The Fourth Man

by K. O. Dahl

  The fish took a decision and swam to the shore. Frølich let it swim, reeled in until there was another jerk. Thirty seconds later he hauled it onto land; it wriggled around like crazy, squirmed and leapt into a juniper bush. He placed both hands over it. Held it tight. The fish had eaten all the bait. He quickly broke its neck and weighed the fine specimen in his hand. Looking up at the moon, he realized that he had been far away – for as long as it lasted – not thinking about anything else apart from the pleasure of being here in the dark by the lake.

  He headed for the chalet reckoning that the sauna was probably hot enough. But the thermometer on the sauna room wall showed only 60°C. He put on more dry birch and some spruce. Dry spruce burned like matchsticks, quickly and fiercely, with flames which would soon boost the heat. Afterwards he went to the well to collect water to pour on the stones in the sauna stove. When he next looked at the sky, it had clouded over. He stood on the veranda, sipping at half a bottle of Upper Ten whisky. The temperature in the sauna had reached 80° and the first raindrops fell.

  He undressed and lay naked on the bench. The sweat poured off him. He thought about Elisabeth. Her hands which had flitted across his body like nervous squirrels. He threw water on the stones. They hissed and the steam adhered to his skin, boiling hot, smarting. But he forced himself to lie still. He watched the flames through the glass pane in the stove and thought of the flames burning the long, glowing bones. Soon he wouldn’t be able to stand any more heat. He sat up. The temperature was approaching 90° when he burst through the door and sat naked on the stump of a spruce tree in the rain. This was half the pleasure of the sauna, being rinsed down by the rain, which was a degree or two off falling as snow, but still feeling as hot as before. Rain and sweat mingle as one. The rain kept him drenched, but when he licked his arm it tasted of sweat. The raindrops ran down his body, found their way down his stomach, thighs, let go and found a resting place on the cranberry leaves. But then the wind picked up and caressed his body, a new form of well-being, reducing the temperature a tiny bit, enough for him to stand up and pick his way down to the water: the ice-cold pond, where he glided in and swam between the water-lily leaves, an undulating white monster. Cooled and shivering, he ran back on sensitive feet to the sauna and the sweltering heat. He lay down on the bench and planned the meal for afterwards: trout grilled with salt and pepper, some mushrooms he had brought with him and a little cream, then a lager or white wine from the store in the room under the floor. Lying on the bench, he thought about Elisabeth again. He should have brought her here, shown her this, because this was him, this was the existence he occasionally yearned for; where he came to find his fulfilment.

  Once again he was drenched with sweat. His body had almost reached the limit of its tolerance when he heard a sound on the veranda. He raised his head and listened. Something must have fallen, but there was nothing to fall. Yes, there was. The fishing rod. A small bottle of Upper Ten. He got up and went to push open the door. It wouldn’t budge. He applied pressure. The door seemed to be locked. Then he heard another noise. The sound of footsteps. He sat down on the bench. Naked, close to exploding with the heat, sodden with sweat. Inside: 98°. Outside: fresh air, cold, car keys, clothes, money. Someone had locked the door. What is going on? He stood up and shoulder-charged the door. It didn’t stir. The door was wedged shut. Someone has locked me in. But how? He shoved again. But the door held firm. He looked up at the little window in the wall, fifteen by thirty centimetres. Impossible. I can’t take any more! He put the whole of his body behind the door. It didn’t move. Then he smelt it: Smoke.

  He looked through the little window. There was no doubt. Flames were licking up at the walls. They’re trying to burn me to death in here. He blinked the sweat out of his eyes. The yellow door quivered in his vision. He kicked it. Nothing happened. Yellow-grey smoke was filtering through the cracks in the floor. The floorboards were warmer now than they had been two minutes before. They were singeing the soles of his feet. Long bones. He could see the headlines in his mind’s eye: Man found dead in chalet fire. He took a run-up and launched himself against the door. His shoulders hurt everywhere, but the door frame gave with a crack. This is me, he thought. This is my bloody chalet. No one’s going to fucking burn it down! He threw himself against the door again. The smoke was in his nose and eyes. He couldn’t see anything, he over-balanced and fell against the burning hot oven. The scream of pain as the flesh on his shoulder hissed. But the burn woke him up too. Another run-up. And this time the door panel caved in. It cracked with a deeper, hollower sound. He filled his lungs with the air that seeped in, tensed his muscles to the maximum, put all his ninety-five kilos behind the punch and smashed his fist through the door panel. His knuckles and forearm were bleeding. But he had one hand through and groped towards the door handle on the outside.

  It was the snow-clearer. The shaft had been wedged under the door handle and the blade had been forced down into an opening between two tables on the veranda. The door was effectively locked.

  But whoever did this didn’t know how flimsy the door was, didn’t know what a skinflint his sister was, didn’t know that she had bought the door in a sale, a door with a plywood panel and not boards. Once his hand was through, the rest was easy. He felt around for the shaft, took hold, pulled it away and kicked the door open. He spilled out onto the veranda gasping for air. Ran off, rubbing smoke out of his eyes. He expected to be attacked. But no attack came. He looked around. The fire under the sauna had been made with old roofing felt and semi-rotten pieces of wood from the pile by the shed, all raked together. Frølich hurried over to his clothes and used them to smother the fire. He had to douse a fire singlehanded, naked, on a December day in the mountains. But he put out the fire and was helped by the rain. How could that rotten wood burn so fiercely? he wondered and then smelt paraffin. It took time for the cold to eat into the soles of his feet as he concentrated his energy on extinguishing the fire. The jacket, his large jacket suffocated the flames. He could feel time passing. His feet were numb. But when — bleeding, black from soot and naked — he finally gulped in air and was confident that the damned fire had done no more than scorch the outside wall of the sauna, blacken the window pane and destroy the floorboards, he was happy. He was trembling with cold and put on his wet clothes, aware that he had been the easiest target in the world for any ill-wishers for God knows how long.

  He focused vigilant eyes on the area around him. However, all he could see was the outline of black trees in the dark. The job had been executed in such a terrible, amateurish way: deciding to burn someone alive, blocking the door to the sauna, making a fire from wood and paraffin, lighting it and running off before the job was complete. Instinctively he knew: the perpetrator had not run off. Someone was standing somewhere staring at me, right now.

  Frozen and shivering in the dark he rotated on his own axis and yelled: ‘Come out! Show yourself, you fucking bastard!’

  Silence. Black spruce trees, the patter of rain.

  ‘You spineless piece of shit, come out!’

  Nothing.

  Frank Frølich shook with cold. He forced his wet, swollen feet into the mountain boots which seemed much too tight. His fingers trembled and he listened. Then he heard the sound: a car engine. Then headlights shone through the screen of spruce trees.

  He sprinted towards his own car, tripped over a root, fell headlong and scrambled up again. He tore open the door of the car. Bugger. The keys! Had he left them in the ignition? He had no idea, but ran off down the gravelled road. It was a bad road; the other person would be forced to drive slowly. But the hum of the engine faded in the distance, and the car lights behind the trees disappeared. He stumbled on the gravel, panting, a taste of blood in his mouth. Then he sensed the contours of the mobile phone in his trouser pocket. Who should he ring? He thrust his hand in his pocket for the phone. He held it in two trembling hands. The display showed: no coverage. His hands fell helplessly to the ground.

  He lay
like that for a long time, shaking, aching for warmth and dry clothes – for perhaps an hour, perhaps an hour and a half. He didn’t know. In the end he pulled himself together, sat up and searched his jacket pockets for the bottle of whisky. It was with his car keys.

  33

  The morning sun balanced on the edge of the ridge. It cast sharp meridians of light down the slopes to the bottom of the valley where he was driving home.

  It was unreal: a mixture of a hangover, the beginnings of a cold, insufficient sleep and a searing pain. At long last he was sitting in the queue of cars heading for Sandvika, observing men’s faces, freshly shaven, upper bodies sewn into finely tailored office clothes, eyes self-assured and secure, cheerfully confronting the morning, mysterious beauties behind tinted windows, sombre clusters of people waiting for buses along the main traffic artery, students and schoolchildren dawdling towards more tedium, long lessons with intolerable obligations and existential meaninglessness. And in the middle of all this was Frank Frølich, not awake, not tired, not ill, not well, none the wiser after his injuries, simply worn out, confused, sick of the whole business and frightened.

  When the queue had finally started moving and he was driving up Ryenbergveien, his mobile rang. He drove into a bus lay-by. It was Gunnarstranda. ‘Are you coming to work today?’

  ‘That’s not on my list of things to do, no.’

  ‘You should come.’

  ‘Got a few formalities to complete first.’

  ‘Then we’ll see you tomorrow.’

  Frølich glanced down at the piteous state of himself and said: ‘I’ll give it some thought.’

  ‘You want me to keep my mouth shut about the latest development?’

  ‘I’m tempted to start work again, but Lystad from Kripos has probably got something to say about this, hasn’t he?’

  ‘I gave him an ultimatum. If he considers you in any way blameworthy he should have asked Internal Investigations to set up a separate inquiry last night and that didn’t happen.’

  Frank Frølich sucked in his breath. ‘OK, I’ll try tomorrow.’

  ‘I want you to think about it,’ Gunnarstranda said. ‘I got in touch with DnB NOR in Askim. On a hunch. It turns out they have a procedure in place for every time someone with power of attorney wants to go down to the vault. The authorization is checked against the bank’s register.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘There are not many visits of this kind. But there are a lot of employees and they have different timetables. The manager talked to one of the shift workers. She says someone with power of attorney opened the safety-deposit box about a week ago.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Ilijaz Zupac.’

  ‘That’s impossible.’

  ‘Nothing’s impossible.’

  ‘Zupac’s serving time at Ullersmo and needs medical care. Prison leave is totally out of the question. It cannot have been him.’

  ‘Nevertheless he was there,’ Gunnarstranda said, deadpan. ‘So you can see you’re needed here with those of us who have to solve impossible problems. What I’m curious to know is whether the man left something in the box or took something out. Mull that one over and I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  He didn’t drive home directly. After zipping through the Oslo Tunnel he made for the city centre and then out to Mosseveien. He took the Ulvøya turn-off and drove on to Måkeveien. Outside Narvesen’s house he came to a halt. No Porsche parked by the fence today – but in the drive, in front of the garage door, there was a Jeep Cherokee.

  Frank Frølich sat and watched. It was a December morning. A woman in a winter coat with a large, brown scarf wrapped around her neck came round the corner pushing a pram. The child was wearing blue winterwear and sucking a dummy. They passed the car. He watched them getting smaller and smaller in the mirror as he thought about the evening two days ago when, through his binoculars, he spotted a car parked outside the entrance to his block of flats.

  Narvesen’s Jeep was the same colour. Furthermore, it was dirty and streaked after many kilometres on salted roads — just like his own car.

  He took his mobile phone and found Narvesen’s private number. He called. It rang several times. Finally, a man’s voice answered thickly.

  ‘Hello.’

  Frank Frølich rang off. He thought: Our whizz investor isn’t at work. Has it been a hard night perhaps?

  He turned the ignition key. Then he caught sight of a shadow in one of the windows on the first floor. He put the car in gear and drove off.

  34

  They were making love. The flickering candle cast heavy, blurred shadows onto the wall. She was on all fours with her left cheek resting on the pillow. A deluge of black hair. He turned her over onto her back; went on; on and on. Elisabeth’s body quivered as she came to orgasm, but he pretended not to notice. He wanted to pound her to pieces, grind her into the ground with his pelvic thrusts, hard, remorseless, lunge upon lunge. When she came for the second time, he could feel the germ of a scream writhing out of a husk somewhere in his abdomen. She immediately sensed it, opened her eyes as if waking to an extreme reality and covered his mouth with hers, searching for the sound, as she held the base of his sex and clung to him. The sound would not stop, the germ of a scream became a vibrating convulsion which started in his toes, consumed its way through his body, took control of the muscles in his legs, thighs, back, stomach – but was controlled by the grip of her hand as she triggered the roar which surged through his windpipe into his mouth where she was waiting with her mouth and lips and hungrily absorbed it. Even though she was underneath, she was the one who was riding. She rode all the wildness out of him, all his fury, until he lay calmly between her legs. Then she came for the third time: a blase thrust of her groin, performed in lazy triumph, the way a rider finally turns a tamed wild horse to the sun to confirm that the task has been accomplished.

  Frank Frølich opened his eyes.

  The candle wasn’t alight. There were no shadows on the wall. It had been a dream. Nevertheless, he could sense her aroma: her perfume, perspiration, sex. He switched on the light. He was alone. In a few hours he would have to go to work. And the sole indication of Elisabeth’s presence was a black hair in a book on the bedside table. He switched off the light and rested his head on the pillow. Staring into the dark with wide-open eyes and wondering: Why was I so furious?

  There were restrained cheers in the corridor when he opened his office door at eight in the morning. Emil Yttergjerde took a deep bow and Lena Stigersand said, ‘You look dreadful — sorry, I didn’t mean that.’

  Frølich rubbed his face. ‘It’s been a tough few days.’

  ‘Well,’ Lena Stigersand said. ‘Today of all days it would be right to break feminism’s first commandment. Frankie, welcome back. Can I get you a coffee?’

  At that moment Gunnarstranda stuck his head round the door. He coughed and said: ‘Frølich, I must have a word with you.’

  When they were alone, Gunnarstranda said: ‘I’ve had a meeting with the Chief of Police and various police solicitors. We’ve agreed to go for the link between Jim Rognstad and the Loenga murder. Thus the murdered man is our only case. Elisabeth Faremo’s death is a Kripos matter and so is Jonny Faremo’s. And they don’t want anything to do with us – for the time being. The Chief will push for a co-ordinated investigation – then we’ll see. For the moment we’ll concentrate on the murder of Arnfinn Haga. OK?’

  Frølich nodded.

  ‘For us, and for you in particular, Reidun Vestli, her chalet and the bones found in the remains are peripheral issues – only of interest if we stumble over some evidence which proves that Rognstad or Ballo beat up Reidun Vestli and/or set fire to the chalet. The Elisabeth Faremo case – if it is a case at all — is still with Kripos.’

  ‘Merethe Sandmo was seen in Fagernes the day the chalet burned down,’ Frølich said.

  ‘Kripos are dealing with the Elisabeth and Jonny Faremo cases,’ Gunnarstranda repeated slowly and sternly.

&
nbsp; Frølich didn’t answer.

  They stood looking at each other.

  Gunnarstranda broke the silence: ‘The break-in at Inge Narvesen’s has been cleared up. It’s not our case and never has been.’

  ‘She had dinner with a man at the hotel.’

  ‘I know,’ Gunnarstranda barked with irritation. ‘But it’s not our case. Do you want me to send you off on leave two minutes after restarting?’