market square before the clock struck twelve. Hungry, but restless, he bought a piece of fruit from a large kiosk and hurried on. The December darkness was drawing in. It would be light until half past three at the latest. He drove north – accompanied this time by Johnny Cash’s ‘The Man Comes Around’ and his crunching guitar riffs. It was like eating vitamins: every line of verse made him feel stronger. He turned off towards Vestre Slidre and took Panoramaveien up to Vaset. The snow on the highest peaks began to take on its wintry blue colour. The birch trees were bare and stubbly on both sides of the road. He arrived in Vaset. There was still quite a way up to the tree line on the mountains. He kept driving until he found the collection of chalets, then let the car roll slowly in between the small houses towards the ruin.

  A chimney, about five metres in height, towered like an obelisk staked into the middle of the black heap of cinders.

  So this is where you hid. Where you were discovered. Where you shouted for help.

  The ruins were cordoned off with red and white police tape. There was a smell of soot and dead smoke. He looked around. No view. The chalet lay in a kind of hollow. It was only twenty or thirty metres from the other chalets. An impenetrable birch thicket prevented others looking in, like a singed pin cushion bristling skywards. He kicked the ashes. His foot hit a soot-soiled pot of paint. It rolled around and came to rest. Around the pot were blackened coil springs. Here, right here, there must have been a bed.

  He could feel nausea rising and falling.

  Standing, looking at the black pile of soot, he was suddenly aware how tired he was of all this. Of Violence. Fire. Death.

  He turned, went back to his car and started the engine. He had his own chalet. That was where he would go.

  It was a calmer person who drove the few miles back to Fagernes. Who stopped to fill up with petrol. While he was standing with the petrol nozzle in his hand, he heard someone shout his name. Frølich turned round, but initially didn’t recognize the man. Then it dawned on him who it was: fiery red face, red hair and air of authority, it was ‘Cranberry’ or Per-Ole Ramstad, as he had been christened.

  ‘Per-Ole!’ Frølich shouted in response. The man was on his way through the petrol station door and waved for him to follow. Frølich gestured that he had to finish filling the tank first.

  They had been at Police College together, he and Per-Ole, alias Cranberry on account of his red hair and cheeks. Per-Ole was working at the Nord-Aurdal police station. A solid soul in a solid body. He was the police force’s answer to Postman Pat – a man who knew everyone in his line of work and was kind to all. Frølich drained the last drops of the nozzle, screwed on the petrol cap, steeled himself for tricky questions and went to pay.

  ‘Hear you’ve been under the cosh,’ Per-Ole said after the opening chit-chat.

  ‘Which means?’ Frank Frølich said, putting the change in his pocket.

  ‘Heard you were an item with the lady who died in the chalet fire in Vaset.’

  ‘And what else?’

  Per-Ole grinned. ‘Heard about your time off, the murder of a security guard, an inappropriate acquittal and all the bollocks. But, apart from that, are you OK?’

  Per-Ole’s expression was tinged with concern and genuine sympathy. Frank Frølich blew out his cheeks. ‘Do I look it?’

  ‘You look like you need a holiday from the holiday, Frankie.’

  ‘Right first time. And I’ve been trying to relax for almost two weeks now.’

  ‘And now? Have you just been up there?’ Per-Ole motioned with his head. ‘At the ruin?’

  Frølich nodded.

  They exchanged glances.

  ‘Do you want to know a secret?’ Per-Ole asked. ‘Just received a statement which certainly ought to interest your boss. Heard of someone by the name of Merethe Sandmo?’

  Frølich nodded again.

  ‘Thought so. You see, we had an enquiry from Oslo. This Sandmo woman was seen at Fagernes the same day the chalet burned down.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Sure,’ Per-Ole said slowly. ‘She was in a restaurant. I can’t say any more than that, actually.’

  ‘Was she on her own?’

  Per-Ole shook his head. ‘The woman had dinner at the hotel with a man.’

  ‘Was she staying at the hotel?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The identity of the man?’

  ‘Not known. Your boss, though – don’t remember what his name is, but the fiery-tempered one with the wrap-over hair – he’s faxed over a pile of photos.’

  They looked at each other again.

  ‘You could stay here for a couple of days, couldn’t you?’ Per-Ole suggested. ‘We could go into the mountains, go fishing in Vællers? Catch a few fat arctic char, smoke them and eat them with a dram or two. No b
etter battery-charger in this world.’

  ‘That’s tempting, Per-Ole, but …’

  ‘But?’

  ‘I’ve got my own chalet to keep an eye on. On my way there now. To Hemsedal.’

  Frølich could read in Per-Ole’s eyes that he had seen through him. But Per-Ole was a fine fellow. He didn’t say anything. ‘Another time,’ Frølich said. He wasn’t in the mood to be sociable now. ‘It was tough – I mean, seeing the ruins.’

  It was dark as he drove up the mountain road towards the family chalet. The headlights caught the screens of spruce on either side, making the universe seem as if it was a narrow path enveloped by spruce walls. This was terrain with isolated houses and farms, game and bird-life. He knew that because he had been here innumerable times. Perhaps that’s my problem. I see this case the way a driver sees reality, as objects the headlamps pick out and illuminate. Perhaps I ought to shift my perspective, find a different angle?

  It was, as usual, colder inside the chalet than outside. He opened all the windows and doors to create a through-draught and change the cold air while he strolled down to the well for water. A well was probably an overstatement. It was a trickle which had been developed into a spring. He and his father had dug up turf and soil to make a hole big enough for surface water to collect after being filtered through a mound of cleansing sand. Then they had sunk a ement ring which they had bought from a farmer in the village. So they had a well one and a half metres deep, a well which never went dry. And, in addition, stayed frost-free longer than the ground surrounding it. He had cut a slate slab lid to fit on top of the cement ring, mounted hinges and a little handle. All you had to do was pull the slab to the side and drop the pail into the dark water. Crystal-clear water, full of minerals and taste.

  As always, he quenched his thirst before walking back slowly with the pail.

  Then he closed the doors and windows and lit the old wood burner. It would take time to heat the large space under the high ceiling. So he went out onto the veranda and unlocked the sauna. The wood stove in there would be boiling hot in less than an hour. He fetched some finely chopped birch, tore off the bark and used it to light the fire. As the flames caught hold, he put on the birch and watched it catch before closing the stove door with the draught on full. Now he just had to wait. From the veranda he looked at the water, which hadn’t frozen over yet. He went to the shed and took his fishing rod, a couple of spinners and a sheath knife. Then he ambled down to the pond to pass the time. The moon was shining like a white Chinese lantern in the sky. All the birch trees had lost their leaves. The moon reflected on the black surface of the water and the rising frost smoke. The water was probably too cold to catch any fish. Even the leaves of the pond lilies had begun to prepare for winter. He cast the line a few times, the reel squealed and the spinner broke the surface of the water like the leap of a trout. But not a bite. It didn’t matter. He continued to cast a line. The water was cold and the fish were deep. He let the spinner sink until the line was slack and looped, then wound it in slowly. This was his favourite spinner, the one with the red tassel and red spots. He reeled in, lifted the rod, threw, let the spinner sink, reeled in — and got a nibble. The powerful jerk on the rod was unmistakable. Trout. It swam off with the bait and he let it run. The line zigzagged across the water until he locked the reel and wound it in. It held. Perhaps half a kilo. Perfect size. Perfect for frying in the pan.