The Fourth Man

by K. O. Dahl

  ‘But why did they do that?’ Fristad asked.

  ‘They wanted to wait until Ilijaz got out before dividing their spoils. The usual musketeer motto amongst gangsters: One for all and all for one, and all that crap.’

  ‘A little while ago this painting was taken from the vault by an … an unknown person. But why? The picture is unsaleable.’

  ‘Not at all. There is a market for this kind of art. And clearly we have a buyer here. A man who withdrew five million in cash from his account less than two weeks ago.’

  ‘Narvesen? Was he going to buy the picture back? From whom?’

  ‘Vidar Ballo and Merethe Sandmo.’

  No one said a word for a considerable time.

  Frølich broke the silence. ‘Let’s take it from the beginning. The three of them are acquitted after the Loenga murder hearing. Then Jonny Faremo is killed. Suddenly his lover Merethe has the hots for Ballo. Furthermore, she is seen in Fagernes the same day Jonny Faremo’s sister dies in an arson attack on a chalet.’

  ‘You’re probably still a bit fixated on this Elisabeth Faremo, but I like the idea that Narvesen buys back the picture,’ Fristad said. ‘Then again, five million is a fairly low figure. A picture of this kind would have sold for ten million ten years ago.’

  ‘Yes, but the figure is dependent on negotiations,’ Frølich said. ‘This gang of robbers had something on Narvesen after the theft of the safe in 1998. They opened the safe and discovered that Narvesen owned a stolen painting – one subject to investigations all over the world – art which was considered part of Italy’s cultural heritage. Narvesen also had something on them: they had stolen items of great value, and grand larceny is a punishable offence. So both parties had a vested interest in keeping stumm. The painting may be worth fifteen or twenty million today, no one knows for sure. But it can only be sold to individual collectors. The only collector Faremo, Ballo and Rognstad knew was Narvesen.’

  ‘Wait, wait, wait,’ Fristad raised his hand in objection. ‘What are you saying? Are you saying that Narvesen could be sitting on the picture now?’

  ‘I believe so,’ Frølich said. ‘I believe the reason he followed me to Hemsedal and tried to set fire to …’

  ‘Wait a minute. No unfounded accusations.’

  ‘OK. I can try to reformulate the reasoning. If Narvesen has the picture, it would explain why he’s so angry with me. He wants to shift attention away from the 1998 break-in and himself. If he has the picture – for all we know, he may be keeping it at home – it is particularly inconvenient for him that I look him up, go to his house and start digging and asking questions.’

  Fristad looked across at Gunnarstranda, who was smoking slowly and deliberately.

  ‘Narvesen rang me to check we weren’t continuing the investigation connected with the robbery of his safe. It makes sense – if he’s sitting on the painting. But even if he is,’ Gunnarstranda said, ‘we can’t prove it.’

  ‘But who sold the picture back to Narvesen?’ Fristad asked.

  ‘Ballo,’ Frølich said. ‘Everything points to him and Merethe playing the others off against each other. We know the two of them were an item the day after Jonny died. Even Jim Rognstad, who knows Ballo best, suspects him. You and I heard that.’

  Fristad looked at Frølich. ‘Thank you, Frølich,’ he said.

  When Frølich had gone, the two men studied each other’s faces for an impression.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Fristad.

  ‘I never think anything.’

  ‘No gut instinct?’

  ‘Not even that.’

  ‘Ignoring our assumption that he is emotionally involved and believes what he says, suppose Narvesen is sitting on the picture. Can we take any action? Can we search his house, for example?’

  ‘We can’t, but Sørlie can. Eco-Crime can whack a charge down on the table, alleging that the five million he withdrew in cash is being used for money-laundering. Then they can search his house and his office.’

  ‘But will they find the painting?’

  ‘Doubtful. He might have put it in a bloody safety-deposit box,’ Gunnarstranda grinned.

  ‘And he gets a solicitor who tears our arguments to shreds and says we’ve been taken in by some cock-and-bull story from Rognstad, who probably cooked something up to get a lighter sentence.’

  ‘But if Eco-Crime and Sørlie take action, that side of things will never have to see the light of day. One of our people could be on the team.’

  ‘Who?’ Fristad asked immediately. ‘Frank Frølich is out of the running.’

  ‘I had Emil Yttergjerde in mind,’ Gunnarstranda decided. ‘I’ll put a good word in for him with Sørlie.’

  Fristad left. Gunnarstranda had just managed to get his legs behind his desk when Lena Stigersand arrived with a large pile of papers. ‘Bull’s eye,’ she said and sat down so hard the chair rolled back more than a metre.

  ‘Out with it.’

  Lena Stigersand brandished the papers. ‘Merethe Sandmo. She caught the plane from Oslo to Athens on 30 November. With Lufthansa via Munich.’

  Gunnarstranda stood up. ‘Ballo?’ he asked.

  Lena Stigersand shook her head. ‘His name’s not on the list.’

  ‘So she travelled on her own?’

  ‘That’s not definite. He may have travelled under another name.’

  ‘When did the chalet burn down?’

  Lena Stigersand checked the papers. ‘28 November. During the night of 28/29 November. It was Sunday night, Monday morning.’

  ‘On Sunday Merethe Sandmo has dinner with an unidentified man in Fagernes. The same evening the chalet burns down with Elisabeth Faremo inside. The timing is perfect. End of November and the summer season, so no one else is around. And any weekenders in the area will have travelled back to Oslo on Sunday night. They strike at night. It ends with the murder of Elisabeth Faremo, which they try to disguise with a fire. On Monday they’re back in Oslo. Tuesday, Merethe Sandmo – and in all probability Ballo – is sitting on a plane to Athens.’

  Gunnarstranda stood lost in thought before continuing: ‘Have you contacted the Greek police?’

  ‘Usual procedure. Interpol office at Kripos. Photo and description of Merethe Sandmo are being faxed to Athens now, I understand. Didn’t she get a job at a strip club?’

  Gunnarstranda shrugged. ‘A bar. That’s the official reason she left at any rate – according to Frølich. Have you still got the passenger lists?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Perhaps we can find Ballo under an alias. Check for Ilijaz Zupac.’

  ‘Will do.’

  38

  Frank Frølich was searching for the note she had slipped into his hand. Finally he found it crumpled up in the back pocket of a pair of trousers in the dirty-linen basket in the bathroom. Her telephone number was written in large figures. The eight was two neatly drawn circles, one on top of the other. What does handwriting tell you about personality? He rang the number.

  ‘Hello, this is Vibeke and I’m a bit busy. Leave your number and I’ll ring you back in a moment.’

  Now, at least, I know what your name is. He waited patiently for the tone. ‘Hello, Vibeke, this is me, Frank. Thank you for everything. Hope you have some time for …’

  He didn’t get any further. She had picked up the receiver. ‘Hello, Frank. Nice of you to ring.’

  ‘I felt like talking to you,’ he said.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ he said.

  She left the question unanswered and he let the silence drag on.

  ‘Are you there?’

  ‘Shall we meet up?’ he asked.

  ‘Right now I’m a bit busy. But otherwise any time. I usually get up at about twelve.’

  He looked at his watch. It was afternoon. ‘What about one o‘clock tomorrow?’ he suggested. ‘Lunch?’

  ‘You can have lunch and I’ll have breakfast. Where?’

  Frølich racked his br
ains for names of cafés and chose the first one that occurred to him: ‘At the Grand?’

  ‘Cool. I haven’t been to the Grand since I had a French vanilla slice with my grandmother there at least fifteen years ago.’

  Lena Stigersand carried in a heavy pile of papers and asked: ‘Where can I put these?’

  Absentmindedly, Gunnarstranda glanced up.

  ‘Where?’ she repeated.

  He nodded towards the table in the corner. She staggered across.

  At that moment the phone rang. Gunnarstranda took it. It was Yttergjerde.

  ‘Things are beginning to move, Gunnarstranda!’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Didn’t find a painting.’

  ‘You didn’t expect to, did you?’

  ‘Nope. I’ve just got back from searching the broker’s offices, Inar A/S. The five million in cash. He claimed he’d put it in a filing cabinet drawer, didn’t he?’

  ‘You mean to say he didn’t have the money in a drawer?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Well,’ Gunnarstranda said, looking at his watch. ‘He owes us an explanation.’

  He put down the phone and rocked back on his chair.

  Lena Stigersand, who had her back to him as she tidied the papers, glanced over her shoulder. ‘You look happy. Indictment on the way?’

  Gunnarstranda pulled his fingers until the joints cracked. ‘Juicy grilled investor marinated in murder and seasoned with money-laundering!’ He grinned. ‘My goodness, there are times when I adore this job. It’s going to be bloody awful being retired!’

  Gunnarstranda sat working into the evening. One by one, the others went home. He had a dinner date at home with Tove. She had asked him to come at eight and he had nothing else to do to kill the intervening time. When he finally craned his neck to check the clock, he saw Frølich’s jacket hanging over the back of a chair by the door. He stood up and opened the door.

  ‘Frølich?’

  Frølich turned round from the photocopier and said: ‘Time to draw in my oars now. It’s late.’

  Gunnarstranda put on his coat and said: ‘Thought you left ages ago.’

  He observed his younger colleague as he went to collect his jacket and straightened the scarf round his neck. He said: ‘How long have we been working together, Frølich?’

  The latter shrugged. ‘Ten years? Twelve? Thirteen? No, I can’t remember. Why?’

  It was Gunnarstranda’s turn to shrug his shoulders.

  Frølich said: ‘I’m off then.’

  ‘I’m off too.’

  They stood looking at each other again. ‘Something up?’ Frølich enquired.

  ‘In your view, should we have done anything differently?’ Gunnarstranda asked.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Do you think we’ve left anything undone – in this case?’

  ‘Should have been more on our toes with regard to Narvesen maybe?

  ‘We’ve had him under surveillance for several days,’ Gunnarstranda said. ‘He hasn’t been for a leak without it being noted down. According to reports Narvesen does nothing in the evening. He stays at home. Sometimes goes into the cellar. That’s all.’

  ‘Carpentry?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘What about Emilie?’

  ‘Emilie?’

  ‘His partner, Vietnamese-looking, attractive girl.’

  ‘Her with the Porsche? She’s a spinning instructor and is rarely at home.’

  ‘What’s a spinning instructor?’

  ‘She drives to a fitness studio four nights a week, sits on an exercise bike in front of a load of other exercise bikes and then they pedal away to music while the floozy howls into the mike urging them on.’

  ‘Oh.’

  They left the building together. Neither of them said anything. They stopped outside and looked at each other again.

  Gunnarstranda cleared his chest. ‘Ri-ght,’ he said. ‘Have a good weekend.’

  Frølich nodded in response. ‘Have a good weekend.’

  Tove had made lamb stew. It was his favourite. The food had the aromas of his childhood. Sunday lunches when he was a boy and the whole block could smell what was being cooked. The quarrels between him and his brother for the best bits of meat when the pot was passed around for seconds. But he didn’t say that. He had said it before. Several times. The fact that she had cooked this meal was Tove’s homage to precisely that nostalgia.

  They had eaten, washed the meal down with a red wine she had chosen, a strong spicy Italian number of the Barolo variety, and they were now sharing the remainder. Louis Armstrong was singing ‘Makin’ Whoopee’ on the stereo. Gunnarstranda observed Tove as she sat in the armchair deep in thought.

  He said: ‘What are you thinking about?’

  She said: ‘A patient. Vidar. He’s crazy … no, he probably isn’t out-and-out crazy, but he’s one of our residents at the nursing home, poor boy. Barely thirty. He’s so thin and his face is always twisted, staring diagonally up into the air, his mouth open, holding the lobe of his ear with one hand. His mother said he was listening to God’s voice.’

  ‘Terrible,’ Gunnarstranda said and took a sip.

  ‘If you close your eyes, does everything go black?’ she asked.

  He closed his eyes: ‘No, there’s a yellow flicker and I can see stars.’

  ‘Not everyone sees stars, but many people can see a sort of yellow in the dark. However, if you concentrate, look straight ahead with closed eyes, the flicker you see focuses into a centre, a point of light somewhere between your eyes, and if you look harder, this point will be a part of a large black eye. That’s your third eye looking at you.’

  Gunnarstranda closed his eyes, raised his glass and drank. ‘An eye? Who’s looking at me inside my head?’

  ‘It’s God.’

  ‘Who says it’s God?’

  ‘Vidar.’

  ‘The crazy young man?’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘Maybe he has a point. Would you like some more wine?’

  ‘OK, if you tell me what you’re thinking about.’

  ‘Be bold, fair maiden, but not too bold.’

  ‘Doesn’t that come from a fairy tale?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Come on, no wriggling out of it,’ Tove said, getting up, fetching another bottle from the cabinet and opening it.

  ‘Wriggling out of what?’

  ‘Out of telling me what you’re thinking.’

  ‘I was thinking that I was looking for two people for murder.’

  Tove filled both glasses and said: ‘Don’t you do that every day?’

  Gunnarstranda pointed his forefinger at the stereo. It was Ella Fitzgerald singing the first lines of ‘Autumn in New York’.

  They both listened.

  ‘This time it was you who interrupted me,’ he said after a while.

  ‘Me – and Ella.’

  ‘The two people are under investigation for killing a security man, Arnfinn Haga, and for arson with murder.’

  ‘What kind of people are they?’

  ‘A lingerie model, twenty-nine years old, and a criminal on a disability allowance who has spent five-eighths of his life in the slammer.’

  ‘But why are you thinking about them?’

  ‘That’s what I’m asking myself.’

  They went quiet again. Ella handed over the microphone to Louis Armstrong.

  Tove took a seat beside him on the sofa. She rested her head against his shoulder. They remained like that in the half-light. Car headlamps sent yellow rectangles across the ceiling as they rounded the bend outside. As Louis Armstrong blew his horn through the loudspeakers.

  39

  It was like a scene from a B-movie. It was evening. The slim, blackhaired woman bounced on her high heels through the wrought-iron gate to the low-slung car. Her outline was silhouetted against the street lamp further away. She got in. The car door closed quietly and firmly. The engine growled like an unhurried, replete wild animal as the c
ar drove away. Frølich watched the red rear lights. He had plenty of time. He was patient. Through the garden gate he went, off the shingle path, onto the lawn. A dog inside began to bark. He went on, undeterred. Crouched under an old apple tree, waiting. A shadow appeared in the window. Someone peeped out into the dark. The dog continued to yelp. Finally, the shadow moved away. Eventually, the dog quietened down. Frank Frølich wondered about the dog. The twitchy, lean setter.

  What exactly is it I’m after? Why am I crouching here?

  He blinked dry eyes in the dark. Blinked away his self-criticism, doubts, misgivings.

  It was cold. The sky was black, no stars, no moon. The chill air augured snow. Frølich waited by his post as if hunting elk: stationary, eyes skinned for movement. After an hour the light went on in the cellar. Frølich glanced at his watch and made up his mind. Seven minutes. The light in the cellar window was still on. Another light went on in one of the basement windows. Four minutes passed. No more lights. Five minutes. The second hand crawled round. He was breathing faster. Six minutes. He straightened up. Had to control himself not to leap forward and knock down the door, not to hyperventilate. Seven minutes. He loped across the lawn, ran up the steps and rang three times. The dog began to bark. He ran down the steps again. Rounded the corner of the house, onto the veranda – without making a sound. He checked his watch again. Relax! Breathe. The dog had made its way to the veranda window. The bared red gums and white teeth drooled and yapped behind the transparent curtain. He could hear footsteps on the cellar stairs. A voice was scolding the dog, which continued barking madly. He waited for the front door to open. When the light from the door opening hit the opposite side of the lawn, he kicked in the glass door. As he kicked at the fragments of glass, he heard the man swear. The dog snapped at his foot. Frølich kicked it and sent it sprawling and whimpering. He was inside. The man came from the hall towards him. His face met Frølich’s fist straight on. Frølich didn’t say a word. Just lashed out. He got the man on the floor, rolled him onto his stomach, held his hands firmly in place with his knees and reached for the plastic strips in his belt. The dog was at him again. It barked and snarled ferociously, and snapped at his ribs. Frølich punched it and it flew across the floor. Then he tied the man’s hands with the strips. He stood up. Now it was the dog’s turn. It came bounding towards him. He grabbed it in mid-flight and squeezed its snout shut so firmly that it squealed; it was close to suffocating. The dog’s hind legs gave way as it hit the floor. Then he let go. The dog crawled under the table with its tail between its legs.