by K. O. Dahl
He surveyed the surroundings: the man on his knees with his hands bound behind his back. He was abusive, but Frølich didn’t listen. There was a fire in the hearth. A large glass chandelier hung from the ceiling. Otherwise the room was conspicuous for the heavy furniture and pictures on the wall.
Why am I doing this?
He strode to the front door. The man had left it open; he closed and locked it. He found the stairs leading to the first floor and ran up. Narvesen’s yelling resounded behind him. He was sweating. Came out into a narrow corridor. Opened a door. A bathroom. Another door. Bedroom. Another door. Office. Desk drawers, papers. Slammed the drawers shut. Sneering laughter. From downstairs. He hasn’t run away. But he didn’t follow me either. So I won’t find anything here.
He charged back down the stairs. Narvesen’s laughter died in his mouth. Sitting on the floor. His eyes defiant, semi-triumphant, glared past him. He followed Narvesen’s eyes. A door. He turned. Walked to the door. Narvesen screamed again, louder, uglier.
The door led to the cellar. He went down. It was a crude cellar. It smelt damp. Walls and floor of grey concrete. There was the hum of a freezer. He went on, past the freezer, through a door. The wine cellar. Small niches had been embedded in the wall, each containing a couple of hundred dark bottles on their sides. He walked through the next doorway. This was the boiler room. An enormous steel tank covered almost one wall. A modern boiler on the opposite wall. Pipes running off in every possible direction. He was sweating. Wiped his forehead. He could hear soft violins and followed the sound. The boiler began to roar. There was a click as the burner lit the flames. He went on, through the furthest low door, and entered a furnished room. It was small and dominated by an Italian designer chair, the reclining kind. A mini-stereo was playing something which reminded him of Mozart. A drinks bar. Half a bottle of Camus VSOP, a single glass. And in front of the chair a safe. The safe door was open. Inside the safe, a painting. Frank Frølich bent down.
‘Don’t touch.’
Frølich straightened up. Narvesen’s voice was clear and razorsharp. It felt like waking from a dream. He turned.
Inge Narvesen, his hands tied behind his back, stood in the doorway. His face was smeared with blood.
Frølich took the painting.
‘Put it down.’
‘Why?’
They glared at each other.
‘You’re a nobody,’ Narvesen hissed. ‘After this you’re a nothing.’
‘I’ve heard,’ Frølich said, ‘that you’re vindictive. But you’re too late. You ruined your chance when you set fire to my chalet. Now it’s my turn.’
Narvesen supported himself on the wall. His face slid into shadow; his eyes became two narrow, moist slits.
Frølich studied the picture. It was bigger than he had imagined. A wide frame. ‘Let’s go upstairs,’ he said, pointing to the steps. ‘Après vous.’
‘Put back the picture first.’
‘I make the decisions here.’
‘Haven’t you understood yet? You’re nothing. Tomorrow you’ll be out of the force. You, a policeman? That’s just a joke …’
Frølich blinked.
Narvesen, his head jutting forward aggressively, came towards him with a rolling gait.
Frølich blinked again. He saw his own hand shoot forward. ‘Up there!’ Narvesen toppled against the wall. Frølich grabbed the bottle of cognac and held it up. Narvesen wasn’t aggressive any longer.
‘Careful with the picture!’
‘Get upstairs!’
Narvesen staggered up the stairs with his hands behind his back. One shoulder hit the wall and he had to struggle to retain his balance.
‘Keep moving!’
They stood on opposite sides of the fireplace. Frølich was having difficulty breathing normally. He blinked the haze out of his eyes. Between his hands: a piece of wood. An unusually wide gold picture frame surrounding a small motif. A woman with a headscarf holding a small fat child with curly hair. So that’s what it looks like. He concentrated on breathing, in, out, in deep, out. Narvesen’s eyes: wary, anxious. He’s not sure about me, my mental stability. Frølich could hear his own voice, hollow, distant:
‘Didn’t think this would fit into a safety-deposit box.’
‘The frame was taken off. But be careful, I have just had it reassembled.’
‘It’s a fine painting, but is it worth five million?’
‘Five million is nothing for a picture like this. There are collectors who would give ten times that to own something similar.’
‘Why’s that?’
Narvesen hesitated. His gaze, first at the picture, then the ruined door, then the picture, then Frølich’s face.
Breathe in, let it out, then in.
Narvesen said: ‘All art …’
He pressed his lips together as Frølich raised the painting to the light.
‘Carry on.’
‘All art is cheap to acquire at some point. It’s when art has communicated its value to the world that the price rises … but the way you’re holding it is beginning to make me nervous. Will you put it down!’
‘Explain what you mean.’
Narvesen’s turn to concentrate on breathing, his eyes firmly fixed on Frølich. His hands bound tightly behind his back. ‘For me as a collector, art and the experience of art are not simply two sides of the same coin, they are a part of my life, they’re an indivisible part of me. My experience of art is as intellectual as it is emotional. You have to remember that art is the language of symbols that allows us to make sense of the world around us, which defines us as humans …’
‘Etcetera, etcetera,’ Frølich interrupted. ‘But why precisely this painting? Bellini, the Madonna and Child?’
Narvesen’s outline was sharper now. Frølich had him in focus. Narvesen was sweating from his brow. He cleared his throat. ‘Something happened to art in 1420. An architect, Alberti, published a textbook on perspective. The Bellinis were among the first great … Giovanni Bellini was a master at capturing man’s experience of worldly dimensions in paintings, in art. He was not only one of the first, but one of the best of his time, he interpreted the world with a completely new figurative language. So he contributed to laying the foundations, the base, for the aesthetics we pursue today. That is why this painting is the most outstanding example of art I can own as a collector. In this small painting the most vital elements are concentrated into one study: Life and the Divine, the son of man and the mother of God. I never tire of gazing at this painting. This is my Mona Lisa, Frølich.’
‘It’s not yours.’
‘It’s in my possession.’
Frølich lifted up the painting. ‘It was in your possession.’
Narvesen fell quiet. His eyes were anxious now.
‘How did you get hold of this painting?’
‘You’ll never find out.’
‘Who sold you this painting?’
‘Don’t ask. You’ll never know.’
‘What are you going to do with a painting you can never show others? When you have to be on your own down there in your wank hole, gawping at it? You wait until your woman’s out and then sneak down to your secret.’
‘Don’t you understand? Have you never been obsessed by anything?’
‘Yes, I have,’ Frølich said. Long bones. The smell of smoke. Pain. He raised the bottle of cognac and drank from it. Then he took the knife out of his pocket, cut the strips around Narvesen’s wrists and folded back the blade.
Narvesen rubbed his wrists and said: ‘Just say what you want. I have enough money.’
‘I’m sure you do.’
‘Just say the price.’
‘I understand what you said about obsession,’ Frølich said, grabbing Narvesen’s hair and pulling his head back.
Narvesen sank to his knees with a groan.
‘But I cannot accept that you tried to burn me alive.’
He let go of him.
Narvesen slumped down.
Frølich took the cognac bottle, poured the spirits onto the painting and threw it into the fire. The painting caught fire. An eruption of flames. Two seconds passed. Narvesen saw the fire. Another second. He comprehended what had happened. Then he screamed and ran towards it. Frank Frølich put out his foot and tripped him as he lunged. The man fell and crawled on all fours with his fingers in the flames. Frølich kicked him away. The painting was burning gaily. It blistered and cracked, the child’s face disappeared in the flames. The wooden frame crackled. The fiery red-orange tongues of flame burned through the woman, licked at her face. Narvesen wailed, scrambled towards the fire. The picture was alight. The image was consumed. Only the carving distinguished the frame from a piece of wood. The dog, which had been lying under the table, became excited. It started barking once more. Bounded out and bit Narvesen’s trousered legs. The man was squirming his way towards the fire. Frølich grinned, let him squirm, let him thrust his hand in the fire for the remains. The man blew on the charred residue like a young child trying to blow out the candles on a birthday cake. Frølich stood watching for a few seconds. As did the dog. It cocked its head in wonder.
‘Now we’re quits,’ said Frank Frølich. ‘You should be happy I didn’t set you on fire.’
It was almost one o’clock when Gunnarstranda closed the door to Tove’s flat and ran down the stairs and out into the night. It had begun to snow. A fine white carpet a few centimetres thick lay on the pavement. He padded his way towards Sandakerveien to find a taxi. There was chaos on the roads. Cars braked and skidded. A snow plough cast orange beams of light up the walls further along the street. He had set his mobile phone to mute, but felt it vibrate in his inside pocket.
It was Lystad from Kripos. He had a message. A body had been found. Name: Vidar Ballo. Cause of death: overdose. Place: Ballo’s flat in Holmlia.
Gunnarstranda was unable to speak. What could he say, standing dumbstruck on a pavement in Sandakerveien in the cold of the night?
Lystad continued: ‘A caretaker broke down the door because some neighbours had been complaining about the smell. That explains why he hadn’t opened the door for several days.’
Gunnarstranda watched a Mercedes taxi with a lit roof sign glide past.
‘You’re so quiet,’ Lystad said. ‘Did I wake you?’
‘No, no. I’m walking home. Anyone know how long he’s been dead?’
‘The forensic pathologists will be able to say in a few days. I only found out by chance. I called his mother in Kvenangen. The priest had notified her yesterday. His death has been registered as a clear case of an overdose, so it seems.’
‘I may have been the last person to see him alive,’ Gunnarstranda said gloomily.
‘Will you investigate his death?’
‘Strictly speaking, it’s not me who decides that.’
‘Nevertheless, some hypotheses will have to be reassessed,’ Lystad said. ‘For us and for you, I assume.’
‘Absolutely right.’
Another taxi approached.
‘Perhaps we should work together?’
Gunnarstranda hailed the taxi. The car stopped. The driver stretched an arm across the back of the seat and opened the rear door.
‘Tomorrow, for instance,’ Lystad said.
‘Where are you now?’ asked Gunnarstranda, getting in.
‘Office.’
‘I’ll be there in ten minutes,’ Gunnarstranda announced. He rang off and nodded to the driver. ‘Kripos building in Bryn.’
40
The following morning Frank Frølich had a long lie-in. He didn’t get up until eleven, then had a bit of muesli and prepared to go to the Grand Hotel.
It had snowed a lot in the course of the night. The cars along Havreveien were well packed in. Snowdrifts left thick layers on top of car roofs and bonnets, making them look like cream cakes. A few car owners had wriggled their way out of the drifts, leaving deep holes in the row of cars.
At the Metro station a tractor with rattling chains was clearing the snow. Frølich took the first train to arrive, got off at Stortinget and wandered down Karl Johans gate where the heater cables in the ground keeping the pavements snow-free had turned the snow on the road into a slushy, brown broth.
She was taking a seat at a vacant window table when he came through the heavy doors of the café in the Grand Hotel. She was wearing high-heeled boots, tight jeans and a woollen sweater. Her Afro locks seemed out of place with her regulation Norwegian outfit. The hat she was wearing looked too heavy for her.
He hardly recognized her. Perhaps because she had clothes on, he thought, as he went over to her table. She looked up.
‘I’ve been keeping my eyes open for you,’ she said.
‘Where?’
‘You know.’
He sat down. Met her eyes. They challenged him, but they didn’t touch him. He couldn’t penetrate her façade; he associated it with any one of the many uninspiring media celebs. Heavily made-up face. Studied look rehearsed in front of the mirror. The smile, a practised muscle movement with lips and chin. Today she isn’t wearing a mask. The magic from an earlier evening was long gone.
She flashed her teeth in another fleeting smile. ‘I’ve ordered a French vanilla slice and Coke.’
He looked at her askance. She wasn’t joking.
The waitress was there. Frølich ordered coffee.
‘You’ve done something to your face,’ she said with downcast eyes.
‘That was the key I was talking about.’
‘You told me to pass on the message.’ She was still studying the table.
‘It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.’
‘Don’t ask me about him,’ she said quickly. ‘I don’t know anything and if I did, I wouldn’t say.’
‘About whom?’ he asked.
‘Jim,’ she said.
The waitress came with the coffee. Frølich stirred it. She had her vanilla slice and Coke. She tried to cut the cake with the spoon. The cream oozed out over the plate. She giggled and mumbled: ‘Not so easy, this.’
‘My boss says if you want to understand people’s life strategies, you have to watch them eating millefeuilles.’
‘I’m glad your boss isn’t here now,’ she said, squeezing more cream over her plate.
‘I once saw an accountant eating a millefeuilles,’ he said. ‘The systematic approach. This guy removed the top layer with a spoon, neatly placed it on the plate, then he ate the cream, followed by the base and saved the top with the icing for last.’
She scooped up a pile of cream and icing onto her spoon, crammed it into her mouth and closed her eyes in ecstasy. ‘The guy doesn’t know what he’s missing,’ she mumbled.
‘Vibeke,’ he said.
She glanced up. ‘Yes, Frank.’
They looked into each other’s eyes.
She took another spoonful of cream and icing, swallowed and said: ‘You don’t know what you’re missing, either.’
He averted his eyes. Not because of her lack of sophistication, more to avoid having to look through that worn expression of hers. ‘I’m back at work,’ he said slowly. ‘I’m a policeman.’
She didn’t answer.
‘I’m working now.’
‘Rotten excuse for not eating cake,’ she said finally.
She giggled, but the smile went out when she saw his expression.
‘Vibeke,’ he repeated.
‘Yes, Frank.’ Her smile was wry and provocative again.
‘I need to know something about Elisabeth.’
‘I’m sure you know more about Elisabeth than I do.’
‘But you knew her when she was with Ilijaz.’
‘Are you jealous?’
‘No, what Elisabeth and I had is gone.’ He considered his words while scanning the room. Most of the people were hotel guests passing through. The rest were frail-looking ladies with blue-rinse hair and delicate wrinkles. The low winter sun pierced the tall windows. Outside, people in Karl Johan were hurrying past
. A police car from the dog-patrol unit had pulled up in front of Stortinget. An elderly man was sitting on a bench playing blues on an electric guitar beneath one of the Storting lions; the music was just audible in the café. When he turned back to her, she had finished eating.
She said: ‘Ilijaz is Elisabeth’s great love. She would die for Ilijaz, however ill he is.’
He reflected on what she had said. For a second he saw a chalet burning in front of him. He cleared his throat, plucked up courage and asked: ‘Was Elisabeth bisexual?’
‘What makes you wonder that?’
‘I believe she was.’
‘Bisexual?’ She sampled the word. ‘That sounds very much like pigeon-holing.’
‘Oh?’
‘Sort of condescending.’
‘I suspect Elisabeth was in a relationship with a woman.’
‘I can imagine that,’ she said, deep in thought. ‘I think Elisabeth …’ She pulled a face and said: ‘Have you never played with the idea? Of probing the physical side of a relationship with a good friend?’
‘No.’
She giggled. ‘I believe you. But as far as Elisabeth is concerned — I can easily imagine her going to bed with women. That doesn’t change anything about the totally all-consuming passion that existed between her and Ilijaz, though.’
‘Tell me more,’ he said.
‘I don’t know much more,’ she continued.