The Fourth Man

by K. O. Dahl

  They eyed each other warily.

  ‘You were disqualified from the investigation of the Loenga murder because you were in a relationship with Elisabeth Faremo – for as long as she was alive. Some consider that you should still be disqualified. Several people, me included, feel you’re too emotionally involved in the whole business. The conclusion is that you’re not entitled to take any freelance initiatives on this investigation. From now on you’re my errand boy – no more, no less.’

  Frølich didn’t answer.

  ‘But if we’re going to dig any deeper to find links between Rognstad and the Arnfinn Haga murder, we can’t walk around with blinkers on,’ Gunnarstranda said. ‘We have to knuckle down, question witnesses and focus on the suspects we have.’

  ‘Rognstad might have had dinner with Merethe Sandmo.’

  Gunnarstranda let out a deep sigh. ‘Something tells me it was a mistake asking you to come in this morning.’

  Frølich said: ‘I was there yesterday, at what’s left of the chalet. I wanted to see the place. I met Cranberry Ramstad in Fagernes.’

  ‘I know. He’s sent me e-mails and faxes and I don’t know what. Now pin back your ears,’ Gunnarstranda said and yelled: ‘YES, I KNOW MERETHE SANDMO HAD DINNER WITH AN UNIDENTIFIED MAN IN FAGERNES, BUT IT’S NOT OUR BLOODY CASE!’

  ‘I drove from Fagernes to my chalet in Hemsedal. Someone tried to set it on fire while I was inside.’

  Gunnarstranda sat down.

  Frølich took out his mobile phone and showed him the pictures he had taken. He stood up. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Are these scorched boards proof enough for you?’

  Gunnarstranda breathed in and coughed. ‘Tell me more,’ he said with a heavy heart.

  Ten minutes later Lena Stigersand arrived with the coffee she had promised. She sensed the atmosphere at once and crept in on tiptoe: ‘Am I disturbing you?’

  Neither said a word.

  ‘Obviously not,’ Lena Stigersand said and sneaked out.

  Gunnarstranda waited until she had shut the door before saying: ‘Continue.’

  ‘After Fagernes I drove to Hemsedal where someone tried to burn me alive.’

  ‘Someone followed you.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘All the way from Oslo?’

  ‘Either from Oslo or Fagernes.’

  ‘Could someone have tailed you all that way without your noticing?’

  ‘Anything is possible. I had lots of other things on my mind. I was thinking about the fire, her, I didn’t bother about the mirror at all.’

  ‘But why try to murder you?’

  ‘No idea. I can’t see the motive.’

  ‘I’ve been investigating murders for more than thirty years. Motives for murders rarely belong to the rational category.’

  ‘Nevertheless there must have been a motive. Either it was revenge or someone was trying to stop me.’

  ‘Stop you doing what?’

  ‘Yes, well, that’s the point. Revenge is totally absurd.’

  ‘Could it have been Ballo or Merethe Sandmo?’

  ‘What do they gain by snuffing me out? You’re still investigating the Arnfinn Haga murder anyway.’

  ‘You saw your attacker on the motorbike. Maybe someone is trying to silence you for good.’

  ‘But that was Rognstad on the motorbike and he’s behind bars as a result of another case. One that’s cut and dried. On top of that, if the motorbike had been meant to expedite me into the beyond, they could have done the job there and then. I can’t get over the bloody unprofessional nature of it: rotten boards, bits of insulation and damp roofing felt soaked in paraffin …’

  ‘Yes, but who else is there?’

  ‘I know someone who is pretty upset by my activities.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Inge Narvesen.’

  The two of them sat opposite each other without saying a word. Gunnarstranda’s face wore a sceptical expression.

  ‘The unprofessional technique would fit in then,’ Frølich said.

  ‘It has been on my mind to have a word with Narvesen anyway,’ Gunnarstranda said pensively. ‘And you might as well come along.’

  35

  Frølich sat behind the wheel. He waited until Gunnarstranda had settled in before starting the car. ‘Something familiar about this situation, it strikes me,’ he said, shoving the car into gear.

  ‘Look straight ahead, you,’ Gunnarstranda said drily. ‘’The only positive thing you can say about the past is that it has gone. Hope you can learn that this is also true of women.’

  They drove past the bus depot on Ibsenringen and turned towards the Palace Gardens and Frederiksgate as they came out of the tunnel.

  ‘On my way to work today,’ Frølich said, ‘the Metro had to stop in the tunnel. A man was standing on the rails.’

  Gunnarstranda glanced over at him. ‘It is a long time,’ he said. ‘You’ve forgotten that we don’t necessarily have to talk.’

  Frølich smiled faintly. ‘The man on the rails was an Indian, an elderly man, just wearing cotton clothes and early this morning it was bloody cold. It must have been several degrees below.’

  ‘So he was freezing?’

  ‘He didn’t move a muscle. The man was really old, white beard and white hair. He was just babbling. Couldn’t speak a word of Norwegian. There was someone in my carriage who could speak the language and interpreted. Turned out the man was on his way back home – to Calcutta. He was unhappy in Norway, always cold and had no friends.’

  ‘Yes, well, he’s not the only one.’

  ‘But this old man had decided to walk home, walk to Calcutta. He wasn’t sure which direction to go, but he knew it was possible to get to India by train. And he had thought that if he just followed the rails, in the end he would come to Calcutta. But it turned out the rails he was walking on didn’t belong to the railway, they belonged to the Metro. So he could have followed the rails for the rest of his days and never have got any further than Stovner.’ Frølich grinned.

  ‘Vestli,’ said Gunnarstranda.

  ‘Hm?’

  ‘The terminus on the Grorud line is Vestli, not Stovner.’

  Frølich turned into Munkedamsveien. ‘It’s really good to be back,’ he mumbled, swinging in to park behind Vestbane station.

  They got out and made their way to Vika Atrium.

  Gunnarstranda showed his ID in reception. Shortly afterwards they were received by a dark-haired woman in her early twenties. She was wearing glasses with a thick, black designer frame. The impression you were left with was that the glasses had put her on and not vice versa. She marched in front of them into what must have been Narvesen’s section. The contrast was palpable. The smooth glass partitions with the pure steel decor suddenly found their counterbalance in dark paintings and extravagantly decorated gold picture frames. Frank Frølich paused for a few seconds and looked around. It was like being in a museum.

  The young woman opened a door. She showed them into a small meeting room and bowed before disappearing.

  ‘I think Narvesen is going to play hard ball,’ Frølich said.

  ‘You mean we’ll have to wait?’

  ‘Isn’t that the classic control mechanism? Think I’ve used it myself a few times. I think I even learned it from you.’

  ‘We’ll have to see how long we’re willing to wait,’ Gunnarstranda said. ‘Those of us who have worked with such techniques know a few effective counterploys.’

  On the table there was an empty paper cup with a dried-up tea bag inside. Gunnarstranda grabbed the cup. ‘First offensive,’ he mumbled. ‘The inspector goes looking for coffee.’

  With that, Gunnarstranda left the meeting room and walked cheerfully into an office – without knocking. Frølich saw the woman recoil in surprise. He shook his head, went out into the hall and studied the paintings hanging there. It was old art, full of madonnas and cherubs – the motifs reminded him of his childhood scrapbook.

  Suddenly Gunnarstranda was by his side, h
olding a steaming paper cup.

  ‘Can you see what I can see?’ Gunnarstranda asked.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Inge Narvesen is sitting over there pretending you and I don’t exist.’

  Frølich followed his line of vision. Correct. Narvesen was behind a glass door apparently unaware of their presence. ‘You got yourself some coffee, then?’

  ‘Last night I dreamed about a devil,’ Gunnarstranda said as he raised his cup. ‘It was a sweet little devil with short curly hair, bashful, sucking its thumb. I remember thinking it couldn’t be a good devil. He didn’t inspire confidence.’

  ‘I’m not telling you what I dreamed,’ said Frølich.

  At that moment Narvesen caught sight of them. Initially, he was startled; he then paused for a few seconds before getting up and going over to the glass door.

  ‘Someone back in out of the cold?’ Inge Narvesen said frostily. He was staring at Frank Frølich.

  ‘I have some questions to ask you,’ Gunnarstranda said and put down the coffee cup.

  ‘I’m busy.’

  ‘It won’t take long.’

  ‘I’m still busy.’

  ‘The alternative would be to obtain a court order and summon you to Police HQ for questioning. It would mean we leave here after a fruitless visit and you appear in my office when it suits me and stay for as long as it suits me. The choice is yours.’

  Narvesen cast an annoyed, impatient look at the clock. ‘What would you like to know?’

  ‘The money you had transferred after we arrested Jim Rognstad, does that correspond to the sum you were missing subsequent to the burglary in 1998?

  ‘Yes. The amount is correct.’

  ‘There were no other items in the safe removed from your bedroom in 1998?’

  ‘Nothing at all.’

  ‘Would you be willing to sign a statement?’

  ‘I already have done so and would happily do so again. The case has been cleared up and I am extremely pleased.’

  ‘Name Jim Rognstad mean anything to you?’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘The reason Rognstad was targeted is that a few days ago we were given a tip-off linking him with a container break-in at Oslo Docks and the murder of a guard.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘As a consequence it would be interesting to see whether other suspects can be connected with Rognstad.’

  Narvesen nodded impatiently.

  ‘Does the name Vidar Ballo mean anything to you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Merethe Sandmo?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Jonny Faremo?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Positive. Was there anything else?’

  ‘One question?’

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘Physically removing the safe from your house while touching nothing else – that seems remarkably focused. Have you ever wondered about that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You were out of the country, on holiday, when the burglary took place. That suggests those responsible probably knew your house was unoccupied. Did it occur to you that a third party may have informed them?’

  ‘No. I leave it to the police to devise such hypotheses.’

  ‘But, if that had been the case, it would necessarily imply that you had a disloyal servant. Doesn’t that concern a man like you?’

  ‘It would have done if I had any reason to believe such a hypothesis. But I don’t. Since 1998 neither my house nor my office has been broken into. Ergo – as detectives are wont to say – I have no disloyal servants. Would you please excuse me?’

  Without waiting, he walked past them and down the corridor.

  Frølich grasped his arm.

  Narvesen stopped. He stared disapprovingly at Frølich’s hand.

  ‘Been to Hemsedal recently?’ Frank Frølich asked.

  ‘Will you let go?’

  Frølich removed his hand. ‘Yes or no?’

  Narvesen didn’t reply. He walked towards a door further up the corridor.

  ‘Perhaps I should ask Emilie?’ Frølich called.

  He didn’t receive an answer. The door was slammed shut. Narvesen was gone.

  They exchanged looks. ‘Do you remember the blackmail business I told you about?’ Gunnarstranda asked.

  ‘The drunken captain who threatened to go to the press etc if Narvesen didn’t stump up?’

  Gunnarstranda nodded. ‘I tried to find the captain. He got three years and did two of them at Bastøy.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’s dead,’ Gunnarstranda said. ‘He got involved in a fight the very day he came out. Killed. Knifed by unknown assailant.’

  ‘Narvesen is not clean,’ Frølich said.

  ‘No one can allege that Narvesen was responsible for the killing. For the same reason you can’t claim he set fire to your chalet.’

  ‘Yes, I can. It was him.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I just know.’

  Gunnarstranda regarded him with scepticism. ‘If you’re so sure it was Narvesen, then it’s up to you to find out why – before you go accusing him of things.’

  When they were outside in the cold again, Frølich came to a sudden halt.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘That man went too far when he locked me in and lit the match.’

  They stood for a while watching the cars hurtling past.

  ‘Calm down,’ Gunnarstranda said and started moving. ‘We’ll get Narvesen, you can take my word for it.’

  ‘But it doesn’t look like we will, does it?’

  ‘I trust my instinct. And, in addition, here comes our Eco-Crime man, Chicken Brains Sørlie.’

  36

  Frank Frølich had met Birgitte Bergum once before. It had been a couple of years ago in courtroom number four and she had been defending a drunken carpenter who was an officer in the reserves. The man had drunk himself stupid in his chalet where he kept his service weapon, an AG3. In the middle of the night he had started shooting it off. Unfortunately, two tourists had pitched their tent in the vicinity. They were scared out of their wits and after climbing up a tree they rang the police from a mobile phone. But the local police station wasn’t manned in out-of-office hours. So they had to ring the central police switchboard, who sent out a patrol car from another district. But they got lost and the patrolmen called the tourists back to ask the way. The man with the gun, who was now well out of his skull, heard the tourists’ phone ringing and thought the enemy was abroad and about to despatch him. He therefore crawled along the ground wearing camouflage gear and closed in on them – with the invaluable assistance of the policemen who were ringing the tourists at regular intervals. When the police finally did arrive on the scene, the man went absolutely bananas and was only arrested after an exchange of fire, which led to one policeman being injured. Frølich had been summoned as a witness – to speak about the general context of arrests. Birgitte Bergum had been on him like a leech from the word go. He was thinking of this as he sat watching her through a two-way mirror in the interview room: a woman of about fifty with big hair, a big nose and a bust like an opera singer’s. With a self-assured, impatient expression on her face, she sat next to Jim Rognstad. He balanced on his seat like a fat Buddha with hair, limp and uncommunicative, wearing a black T-shirt, his hands folded and recently brushed hair flowing down both shoulders.

  There were two of them secretly observing Rognstad and the solicitor. Frølich sat next to Fristad, who, as a legal man, was clearly uneasy with the set-up. He kept mumbling: ‘Oooh dear, I don’t like this. No, I must say, I don’t like this situation, Frølich.’

  He went quiet when Gunnarstranda came into the room they were observing. Rognstad tried to stand up like a school pupil when the headmaster enters the classroom. Bergum ordered him to stay seated. Then she looked severely at the two-way mirror.

  ‘She’s seen us,’ Fristad said, nervously adjusting his glasse
s. ‘Bibbi’s sharp.’

  ‘Who’s sitting in there?’ was the first thing she asked, with a nod towards the mirror.

  Gunnarstranda didn’t answer. But Frølich and Fristad swapped winces. ‘Put down the sound,’ Fristad muttered. Frølich turned down the volume so low that Bergum’s next remark could hardly be heard:

  ‘This is no good, Gunnarstranda. All interrogations should be performed in an atmosphere of total openness.’

  Frølich turned up the volume a tiny bit.

  ‘This isn’t an interrogation,’ Gunnarstranda said tersely. ‘You requested this meeting.’

  ‘I want to know who’s sitting behind the mirror.’

  ‘Let’s call it a day then. Rognstad can go back to his cell and daydream. Either he has something to sell me or he hasn’t.’

  Birgitte Bergum scrutinized Gunnarstranda sternly.

  She turned to Rognstad and said: ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Just a moment,’ Bergum went on, leaning over to her client. The two of them whispered.

  Frølich and Fristad exchanged glances again.

  ‘Bet they pull out,’ Fristad breathed. ‘Bibbi’s as tough as old boots.’

  In the interview room Gunnarstranda yawned and looked at the clock. ‘What’s the decision?’

  ‘There was a painting in the box,’ Rognstad said, straight to the point.

  ‘Which box?’ Gunnarstranda asked, bored.

  ‘The safety-deposit box.’

  ‘No, there wasn’t. There was just money in the box.’

  ‘Right. But there should have been a painting.’

  Frølich and Fristad looked at each other. Fristad straightened his glasses; he was getting excited.

  ‘What sort of painting?’ Gunnarstranda asked.

  ‘Old. Worth a packet.’

  ‘OK,’ Gunnarstranda said wearily. ‘Let’s start at the beginning. This box we’re talking about is pretty small. What kind of painting would fit into the box and how did it get there?’

  Rognstad leaned over to his counsel and whispered again. Birgitte Bergum spoke for him.