The Fourth Man

by K. O. Dahl

  ‘Was it stormy?’

  ‘Did they quarrel? They probably did. You know what it’s like for some – when the relationship is so intense that negative emotions are released with almost the same energy as positive emotions.’

  For an instant he caught a flash of Elisabeth’s naked foot. Her red varnished nails. His hand around her ankle with the thin gold chain.

  ‘And some of that was because Ilijaz was not always good.’

  ‘What do you mean by “not always good”?’

  ‘He went with other women. Often.’

  ‘So it wasn’t a fixed, long-term relationship on his part?’

  ‘Yes, it was. I’m sure he was just as hooked as she was. But he was also very macho at that time, a little childish, really. Always had to prove what a man he was, constantly on the pull. She got sick of it in the end and found someone else.’

  Someone else. Frølich thought about what Gunnarstranda had said about a fourth man. ‘Who?’

  ‘Someone upfront.’

  ‘Can you remember his name?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can you remember what his job was?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Try. It must have been five to six years ago, or longer. Ilijaz was jailed six years ago.’

  ‘Was he? Time passes. I can never tell one year from another. It’s easier to pick out the school years but …’

  ‘What work were you doing then?’

  ‘Bar work. I’ve always worked in bars.’

  ‘Which bar?’

  ‘Six years ago? It was a bar in Bogstadveien. Closed down now.’

  ‘And you knew Elisabeth at that time?’

  ‘She was working in a shop. Ferner Jacobsen.’ She motioned with her head towards Stortingsgata. ‘In the basement. Elisabeth’s the type who looks good in everything she wears. Anyone who sells clothes knows she’s worth her weight in gold in a shop. I think she met the guy there. He was a customer. A guy with lots of money.’

  ‘A criminal?’

  ‘Either that or … it’s just rich people who shop there. And this guy kept inviting her to dinner and wouldn’t take no for an answer. That was how it was. And once when Ilijaz got in too deep with some woman, she accepted the invitation and they became a couple. Ilijaz must have been nabbed at about that time.’

  ‘Did the relationship last long?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Did you meet the man?’

  ‘Never. No one was allowed to meet the man.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Elisabeth’s like that. She likes secrets. You know that. She never takes you home, either, does she.’

  He sat up straight in his chair. She talked about Elisabeth in the present tense. ‘Elisabeth’s dead,’ he said. ‘Didn’t Jim tell you that?’

  She looked down. Shook her head.

  The silence lingered. Why doesn’t she ask about Elisabeth? How she died? What happened? He pondered, formulated an answer for himself and said: ‘Are you together with Jim?’

  ‘Together with? No.’ Her eyes were so fixed on the table they seemed to be closed.

  ‘But you told Jim what I said about the key. You knew who I was when I came in and saw you dance.’

  ‘I talk to Jim, yes, I do. But I’m unattached.’

  ‘He’ll probably be charged with murder.’

  ‘Jim?’ Her eyes still rooted to the table.

  ‘Someone set fire to a chalet. Elisabeth was in the chalet.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘The night leading to 29 November. Sunday to Monday.’

  ‘It wasn’t Jim.’ She finally looked up from the table, pensive, distant, and said: ‘That night Jim was at my place.’

  They didn’t say anything for a long while. The noises in the café took over: the clatter of plates, cutlery, the buzz of muted voices.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he asked thickly, after clearing his throat.

  She gave him a faint smile: ‘Of course I’m sure.’

  ‘I mean about the time.’

  She nodded.

  She broke the silence. And she did it after another wry, embarrassed smile: ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t want to lie to you.’

  They walked down Karl Johans gate together, towards Oslo main station. He stopped at the Kirkegata crossing and pointed to the cathedral. ‘I have to go that way.’

  She stopped and looked at him for a few seconds. ‘Sure?’

  He nodded.

  She stood on the tips of her toes and allowed her lips to brush his cheek before turning on her heel and continuing down Karl Johan. He watched her supple figure move towards the throng of people and disappear. Then he turned and strolled off – on the opposite side to Kirkeristen.

  He hurried down to the Metro and caught a train home – impatient. Once there, he immediately went to his car. He cleared the snow off the boot lid and took out a brush and a shovel. Dug the bank of snow away from his car. He got in, started the engine and drove to Ring 3, which he followed to the end, then took Drammensveien out of Oslo and turned off at Sandvika heading for Steinshøgda. The beast was back in his stomach and he focused on the tarmac ahead, the snow between the tree trunks, the winter setting in. He drove up Begnadal towards Fagernes. However, this time there were no visions of flames, no images of long bones. There was just an indescribable gnawing at his guts. And he was beginning to reason in a fresh way. To re-examine every tiny detail, the words spoken, what they meant.

  Per-Ole ‘Cranberry’ Ramstad was waiting for him, as he had promised, when he reversed in front of the police station.

  ‘You’re fired up, Frank. You look like you’ve just come from a week of training hell at Officers’ School.’

  ‘I have to know who saw this Sandmo woman in Fagernes a few weeks ago,’ Frølich said.

  ‘I believe you,’ Cranberry said. ‘I can see it in your face. But I don’t know if I can help you there …’

  ‘All right,’ Frølich said quickly. ‘I have no time to waste. Look at this,’ he said, passing Per-Ole a photograph from the newspaper. ‘Go to your witness and ask if Merethe Sandmo had dinner with this man.’

  Cranberry took the picture and studied it. ‘Bit of a limp fish,’ he said in summary. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Inge Narvesen.’

  ‘What does he do?’

  ‘Buys and sells shares at Oslo Stock Exchange. Billionaire.’

  ‘That’s good enough for me,’ Cranberry said, passing back the newspaper cutting. ‘The answer is yes.’

  ‘Don’t mess me about,’ Frølich said. ‘I want you to show me …’

  ‘No need,’ Cranberry said. ‘The witness is me. I saw Merethe Sandmo having dinner at the hotel with this guy.’

  ‘But why didn’t you say so?’

  Cranberry smiled a sad smile. ‘It has nothing to do with you. It has something to do with my wife and the woman I was having dinner with at the hotel when I saw them.’

  Frank Frølich took a deep breath. ‘Thanks, Per-Ole,’ he said gently. ‘Next time we’ll go fishing in Vællers. Thanks for this.’

  He took his leave of Cranberry and drove back. Calmer. He put on some music. Johnny Cash sang a cover version of U2’s ‘One’. Acoustic guitar and a voice without any illusions. It struck a chord with what was going on inside him.

  41

  Once again Frank Frølich was sitting behind a two-way mirror. This time he was joined by Gunnarstranda. In the interview room, Lystad from Kripos was in mid-flow. Opposite the police inspector sat Inge Narvesen and his solicitor. The latter was a man in his fifties who was clearly more familiar with corporate than criminal law. He had a plump, moon-shaped face beneath a mound of unkempt curls. Neither the solicitor nor Narvesen seemed particularly happy to find themselves in this situation.

  ‘Do you deny that?’ Lystad asked.

  ‘That I ate at the hotel? Not at all.’

  ‘Alone?
’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who were you with?’

  ‘No idea what her name was.’

  ‘Have a try.’

  ‘It’s true. I have no idea. She called herself Tanja, but I doubt she was christened Tanja.’

  ‘You’re absolutely correct. Who was this “Tanja” for you?’

  ‘A prostitute. She sold, I bought.’

  ‘Bought what?’

  ‘What do you buy from prostitutes?’

  ‘Just answer the question.’

  ‘I bought sex off her.’

  ‘You went to Fagernes to buy sex off a woman working as a waitress in Oslo?’

  ‘Obviously the term “waitress” does not completely cover this woman’s activities.’

  ‘OK, let’s talk about something else. You started a relationship with a young woman in 1998, is that right?’

  ‘It’s possible. What do you mean by “young”?’

  ‘Elisabeth Faremo. She was working as a sales assistant at Ferner Jacobsen where you were a customer. Did you start a relationship?’

  Inge Narvesen shot a glance at his solicitor. He nodded. ‘The term “relationship” is stretching it,’ Narvesen drawled.

  ‘Perhaps you would claim you confined yourself to buying sex off her, too?’

  ‘No. We were a couple. But it wasn’t a relationship of any duration.’

  ‘I know,’ Lystad said. ‘It stopped when her real lover was arrested for breaking into your house.’

  Narvesen said nothing. He flashed a raised eyebrow at his solicitor, who slowly shook his head.

  Gunnarstranda and Frølich exchanged meaningful looks. Whatever sort of choreography this was, Frølich thought, there was no question it had been rehearsed.

  Lystad got up and walked over to the window facing him. He stood surveying the street. ‘You say you bought sex off this woman in Fagernes,’ he said to the window. ‘Where did you have intercourse?’

  ‘At the hotel.’

  ‘You didn’t have a room at the hotel.’

  ‘She did.’

  ‘She didn’t.’

  ‘She must have been using an alias. We were in her room, in her bed.’

  ‘What was the room number?’

  ‘I really cannot remember.’

  ‘Which floor?’

  Narvesen smiled awkwardly. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Lystad gave him a stony look. ‘Not so surprising that your memory plays tricks on you since neither the woman nor her alleged alias, Tanja, ever checked in at the hotel. But, for the time being, let us just say that your statement does not exactly tally with reality …’ Lystad raised a hand when Narvesen made a move to intervene. He said: ‘Where was her partner when you were having sex?’

  ‘Don’t know. She and I were alone.’

  ‘But she was in Fagernes with her partner.’

  ‘That’s news to me. I didn’t know she had a partner.’

  ‘And you had sex before or after the meal in the restaurant?’

  ‘Before.’

  ‘I have a witness whose statement reads as follows: You came into the restaurant. A woman was sitting there already. First of all, this woman’s name was not Tanja. She has been identified as Merethe Sandmo from Oslo. You sat down at Sandmo’s table.’

  ‘She called herself Tanja. I didn’t know what her real name was and didn’t want to know either. It’s correct that we met in the restaurant … after having intercourse. We went down separately. She went first.’

  ‘This woman has never been connected with this sort of activity before.’

  ‘There always has to be a first time.’

  ‘Do you believe this was the first time she had sold sex?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘How did you set up this meeting?’

  ‘Over the Internet. The usual procedure.’

  ‘I’m not familiar with the so-called “usual procedure”. How did you set up the meeting?’

  ‘There’s a website which arranges appointments for prostitutes and customers. Don’t have the address in my head, but you can have it later.’

  ‘Did you meet before you went to her room?’

  ‘No.’

  Frølich and Gunnarstranda exchanged looks again. Narvesen’s solicitor reacted as well. He whispered into Narvesen’s ear.

  ‘You went to her room alone, but you can’t remember which room it was or what floor it was on?’

  ‘I apologize. I expressed myself clumsily.’

  ‘Answer the question.’

  ‘I made a mistake. She met me in reception and we went to her room together. She was an attractive woman. I was excited and don’t remember which floor or …’

  ‘That’s enough,’ Lystad said and turned. ‘You’re obviously lying,’ he continued. ‘You’re showing contempt for everything I stand for and for the public prosecuting authority as an institution. I advise you to demonstrate greater prudence when we meet in court. However, we can come back to the trial later. As regards your meeting with Merethe Sandmo, I don’t believe you were in any hotel room ever. I believe you paid her, yes, but she sold you information, not sex. I believe that afterwards you drove to a chalet in Vestre Slidre. There you met Elisabeth Faremo and killed her.’

  The silence hung in the room. Narvesen had blanched. The solicitor sent him a concerned look, coughed and spoke up. ‘Do you have any proof for that allegation?’

  ‘I’m working on it,’ Lystad said. ‘You’re the vindictive type, aren’t you, Narvesen?’

  ‘Inspector Lystad,’ the solicitor interrupted. ‘I have to ask you to be more specific and not to make unfounded allegations.’

  ‘Of course I’ll be more specific. Narvesen, can you tell us a little about your relationship with Halvor Bede?’

  Narvesen sat looking at the policeman in silence. The solicitor leaned towards him. They whispered. The solicitor spoke for him.

  ‘You can’t just throw completely new information at us out of the blue, without giving us a chance to go through …’

  ‘This is not a trial,’ Lystad broke in. ‘We’re questioning Narvesen. However, you have the right to be informed. Narvesen, shall I or will you tell your solicitor about Halvor Bede?’

  Narvesen didn’t answer. He sat with his interlaced fingers resting on the table in front of him.

  ‘Halvor Bede was a Norwegian ship’s officer who once took the liberty of trying to blackmail your client,’ Lystad said to the solicitor. He continued: ‘He was convicted and served his sentence, but was unfortunately stabbed to death by an unknown assailant on the day he was released.’

  ‘But what has that got to do with me?’ Narvesen barked. ‘Bede was killed in a bar fight. Some row about a woman or God knows what. I’ve never been near the bar and the case was shelved years ago.’

  ‘Shelved, yes, but not closed. You are a vindictive type, aren’t you?’

  ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘We’ll come to that. You like setting fire to chalets, don’t you, Narvesen?’

  ‘Don’t answer that kind of allegation,’ the solicitor exclaimed brusquely before turning to Lystad: ‘Unless you have witnesses’ testimonies or concrete evidence that connects my client to this alleged murder or any other alleged crimes, I would ask you to bring this session to a close right now.’

  ‘We will continue for as long as I deem fit,’ Lystad said, looking at his watch.

  ‘Is my client charged?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is he under suspicion?’

  ‘Very much so.’

  ‘You have to be more open. You have to base your accusations on evidence.’

  ‘It will be a pleasure,’ Lystad said, opening his briefcase. ‘This concerns a raid carried out by the Eco-Crime division on your business premises, Narvesen. There is also a minor matter regarding the specific withdrawal of a sum of cash you made: five million kroner. I can tell you that the numbers of the notes you were given in the bank were recorded. A selection of these notes ha
s turned up in Fagernes, the same day you admit being in Fagernes with Merethe Sandmo. It is my belief that you handed over the five million to Merethe Sandmo.’

  Narvesen observed him without uttering a word.

  Lystad continued: ‘What I am keen to find out is what she could offer you which would be worth five million. I don’t even think your solicitor believes you paid her so much for a trick in a hotel room.’

  The room had gone quiet.

  The solicitor cleared his throat.

  Lystad looked straight at him. ‘At this juncture your client has only two options. Either he can make a statement or he can refuse to make a statement. The latter would not be wise. But you can discuss the matter for a minute or two. We’ll take a break.’

  He left the room.

  Frølich and Gunnarstranda sat watching the interview room for a few seconds.

  ‘Lystad is good,’ Frank Frølich said. ‘But the most important thing now is to talk to Merethe Sandmo.’

  They stood up and went into the corridor.

  ‘She’s in Greece, as you know,’ Gunnarstranda said.

  ‘But we have to get hold of her.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she’s the only one who can explain what actually happened when she met Narvesen. And another thing, as regards the fourth robber, in fact it could have been her — Merethe Sandmo.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’ve been pondering about that,’ Frølich said. ‘Everything has a logical explanation. Merethe doesn’t have the experience so she panics. Or was she in the whole operation against her will? That would explain why she didn’t make a run for it when security arrived on the scene. Her involvement and the consequent murder might explain why she agonized and tipped off the police. It also explains why she only tipped them off about three names and not four. Which, in turn, might explain why Elisabeth Faremo felt forced to give her brother and the two others an alibi. It could also explain why the gang broke up. It might also explain why Merethe Sandmo fled from Jonny Faremo into the arms of Vidar Ballo.’

  ‘Naturally, that is a possibility. But there is one element which her potential involvement in the robbery does not explain.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘Vidar Ballo’s dead.’